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VOLUME X.
From the Williesharre 'Record of the Times.)
ALICE LAYTON,
011, LOVE AND FlEvEna.
BY P. A. CULVER
It is twilight, a calm soft twilight in early
autumn. A few pale little stars, are just peep
ing forth from under the white fringed cloud
lets, that gem the azure sky. The verdant
landscapes, stretching far away in the distance,
are beginning to disappear. The tired laborer
is wending his homeward way : the noise and
bustle of day has subsided, and a stilly calm
ness has taken its place.
It is indeed, a quiet holy hour, and as I sit
alone in the shadow of the great elm, memories
of the past are crowding around me. A shining
train of early memories come up distinctly
before my vision, and wind themselves caress
ingly about my heart. Sweet Alice L., me
thinks, I see thee even now, as I first knew
thee, beautiful and pure as a dream of heaven !
Methinks I see thee as I saw thee then, 'crc the
dark cold waves of sorrow had passed o'er thy
young heart, withering thy joyous spirit in its
first sweet freshness. '
Alice Layton was an orphan. and had never
known a doting Mother's fbnd caress, or a
Father's loving counsel. She had been left, an
orphan nt an age when too young to know the
great and bitter loss to which the unrelenting
hand of destiny had suljected her. An only
child of poor, but respectable parents, she had
been left to the care of a maiden aunt, with
barely the sum necessary to give her a thorough
and independent edi:cation. Being naturally
of a studious and reliving temperament, at the
early age of sixteen she had finished her studies,
and left school with the highest honors, as well
as the love and respect of all with whom she
had been associated.
Alice Layton was very beautiful, and as pure
and high souled, as she was beautiful. She
was tall, and slightly formed ; her eyes were of
the darkest blue, and her parian forehead 'was
half 'Shaded by glossy mid-night ringlets, and
over all, there was a pensive mournfulness of
expression, and a subdued, and dreamy soft
ness in her large misty ryes.
Yes! she was gloriously , beautiful ; but in
her mind', the lofty aspirations of a more than
ordinary high miiid,'made her life a thing so
much above the common (oar. Poetry was
heuassion , and she would sit fir hours lost to
all'lurrounding objects, hut ied in the mask
pieces of some of the gr.-at Poets. A dreamy
child of nature, slue had ever lived wiihin
world of her own creating : a world of thought.
far removed from the busy busliog erow.l
around her. She had hitliPrto lived within her
self, and—
I!”. ,
The loco t,.
Notwithstanding her senQitive aiDl retiring
nature, she possessed a firmness of chnraeter•
seldom equalled. I never knew her to shrill!,
from nny thing she thonglit it duty to p2lll)rin.
" Will you give me no hope ? Must all my
future years be steeped in the blackness of
darkness. Must 1, can T, iclinquish this one
Jear hope and dream of my life 3"
And then came up the answer, low and sadly.
" It must be even so, I cannot., dare MA bid you
hope."
"Oh ! Alice Layton." and,. Gordon Leslie's
voice sounded strangely wavering, and hollow,
" Oh ! Alice I have loved you so entirely, I can
not give you up. To have this one dream of
my life so coolly, so suddenly blighted, is more
than I can bear. I ask you once again, and
for all, will you not relent ?"
"Gordon Leslie," and Alice's eye grew mis
ty, " I am sorry, oh how sorry, for this : but I
am very firm. I can never return your love.--•
I never relent ; it is not in my nature. May
you find ono more worthy, than plain unpre
tending Alice Layton ; one who can love you
in return as your noble nature deserves."
Alice Layton's form passed away, in the dim
distance ; and Gordon Leslie rose from the low
grass plot, where they had been seated, mur
muring " Ha! she thinks to escape me thus ;
but so sure as there'is a God, I'll be revenged
for this ! To be thus coolly slighted, and give
up in despair, is not my forte ; so Lady bird
look to your interests, and beware how you
venture near the net of this fowler."
With a dark scowl on his countenance, and a
muttered cunt on his lips, ho rapidly strode
away and disappeared in the Surrounding, dark
ness.
Gordon Leslie, was a young man of fine tal
ents, and great personal attractions; but .pos
sessed of indomitable will ; and a coolness of
purpose seldom equalled. He had loved Alice
Layton, with an intensity of feeling, bordering
on madness ; and her cool but kind refusal had
roused up every latent spark of hatred and re
venge within his bosom.
There are some spirits who never forgive an
injury, but, form some plan of revenge, and
never give over their object 'till' they go on to
its fulfillment. Such an ono was Gordon Les
lie. Stung to madness by this rejection, he
PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY HAINES & DIEFENDERFER AT ONE DOLLAR AND FIFTY CENTS PER A
made a solemn vow to avenge his, as he thought
bitter wrong.
Leslie had not always been so wholly vile.
His boyhood had been pure and innocent ; but
the first years of his manhood had been spent
in the company of the wild and vicious ; and
dissipation had done its work. Still ho could
mask his feeling, and to gaie on his open manly
face, one would not have guessed the vileness
of his heart. But we will leave him to his base
machinations, and return leour heroine.
Months had passed away. Alice Layton was
again seated on the same grassy mound, where
we saw her a few months ago. Seated near her
was a very different person fro he suitor of
that evening.
Alice Layton, and Ernest D i pd had been
playmates in childhood. They had long years
before played on the same grass plot, where
they are now - seated, and roamed through the
same old forests,, that now surround them.--
They had parted when mere children. Ernest
fur a Seminary, in one of the Southern States ;
and Alice for a boarding school in Eastern Now
York. Time passed on, Ernest had finished his
studies, at one of the Eastern Colleges ; spent
two years in Italy, and returned to America a
few weeks before, and commenced the duties of
his Profession as an Artist.
lie had . met Alice Layton, at an evening
party, and immediately recognized in her the
playmate of his childhood. The recognition
was a mutual one ; and soon Ernest Durand
and Alice Layton became almost inseparable.
When she walked, it was Durand's hand that
fclded the shawl so carefully about her form ;
and it, was Durand's voice that read to her from
the master minds of her favorite authors : 'till
she drank in the inspiration and was buried in
the depth of the mighty irresistible tide of ge
nius.
But there was another who had loved Ernest
Durand ; who +rld loved wildly, passionately
through many on; long years.
Claire Willis t had known Durand in child
hood ; she had payed with him, and passed
many a joyous hour in his society, and when
he called herhis little wife, and told hoW lie would
come for her when he grew to be a man, she
had believed it all : anti when she grew to lie
a woman how anxiously had she looked for his
return. "It had been happiness to her through
th?. long nud weary years, to idly dream and
;Hill: or hint, and ;•,-hen at last he come, to be
received only with a cold how after a formal
i:.troditeti,l:t. Oh it was toommch. Would
not rois r:•t•I tinder Cie pressure of its awful
Could the human heart endure to see
turn so rudely f.un its emi n •ace. To
Lee this one dream of a life-time forged haek
so suddenly upon her heart. ‘v;:at wonder if it
:nmrle , !l out all its innocence, and left only the
• embiam.e of its form ?
I: was Parall , l's voice that wits speaking: in
such saci, low luaus, that sounded like the very
depths; or indoth
The shies of Italy ale very blue, the flow
ers are very, sweet, but I would give them all
far this one spot. My parent's feeble footsteps
press this sc,il. - and I would watch over cud
guard their last declining smps 'till they enter
on their blissful abode with the blest beyond.
:America too, is the home of one dearer than all
besides of one without whose smile my life
would be a blank, a dreary trackless waste."
And then he whispered something so low, it
was heard only by her to whom it was ad
dressed.
There was no answer, but the drooping,eye
lids and the silent pressure of the hand told that
his anneal had not been in vain.
They arose to go, their heart 5 were too full
for utterance, and they silently pressed on in
the dusky twilight. When they had fairly
disappeared in the distance, a slight female
figure arose from the low crouching position
where she had been concealed.
The words uttered by Durand's soft musical
voice, words that had brought unutterable joy.
to Alice Layton, had also been heard• by Claire
Willis, and had brought misery. Oh what a
flood of misery to her heart. But little had
Alice or Durand dreamed of the aching heart
throbbing its weary pulsation so near their own.
Time passed on. It was again twilight,
Claire Willis was bending over her guitar, and
a soft wild strain of music was floating over
the mournful breeze.
"'Tis Molten all shivered, and low in the Mist,
Lies the last faded atom of youth's sunny trust,
Its frugments are shuttered, and low 'math my feet,
The lice-strings ure lying that once gushed Co sweet
Ali! .;hero is the idol 1 worshpiped us mine,
E'er sky was clouded or diun'tl its sunshine?
That idol is shuttered, and never again
Will this heart throb so lightly; its worship was vain."
"Ah! never again, life's sunshine is o'er
And hope has departed to waken no more,
False! nano: AL ! how bitter, how empty, how drear,
Life's one march is westward, the sunset is here,
I have loved, Ah! 100 wildly, too deeply and true,
To blot from my heart; and its•droams bid adieu,
Forget them! ho never; Um' its worship was vain,
Still my spirit will live o'er its heart dream again."
Tito wild numbers died away, and a low tap
'Allentown, Pa., March 19, 1856.
at the door started Claire Willis from her deep
revery. She opened it when her brother en•
tered accompanied by a stranger whom he in
troduced 'as Mr. Leslie. Yes the intruder was
none other than our old acquaintance Cordon
Leslie.
The' dark scowl that rested on his counte
nance when last we saw him had faded away,
and in its place was a placid calmness and
frankness of expression.
Gordon Leslie bad through some means be
come acquainted with the circumstance of Claire
Willis' hopeless love for Durand, and for this
reason he had sought her acquaintance, hoping
to gain some assistance, thro' her to further his
vile scheme of revenge.
After exhausting every common place sub
ject, and towards the close of the evening, Les
lie observed, " There have been a great many
changes, since last I visited, this place. It
scarcely seems like the same lovely spot where
I once spent so many happy hours."
" Yes," answered Claire, ." It is strange
what almost incredible changes a few years
will create."
"My old friends," continued Leslie, " are
mostly married and gone from the place, and I
heard this evening that my old fiiend Alice Lay
ton was about wedding the artist Durand.
How is it Miss Willis ?
Leslie saw with cm inward feeling of satis-,
faction the quick flush, and the deadly palor
succeeding it as she replied, that such was the
report, but for the truth of which the could not
vouch.
" Well," said Leslie, " he is a noble fellow
and well deserving of such a prize as I doubt
not she will prove to be."
Gordon Leslie felt little of what he said, but
lie took a secret pleasure—thus goading his
listener, whom he knew was already writhing
under the force of his cruel remarks.
Paul Wills noticing his sister's painful sit
tuition, and fearful of a scene, changed the con
versation to a more congenial topic.
Leslie soon left. he had witnessed enough to
convince him of Claire's love fur Durand, and
lie resolved to'profit thereby.
This was not the last time Gordon Leslie was
found at the farm house of Mr. Willh4, from that
evening there had sprang up an intimacy be
tween himself and Claire, that was likely to ter
minate in an intimacy for life.
And why ? asks the reader. llas•she so soon
forgotten Ernest Durand ? Forgotten him ?
Ah ? no, Claire Willis could not forget him.
But she knew the entire hopelessness of her
pas,don : she knew that she had lavished her
hear't's best alrection at an unhollou• shrine.
The shadow Blather] fallen across her pathway
instead of purifying the heart as is its wont'
had only rendered it the unholy semblance of
its once spotless purity. The heart's innocence
was gone, and in its place dwelt wild and un•
conquerable hatred and sin.
She did not love Gordon Leslie. No ! that
was inpossible. A heart lacerated and bleed
ing as hers, might never love Elvin. But
Claire Willis had plighted her troth to Leslie
from ether motives than love. She knew that
Gordon Leslie's soul Was still writhing under
the weight of its rejection, and she resolved to
convert him into an instrument to execute some
terrible vengeance on the hated objects of her
malice. And thus they were both seeking
through such other to gain some furtherance to
theii plan of revenge.
Is it possible the once gentle Claire could be
so tale, such a fiend at heart ? All ! we know
not the long and terrible hours of agony that
have hardened her better nature, and nearly
scared her brain to madness. Let us not con
demn her unjustly and without charity. Mis
taken Claire ! she.thinks revenge *ill sooth her
troubled heart and calm her aching brow.
Little does she dream of the long weary days of
remorse 'to come.
A few months have pasSed by since the oc
currence of the events recorded above. It was;
Claire Willis' bridal eve. Brillion* *flashed
the light from splendid chandeliers. Softly fell
the strains of melody on the ear. Gay words ;
escaped the lips of giddy lighthearted belles,and
fashionable fops breathed soft nonsense into
their willing ears.
Beauty and elegance were combined, and
there were many lovely and graceful beings in
that crowded assembly.
But far lovelier, and more graceful than them
all looked Claire Willis in the snowy satin con
trasting so strangely with the raven tresses that
floated like a veil around her qucenlike head.
There was a strange unnatural light in her
large jetty eyes, and a bright burning spot on
either check. She wore no ornament save a
tiny locket set with pearls.
Gordon Leslie was looking his best, but there
was no gleam of happiness athwart his high
pale brow, as ho led his queenly bride to the
altar. The flush faded away from .Claire's
cheek as her hand touched Leslie's, and a livid
palm; took its place. It was too plain to go un
noticed, but it was attribute d by that thought
less crowd to timidity.
Claire Willis felt that she was perjuring her
self before her God. Swearing to love and
cherish one whom she dispised in her soul for
his_ baseness, and Leslie felt himself perjured,
but there came no feeling of remorse, he was
too far lost in wickedness to hesitate now.
The ceremony was ended, and many were
the congratulations showered upon them. But
think you those light words caused ono chord
to vibrate joyfully within the heart of Claire
Leslie ? Alt ! no. There was something dread
fully miserable in the proud despair of her heart,
and she would gladly have enveloped the whole
world in the folds of the leaden shroud-plaits,
that swathed her soul.
[CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK.]
Washington Crossing the Delaware
I=
Dark and gloomy was the hour,
Attd Freedom's fires burnt low;
For twenty days had WasutNoros
Retreated from the foe;
And his wanfy ioldiers' feet were bare,
As he fled across the Delanare.
Hearts nera fainting through the laud,
And patriot blood ran cold;
The stricken crmy scarce retained
Two thousand men all told;
While the British arms gleamed everywhere,
From the Hudson to the Delaware.
Cold and stormy came the night,
The great Chief roused his men;
"Now up, bravo comrades, up and strike
For Freedom once again;.
For the lion sleopeih in his
On the left bank of the Delaware."
By the darkling river',. side,
Beneath a wintry sky,
From that weak hand, forlOrn and few,
Went up the patriot cry, .
"0, laud of Freedom, ne'er despair!
We'll die, or cress the Delaware!"
How the strong onrs dashed the ice,
Amid the tempeWs roar!
And how the trumpet voice of ICsex,
Still cheers them to the shore,
Thus in the freezing midnight air,
These brave hearts crossed the Delaware
In the morning, gray and dim,
The shout or battle rose;
The Chief led hack his valieut men,
With a thousand captive foes;
While Trenton shook with cannon's blaze,
That told the news o'er the Delaware.
How Mineral Coal was Made.
Geology has proved that at one period there
existed an enormously abundan t land vegetation,
the ruins or rubbish of which, carried into seas,
and there sunk to the bottom, and afterwards
covered over by sand and mud-beds, became
the substance which we now recognize as coal.
It may naturally excite surprise that the vege
table remains, should have so completely chang
ed their apparent character, and become black.
But this can be explained by chemistry ; and
part of the marvel become clear to the simplest
understanding, when we recall the familiar fact
that damp hay, thrown closely into a heap, gives
out heat, and becomes of a dark color. When
a vegetable mass is excluded from the air and
subjected to great pressure, a bituminous fer
mentation is produced, and the result is the min
eral coal, which is of various characters, accord
ing as the mass has been originally intermin
gled with sand, clay or other earthly impuri
ties. On account of the change affected by min
eralization, it is difficult to detect in coal the
traces of a vegetable structure ; but these can be
made clear in all except the highly bituminous
caking coal, by cutting or polishing it down in
to thin transparent Slices, when the microscope
shows the fibrcand cellsvery plainly. From dis
tinct isolated specimens found in the sand stones
amidst the coal beds, we discover the plan is of
this era. They are almost all of simple cellu
lar structure, and :such as exist with us in
small forms, (horse tails, club masses, and
ferns,) but advanced to an enormous magnitude.
The species are long since extinct. The vege
tation is such as grows in clusters of tropical
islands ; but it must have been the result of a
high temperature obtained othereivise than of
the tropical regions now is, for the coal strata
are found in the temperate, and even the polar
regions. The conclusion, therefore, to which
most geologists have arrived is, that the earth
originally an incandescent or highly heated
mass, gradually cooled down, until in the car
boniferous period it fostered a growth of terres
trial vegetation all over its surface, .to" which
the, existing jungles or the tropics are mere bar
renness in comparison. The high and uniform
temperature, combined with a greater propOr
tion of carbonic acid gas in the manufacture,
could not only sustain a gigantic and prolific
vegetation, but would also create dense vapors,
showers and rains ;.and these again gigantic
rivers, periodical inundations, and deltas.—
Thus all the conditions for extensive deposits of
wood in estuaries would arise from this high
temperature ; and every circumstance with the
coal measures points to such conditions.
American Progress.
A century since, Benjamin Franklin, the
Postmaster General of the colonies, set out in
his old gig to make an official inspection of the
different routes. It is supposed that he accom
plished the object of his journey ; but if he were
to undertake to travel in his gig all over the
routes at present existing, he would arrive at
the end of his journey when he was about an
hunched years old. About eighty years since,
Congress appointed Dr. Franklin Post Master
General to the then independent Colonies ; he
still went in his old gig. and a small folio, eon
' tabling about three quires of paper lasted as his
account boak for two years. Now the railroad
train goes sixty mileS an hour, and the Post
, Office accounts consume every two years three
thdusand of the largest sized ledgers, • keeping
no less. than one hundred clerks constantly em
ployed in recording transactions with thirty
thousand contractors and other per sons.—
There are now paid annually, for mail locks,
keys and stamps nearly thirty-two thousand
dollars, a sum equal to the entire outlay in the
year 1700. The stamped envelopes and post
age stamps cost over fourteen thousand dol.
ars ; the mail-bags.flf ty thousand—the blanks,
seventy ono. thousand—the wrapping paper,
forty-one thousand. Franklin would be slight
ly astonished if he could rise from his grave,
travel to Washington in his old gig, see the
three thousand ledgers, the one.hundred clerks,
and hear the railroad train thundering past him
at the • rate of sixty mile 4 an hoer. And yet
what would be his emotions when he reflected
that this was but an evidence of the rapid ad
vance of the great Itepublic of which he was one
of the founders. -
A Rough Bed—Fellow.
There is a good story going the rounds of the
papers, told of a man in Kansas, who had
been drinking till a late hour at night, and then
started for home in a state of sweet oblivious-
EMI]
Upon reaching his own premises, he was too
far gone to discover any door to the domicil he
was about to inhabit, and therefore laid himself
down in a shed, which was a favorite 'rendez
vous for the hogs.
They happened to be out when the new
comer arrived, but soon returned to their bed.
The weather being rather cold, they:in the
utmost kindness, and with the truest hospitali
ty, gave their biped companion the middle of
the bed, some lying on either side 'of him, and
others acting the part of a quilt. Their warmth
prevented him froth being injured by exposure
Towards morning lie awoke. Finding him
self comfortable, in blissful ignorance of his
whereabouts, he supposed himself enjoying
the accommodation of a tavern, in company
with other gentlemen.
He reached out his hand, and catching hold
of the stiff bristle of a hog,•exclaimed—
" lialloa, my good friend, you've got a --
of a heard ! When did you shave last 1"
MISCHIEF-MAKERS
0! could there still in this world be found,
Sumo little spot of happy ground,
'Where village pleasures might go round,
Without the village tattling;
!lbw doubly blest that place would bo,
Where till might dwell in liberty,
Free from the bitter misery
Of gossips' endless prattling.
If such a F pot iv ere really known,
Dame Peace might claim it as hor own,
And in it she might fix her throne .
Forever and forever.
There like a queep might reign and live,
While every one would soon forgive
The little slight they might receive,
Aud be offended never.
'Tis mischief makers that remove
For from our hearts the warmth of love,
And lends us all to disapprove
What gives another pleasure.
They seem to take one's part—but when
They've heard our cures. unkindly then
They soon retail them all again,
Mix'd with the poisonous measure.
And then they've such a cunning way
Of telling their ill-meant tales, they any
"Punt mention what I nay, T pray,
I would not tell another;:'
Straight to your neighbor's house they go,
Narrating everr• . thing they know,
And brealtthe peace of high and low,
•Wife, husband, friend and brother.
()! that tho mischief-ranking crew
Were all rothicad to ono or two,
And they wore painted rod or blue,
That every ono might know them!
Then would our villages forgot,
'To rage and quarrel, fume and fret,
And fall into an angry pot,
With things so much below them.
For 'tie a sad, degraded part,
To mako another bosom smart
And plant a dagger In Umlaut,
Wo ought to lovo•and cherish;
Then let us evermore be found -
In quietness with all around,
While friendship, joy and peace abound
And angry feelings perish!
This large island —the barges o ie ..
can islands—has until within a few years been .
regarded as of comparatively little importance.
Of late, however, the proposed transatlantic
telegraph, the reciprocity treaty, and other
circumstances, have conspired to direct public
attention toward‘ it, and a brief account of its
character and resources may not be uninterest
ing to our readers.
The Island was first discovered in the year
1797, by John Sebastian Cabot, and by those
renowned explorers it was named primavista, or
First Seen Island ; and from this arose its pres
ent anglicized name. It was colonized by
masters of fishing vessels in 1615, and is now
the oldest British colony in the world. Until
the middle of the last century it was looked
upon by England merely as a nursery for sea
men, and its manifold natural resources wholly
neglected.
The island of NeWfoundland is about four
hundred miles in length, by two hundred and`
fifty in average breadth. It abounds in lakes
and rivers both of moderate size, and its sur
face is diversified with hills and mountains,
some of which project bodily into the sea. The
lowlands, when they do not consist of peat
bogs'; are generally covered with forests of fir or
pine. These varieties of trees are very abund
ant ; but they seldom attain a height of more
than thirty feet, and in the northern portions
they are so low arid their branches so matted'
together, that small anitnals can walk upon
their tops. The most useful tree upon the
island . is the tamarac, or larch, the timber of
witgli is used in building small vessels. The
elm, the maple and the beech are rare, and tho'
oak unknown. The variety of trailing ever
greens is immense, and all the berries peculiar
to the northern latitudes are so abundant as to•
be an article of export:
The animal kingdom of the island is more in
teresting than the vegetable. A Sweedish
naturalist, who spent several years there, re
ported it to contain no less than five hundred
species orbirds. The water birds are especial
ly" numerous. Of the larger quadrupeds, the
caribou or American rein-deer is most abund
ant. Its paths interesect the entire country
like sheep walks. The black bear is found in
the wilder parts of the island, and the wolf,
fox, hare, martin, beaver, otter and muskrat
abound in the interior. The coasts swarm with
different varieties of seal. With regard to rep-.
tiles, such as snakes, lizards, frogs, &c., it is
said that St. Patrick destroyed them in New
foundland at the same time that he banished
them from Ireland. The inland lakes and
streams are the homes of vast numbers of
salmon and trout. The resident population of .
Newfoundland is about one hundred thousand,
and nearly every man in the colony is connect
ed in some way with the fishing or seal hunting
business. The island is governed by a repre
sentative assembly of fifteen members, with an
executive council of twelve, appointed, like the
Governor, by the crown of England.
Things Two Hundred Years Hence.
Scene—Parlur in the house of an elderly gent
in New York. Old 'gent telegraphs to the
kitchen, and waiter ascends in a balloon,
Old gent—John, fly over to South America,
and tell Mr. Johnson that I will ho happy te e
have him sup with me. Never mind your coat,
now go.
John leaves, at tho end of five tninutos re-
John—Mr. Johnson says he will come--he
has got to go to the North Pole, for a moment,
and then he will be here.
Old gent- —Very well John. Now - start the
machine for setting the table, and telegraph to
my wife's room, and tell her that Mr. Johnson
is coming, then brush up my balloon, for I have
an engagement in London, at twelve o'clock.
John flies off to execute hiS' orders, and the
old • • • •
the moment you' broach the subject of a ball
room, it has no more effect than a fly could
zert towards stopping a locomotive. •
.[l:7•Barnum has been " wound up" by the
Jerome Clock Company.