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Reared by an uncle who imposed upon them no other duty than • that of their love, each was greatly left to her own inclinations, receiving no other education than that of circumstances ; but the world is a dangerous book to those who are called to read it untaught save by their own inexperience and their passion ; instead of reading what we find there, we read oftener what we wish to find there, and for want of a guide to direct us, our prejudices form our judgments, and our errors our principles. Thus it was with Clara ; possessed of_ a prompt spirit, a firm will, but of an imperious character, she was accustomed never to hesitate in her resolution, and to hold herself as inflexi ble towards others as herself. The intolerance of youth, which is only through ignorance of life, transformed every thing with her into un alterable rules of conduct ; she was vivacious, judged .after the senses, and acted without hesitation. The result was sometimes that of reason, but oftener sorrow and chagrin. The • practice of life had not yet taught her that the virtues themselves to remain human must be tempered by tenderness and patience. Happily God had placed near her the mildest of admonitions in the example of a sister. As courageous and sincere, Elizabeth was less im placable ; hers was not one of those iron hearts which will neither listen, bend or wait ; older than Clara by some years, she had learned that this terrestrial existence is nothing more than a mere exchange of indulgences, benefits, and pardons, and that the road of Rhodamanthus appears not to natural mortals. Happily some-. times she had arrested Clara in her rash reso lutions, but the young sister revolted against the temporary indulgences of the elder, and usually avoided consulting her that she, might avoid her objections. After the death of their uncle, Elizabeth came to be head of the family, and exercised nn authority whiel Clara had no wish to contest, but from which under certain circumstances, she fJrced an escape. She happened, however, upon one occasion to save her from a lasting and unhappy quarrel with his cousin John Broring. Protege of her uncle who had raised the two sisters, John bad cbine often to Lanark. and had become intimately acquainted with Eliza beth and Clara. The character of the latter surprised nt first, then interested him. Mild and timid, he found in the firmness and assu rance of the young girl that which was wanting in his own nature. and much more drawn by a quality of which be regretted the absence in himself, he attached himself to his young cousin, and concluded by applying for her hand. The same reasons of contrast which had led hitt' to prefer Clara, drew her towards him, and his proposal was favorably listened to.— The marriage was to take place next. In waiting for the day fixed, a regular correspond ence was established between the two affianced. The letters of John were affectionate, but gen erally quite brief, for which Clara made him some serious reproaches. The young man threw the fault upon the numerous allitirs of the house of Edembourg, with which he had associated himself, and upon his eyesight, a little fatigued. This last excuse disquieted Clara still more, for John proving had in times past been threatened with a serious opthalmy. She informed hint with her usual vivacity, of the serious nature of his malady ; but John replied in so pleasant a manner as to completely reassure her. • 'However his letter grow continually fewer and more brief. The time fixed for the mar riage drew near. He pretended an increase of business which obliged him to delay. On receiving this letter Clara saddened, then became pale. For the first time a doubt raised itself in her mind. Incapable of disquiescing, she wrotelo John, informing him that his en gagement could not bind him, and that if he hesitated „, in K, she would show neither anger nor resentment, but what she demanded of him alone was sincerity. Broring replied only by a note of a few lines, of which the confused writing showed the ex treme haste with which it was written. He announced to his cousin that lie was going to London for an affair which suffered no delay, . and that he could answer her question when he returned. Until then he prayed Clara to wait , and to preserve for him her friendship. This letter struck to the heart of the young : the brevity of the reply, and adjournment of explanation, the species of constraint which pervaded the letter—all persuaded her that John repented of his promise. Elizabeth con jured her to decide nothing before the promised letter, but Clara would listen. to nothing.— Wounded in her dignity, her hopes in her love, site !rayed the blow with the inflexible rest).- ltitlop , n l .l.l4tiiis habitual to her 3 / 4 A. 11/222)Ye 3ciitextsvaizcsa=slrE Itten MO 1?C:201:4 Ittell a PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY :HAINES & DIEFENDERFER AT ONE DOLLAR AND FIFTY CTS PERANNUIVI. She wrote to her cousin returning his pro- 1 ; with the dictates of reason I wish to unite my mise, and declaring that an alliance between I self only to a man to whom I will be the first them was henceforth impossible. She gave her i interest and the sweetest pre-occupation. De motives for this resolution in analyzing the ! sided to yield to him all my affections, I desire character of Broring, with a severe frankness jto lie reraid by an equal return. Other women which could leave him no chance for reply. On !may consent to be merely a detail in the receiving it, he could not fail to regard the ! lives of their husbands, to come after the dis rupture as definite, and to accept through dig- I tractions of business affairs ; I commend them nity if not through inclination. Clara, who ' not ; each arranges her destiny according to feared the objections of her elder sister, and 'her her taste, but as for me, I cannot, I will not who. felt no strength to sustain a new discus- I accept a condition which will bring unhappi sion on the subject, spoke not to her of this ! ness upon myself and upon others. If to-day letter. She gave it to a servant, ordering him I John Broring finds no time to write to me, in a to carry it to the post. 1 I few months he will find no more time to speak So long as she was writing, the animation of ; to me. - IT the success of a speculation in Lon thoughts and the effort of the will had sustained I don is of more importance than the opinion I the young girl ; but the act once accomplished, I may have 'of his attachment to Lanark, we she fell into the most profound dejection. Du - could not understand and are not made for I ring nearly a year that this engagement with each other." her cousin had existed, she had habituated her-, I " And do you say that you are not deceived self to his tastes—all her projects of happiness ! in judging the actions of John Brining !" replied had attached themselves to him. She had ' Elizabeth, who had listened to her sister with planned in the future all her hopes and all her a grave sadness. Do you then understand' joys which must henceforth be abandoned as a yourself so well as to condemn immediately I crumbling edifice. She must form new con- i and without appeal ? You complain of the 1 I nections, and cast from her heart the hopes that ; short letters of your cousin—of his apparent had lodged there. Clara felt this most keenly. hesitancy—of his sudden journey. Listen to for under a haughty exterior she concealed a this letter which I have received from him." sincere sensibility. Affianced to John Bro- Elizabeth unfolded the letter, which she held ring, she was attached to him as the future i in her hand, and read as follows: companion of her happiness and misery,—and ; I " ic ing Couslx : I dictate a letter to you, his affection which had been a long time grow- not being able to write myself. It is necessary ing, had taken a firmer hold of- her life than ,at length that you know the truth. For nearly she had herself imagined. i three months the opthalmy, with which I was threatened, became each day more alarming After the departure of this letter of rupture. ; ' I said nothingto you about it, fort hoped to find her sadness seemed to increase day by day.— ; myself deceb-ed ;yet my uneasiness was con However, she regretted nothing she had done, tinually increasing. Miss Clara accuses me ofi for her grief could not discourage this love of 1 brevity ; she knows not that each note has cost r m e e m . e sa a d eh p e a g in. ,ier l ee ca n n le el o du t r i e le tt i p r a t in,p i i n it a : ler what she considered to be her duty, but the 1 fulfilment, of which had left in her heart a 1 wl l ien she had appeared to distrust my want Finally, wound which she could not conceal. time, and had given me the liberty to break off, c o e u i r ei t !w rr e ff i e e n e m e t is l t i n n ia r de en a de fi n rin reso e h n it e ior e . me A ' Fifteen days had elap.;ed without receiving ! any news from Diming. One evening Clara : can alone judge your malady. ' I ca l 3 v . o s uld address' was alone in the drawing-room, watching from ; myself to him as to my destiny. If he con! a window the !setting sun. A tear coursed I detnned me I would refuse to associate your silently down the length of her pale c h eeks, ! siste r with ft lost existence. T would remain which she herself perceived not. The noise I alone in my darkness with the hope of not liv- mg, a long time. In consequence, I wrote a made by the opening of a door aroused her from note to C:ara. in whih I delayll elan- 1 her revery ; she quickly wiped her eyes and re- i lion until my return f c rom London.ed a I am xp ther a e covered herself. Her sister entered. ! yet, dear cousin, but re-assured and nearly Maladyl lap i. Thanlcst o n n t t l The latter wore a-gay visage yet, nevert te• l 'e th i e le i lp l r). : physician who art li rl a Y s less agitated. Holding in her hand a letter, s c caie dissipated,ne iwomises a spec i3 d s v ic a l n . d complete approached Clara, and embraced her with ten- ',rut. When he tins given me this assurance. I derness, ha : wished to prostrate myself at his feet, not' " I have sought you, my sister," said she, iiiiiie 0 ie light he Iris promised me, but for to Speak with you." . I with Clara. the life!--a Te of joy and tenderness passed' - I " What have you to say ?" demanded Clara, I " Communion e this letter to her with eau who feared some questions on her sadness or I lion ; I have emit, ored to spare her the least 1 some pleadings in favor of her cousin. j unhappy emotions, t i t I may never be to her I have a long confession to make to ou,' , ; the occasion of a sadness, while she may be to' y me none other than the cause of gratitude and' continued Elizabeth, in a joyous tone, "and I i happiness. JOHN BRORIXG." • pray you to listen with patience." j During the first of this letter Clara could not ' " I will listen to you," replied Clara, still I retain an exclamation ; the truth flashed upon' suspicious. I Ir:r eyes as a meteor. But as the reading ad-' Elizabeth seated herself while Clara remained I winced, her visage bore all the expressions of standing. " The note which John wrote you i surprise, regret and tenderness. She compla int:ore going to London, wounded you from the 1 hended all at. once. The noble silence of John first, and listening to nothing but your impa- I his generous indecision ; the kind of delay at Bence, you have replied to him." I which she was so indignant !—all this of which Clara wished to interrupt. I she had accused him, contributed to his praise —all that had seemed to condemn John, ono ' bled him. Tears of happiness and of admiration inun dated the visage of the young girl. Falling upon her sister, she folded her in her embrace, without power to speak. But suddenly she raised herself. The remembrance of the letter she had written came to her mind. Addressed from Lanark, it had without doubt suffered sonic delay, for which he could not then have received it; but he must have received it now. To-day perhaps he had read it ;at the same instant, even, when she had received the proofs of his disinterested affection, ho was suffering through her expression of coldness and injustice. This idea struck to the heart of Clara liken dart : she fell upon a chair and covered her face with her hands. ` " What ails you ?" said Elizabeth quickly; " Ah I have myself destroyed my happiness," exclaimed she. " What would you say ?" " My letter ! my letter" sobbed the young " Let one go on," continued Elizabeth, quickly ; " you have replied to him immediate ly, and p, part of the night has been employed in writing this reply, for your lamp was• not extinguished until tliC first hour of the morn ing ! Ilow could you believe me ignorant ? Think you that chagrin could attend you with out my perceiving it and not attempting to pre vent the consequences ?" " I know your tenderness, my sister," Clara replied, with effirt, " but I pray you speak no more on this subject." I must," said Elizabeth, in a tone of mild firmness. " This letter that you have written, Clara. has the expression of bitter resentment, and would break off the projected alliance." " How do you know ?" exclaimed the young girl. " Before I go, I will tell you," replied Eliza beth. Clara raised herself with 'a severe look and a frowning brow. " You !" 'repeated she ; " and , who has given you the right 1" "My friendship," mildly said the elder sister ; " I know by experience how inflexible you are in your resolutions, Clara. I had fears of your decision under tho influence of your im patience ; alas ! my fears are more than realized. first impulse was to come to you and com bat so fatal a resolution. I had fears at the time of not finding you enough calm to listen to me ; since then I have waited on mount of--" " Why, then, do yon speak to me to-day 1" demanded Clara impatiently. " Now that all is accomplished, for what use are these remon strances. Understand,'my sister, that I regret nothing I htive done. I shall suffer without doubt in the thin of my hopes ; I shall suffer a long time, perhaps, but the suffering is not re pentance. Better break a fatal chain before it has bound you 4, better struggle to tear and deaden than to condemn one's self and bear eternally the weight of reMorse. In accordance Allentown, Pa., February 27, 1856. " Look here ;" said Elizabeth, joyously, at the same time presenting a letter with a broken seal. Clara uttered a cry of joy, and threw herself once more in the arms of her sister. " Alt ! you have saved me," said she. " Yes," said Elizabeth, mildly, but one can not always save those who expose themselves .to misery. Never forget this admonition, my sister, that has come to you from Providence. True courage consists not in acting without hesitation or in affronting without prudence. When we are brought to judge of others, we . may believe the good easily ; but for the bad, wo should await the proofs. • • • I fa — The person that goes into business places and carries off our subscriber's papers before they have read thorn, would walk five miles to rob a blind sheep of his foddor. Such persons should be winked to death by blind people. WILLIE BELL , Down in yonder shadowed valley Where the death tide's waters roll; Whcro dark phantoms ever daily With the fleeting, fainting soul; Whore the hymn, of death is waking, In the gloom with measured swell ; . Thither went, our heart-strings breaking, Little, loving Willie Bell. Cuonts.—Gontlo Willie, darling Willie: How we loved thee none can Yell ; Thou host left us, and forever, Little, loving All the Spring-time played he gladly With the sunbeams from the sky; In the Slimmer Watched lie sadly All the Spring Bowers fade and die And lie wandered by the brook-side Where the gushing waters tell— Where the angels sang at night-tide o Music low to Willie Bell. But when summer blossoms faded, And the Autumn leaves flew by, When the gentle buds were shaded By the snow wreaths from on high— Then n voice came down from heaven Like the waves in winding shell, And an angel crown was given To the brow of Willie 8011. Folded they hi bands of whiteness O'er the marble, lifeless breast, While sweet strains from hearts of brightness Welcomed him to heavenly rest: And the eyes of blue were closing O'er the check where death-dumps While in dreamless sleep reposing Was the form of Willie Bell. Down within the grassy meadow, Down within the silent. vela, Whore et even comes the shadow Of the moonbeams still and pale— There, upon the earth's cold bosom, 'Mid the snow-flake, ns they fell, Laid we our bright Summer blossom, Loved in death sweet Willie Dell! What Is the Use of Snow t The snow was proverbially called the' poor farmer's manure" before scientific analysis had shown that it contained a larger per centage of of ammonia than rain. The snow serves as a protecting mantle to the tender .herbage and the roots of all plants against the fierce blast and cold of winter. An examination of snow in Siberia showed that when the temperature of the air was seventy-two degrees below zero the temperature of the snow a little below the surface was twenty-nine degrees above zero, over one hundred degrees difference. The snow keeps the earth ,just below its surface in a con dition to take on chemical changes which would not happen if the earth were bare and frozen to a great depth. The snow prevents exhalations from the earth, and is a powerful absorbent, re• tanning and returning to the earth gases arising from vegetable and animal decomposition. The snow, though it falls heavily at the door of the poor and brings death andstarvation to the fowls of the air and beasts of the field, is yet of incal culable benefit in a climate like ours, and espe cially at this time, when the deep springs of th earth were failing and the mill streams wen refusing their . motive powers to the eravii appetites of man. If, during the last ruontl the clouds had dropped rain instead of snow m might have pumped and bored the earth in vai for water ; but, with a foot of snow upon tl mountains, the hum of the mill -stones and tl harsh notes.of the saw will soon and long tot tify to its beneficence.' Bridges, earth-workE and the fruits of engineering skill and toil ma: be swept away, but man will still rejoice. in th general good and adore the benevolence of Ili: .who orders all things aright. The snow is great purifier of the atmosphere. The absorb ent power of capillary action of snow is Hip that of a sponge or charcoal, Immediately at ter snow has" fallen, melt it in a clean vessel and taste it, and you will find immediately er. idences of its impurity. Try some a day oi two old and it becomes nauseous, especially in cities. Snow water makes the mouth harsh and dry. It has the same effect upon the skin, and upon the hands and feet produces the pain ful malady of chilblains. The following easy experiment illustrates beautifully the absorb. ent property of snow : Take a lump of snow (a piece of snow crust answers well) of three or four inches in length and hold it in the flame of a lamp ; not a drop of water will fall from the snow, but the water, as fast as formed, will penetrate or be drawn up into the mass of snow by capillary attraction. It is by virtue of this attraction that the snowpurifies the atmos phere by absorbing and retaining its noxious and noisome gases and odors.. Hard of Hearing—.l Love Story. A young Jonathan once courted tho daughter of an old man that lived down East; who pro fessed to be deficient in hearing ; but, forsooth, was more capacious than limited in hearing, as the sequel will show. It was a stormy night in the ides of March, if I mistake not, when lightning and loud peals of thunder answered thunder, and Jonathan Dr SUE " He's got cold and the itch, eh !" So say ing the old man aimed a blow at Jonathan's head -with his cane, but happily for Jonathan he dodged it. Nor did the rage of the old man stop at this, but with angry countenance he made after Jonathan, who took to his heels ; nor did Jonathan's luck stop here, he had not got far from the old man, who run him a tight race, before Jonathan stumped his toe and fell to the ground and before the old man could " take up" he stumpled over Jonathan and fell sprawling in a mud hole. Jonathan sprung to I his heels, and with the speed of John Gilpin cleared himself. And poor Sal, she died a nun, and never had a husband. In a Ilan Fix. A farmer had occasion to send his man, who, r the way, was a jolly Dutchman, to the ighboring town for a barrel of molasses.-- le weather being warm, and the driver more m, driving rather fast, the molasses took a ion to " work," as it is generally called.— we will let him tell Lis story in his own ~.triptio... Ards. " Veil, I gomed along, and I gotned. According to the grand design, everything; along, till I got to de hill vat stands at de top we eat, no matter whether meat or vegetables, j of de black-smit's shop, and den, I looks. is first changed by the stomach into albumen ; ; around pehind my pung-hole. Thinks I, I will but it seems that meat and grease are absolute- sthop dat, so I sthops de cart, and scotches der - ly necessary to prevent these irregular deposits oxen mit a grabble rock and trove der pang it of albumen or tubercle in the substance of the hole in as tight as neber vos, mit a lightvoc lungs and bones. Now meat and grease are I knot and gomed along again, till I got to where loathed by all who are not much in the open de forks of de road cross each oder mit do meet air, and who do not labor or use very active ing-house, and I look around pehind my pack agin, and de sthuff was all run ober mit de bar exercise ; the laboring man demands fat pork a . and beef; the Esquimaux must have whale,gin. O, says I, will fix you now, an' r walrus and seal oil ; the hog has been calle the laud whale ; it is the laborer's stall, and was undoubtedly designed by nature for his food ; air turns albumen into red blood. The mixed negroe's of the South, or mulattoes, have a very strong tendency to consumption, and often get it when much pampered as house ser vants ; but as fleld hands, working hard, and living upon bacon and corn, which impart heat, they rarely have it. Spirituous liquors, which aro almost all hydrogen, are used with much more impunity by those who travel and labor ; they produce heat, and are now known to be preventives of tubercle when used in moderation so as not to oppress the delicate sat by the old man's fireside, discussing with i the old lady (his intended mother-in-law) on the expedience of asking the old man's-perinjs sion to marry " Sal." Jonathan resolved to 1" pop it" to the old man next day. Night pass ed,. and on the dawn of another day the old man was found in his barn lot feeding his pigs, and Jonathan resolved to ask him for Sal. Scarce had a Minute elapsed, after Jonathan made his resolution, ere ho bid the old man " good Morning:" Now Jonathan's heart beat ; new he scratched his head, and ever and anon gave birth to a pensive yawn. Jonathan de clared that he'd as lief take " thirty-nine stripes" as to ask the " old man ;" but, said he aloud to himself, " however, here goes it ; a faint heart never won a fair girl," and ad dressed the old man thus: " I say, old man, I want to marry your I daughter." " You want to borrow my halter. I would loan it to you, Jonathan, but my son has taken it and gone off to the mill." Jonathan, putting his mouth close to the old man's ear, and speaking in a deafening tone, " I've got five hundred pounds of money !" Old man, stepped back as if greatly alarmed, and exclaimed in a voice of surprise, " You have got five hundred pounds of honey, Jona than ! Why it is more than all the neighbor- hood has use fur !" Jonathan, not yet the victim or despair, And putting his mouth to the old man's ear, bawled out " I've got gold !" " So have I, Jonathan, and it is the worst cold I ever had in my life." So saying he sneezed a " wash-up." By this time the old lady came up, and ob serving Jonathan's unfortunate luck, she put her mouth to the old man's ear and screamed like a wounded Ya-hoo. " Daddy, I say daddy—you don't under stand ; he wants to marry your daughter." " I told him our calf halter was gone." " Why, daddy, you don't understand—he's got gold—he's rich." I HAVE NO MOTHER NOW Rl' C. 11. CRISIVELT I hear the soft %villa sighing, Through every bush and tree Where now ‘lenr mother's lying Awny from love and me, NUMBER 22. tissues of weak lungs. All slow-moving and cold blooded animals, such as tortoises and snakes, are actually formed and nourished by liquid albumen ; yet they never him tubercles!, because it is their proper blood; thoim that breathe faster always run or fly, and have the red particles. Domesticated ones, such as eats, guinea-pigs, monkeys and parrots, often die of tubercular consumption, because they are confined and their exercises cut off. And here you will Now we even have in this list a bird. Now birds which aro red and hot blooded, particularly those that fly long, such as pigeons, gulls, eagles, and wild geese and ducks, neves' have tubercles ; their blood ran ges from 104 to 112 degrees, and they use very stimulating food ; the parrot eats cakes, candies, &c., and is confined in a cage. —Med ical Scalpel. IVashington at School. Having no longer the benefit of a father's instructions at home, and the scope of tuition of Hobby, the sexton, being too limited for the growing wants of his pupil, George was now send to reside with Augustine Washington, at Bridge's Creek, and enjoy the benefit of a su perior school in the neighborhood, kept by a Mr. Williams. His education, however, was plain and practical. Ho never attempted the learned languages, nor manifested any inclina tion for rhetoric or belles lettres. His object, or the object of his friends, seems to have been I confined to fitting him for ordinary business. His manuscript books still exist, and are models of neatness and accuracy. One of them, it is true, a ciphering book, preserved in the library at Mount Vernon, has some school-boy's at tempts at calligraphy ; nondescript birds, exe cuted with a flourish of the pen, or profiles of faces probably intended for those of his school mates ; the rest are all grave and'busineFs Before ho was thirteen years of age, hg had copied into a volume forms of all kinds of mer cantile and legal papers : bills of exchange, notes of hand, deeds, bonds and the like. This early self•tuition gave him throughout life a law yer's skill in drafting documents, and a mer chant's exactness in keeping accounts, so that all the concern of his various estates, his deal ings with his domestic stewards and foreign agents, his accounts with government, and all his financial transactions are to this day to be seen posted up in books of his own hand-writ ing, monuments of his method and unwearied accuracy. He was a self-disciplinarian in physical as well as mental matters, and practised himself in all kinds of athletic exercises, such as run ning, leaping, wrestling, pitching quoits, and' tossing bars. His frame, even in infancy, had been large and powerful, and he now excelled most of his play -mates in contests of agility and strength. As a proof of his muscular power, a place is still pointed out at Fredericksburg, near the lower ferry, where, when a boy, ho flung a stone across the Rappahannock. In horsemanship, too. he already excelled, and was ready to back and able to manage tho !lost fiery steed. Traditional anecdotes remain' 'his achievements in this respect. Above all his inherent probity, and the prin., files of justice on which he regulated all his induct, even at this early period of his life, !?re soon appreciated by his school-master; ho is referred to as an umpire in their disputes, id his decisions were never reversed. As he id been formerly military chieftain, ho was legiSlator of the school ; thus displaying•in• iyhood a type of future man. • . • M-
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