- J ..i.;, .... ..: .... _., i~. -., i,-„^,;.:_....:-.. 1 _ ■-■■-■■■
of Falllcatlon. | 4 I / ■ : .••; -j T_ ~ V- I • i ' ’. II I,
I f flTrp A Ti
[A -Cl<Cf il A\_U’i XA 1 U Jv. it:
tanca «S-|eceived. By this ar- ’-V-J— 1 1 j ' ' _ '■ 3
tan ,be iffi&ght in debt to the I J ~Tj T . ‘ ~ J . ' ; $ column,
le of the County, ;
DtbotcU to tf)t Intension of tfyt &vtU of jFmfcom a«& tfce Sprtatt of H?taXt&g Reform
* j I Oolumi
lily iicnSjing circulation reach- - T _ ; __J : I _ * . ’__ A dverti
)rhosdt4«io County. It is I sent T ~ ~ [ ( ■ I , . .... _ . , . ~ ■ ■_ , . ‘ dcsiredlmi
p oaf p||e within the county ,| WHILE THEBE SHALL BE 1 WRONG UNRIGHTED, AND UNTIL “MAN’S INHUMANITY TO MAN" SHALL CEASE, AGITATION MUST CONTINUE. ! dei4d but
it csaxf%t® nt I office may bo tf { jx^r^lj . uuLj^.uiji ['_ J | | i ■ l,s V !r ‘ ! '
Terms
THE TIOGA COD'
y Wednesday Mi
tbo very teaeona^l.
pg- OKE DOL]
r Mirinhhl »» advmntf:
PV acr ibcr when thotoi
‘ ,ythefi)
b.pV.n of each paper.
. farther remitti
I fluent no mnner
infer* . *'•
the Acitawh 18jb<
urge and steU
“into every neighboi
e,ofr> ,ta 'J c t 0 any ,
bet whose most ,„ . _ „
anadj uinin E County - jih&Wl ~.<E . . .
guiincss Cer4s, not 5 llDe8 < P n P er mdu '
ltd, $5 per year. ‘ -
'BUSINESS SfeqjOßY.
t IS.LOW KEY &;%^..WIESOW,
i TTORNEYS
A it toad the Coi
titles, [WclkW
C. N. »A|
rarranted.
coil.
i. Field • ■], •■•••• Proprietor.
aW»t! take" f“ and fro a Depot free of charge.
j/c. U lilTpilKEtt,
Hgtlrajml&id Phg* ici)ft|U(2 Surgeon.
eucland, iTiiOek. cO., penjja.
Will visit patients |tn nil parts pf the County, or re-
L iro them lur treatmefat at bis house. [June 14,]
j. EaERy,
TT OIINEY ASD AT LAW
\ iVeli.-boro, Tioga Co., |Pa. Will devote his
iilue exclusively to the practice of law. Collections
made ia any of the Morthe& .counties of Pennsyl
raaia. 1 T V' ''' nov2l,6o
I* EX NS VEVAXIi.%. HOUSE.
Inner 1/ Main STrect and tlicA-Vcnne, Wellnhoro, Pa
J, W. BIOOXX, RIIOPRIETOE.
Ibis popular Uot'cf, havinbiljceti re-fitted and re
’irm.-hed throughout, is now open to the public as a
irst-class house. ' \
IZAAE WAtTO!? HOUSE,
H. c. VERJIILYEA, \P.ROPRIETOR.
Gaines, .Tioga County, Pa.
rtlll? i< anew hoteriooatpd within easy access of
I the best fishinaand huntifag grounds in Northern
’a. Xo pains will spared fqp the accommodation
f pleasure,seekers and the tirdveiing public.
April 12, 1860. " | '
H, O. CO EE,
BARBER 4SE lIAIR-ERESSER
A HOP in the roar of tho Ppst Office. Everything in
5 his lino will bo done as' well and promptly ns it
an bo done in the city saloons.-" Preparations for re
aving dandruff, and beautifying tho hair, for sale
heap. Hair and whiskers dyed any color. Call and
co. Wellsboro; Sept. 22,- I$5!C
THE CORMIKOjjfOURNAE.
Qeorgo W. Pratt, Editor and proprietor.
[3 published at Corning, Satdnjbon Co., N. Y., at One
Dollar and Fifty Cents pep year, in advance. The
ournal is Republican! id] politics, add has a circula
lon-reaching into eVeiy lpart-£ f tSeubcn County.—
’hose dcsirouS'Of exjoiding thjsir business into that
,nd the adjoining countie? Will find it an excellent ad
■ertidog medium. Address-ue above.
furs : fe ; bsT furs :
I YCKS.—Tho subscriber hdsiljust received a large
assortment of Furs for lull tec .wear,.consisting of
FITCH CAPES <!:, VICTORIAE.S,
FREKGII SABLE, CAPSS & VICTORIA'ES,
RIVER MI.VK CAPES i J IlfpES,
. ROCK 31Alt Try CAPSS & VICTOR IKES.
Thc?c comprise a small qdaigty of the assortment!
Hjcv have been bought at Idwi&itcs and will be ?old
M curctuely low prices for oaso| at the New Hat Store
la Cornidg, X. Y. ’ , !] S. P. QUICK.
TO Ml If Si fell ATS.
I (-lIOICE LOT ‘of Jtlic beit'imported Italian nnp
/l German STRINGS.
U=s Viol strings, Guitar sWriga,- Tuning Forks
rid ’Ea ic.. just received arid for sale at '
* J lliovl L.RCG STORE.
• K'EM-SBOfiifl||HOTEl-,
, WELL3BORc|uSH, PA.
es. i'Aiut, - - 1 - 44 - proprietor.
(f’ormirfy ff the Hotel.)
Bivins \c,i,e.l this.wcll kifo-Wh and popular IToufc.
loUeit- 1 the patronage of C*® pphiic. With attentive
md obliging waiters,'together-;with the proprietor's
knowledge of the busjness, be hopes to make the >tay
ef those who stop with ihipnt both pleasant and
agreeable. ' ' P
Wellsboro. May 31. 18CD. j |t
PICTIRE FR’aMSG
rpoiLET GLASSES, PorttniU, Pictures, Certificates
1 Engravings, Xeedlb 'Workl, Ac.. Ac., framed in
ttie nc.u-'t manner,'in plaip #|nd ornamented (*iit.
Ku=e Wood, Black Wplimt, Oak, Mahogany, Ac. Por
lor, ha, mg any article for fruiting, can receive them
nut dm /"«,ned in any styl|s wish and hung for
th M . Specimens at BOOK STOIIE .
E. B. BESEDICT, M.
TVTOUI.D inform the publics Hiat hois permanently
>V located in Eikland'iSdtjo, Tioga Co. Pa„ and
is prepared by thirty to treat all dis
hes of the eyes and their appendages on scientific
principles, and' that "he can*-enre without fail, tbiit
dreadful disease, called 'Stj. |jjW Dance, {Chorea
•Wfi y; t i,) and will attend to ttny other business in
the hue of Physic and Si^rgeryJ^
Blklaad Boro, August f), JS6
/kcINROY & JSAIJLEI,
■\\TorLl) inform the pjnblicj|hat|mviDg purchased
Tf the Mill property,' knowja aM the “CULVER
MlMi, 1 ' and having- lt with
lolu'aml machinery,>ar© D(|w prepared to do
CUSTOM At|lo | jK.
the entire satisfaction of its With Iho aid
of our experienced miliar, Mr. &. pjMltcbol, and the
“nsjurin- efforts of iio; propjotorl, they intend to
kwp up an iMabli&hmcnt ieconti to none in'thc county.
Oa<h pan! for wheat and c‘prfi, dipd the highest market
Price Riven. - . jffiDW. McINROY.
March 15, 1860, tf. ] • Jjp-'O.. W. BAILEY.
TIOGAKEGI
GEORGE F. lIUMPiIBE'
Ji;« tily Store ut ( 1 '
Tioga TiOgftj County, Pa.
here he h prepared to djo all trends of "Watch, Clock
a &d Jewelry repairing, in p All
warranted to giva'om'tir©
do not pretend to-do tforlsfpettor.than any other
man, \ )IU . Wo can j 0 a 3 g wOjnk as can be done in
tDe cities or elsewhere. Ajlso Watches Plated.
GEORG.fi F. HUMPHREY.
Pa., March 15, l’S6O. ($.) 9
NCWIIAT AND 4aP SXOBe7
Tub .Sulivribcr has just opeijed in thin place a new
Hat and Cap Stdro, intends to manufae-
and keep on band a large'ipd general assortment
Fashionable SUtj and mssimere Hats,
?/ ®. v owi*. manufacture, whichUvrlll be sold at hard
prices. ' ' < ; ||
silk; sets
to ordvr on short notice. J
■Co r ata S °W at this Store iCtfe fitted with a French
, I feature, which makes theln aoftnnd easy to the
witUo Ut the trouble! of breaking your bead to
h? e i« 0 k ftt * Store in the!Ndw Block opposite the
"iwaofcoa House. ! l $ S. P. QUICK,
Aug. 15, 1850| if
10,000 For Sale.
T WILL Sell extra MESS POEK at $19,75
i nt rs,ail b s? tij e pound at 10 ct«., and war
led the hoft 1„ town* : }!. JI, COKV£RSE.
J mic li, ; ; ■. .
VjOL. Yn.
' i From the Uerald of Progress,
5 GOITE BjEPOBE! ,
| A merry voice is heard no more,
; j A little form inactive lies ;
t And Death’s cold shadow darkens o'er
I The snowy brow, the dreamy eyes.
* | She sank away to her last rest:
| As oft before, she sank in sleep,
: And they who long have love 4 her jest,
j Can only turn aside and weep.
| For sorrow ever finds her weak ; -j
I The hope, the trust,'the cheering tohe,
| With which of otherw' griefs we speak
I Are powerless to relievo our own.
j We sink beneath ouij bepvy cross, j 9
I Wo mourn thro' all tjho weary hoursj
is my fiftieth birthday, and the existence
■which I once, thought would be so dark, so
dr|ary, so desolate, has within its half century;
ofjyears had much of joy, and peace, and sun-;
sh|ne. Fifty years ago this day, the lids which
relied two dark strange-lookiug eyes, were up-,
raised to meet my mother’s smile over her first-:
born. She was young; and fair, scarcely two
years a wife, and, they hare told me Since, she
was proud and happy in the young infant life;
which Heaven entrusted to her keeping. Per
haps it may hare damped her joy a .little that
I was not a pretty baby. I never tried like
other children, though sometimes a low patient
j wajil of sorrow would bring the tender mother]
Ito piy side. But for the most part, I was per-!
hats happy and thriving, though visitors used]
to say ; “ How came your baby to be'ao unlike!
yos, Mrs. Emery ? I supposed she wjmld have
a beauty.” j
But this opinion made very little difference
to piy happiness during the tijst sis years of]
royjlife. At the end of that period I went fori|
a ride one day With my parents. My little sis-'
ter,' Helen, a most beautiful child, about a yearj
old| was left at home, and wo rode ghily along
the; mountain road, very happy in the beautiful!
summer day and in each other. Peril ips I was],
a precocious child, and understood more than;
children of my age in general, or it may have)
been the after events of that day bianded its!
scenes and conversations on my memory; at]
all (events, I remember every look end word!
distinctly.
ijt was a warm, bright summer's day, and!
myjmother wore a light muslin dresS, with low!
necjk and low sleeves, while over her irms and
tholulders-ahe had thrown a lace Scarf. A light'
straw: hat set like a crown upon he: golden
ringlets, aolear carnation tint glowed upon her
ehaika, her lips were parted, and her eyes up
rated.
I rom my birth I have been a pass!
miter of beauty, and sitting in my
lap with her arras clasped about m
feasted my eyes on her loveliness. 1
hac watched her also for some momt
lenfce, and then he threw his arm
watst (for in that unfrequented road
no |>ne to see us), and guided his fii
•onward with his right hand.
‘ Helen,” ho said, tenderly, “ how beautiful
yoi are! 'Sever were you lovelier than now.;
Thdy say marriage brings changes, but every!
change only makes you fairer. Our li( tie Jlelep
wil grow up like you ; she will be very lovely.”
‘ Yes, but I am afraid I love Lucy best,” and
my mother drew me closer to hey. “ Perhaps
it is because she is my first born ; and then,
those dark, thoughtful eyes are her fajther’A
,owi.” , I
■ njly father laughed. “The child tis not a
beauty, certainly; but if her cyies aye mine;
younl admit they are the best part of her.—)
Ueßen, I’ve been thinking of lata whdtmy
way before your love calrae to b’igh£cn it; so
dreary, so desolate, so unloved! I Wqen I saw*
.you; I knew I could never live any mjore with :
out [you.” | ; I
She laughed her little,silvery, bird-li.ko laugh;
1 know it, llobert, andyouiwouldn’t
waiiyjiow you hurried me! We ware man
ried, you.know, in six weeks after yog saw me
fired” j
“I
M S
y ±-
Yes, but if you had looked into my heart
you would not have wondered,” ho replied.
“It was all dark there. I wals an orphan,
•ivhdm nobody cared for or undorstcod; and
you you were to me in place of all things—
hotr e, friends, parents, brothers and sisters.
You made a halo, brighVas a rainbow, around!
that dungeon life where my heart iras gro
ping." ! ■ |
“■And yet, Robert, you are such a great man!
—a a author, a poet —all the world—that is, all'
the world that is good for anything—knows;
you£ and admires you. And I, |1 ami only the!
great man's little Helen; I sometimes almost
wotider you could have loved me at alp"
sly -father turned towards her ;an expressive
loolf, and said tremulously, “ Helen,iyoiQare
moi;o; you are my life, my sunshine j my in
spiration, my ever-patient guardian angel;
wit! tout you I should be nothing.!’
Then for a few moments we rode cjn in si
lenqe, but the tears still stood ha my father’s!
eyei, and still his rapt gaze resled Upon the
beautiful face of the true woraanrwho'bod giv
en the boarded riches of her love into his keep-|
ingj content, iflso she might brighten his dark
nesi, •'■!': \
A|t that moment.whilo he still carelessly held
the sudden report of a gup caused;
oorjaarae to plunge and. rear, and become un-i
iATOR.
} baa opened a now
I And murmur os we feet our loss, .
| u Oh God ! was ever woo like ours
| What tho’ she met the common lot,<
| And went the way wk all must go, I
i That cannot be a common spot, I
{ Where hearts have loved and suffered so,
j And as they wander,! East and. West,
| • O’er hill and valley, Stream and cost,
■j Tho mourners still may love the best,
j Tho place where they have sorrowe4 most.
J For sorrow has an artist’s skill; j
| Her sombre sketches; lobg remain, j
| And memory frames her pictures well,
\ • And shows them o’er and o'er again:
| But time a little pity takes, ;
i Thank God! that time has such a pWcr,
1 And past affliction lighter makes
Than tho bereavement of tint hour.i .
I Then Faith and Hope the colors soiie.
They Icavonhe dcatli-bed and the pall,
For sorrow well has painted these ; ■ T
Yet sunny hues they shed o’er all.
Then in'the back-grpund dimly seen,
Appears a little shadowy hand,
And lifts the misty veil between
Tho earth-lif© and the Spirit Land.
Vclhthoro, Pa, VIRGINIA.
MY OWKT STOB.Y.
WpLDSBORO, TIOGA COUNTY, PA., WEDNESDAY MORNING. JANUARY 9, 1861.
ianageab!e; His first quick leap wrenched
is reins from my father’s hand, and while he
prove in vain to recover them, the frightened
pimal dashed along the narrow road at a fear
pi pace. On our left was a rocky mountain,
hst around whose base we were driving; on
ur right a river, lying at some distance below
he road, with no fence between. There was a
idden turn in the road, a faint shriek from my
bother, who until that instant bad been silent,
|nd then down we went. My father escaped
inhurt, but my mother was taken up dead, and
I—Heaven knows there have been years since,
rfaen I thought I had a thousand times better
tare died than live to be what I was.
I I was borne home in the arms of strangers,
my father rode home in the vehicle which con
tained my mother, holding her bead upon his
Breast, and looking on her face with the fixed,
steady gaze of tearless despair. I was 'suffer
ing acutely ; but, child as I was, I strove to re
strain my j moans, and bear meekly and in si
idco lest 1 should add to his grief.
It was , needless care; had all the world
bricked, groaned, or gone mad around him, he
ould not have known it. He felt nothing,
iw nothing, but the dead face lying on his
llhey bore, her into the house ; they
isora,
kid her on the bed whore she had slumbered
fke an innocent child, but a few hours before ;
[here for eight peaceful years she dreamed of
[ought but happiness.
j Not even then would ■ he be separated from
ier. lie threw himself down beside her, and
jfted her bead to the place it.had filled so many
■leased nights, be folded his arms around her,
tad then, like one unsuspicious of the truth,
|e murmured, “ Sleep on, be thy rest ssft, my
Helen 1”
f I was tenderly cared for by one who had
l|een my nurse in infancy. They have told me
since that ! bore my sufferings with a patience
which it was very pitiful to see; and only when
Dr. Strong said there was no liope—that I, Lucy
imry, must be a cripple for life—did I even
v eep. Then, indeed, I turned my face to the
v all, and sobbed out the bitterness of a deathly
a»ony; a grief more like a woman’s than a
ciild’s. But nothing of all this was communi
c ited to my father; he had enough else to bear.
At last they buried my mother. My father
10k no part in the arrangements, but he op-
ised nothing. After the funeral came the
eased reign of tears. When it was over the
car came forward and took’his arm.
“ You must not stay here,’’} he said. “ Come
with me.” And meekly as a child, the
■icken man obeyed him
‘•I think she was happy; I think I made
elen happy,” he said, as they drew near the
>use. “ She never suffered any pain or sor
w from which my love could guard her ; and
it, at last, my carelessuess killed her.”
He then broke from the kind hand that
ught to detain him, and rushing into the
om from whence she had been borne outward,
locked the room,- and no eye saw him again
itil the morrow. He came forth then, and
ofronted I)r. Strong, as he was leaving my
om, with trouble on his face, and said reso
tely, “Doctor, I have been neglecting my
lor Lucy, Helen’s first-born; lam going to
e her now, and you must tell me the worst.”
There was that in his voice and eye Which
old not be gainsayed, and Dr. Strong faltered
rth, “ She is not suffering so much to-day,
:; but she will be a cripple for life.” My
ther then rushed hurriedly from the house,
id came to me, and sat down by the bedside
ith his sorrowful face.
.“Lucy," he said, “my poor,, suffering little
icy ” I burst into tears. “ What is it,
tie Loo, are you suffering?"
“ Mot in .my limb, papa ; but X feel so here.”
ad I placed my hand upon; ray heart, which
en, as now, had a habit of fluttering turaul
ously with every poweiful emotion. “ Muth
! loved me, and she’s gone whereil can never
le her again. All these daiys I have lunged
j to have her kies me just lonee, and say she
[tied her poor, crippled child, and jupt now
In seemed so much like her.” \
onate ad-:
mother’s
i, I fairly!
ly father
nts in sH
bout her
was 1
ry horse!
(“Then you know it all, darling?’’ said\)3y
ther. “ They have not spared oven you, m'y
lor lambJ But your father’s love shall com
rt you. I will love you as a mamma would
she were here."
|For a few minutes be looked atme in silence,
tlienhesnid abruptly, “You are tired, lying
h(re; 1 know it. You want to see .the sun
sline on the green fields, and feel the wind
through the trees. 1 will carry you ; I know I
cs n take yon up without hurting you, for I will
b( very careful.” <
With womanly, mother-like tenderness, he
adjusted a support for my crushed foot and
linb, apd taking me up in bis arms with ray
head lying in,my mother’s old place upon his
brsast, he carried me; out into the sunshine.
That morning was, the commencement of a
ire intimate relationship with my father.—
iring the weeks of my convalescence he was
th me constantly, and soon he seemed to for
t that I was a child of only six years, and
ked- to me more like a woman and a com pan-
“ You must got better,” hb said one day, in
th ) low, solemnly tender voice that had become
ha bitnal to him. “ You must get better, so you
will not need me so much when I die. Before
th 9 last flowers of the summer have faded, or
th 9 last leases of tho autumn have fallen, I
s'fa all go to Helen.”
I fully comprehended him. From that time I
gi 9\v stronger rapidly, so that at last, with a
cratch, I could make my way slowly about tho
lover partbf tho house, and,this I know was
al to willed I could ever look forward. One
day I stole into my .father’s study ; tho ink was
dried up in his inkstand, and rusted on his pen.
“You doinot need mo so much now. Lucy,”
said, tenderly, “ and it is well. My time is
post come.” The; nurse was in the garden
jth my baby sister, and bo called her to him.
She looks iso much like Helen,” be said, lift
er the cbiltl up, and) placing her on his knee.
Lucy, you are the Oldest.” ;
1 knew what these: words meant as well as
bugh ho bjad spoken, volumes, I was tho eld
1, .Mine then be the baptism of suffering. I
Is to shield the little one, as far as in me lay,
|m oare-and trouble.. In after years I obeyed
ju faithfully. ; ' ( .
“ But I have much to say—l may not only
linger,” said my father. ;
It was even as he had saiid ; not all the Sow
ers of the summer bad faded, not all the leaves
of the summer had fallen,, when bo went to
her. , >
“You will be very desolate When I am gone,
my little' daughter,” he r said tenderly, but
Heaven will care for you. Death is very sweet
to me, little Lucy, for I shall be once more with
Helen; alreadyher blue eye| were onj me.fromthe,
distance.” lie lay in silence for afe,W moments,
and then he drew me towards him, and kissed;
me. My little sister was also lifted jto his arms,
and he embraced her tenderly; then, laying his
head down, as if weary, be whispered, “ Hold
my hand in yours, Lucy, till I go to sleep.”
For half an hour I sat there, still resolutely
keeping back my tears lest I should waken or
disturb him, until at lust the rays of the setting
sun poured in at the window,.and; lit up the
pale lips, the dark hair, and the niassivo fore
head, looking more giant-like than ever* con
trasted,with the wan thinness of bis facet
“ Will you please to draw the curtain ?” I
said to Dr.,.Strong, who was also watching be
side him.
“ There is no need of it, dear child,” he said
solemnly, “It will not wake him—he is dead !”
Then I wept.; I was alone on earth, save the
little sister chattering now and laughing, all
unconscious of my grief. Nor was this all; I
was a cripple, deprived of love of society, of
all that makes the coming life like a pleasant
land of promise. But in that hour I drew near,
child as I was, to the Infinite and out of my
very sorrow I derived strength. }
I was fifteen when Duncan Clavering became
my teacher. He was the new vicar of our par
ish. The gray-haired man who had! buried my
father and mother, and 1 had been the dearest,
and truest friend of my childhoocf, had gone
to his lone rest, and in : his stead had come to
us this Duncan Clavering.
He was a man of thirty ; calm, self-reliant,
earnest; a different type of manhood from any
I had ever known. He seemed like one who
could stand up alone and battle against all the
world. He needed no circling arms of wife or
children. Alone he labored in his Master’s
cause. He had not my father’s ardent tempera
ment and his creative imagination., and yet his |
sermons were full of bufniug, fervid eloquence, !
and he was the finest critic I had ever known. I
By this time 1 had grown to understand some
thing of my own nature. I had been brought
up in the same house where my father died,
for such was his wish. Mrs. Newel, the lady
who had charge of our home apd ourselves,
loved my sister passionately; but she had no
attachment for the unsightly little cripple, and
she took no pains to assist or understand me.
My love of knowledge -was intense from my
earliest recollection ; and for several years my
father’s study, containing his well-chosen 11-
hrar}-, had been tacitly abandoned to me. I
read many books—works of imagination, poems,
and novels. The theme wag too often love;
and poring over these enchanted pages, I grew
rebellious over my own sad destiny. I read of
fair ladies, and gallant knights, and anon of
peaceful, happy homes ; and all this glorious
world of poetry, and passion, and sentiment
was shutout from_me —1 was a cripple 1 I read
it in the very glances the children raised to my
face as I passed along the street in, my little
invalid’s chair. They looked up kindly, but
in their eyes was only pity, never admiration
or love.
And yet, even in those early days, I ftfit that
my own heart was capable of intense devotion.
I could love, I knew it, with all the passion of
which novelists had dreamed, or poets sung. —
But no one would ever, no one could; ever, love
Ihe dwaifed, crippled temple which] enshrined
tliis passionate heating heart. ,1 looked in the
g'ass, and saw there a dark, sallow complexion,
wild-looking eyes, straight black hsiir,. and a
thin, nervous-looking figure ; hut not one plea
ting lineament. i
A contrast was ever beside me—my little sis
ter Helen; She was bright, Joyous, and beauti
ful as our mother had eveir been, and the beauty
loving element iu my nature was gladdened
every time I looked on hep; I loved her, too.
T cherished with more than] a mother’s tender
ness, this gladsome creature, five ycaijs younger
than myself. I believe' I almost worshipped
her; I would have died .for her at any time;
but not much, fi>r life had never been
dear or pyecious to me, and I longed ,to lay the
durden down. Heleu loved me too, in her own
cheerful, light-hearted fashion, and depended
on me to do’her tasks apd perform her duties.
But at fifteen there dime to me the dawning
of a great change. Duncan Clavering taught
me that I, unloved, unsought as I must ever
be, even I had something fur which to live.—
Fur a week he had been ■my teacher, and now
I handed him my first composition. “ How the
thorns come on the rose," was its subject. It
was a fantastic legend of a lovely flower dwell
ing among those' who cared not foriit; it pot
forth thnrns one by one as defenceshgainst feet
that would crush it, against hands that would
grasp it rudely. lute this legend I had woven
the wild paint of my own heart. ,£t was a
passionate cry which I thought no one jcnuld
recognise or understand. Duncan Clavering
read it in silence and slowly; than! ho, saiji,
“ Lucy, you have suffered much."
“ Ye§, sir,"-1 replied.* j-'
“ In this composition, my child, there is mor
bid feeling, a sort of defiant hopelessness.—
But I have made another discovery,” he con
tinued. “ There is something for you in life
better and brighter than any of your dreams.
Lucy, not in vain have you been baptized with
the baptism of suffering; You are destined to
bo an author—you will win fame—you will do
good.”
Tbe fame had been hijs first'thought, and in
the flush that aiounted <o his dark check I read
his besetting sin. Until that-hour I had not
known that I was ambitious, I had indeed
something now for which to live. AH my fath
er’s soul roso within pie. Lonely,! unloved,
my life might be ; but the world shojuld know
that Lucy Entry, the little cripple, had dwelt
iu it. J
1 found Duncan Clavpring a hard .master. —
Ha expected incessant! toil. He taxed every
nerve and sinew to its tension. And
yet ho was not unkind ; I grew to like his
qniet, resolute, governing manner. IT is silence,
and terseness were not displeasing to me ; and]
the-only sentence of praise he ever uttered—■
“ This is worthy of yd>u, my pupil,”—grew in]
time to be more to mo than all other'applause.i
I no longer missed love, or sighed fur it.—
Heart and sou) were full. At twenty I found:
myself alreadyj a well-known and popular wti- 1
ter. It was at this time that Charles Stanley
came to our neighborhood—he was an author ;
his ostensible object was to. find, for a few
months, a quiet home wberin to read, wherein
to write ; his real one; as I afterwards found,:
to become acquainted with the tucy Emry of
his favorite periodicals. He soon called up-;
on me. He was brought into my own es
pecial room, the study which had been my
father’s.
“ I am happy to see yon,” I said, quietly ;
“.but you will excuse me from rising, as I am
lame."
He looked at me with an expression of blend
ed amazemnt and compassion.
“ I wished, to see Miss. Lucy Entry,” .ho said,
hesitatingly.
“I am Lacy Entry,f was my calm reply,
'<• Forgive me,” said he—“ I begten thousand |
pardons—but I had been told that Miss Entry
was very young, scarcely twenty,”
I glanced at a mirror opposite—his mistake
was not strange —I looked at least thirty.—
Good as Duncan Havering's discipline had been
for my mind, it had made me sallow er and thin
ner than ever; I bad grown very old. There
may have been a little bitterness in my smile ns
I said, “ I am indeed, no older than that, sir;
but I have suffered much. I have been lame
for many years, and I know little about the
beauty nr brightness of life.” - ■
I could see he was touched—that argued well ;
for his disposition. 1 exerted myself to relieve f
his embarrassment; soon the conversation j
flowed into an easy channel, and he left me at |
length with the impression that I had passed
with him one of the most agreeable hours of
my life.
For the next few months, he passed a portion
of every day in my society. Sometimes lie
read to me, while I sat in my low chair at the
open study window, inhaling the perfume and
fragrance from without. Ho v was very gifted,
and his tastes and pursuits were so much like
my own that I gave myself up to'the delight of
his society, without asking myself whither all
this would tend ? Helen, too, was almost
always- wkh us. She was now a blooming
graceful creature of fifteen. She had never
met any man that seemed to her Mr. Stanley 's
equal. Unlike Djuncan Clavering, he was very
handsome. His manners possessed that polish
which is only .imparted by extensive intercourse
with good society, and bis conversation united
the fascinations of playfulness, puctrv, and sub
tle analysis. ,
It was /rot long before I made thg discovery
that Helen loved him,. My only little sister—
the one being I had been accustomed to call
my own —bad cast out my love from the chief
place in her heart, and yielded it up in tremu-j
lons joy to the Jiandsooie stranger. This
knowledge came to me fraught with deepest an
guish. It wait revealed to me one morning by a
chance expression on her face as he read aloud
a legend from Roger's poems. j
Suddenly, though the summer sunshine was ■
never brighter, the day seemed to grow black
and dark. I ijould not bear their presence ; I j
sent them both from me
“I am tired, of you,” I said, with a forlorn
attempt at playfulness. “ That poem always
excites me ; ard lam not strong. Go out both
of you, and play, like good children; don’t let
me see you back for an hour."
Laughingly. they obeyed me, but Charles
came back whoa he bad reached,the dour, say
ing-- :
“ You might] let me stay, Lucy ; I would be
quietr” ;
“ No, go along, both of you,” I said ; “ I will
have my <own way sometimes.”
I laughed as. I spoke, but I felt ready to burst
into tears. Tjicy shut the dour. I crept across
the room and ijocked it; I would have no inter
ruption. I cStpe back and sat in my writing
chair hy the ti&de.'and all this time not a tear
fell. Until that hour I never even fancied 1
loved Charles Stanley. Now I could see that a
feeling had been growing up in my heart which
was not perhaps exactly love—a feeliilg that he
belonged to mefand no other. ■
To do him justice he bad never striven to win
Helen’s regard. Of course, with his nature he
could not remain insensible to her beauty, but
ho had never seemed to take much interest in
her society ; bis thoughts and attentions had all
been for me. But she loved him ; and, knowing
this, I would not have married him had his
heart broken for love of me. But did be love
me, a poor, unlovely cripple? With his na
ture this was not possible. Thank Heaven, I
saw the truth plainly ; my genius he might
admire, but he did not love me,'he never could,
I remember at the time I wondered why this
knowledge did, not bring me a deeper thrill of
pain. It was "hot this which gave birth to the
wild throbs of agony which rocked my slight
frame.
1 thought that tho thought that Helen's love
was mino’no longer, grieved me still more than
the feeling that I had no power to retain the
chief place in Charles Stanley’s heart. Worst
df-&ll was the old, desolate sense, that I was
and must over be, alone in the world; set apart,
isolated from human love, by my misfortune.
Helen would go away from me, would brighten
her blue'eyes and deepen the blush on her
cheek. All of tho world might find kindred
-hearts ami husband’s and children’s love, hut I
must bo poor, crippled Lucy Emry all my life.
Uh, in that hour, fame seemed how worthless ?
For ouo heart to lovo me, I would have given
all the glory of the universe. , J
Wildly I threw my arms upward, and groaned
and sobbed in my despair. And then an angel
came down from heaven, and stilled tho troubled
waters of my soul, and brought the bright
waves of healing to my very lips,, I prayed.
The peace of tho Intinuto ■seemed to over
shadow me. The cloud and the darkness passed
over me.
That evening I"went to tho vicar’s lease
I had a questiyu, fur. Da oca a Olaveriog’e =' la
KfemenU will be cbnrirert $1 per«qu*rc of 10
of three insertion*, »if<r22T ©cm* for every
tju)*cr(U>i?. Advyrtbcwents bi 'h**? tlive 10
os a square. The eubjuit »*d mtf * *iU
Tor Quarterly, Half-Yearly at u \ ei.rl>
;t \»J '
m, L
Uneji
lari
, ni
..II
.-of Jo]
jed'nent)
other T
NO. 23
i in- a ejew study I had undertaken. I rose
to go, at length, fur Charles Stanley had
,e fur me, and was waiting at the door.—
ican looked at me gravely and kindly.
Ybu know I predicted good things lor your
Ljiicy my child,” he said, in his calm, low
‘s, “ arid they have come. Fame is dawn
forjyou; already f see its dawuing in the
; and how this,voting Stanley loves you—
will hive happiness.”
'ail if my fancy, or did a shadow cross his
as he spoke—a look of intense physical
i.? j' I made no reply. I went to the door,
bade him, as .was my wont a respectful
luigbt; hut I looked back afterwards, and
hijm still standing where I bad left him,
ihirig me moving slowly onward, with my
chjjn iiy hand, leaning on Charles Stan
i arm, and his face woru an expression I
nriver icen on it before,
haf night, on my way.home, Charles Stan
islted my hand in marriage—Charles Stan
poet apd dreamer! A moment T was si
, ■ iV little of the morning’s pain came hack
io-r-1, who, needing sympathy and tender
ai) painfully, must yet put away the cup ■
)vei with my. own hand. But I-put the
ng ti solutely down, and answered, Ko,
rlcs, I must never be your wife. !l am not
t yiur nature craves. You need apprecia- "s
not rivalry in a woman. You rieid one
Helen.j You shall have her; I will give
;o you.jaml you shall be a brother, to me.”
Bpi it ja not Helen I.want; it is you,” ho
:ed',| with a bewildered took,
N'tj,i Coarles, it is not 1; it is Helen. Lie
aadiyou will believe me. You.are very as
ide;” .He started. “Y\ ell, then, entiiusi
:, if you like that term better. Y’ou had a
■ p|retty theory about souls loving each
; ,LuVe was to ; -he very exalted — mind,
mjifterj You road my writings—ihey
Isdiyou —you thought yon discovered in ,
a kindred spirit. You resolved to iiiuks -.
-•qiiaintance. You came with the ftilit
tit n off loving and marrying me. \\ Iq-n
avrthajt I was lame, you were disappointed
auld see.that—hut your beautiful llnnry,
bought, must ho true. Y’ou continued to
me. 6ur tastes harmonized; i had seen
i of .the | world, therefore I was original;—
liked to hear me talk, you became pleased'
my society, and now you think you want
i iriiy me. But you-have not 6ne emotion of
bnate Ifve for me in your heart, such loro
[min treasures up for the elect woman 1 who
boiihis You would do me . grievous
gto wed tno. Look into your o.vn heart,'
es iStaidoy,‘.tand answer me as you would
.or to Heaven-—have I not spoken truly?
ie?d, w!ith all the loflgings of your nature,
iulijul Vvoinjm. You ueeii" beauty, I say ; ’
mukt have it in your wife, i Y’ou have ali o
s waywardness: you need a sunny, cheer
toman. ! I am old and sad, and withered
s. my time. You need peace; my life,
; aspt is, most be always restless; 1 should
jftiyou; "Answer me truly, Chat Its Stan
1m i I not right ?” ,
I'hdriksp’ he faltered, “ thanks, Lucy, jou
jshhwn me my own heart.”
mg
easl
you
faci
pal
amJ
wat
crul
ley’
had
ley
ley,
leu
wroni
Char
aoswf
,You
a be.*
you
[lOL't’l
Tul wl
bcfor
quiet
:nuf s
ilev, ii
;bave
But his eyes did not turn id me ; they were
fixed on' Ilt-Ten; who was bounding dow'n the
path to meet us, for we were almost at home.
|oh,! liolv beautiful she touted, her dre.-s uf Hon
ing white muslin, bound around her slender
waisti with an azure girdle, her garden,hat upon,
her arm, herjeyes bright, and herlcheeks Hushed
with exercise, her golden curls flouting on tha
genth evening breeze. No wondir Chailta
Stapleyi watched her—but she was’ mine Do f
lunger, i I , ' "r
- a slight pn‘n that hehnd
aecej Efcik'my| words so t< a tily, tin the hud net
even sqpght! to ascertain if I loved him. I
thought,l could never have loved him with all
tha fullness bf my nature. Ah ! perhaps if I
had I could not have given him up so eusilv.
One riiore [pang came to me—it was a selfish
one. I sat down by my study windbw, ami
looked fjerthjintu the garden ; they weieth. ro
together, and I tould not help thinking what a
handsome couple they were. He was helping
to tie up a rbsebush, and (-heard him say that
its h'o'bhms Were no brigher and blither -than .
herself. Anjd tit's is the man who had.asked ,
me tojbejhis wife only yesterday—tire only lover
1 ever bad. 1 had given him up tollelei —they:
were boih forgetting me. “Is this you,-Lucy,
Entry I said, with a -twinge of coo tempi fur
my and then I took ray pen, an it ret o--
lutely tkirning my back upon sorrow,
menu id to write a new book. In six- vVceka
Duncan Clattering married them.
I Was howitwenly-five years old, and I looked
ton yearij older than that,. Fi-d year lu.d
passe 1 since my sister’s for.thu
last twelve loiontlis- she imd been in her »oi
home again— Charles Stanley’s widow;. It n
poet-husband was dead, and-she,'always mu
sitivej but traflsitory in her emotions, thou*. li
she grieved fjor him, had speedily regained her
oheerfulhessj They had been vary happy : she
had ekahtly satisfied the needs of his na urq
with her brightness and her beauty. .
I never had another lover, and Duncan Cla
verini had been fey only friend. I had by this ’
time won the fame he had prophesied, and far
more than myself, ho gloried in it. Physically,
I had net grown much stronger. There wero
hours when I would have given worlds for hu
man love—td have rested my throbbing 1 row
for ot e ; cstapt on some true heart which wra
ininejovsn. But knowing this was not for ur,
1 rosclu ely put the thought away. . •
Oftale Duncan,Clavering-had often como-tsy•
bee u t-rfar oftencr than before ,Helen’*, relufu.
She tad matjured ihtn a very accomplished wor
man. Ilowould sit for hours and listen to h. V
aslshgbang to the harp or piano, and 1,
beside him,-would listen n,Uu. lia-ilh d
voice
sittin
even
saw t
ho wc
io Wainijoy the melody ; and! then when he
he tanr»:.sloaling; silently down iny cheek
.mil say, C.ntne, Helen, pnt ttHny J4iut
nia?in new, itia nutwood for Limy tvny longer*’*
uttering jlho gnmmand in h culm, kindly tone*
as if somehow she belonged to lifm.
I{o wtta f. vtv now, and his dark hair whs
thick y streikcd with 1 silver, and yet Helen.'
who hmid’to atiniiy me, by calling my:master
the man in the world. Insisted O’*'w tho,|-
BoiiijOhoW If hnl grown Mn ds.mio. _ *
i l =iwjiiU tills with a itnwijp
I'"!'-”
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