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'LIE WILL NOT WOO AGAIN
'Twits but a word—n careless word,
In pride and passion spoken:
But with that word the charm that hound
Two hiving hearts was brol. , m.
The hasty wrath has passed away.
No bitter words remain;
In vain she looks with tender gltnre—
Ito woo again.
No other love may light HER path;
No other move its bract
Tot changing seasons collie And go,
And fluid them sill) apart:
MT once bright cheek is paler now;
Ills bears a trace or pain;
Their days aro weary, sail-,—and,yet.
He will not woo again.
They meet as strangers calm and cold,
A, randy. coldly part;
.fad none may guess that tranquil mien
Conceals a wonnded heart.
To him the world hath lost Its light;
For her all joys are yam :
For hope, nor memory Ming relief
-I,le will not woo again.
Alas! that hive, long tried and warm,
Should wither in an hour;
Alas! that pride o'er human hearts ,
Should wield such fearful power;
Oh! weep thou not fi n • those who die—
For them all tears aro vain:
But weep o'er living hearts grown cold,
Who neer can love again.
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
BY GRACE GREENWOOD. ,
Throw up the window! 'Tie a morn Jor life
In its most siihtle luxury. The air
!A like a I reath from a rarer world; 1 •
rid the 5 , uth wind is like n contle friend,
.'artlng the hair so A. f Iy on my Mow?'
'he delicious morning WhieltiA_glowin . ,
:nil me, and which has called forth the
uisite description of our gifted country
. I, brings also to my mind the recollection
one ay fresh and beautiful, in the days
f arc gone.' 1, well remember how" the
. ,se of that nnn•n•s exceeding loveliness
rdenol my hettrt with a sweet weight
-1 at last flinging aside' the dull book
•ieh I had attempted to study, I caught
• • light sun bonuti and boundiA out of the
.use, which outward 1d nom and beauty had
:itlered prison like. I then turned my steps
~yards a fine old mansion, the home of a
ry lovely girl who had been endeared to
by years of constant and intimate inter
'arse. Of late there had been—forill- a
.v tic to bind our hearts—: hehad become
••± betrothed of "one of oni-s," a favorite
lusin,•and the engagement was a joyful one
Annie Moore, sweet Annie Moore . ; how
ton glidest before me, in thy soft ethereal
wellness, like a gentle spirit from a holier
Lime! . IWli thy form. pf lily-like grace,
dl and frligile—
"With all thy young bead's shining bands,
And ail its waving curls of gold,"
WI thine eyes of softest violet, and thy
heck of delicate rose bloom— ,
•' I must think of thee,
Oh gentlest! as 1 knew thee well and long,'
A young glad creature with a lip of song,
An eye of Minnow°, and a soul of glee—
Singing sweet snatches of some favorite tune, •
Or wandering by my side beneath the Ahy ofJune'
• William Gordo-, the lover of Annie Moore
/vas an exalted, yet a most lov - eable charac
er, an embodiment of intellect, manliness,
7 aithful affections and fervent piety. lie
was a young student of divinity—had been
.;elf supported; almost self educated, and at
the time of the commencement. of this sketch
was in the expectation of entering upon the
ministry in the course of a year.
And, this man, poor, unknown and devoted
to a Ikly calling, was the clMice of Annie
Moor . , the wealthy,, the beautiful, the luxii
riously.reared ‘. 7 .'l l was , passing. strange
our worldly ones wo l iidered at, and our sew
ing circle gossipped about the matter for a
month or two, and the ruffled tide of our vil
lage 'flowed on as usual. But I was on my
way to pay Annie a morning visit.' William
Gordon had called the night before, to bid
ds adieu, as he was to be absent many months
ind I thoirght his betrothed needed a little
I fetutdlier - sitting at her work as usual,
--ind-biiim-slight-tremulousness of the-voice, , ,
:tnil a glistening of the long brown eyelash,
- toldiof the painful parting which had taken
. ,• . _
' When will William return?' I .presently
. May—little less than one year.'
'And then we are to be married—so hold !
/ourself in readiness to be my bridesmaid.'
The summer passed, a season of - carnest,'
intiring and prayerful toil, With the young
teilqo, and patient, hopeful, and sustaining
- We; on the part of his betrothed. Then
%time the chill autumn, followed by a winter
•f uncommon severity. Our dear Annie,
;bile on a viet to a dying friend, was expos
dl to a sudden fearful storm—took cold—ah,
.oea my reader anticipate the mournful con-
;equenee. Her mother, and elder sister had
:led of .consumption, and soon, very] soon,
le seal of deat.lr7was her blue
brow, and the very yoke of the Oast sound;
I I ig-in - the cough which shook her fragile
t..arae. We knew that she must die, and
• ! 1 he, like many consumptives, knew it also ;
;et she was strangely averse to acquainting
t,er absent lover with' the fearful truth. She .
'.vrote to him that she had been ill—was still
I offering from debility ; but that he must not
'nertr'iMbred about it, nor be painfully sur
' prised by her changed appearance, when he
should return in the spring. Nut one word
of the dread, last parti4 - before them—of
the grave, which might
"Rival the bridegroom, and folio rpm his side,
The repose in its bloom, his beautiful bride."
At length May came around again, and
with it returned William Gordon, the young .
clergyman. He was bowed down to earth
. by the great and owlooked for affliction which
awaited him—yet meekly drank lie the bit
'ter bup, for his God had mingled it.
• Sweet Antde was passing rapidly from
earth—growing more and more fragile in
• form, and angelic in spirit day Ity day, and
poor Wiliiamn became intenseDsdeSirous that
their union might take plaice. Annie's friends
readily assented, but she, to our surprise, fi
nally refused to grant the mournful request
of her broken hearted loyer, ,
One .evening he , ,wits sitting alone by her
side, as she was half reclining on a coueJi ;
the hectic flush was more startling bright'
j than usualon her cheek, for she had suffer
ed Much that day, and as he thought how
very near might be the dark wing of God's
dread angel, he took her wasted hand in his
and said— • I
" oh, my Annie, let ni,e call you wife, be
fore you leave • nie 1 You Would not he so
utterly lost tome then, for I would know you
b ming that sacred name in Heaven. Re
fuse me not love."
Oh, William, William, urge mo no long
er,' she replied, it must not, cannot be. I
am the bride Of Heaven, you must not lie
my husband, and hear•me, dearest, you must
no longer be near me—your lore is precious,
but it is earthly, and comes as a cloud be
tweeinne and the, glories of that upper world
to which I hasten. Your
. voice, my own, is
sweeter to me than the hymns of angels,
heard in my dreams of heaven I We must
part, now—for every hour renders you dear
er, and how can I leave you at last.
With heroic and niartyr—liko calmness
spoke the mistaken girl=mistaken, for a
pure love, for one worthy, is the holiest and
sweetest preparation for His presence who
is love.' •
William Gordon 'saw her firmness, and that
she ans weal: and trembling from the ex
citement of the scene, and
"In closc, heart ahutting up his pain,"
resolved to yield instant and uncomplaining
obedience to her wishes. Ile rose - up calmly
old imprinted on her forehead a kiss of
mingled love and anguish. turned and was
gone ! Annie buried' her fit cc in her thin
white hands, and remained in agony of grief.
Then came vague regrets ftmthe course she
had taken, and painful doubts of the neces
sity of the sacrifice she had made. Present
ly she heard a well known step—William had
returned I His calmness had forsaken
and he mumured imploringly*
If 1 must leave_ you to die alone, Annie,
let me fold you once more to my limit be
fore I go-Ht will give me strength.'/
He knelt on one knee beside her, reached
forth his arms, and sobbed like a child as
she leaned upon his bosom.
No word was spoken by that pair, loving
and faithful unto death, while the flood of
sorrow of the soul's great deep was broken
up. Yes, silent, but not tearless; knelt-Wil
liaM Gordon, with his lips pressed against
the dear head which lay upon his heart.—
At last he raised his _eyes heavenward, and
those lips moved iir4ispering prayer—he
unwound his arms, would have riseni but
Annie moved not—she was clinging to his
breast I A smile of
,joy irradiated his face,
and his arms once again enfolded her. She
looked up and murmured_with something_ of
her old playful tenderness, more touching
than the wildest bursts of grief—,
'Are you not stronger, dear William?'
• ' Ah, 1 fear-not, my love.', -
• ‘.This is strange, for when I felt the strength
ebbing from my heart, I thought it had flow
ed into yours.'
`Thank God for the weakness which is
lovOier than strength: I must- never leave
•The morningOf the wedding day had come
and I was arraying 'Annie in her bridal dress
—a beautiful muslin; guiltless of,.ribbon or
lace, I wished to twine in her hair a lima
string of 'nails, which was , once her moth.
er's, 'but she gently put it from me.
What, no ornaments?' I inquired:
.' None,' she replied; but—yes L—if you
will go into my garden, you will find a lovely
white rose tree, which William planta when
• I first knew him; bring me one of it's buds,
and I Will wear it in my •
rimy° sleep brides radiant in healthful
bloom, glittering in jewels dazzling ill - satins,
rich veils and costly wreaths, but never have
• I beheld one so exquisitely, so wonderfully
beautiful as that dying girl, with her dress of
'simple white, her one floral ornament, the,
dewy lustre of her soft blue eye, and the
deepened hectic of her cheek. When the
ceremony wage to be performed, she wished
to rise; and as she was too weak to stand
alone, I stood by her side and supported her.
She smiled sadly, as she whispered—
' You remember, C race, I promised that
you should be my bridesmaid.'
As the beautiful marriage ceremony (that
of the English Chtirch) proceeded, the face
of the bride became expressive alternately
of earthly rind of heavenly love, of softness
and sublimity, of' the woman and of the an
gel, till it grew absolutely adorable. At the
last, she received the tearful congratulations
of her friends with a graceful manner and
with the most smiles playing about
It was morning ) it morning born of bloom
and beauty, so soft, so glowing, it seemed
Like a rainbow clasping the sweet earth,
And melting in a covenant of love."
Annie Gordon was lying on her couch by
' an open window, ,with her fair head support.
ed on the breast of her husband. And she
—a father's joy, a brother's pride, the wife
of two short weeks was leaving us now. Ev
ery'sunbcffin whioi looked into her eyes -saw
her violet hue gro * \l , paler, and every soft air
which kissed her faded lips bore back a faint
er breath on its light pinion. her doming
father knelt in a deep trance of grief at her
side. I stood holding one of her hands in
mine, while at her feet sat ber younger broth-
_er, Arthur Moore, weeping with all the un
controlled passionateness of boyhood.
Annie had lain for some moments appa
rently insensible, but she looked up yet once
more to William, with her own sweet smile,
Pray once again my beloved, it will plume
my spirit's wings for its upward flight, but
Place your hand upon my heart that you may
know when I am goiie. , •
William Gordon lifted up his voice in a
prayer, all saint like submission and child
like love. He solemnly and tenderly com
mitted the passing soul of the wife, the
daughter, the sister and the friend, to her
Savior and her God, and meekly implored
fir the stricken mourners the ministration of
the blessed spirit. Suddenly he paused—her
heart had ceased its beatings. His brow be
came convulsed, and his voice was IoW and
tremulous as he added—
She has left us ; oh I our pather, she is
with thee now!'
Gduel our Annie dead!' exclaimed poor
little Arthur :Moores;. and springjAgihrward
and casting one look •on that still thee, he
st-etched his arms upward and cried—' Oh !
dear sister, come back to us, come back
We arrayed her in her bridat.dress, even
to the white 'rosebud twined in her golden
hair. We laid her to rest by her mother's
side, in a lovely rural grave yard; and a few
months after 1 took her fitvorito rose tree
from the garden and planted it over her
Our Annie had been gone from us a year
and the rose was in its first bloom, when
William Cordon Came tg . - bid us a long, it
might be a last adieu. He was going out as
a missionary to India. On the last evening
of,,his stay, I went, with him to the grave of
our lost. We remained till the grass was
glittering with dew and the stars were thick
in heaven. Many times poor , Wilkitun turn
ed to depart, anditurned.again. We both re
marked a singular rosebud, very liltd , the one
Annie wore on her marriage and at that sec
ond bridal, when she was wedded to the dust;
and when at last William summoned strengFL,
to go he plucked this and placed it . in his
bosom, with many tears.
I doubt not that in his distant home, in
that darkened land where he toiled for Christ's
sake, that flower is a cherished memento of
his sadly beautiful past, and a touching re
.membrancer of a shore to which he hasten
eth, and an unfading chine, where ever livoth
" titeil rose of love," in The bloom of-immor
tality,, in the sunshine of God's smile.
I, too, am far from the grave, but I know
almost to a day when that rose - tree is iu
bloom. Every morning another bud is un
folding over her resting place; how it loads
the air with perfume, as , it sways in the
breeze I,andTas starlight trembles around it,
how sweetly steeps the cold dellidrop in its
'ftEtP'The 'Maine-election on monday resul
tq, in a complete anti-Nebraska triumph.. =
The old line Democracy are routes csmplete
ly Congress,GovernOi? and. t
Soyer the great. cook, has written a novel
in which the art of the kitchen is Set forth in
a rather novel manner' The two he'roines
go among the poor and impart the receipts of
Although this book ought to be in Ivory gen.
tleman's kitchen still we do not think that
Mr. Soyer has made the most of his subject.
Could he not in his second edition give us a
few scenes something like the following?
It was a lovely night. The warm breezes
floated by, laden with the perfume of flow
ers—sweet incense, rising from nature's .
kitchen! The moon shone brightly as a bird's.
eye, covering the earth with its chtiste rays,
seemed silvered and pure as a wedding cake.
"Let us walk in the garden," said there
Hortense, clasping dear., Eloise to her hea
In a few seconds the noble and enthusias
tic girls were 'nenth the orchard treei.i
-"Do you perceive those apples?" remark
ed Hortense, scarcely able to repress her
"Why this grief?" sighed the gentle Eloise
Then turning her large pale grey eyes in the
direction of the fruit, she added, in a difv
pointed tone. "They are baking apples if I
mistake not l"
"They are! they are I"-,cried clere Hor
tense, bursting into an agony of tears.
_ they- remind her-of-her—ltome-
Some moments elapsed before chere Hor—
tense could resume ha?. wonted calmness.—
At length with an effort, shiT''Saitl, "forgive
me, dear Eloise. I was silly, very silly,l but
whenever I see an apple, I always 'thilik of
"You must indeed lui.Ve loved," sighed El-
"Loved! aye child, madly!' continue,L.Hor
tense. "The day we parted, I remember, we
had apple fritters for dinner. He himself
prepared the dainty for me. As lie peeled
and sliced crossways, a quarter of an inch
thick, the rosy fruit before him, he breathed
in my ear the first avowal of the love he felt
for me. He then placed' in a basin about
two ounces of Hour, a little salt, two teaspoon
fuls of oil, and the yolk of an ege i moisten
ed by degrees with water, and all the time
he kept stirring it with a spoon. I thought
I should have fainted for toy heart was. brea
"Dear Hortense," exclaimed Eloise. "Alt!
how von must have suffered !"
"It is- past now," sighed the brave girl.—
Then resuming her story, "when the whole
formed a smooth consistency tothe thickness .
of cream, he beat up the white of an egg till
firm, mixing it with the batter. Ecould in
dure my agony no longer. 'Alexis 1 4 I cried
`beware how you trifle with me!" -
"Proceed! you interest me greatly," re
marked Eloise. "Nlhat was his answer?"
, lloriense with an effort, cOntinued:—
"When the mixture was hot, he put -the ap
ples in one at a time, turning thermover with
a slice as tlicy were doing. Suddenly ho
turned'ttiwards me, his face glowing with
"Nay say not sol" inctupted the'kind Ero
ise ; "perhaps the heat of the' fire, and not
passion had tinged his 'cheeks."
"Heaven grant your words .prove true I" ,
sobbed the loving girl; "I shall never forget
the expression of his eyes. 'Hortense,' he
whispered,'' he apple fritters are noW cooked.
Let us perhapS for the last time eat togeth r
For a few seconds. Hortense WAS speech
ldss front grief. Rising from the mossy
she gasped out, "Eloise, as you love
MO; let us hurry home! I shall die if we ie.
"And the fritters r inquired the. 'gentle
"They were excellenti" continued Hor
tense, in a calmer tone. "That evening he
p rese uted_me with a receiptTar_making .them,
together with a lock of life hair. J Two hours
afterwards ho was on his road to London,
and the Reform Club. But to this.day even
the sight of an apple makes ine tremble.—
Alas! such is the love of poor fond wo
That night Eloise slept but little. he
was thinking over the story of the "Apple
Fri t ters." 2 —London Diegenes.
Xidirr• The man who undertook to blast his
neighbor's prospects used too short a fuse,
and got blown up himself. . ,, • ..r —
'The fellow who took it coolly' threw it
up again somewhat heated.
The lady who 'stuck to her point' was
soaked off with warm suds. ,
The man that 'struck a
.bargain' was fin
ed for the assault. .
The person that 'raised an Objectionjuul
his shoulder put out of, joint.
The man ash o wag I tilled with emotion •
wa una ble , make room fur any ditift r,
AGE OF THE WORLD.
lima recent work of Hugh Miller's. the ge;
ologist, we find the following view of the an
tiquity of the world: 'Along the clay shore
near his native town, as in other partS of the
cosat of Scotland, there is a line of dry caves
in the face of the rock, about twenty ' feet
above the line of similar objects which the
sea is at present engaged in hollow - iug out
Surveying this set of objects impresses on Mr.
Miller the " fact of the awakening antiquity
of the globe. I 'found," he - says," that the
caves, hollowed by the surf, when the sea had
stood from fifteen to five and twenty feet above
its present level, or, as I should perhaps rath
er sat, when the land had stood that much
were deeper on the average, by about
one : third, than those' caves of the. present
Coast-line thui are:still - in - the course of being
hollowed by'the waves. And yet the waves'
have been breaking against the present coast
line during the historic period. The ancient
wall of Antonius, which stretched between
the Firths of Fourth and Clyde, was built at
its termination with reference to the exist
ing levels ; and ere Ctesarlanded in Britain,
St. Michael's-mount was connected with the
mainland, as now, by a narrow neck of beach
I laid bare by the ebb, across which, according
to •Diodorus Siculus, the Cornish miners used
to drive at low-water their carts laden with
tin. if the sea has stood for two thousand
six hundred years against the -present coast
line—and no geologist would fix his estimate
of the term loWer---then it must have stood
agaiiist — the Obrlme, ere it could have exca
vated4;avesrne,third deeper than the modern
ones, three thoUsand issue hundred.ycurs.—
And both sums united more than exhaust the
I Hebrew chronology. Yet what a mere. be
ginning of geologic • history does the epoch
of the old coast-line form!
HAD A , WINNING WAY' WITH TIER
~ ~ r-•--
A wayward son of - the Emerald Isle "left
the bed and board " which he and Margaret
had occupied for a long while; and spent his
time around rumshops, where he was always
on. hand to count himself 'in,' whenever any
body should stand treat.' Margaret was
dissatisp,q with this state of things, and en
deavored to gether husband home again.—
We shall see hoW she succeeded :
"Kow a Patrick, .me honey, will yo come
"tio, Margaret, I won't come back,-"
"An' won't ye - conic back for the love of
"Not for the lore of the children, Marga
"-Will ye come for the love of mcsilf?"
Niver, avail.. !Way wid .
" An' Patrick wont the love of ,the church
bring ye back'?"
The church to the divil, and then I Wont
Margaret thought she would try, one other
inducement. Taking a pint bottle of whis
key from her pocket, and holding it up to her
truant husband,: she said: ." Will ye come
for the drap of whiskey 2"
" Ali, me &flint," answered Patrick, uiin•
ble to withstand Such a temptation, "Ws yer
self that'll always bring me home again—ye
leas such a winning Way teid ye: I'll e omo
Margaret declares that Patrick-was a ro
clatimed" by moral suasion I•
"Why is . it, my son, that when you
let your bread and butter drop, it is always
the butter. side down?",
"I don't know: It hadn't pughter, had it?
The strougcst 'side • out to-'be - uppermost,
hatlialt inn ? and this here is the strongest
butter I ever seed in all my lice."
" Hush up; -it's some of our aunt's churn-
"- D h tycli tirn it? Why, the_ great - lazy
"'What, your - aunt?"
`•` No ;• this •• yore rank butter -To make
that poor woman churn i its strong and, rank
enough to churn itself."
"Be still, Ziba it only wanta-7kin'
" Well mom; if I was you, when I did. it,
I'd put in whole lots and gobs of 'lasses."
" You good-for•nothing I I've ate a great
deal worse in the most aristocratic New York
boarding house I"
" Well, all'great people of rank ought to .
eat it I"
" Why people of rank ?"
_" Cause it's rank butter."
"You varmint, you! What makes you
talk so smart?"
"The butter's taking the skin off • my
tongue,. mother 1"
" Ziba don't liol I can't throw away the
butter. lt don't signify."
"Nen you what i'd,flO with•it, marm. I'd
keep it to draw blisters': You ought to see
the flies keel over and die as soon as they
touch it 1" •
"'Lila, don't exaggerate; but here's twen
ty-five cents, go to the store and buy it Nund .
of fresh."—[Exit Li! a.., •