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A HE, 91110E11, Editor & Proprietor.
VOL. 62.
TERMS OF PUBLICATION
She CARGISTA lIETULD IS published weekly on a large
*heat containing twenty Ight column and furnished
to subacribera at $1,60 if paid strictly In advanre, $1,76
It paid within the year; or $0 In all canoe when pay
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No aubscriptions received for a less period than six
nroutha, and none discontinued until all the arrearages
'are pat.l, unless at the option of the publisher. Paper..
'sent to sulnicribers living out of Cumberland county
'must be paid for in advance, or .he payment assumed
by some responsible person liv.ng In Cumberland
bounty. These terms will be rigidly adhered to In all
taSO9%
ADVE.RTISEMENTS
Advertisements will bit charged 1.00 per squaroi' of
welvd lines for three insertions, and 25 cents for
each übsequent insertion. All adVertinements of
lees than twelve lines considered as tt square.
Advertisements Inserted before Marriages and
deaths 8 cents par line for first Insertion, and 4 cents
par line for subsequent insertions.. Communications
en subjects of limited or individual interest will be
eh irted 1, cents per line. The Proprietor will not be
reep.intlblt In damages for errors in advertisements.
Obituary notices or Marriages not exceeding live lines,
will be Inserted without charge.
1
JOB PRINTING
The Carlisle Herald JOB PRINTING OFFTCF: le the
argent and most complete entablilmment in the county.
Four good Presses, and a general variety of materials
suited for plain and Fancy work of every kind enables
us to do Job Printing at the shortest notice and on the
most reasonable terms. Persons in want of Bills,
Blanks or anything in the Jobbing line, will find It to
their interest to glvb us a rail.
c eirrta'eq.
The Crooked Foot-path
Ah ! here it is, the sliding rail
That marks the old-remembered spot;
The gap that struck our school-boy trail,
The crooked path across the lot.
it left the road by school and church,
A pencilledshadon*, netting pioro
That parted from the silver blrch,,,,
And ended at the rarni-house door.
No lino or compass traced Its plan,
With frequent bounds to left or right,
In aimless, wayward curses It Can,
/int al way:s kept :thedoor In
Tito gabled porch, I,be woodbine green—
The broken millstone at the
e , Though runny a road may stretch between,
Thu truant ei.ild can nee them still.
No rocks across the pathway lie—
No fakir') trunk is o'er it thrown—
A n d yet it winds, NVO know tot why,
And turns as trfor tree - or stone.
Perhaps sonic lover trod the way, .
Wjth shaking knee or leaping heart—
.A.Rd on, it often rune astray
'With sinuous sweep or sudde'n start,
Or one, perchance, with clouded brain,
From Home unholy banquet reeled,—
And since, our devious steps maintain
ills track across the trodden field.
Nay, deetn not thus—no earlhltorn will
Could ever trace a faultless line;
Our truest stops are human still,—
To walk unswerving were divine/
Truants from love, we dream of wrath,
0, rather let us trust the morel
Through nll the.wanderings of the path,
We still can oee.Qur Father's door.
A BEAUTIFUL DREAM
BY BUSA - N (41.1t!i14001*.
I had a dream of thee last nlAbt,
A beautiful dream of thee.
The fields were bathed In clearest light,
=ION:till
Thy hand was tightly riaspud in mine-,
As wu strayed iu a winding way—
] plucked a flower from every vine,
But nothing didst thou say.
I dreamed It was the midnight hour,
And the clouds were ehite oe snow,
And the dew shone bright on every flower,
That grand the glen below,
S looked and saw a lovely star,
That told of a mighty hand ;
A asked if, In that world afar,
kr,le,, , ,lothed,lo light., should stand?
A tear was In thy soft blue eye,
When 1 spoke of the angels there,
for one thou loved In years gone by
Naquat as bright and lair.
I loved thee for ,thrvt mogrutul,lo3.,
While I licit thy band In mine;
I wiped the tear from thy deep blue eye,
That there so bright did shine.
pirvitantriao.
From 11.arper's Magazine for July
LOIS;
'The Story of a Man's Mistake
'The snow had been falling steadily all
the day; it fell whitely and steadily now
,on the group that stood around an open
grave, wherein a coffin had just been de
posited in a New England enroll-yard
,among the hills. The neighbors had
withdrawn a little, and only a group of
(our stood bending over the grave. It
was a young wife who lay there, in her
last slumber. The two old people on the
right were her husband's father and nto•
tiler, for she bad been an orphan, without
brother or sister, and there was, none of
bier own kin to follow her to the .ehurch
lard. There had been no great store of
ove between William Comstock's young
wife and bis old parents, and the sorrow
which ,sat now upon their faces was less
for the loss of the dead than the grief of
their living son. William was their 'only
sort, their idol. They would have thought
the noblest bride in the land none too
good for him, and they had been but illy
pleased when he brought Lois Gray to the
old homestead. She was delicate, indeed,
es a spring anemone, Her words and
ways were full of a tender,, flower-like
sweetness and grace; but she had neither
gold nor land to her dowry, tintiiier small
forefinger was, pricked,..till 4 , Was callous
with the frequent thrusts of her glancing
needle—for pretty little, Lois was a tail
oress, and she, worked hard for her daily
broad, going abont from house to house,
tts the fashion then was,
' There had been many hard words when
William Comstock, sou of the richest:Man
in Ityefield, told his pareofst-of the daugh
ter be was going to bring them. Had he
not been their only. son, doubtless there
would have been yet Vortnier times; per
haps William would bave been thrust
'forth into the world to look out for him.
self, and his name would have been a for
bidden sound thereafter at the home fire
side. But he was their only son. If they
had
,cast him off there would have been
none of their• name to hold their broad,
rich leads after-thorn ; so they yielded to
their untoward fate, and did not positively
forbid the horne-coming_af_the unwelcome
bride. They spoke mary scornful words
of her, however—words which a stronger,
more self•reliant man than William Cow
stook would not have borne. It would
have been better had he taken his bride
to another home, asking no aid of them,
and remembering, whit he showed them
all filial duty, that it was Heaven's or
dering that a man should forsake his
father and mother and cleave unto his
wife. This would certainly have been
Lois's choice. Delicate as she looked,
there was force and power in her nature.
She would have made her husband a true
and wise helpmate it he had but been
ready to go with her to ever so humble a
home of their own, and live, as every
newly married pair should, their own life
apart from all the rest of the world.—
But William Comstock, though good and
truthful and loving, was not a strong man.
He would have had little courage to fight
unaided his battle of life. He had been
petted and fostered and indulged in his )
own way, until his whole natufb . was
changed, as a hardy woodland flower is
changed when it is transplanted to a hot
house. It may put forth more luxuriant
leaves, and fuller and softer petals, but it
would shrink from the first blast. Sun
and wind 'and shower,
which it was its
nature to court, would be death to it now.
Going out into the world to toil for
himself and the wife of his choice, would
have been the last thing to suggest itself'
to William Comstock, and yet he loved
her far too well to give her up because of
his parent's displeasure. So he trusted,
as many another weak man has done, to
things coming right in time. lie thought
his hither and thother Would be Sure to
like her when all was done; and, any way,
he would be good to her; and so, not with
out some stifled misgivings, he brought
his bride home.
I think a cold wind blew up from the
east, an ill-owened wind, when Lois cros
sed that threshhold, and its subtle chill
stole through her bridal robes to her
young, innocent heart, for she was never
the same Lois afterward.
Her father and mother-in-law were not
rudely and openly unkind to her, for Wil
liam would have seen that, and weak as
he was, it would have armed him in her
defence. But there is a secret cruelty,
an intangible wrong, of which one could
never find words to complain, ten times
more bitter and deadly than open contu
mely. I do not mean to represent old
Simon Comstock and his wife 'as very
much worse than the ordinary run of men
and women. They did not deliberately
set to work to torture their sun's wife,
and-crush out her life; simply they did
not like her, and they let her see that
they did not, every hour and every mo
ment of the day. She 'never retaliated, '
and her very inoffensiveness provoked
them still more. Probably, if she -had!
been a genuine terinagent, and had fbugh t
One or two fierce tau les with them, letting'
them see that she had her own little gifts
in the role of Zantip'pe, it would have;
.ens-ledin their letting,..liur alone, anti final,:
ly recognizing her as of their own kind,'
and coining to like her very well indeed.
But her silence, her courtesy, her still
patience they could not comprehend, and
therefore they hated her the more. It
was hardest of all when her husband be-!
came in somewhat her persecutor. Con-;
stant complaints of her fine ladyism, her;
inefficiency, her incompetence to manage
domestic affairs, at length irritated him,
and he often spoke to her in tortes of dis
satisfaction and fault finding. She did
'ot explain that her apparant lack of do
mestic ability arose from necessity, not
choice—because his mother's jealousy re
sented all exercise of authority on her
part, and found something to condemn in
.every attempt she made to be useful. She
was of a rare type of womanhood—one
who never wasted words or complained.
If love had made her husband's eye keen
to see her sufferings, she would have been
thankfuL Ile did not see them . ; Lite was
silent.
When they had been married a year a
little girl came—a new life blossoming
from her own, to which she trusted to
bring back the youth and hope which al
ready, at nineteen, seemed slipping from
her hold.
William Comstock had always loved
his wife, in his own way—not so deeply
and fervently, perhaps, as sonic men love
, *---but each tree bears its own kind of
fruit, and we do not out down the cherry
bough because it .cannot offer us oranges.
He was not a man of lofty courage or very
delicate perceptions—his heart was not
so strong or so noble as some hearts which
have worshipped women far less akin to
the divine than she; but such as the heart
was, it was all hers, He thought he had
never loved so well as when he came into
the still room ,'where she lay with her
baby on her bi'ea'St. He bent over her
and kissed the pink flushes on her cheek
the white lids , that drooped over her
eyes to shut out of sight the happy tears.
Then he took the baby in his arms, clum
sily and awkwardly, as men always do
,when they handle the little, frail new
born things ; but with a strong pulse of
love and pride throbbing in' the breast
against which the little_ helpless morsel
lay—his child and here
The weeks wore velvet 'Aeon which
slipped by so noiaelessly before the young
mother left her room. She almost wished
;they would never end, she was so happy.
William was with her alniost all the titne.
Ile read to her—he gathered flowers to
day on her pillow—he told 'hertwenty
times a day how dear she was to him, and
how full of thanksgiving his soul was
thnt her hour of peril had not been her
hour of death. It was like their old lover
.thiya, she thought—like .- thorn, only so
much better, for here was the baby, the
woe, winsome doling, who hold in such
tiny, dimpled fingers the unseen threads
Which were drawing' husband and wife
nearer together than they had eves been
before..
Even the old father and mother, wore
kind to her at first during, those still
- wecks,4or she had passed' through such
suffering p 5 always softens the hardest
heart,
`E'aWMIR NOSI TSIVI eltaCIA.
But this season of peace and repose
could not last forever. Ono day the
Present touched her with rude hand, and
woke her to the memory that she had not
reached heaven—where our rest is.
Her husband had been sitting beside
her, as She leaned back in her chair
looking at the little flower-like creature
on her knee. They had been marvelling
over the perfect little fi ngers, the round, ' '
soft limbs, the eyes of violet blue, so
Lois's own. At length he had gone out,
drawiig the door together after him, but
not latching it. Space enough was left
for a discordant, disturbing voice to pene
trate to the Hose Eden. It was William
Comstock's mother who spoke.
"I low is your wife getting along? Are
we never to see her out of, that room
again. Baby has been here four weeks
now. Times have.changed mightily since
I was young. When you were a fort
night old I had you on my arm, and go
) ing round the house overseeing the work.
Not that, t! ere is any special need of Lois,
for , she doesn't understand managing the
business of a household like this; but she
will never begin to gain strength, if she
doesn't move round," and I suppose you
wouldn't like to have her shut up there
always."
" I'll tell her about it, mother, if you
think she'd get well faster by stirring
round more I won't go back now, tho',
for she was going to get baby to sleep."
Lois heat d the acquiescent reply, and
her heart sank within her. She felt the
oil chill creeping back overber life. Oh,
how she longed then for a mother, for any
friend, with strong love and keen femi
nine discernment, to eiake her husband
understand that, all women were not alike,
and that his mother's strength was no
criterion for hems; Inc mother, with her
iron constitution and sturdy Dutch build,
she herself "fashioned so slenderly." She
sighed as she bent over the sleeping baby
;And drew it closer to her sheltering bo
som;,-but there was a struggle for cheer
fulness in her voice, as she murmured—
'No luore.long.- lazy days for us, little
one! I suppose grandmamma was right"
though, and we shall be all the, better fort
more exercise."
I hat afternoon, when William came in
to tea, he found his wife in the dining
room. Baby was asleep in the inner ap
artment, and Luis sat ( ) Maly by the win
dow with a piece of work in her hands.
So that was the end of the still, pleasant
days of convalescence ! The 91_91%4 came.
to him half sadly, but he said nothing.
He threw carelessly down on the table
the hunch of late wild roses which he
had fastened with a long spear of grass
for Lois ; he would not give them to her
there, with his father and mother looking
on, who so hated what they called non
sense.
And so the happy weeks ended, and
Lois eanie back into the hard every day
lire Once inure.
She had her hairy, to be sure, and there
was sweet comb rt in that—at least in
t _ti utes,_lll u_she could _gat-a way,
and have it quite to herself, wher'e no
cynic gaze sneered at her when she hug
ged it to her bosom, and covered its little
lace with kisses ; no lip curled when she
murmured all manner of unintelligible
nonsense over it in true womanly fashion.
But a baby is not quite enough to fill and
satisfy a woman's heart.,4,l,ois felt that
the vision she cherished of the love and
harmony into which th's new tie was to
sublime her life with her husband had
been an idle fancy—he was as far from
her now as ever. Perhaps it would have
been well it' she had realized that he was
not, and never under any circumstances,
would have been, the hero her youthful
imagination had made him. Once con
vinced that he was an utterly common
place niati, and she might have borne it
better; for it is in human nature, I think,
to become resigned to theineyitable.—
The misfortune was that her exalted esti
mate of him did tint change; so she wore
herself , out in vain endeavors to kindle a
fire which there would have been no fuel
in his being to sustain. Partly she at
tributed her failure to the influence which
she thought it, but natural that his pa
rent's ;contempt for her should .uncon
sciously have over him, partly—and this
was saddest of all--to some unworthiness
of her own, which night add day she vex
ed herself with vain strivings to discover
and remedy. And all the time she grew
paler and thinner, holding the world
more and more loosely.
.11,t might, naturally have been thought
the little child in the 'house would have
won its grandparents' hearts for its mo
ther, and so brought love and harmony,
in place of discord and coldness. But
what was singular, they did not love it
' 7 lhey always 'spoke of it as Lois' child—
all Gray— not a bit of Comstock about it.
If' it had looked like William it might
have been different, but it was simply
Lois in miniature. It had her eyes, her
soft shadowy brown hair, her delicate out
line of features, and; fragility of organi
zation. A bold; boisterous child, thrust
ing herself op their notice, might have
stormed its way to their hearts; but little
Nellie never sought any one's attention
—she took whatever treatnent she receiv
ed quietly, and shrank within herself like
a sensitive plant., She was perfectly well,
but she seemed to have been, as it were,
marked with silence.. Itis.probable that
her mother's feelings before her birth
had impressed her with - these character
istics, usually so foreign to childhood.—
She was certainly not cold of-nature„ for
she clung to her mother with tt.tenacity
so passionate that it seemed terrible when
one recalled the chances and the changes
which life has in store for these clinging,
intense natures.' Her -father loved ' her,
surely, but ho, too, would have been
fonder of a child more' gay or frolicsome.
.She felt this, not with her understanding,
of course, but with a dumb . ; instinctive
heart-knoWledge which she was too young
to frame into thought. .
She was more than three years, old
who again to her mother came the flerce
extiemity'of a woman's anguish and peril.
This time it was a boy who-lay upon the
almost pulsele'Sti'brertet. Towards. him,
CARLISLE, PA., FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 21, t 862.
indeed, the grandparents' hearts warmed.
He looked like William—,he was Corn
' stock, not Gray. It was evident that to
be idolized and spoiled, as his father had
been before him, would be his destiny if'
he lived. From the first, this was but a
doubtful if. lle was helpless and frail as
a wreath of snow, and he seemed hour by
hour to grow frailer. It was three days
befora h slipped quite away from the
hearts and hands that would have held
him back from death—three days, find
they found 'upon the pillow a little white,
frozen image ; a still, cold mouth that
human breath would never more flutter
through; a brow on whose awful chill the
kiss of Azriel had left its seal of eternal
peace.
Only the mother seemed not to mourn.
A smile full of mysterious Meaning cross
ed her face when they told her he was
dead—not a tear dimmed the blue glad
ness of her eyes, in which shone a strange
rejoicing; and this singular difference—
hard heartedness the old people called it
—vexed them still more, and woke a
vague disquiet in the sorrowing soul of
William Comstock. •
That afternoon he followed Dr. Sprague
. from the sick-room. The Doctor had
known Lois from a baby, and, without
wife or child himself, had loved her, per
' haps better than any living thing, for the
sake of the dead mother, whom he had
once loved in vain. With the quiet in
sight of one long practised to observe
minutely, he had noted the coldness and
contempt which had been meted out to
her in wifehood home, and often had been
angered almost beyond his_power_ of self,
control and silence. lie felt condemned
now that he had been restrained from
speaking by his hesitation to intrude upon
the domestic privacy of another house
hold ; and angry - with - himself, lie was the
more ready to deal harshly with another.
lie turned upon William Comstock, as
they stood alone together, with something
stern and threatening in his eye.
" What would you have ?" he said
shortly. . .
" Lois,"—the young man faltered=-
" what ails her ?" •
" Nothing, I think," was the curt an
swer.
" Has she no disease ?"
None that I know of." .
" Is her wind all right then ?"
Dr. Sprague .drew a long breath, and
looked at Lois Coinstock's husband with
~the tierce, pitiless gaze of Onq who feels
no trutri and will show no mercy. He
spoke with cold, incisive tones that seem
ed to cut the air.
Nothing is the matter with Lois, only
she is dying. Among you_ , ,yon have done
her to death. What did
~.7r4i think, man,
when you brought, that girl, sensitive us
a flower, to live here—to be crushed, and
scorned, and flouted, and stood by 'your
self looking on, and never thinking it was
killing ? Itid yeti have it in - your
heart to be a murderer ?"
He paused a moment with a cruel joy
_LU_SeCAluw_theAhrust-lin-had-givgli bad
struck home. Then opening the outside
door, he said, coolly, " You had better
keep the boy, and bury him with his
mother. You will not have long to wait."
Left alone, William Comstock stood for
a inomeut leaning against the wall. Ile
understood it now too well—saw but too
clearly. She had not mourned for her
babe, indeed we do not mourn for those
from whom we part but for a day or an
hour.
He went in at length where she lay,
carrying, as he always had done, his
trouble to her. The wistful, violet eyes,
with a strange smile in them, met his as
he dropped down on his knees beside
her. Ile spoke abruptly—he knew what
he had to say was always ready familiar to
his thoughts—
. " Dr. Spragne nys your are dying,
Lois."
" Yes William. I have known it all
along. It is best so. I was poorly fitted
for this struggling ; turbulent world."
" But., Lois, pity me. I cannot 'bear
it. What shall I do You must not
leave me alone."
The white, thin hand was cool and soft
as snow that touched his lips.
" Not alone love. Our father will
watch you, our Saviour be near and com
fort you, if only you will not shut the
door of your heart. And then you have
Nellie. I leave my image with you on
earth, even as I shall carry yours with
me to heaven. Your patents too—'"
" Do not speak of them," he interrupt
ed her with a fierce passion that seemed
foreign to his Lasy quiet nature. • " God
forgive me but I hate them. I shall hate
them to their dying day. They have
killed you, my darling„ and I, blind fool
stood by and never
. saw it !"
" What they did, they did ignorantly
—you must not blame them. If you
would ever see me again hereafter, you
must forgive them, and be at peace with
them.—They meant no harm; it was only
that they could not like me, we were so
different. The worst pang was when I
flair - light ;you did not love me. But I
know better than that now. know that
I was your beloved wife always." '
" As God hears me, - you, wore. My
blessed darling ! I must have been mad
ever to have given you rootultii - doubtit."
Kneeling there, he laid his head on
the pillow beside hers. Strong sobs shook
hitm; the fierce agony of manhood was
upon him. He scarcely felt tho hand
that rested softly on his hair, or the lips
that fluttered against his cheek. There
would come a time when he would bar
ter life itself for one .of those touches.—
She was the first to break th 6 silence.—
She felt a strange lethargy creeping over
her, and she knew but too surely what it
portended.
" Go, William," she said, " bring me
little Nellie, and call your parents? •
lie sprang to her bidding. Ile-caught
the child from ..the .chair where she sat '
silently by the. window, the quiet, parent
little thing. ab• did not speak to his
parents, but startled by his white face
and strange manner, they
..burried ,after
him." Even during the nuOntonC of his
absenee, that change whiCh none ea& win-,
take which ever saw it once, had crept
over Lois's face--he would have needed
no one now to tell him she was dying.—
Simon Comstock and his wife saw it too,
and wild spasms of repentance shook their
hard, worldly natures to their depth. As
white almost as the dying woman they
stood beside her bed, and she ; patient in
life, and merciful in death, whispered
" Good bye, father and mother !"
Her husband laid little Nellie beside
her, and the child crept quietly into the
bosom, growing chill so fast. The moth
er's lips moved in prayer--then they
clung passionately for a moment to the
white, childish brow and golden hair, and
then—even as she stretched her hand
towards her husband, for the last and
hardest parting otall—they sunk nerve
less by her side; and—little Nellie was
motherless.
I have no words to paint the bitter
ness of William Comsloek's agony. It
blanched his hair and aged his face, but he
.made no moan. lie said not a, word,
save to give the necessary directions for
the funeral of his dead wife; and the
murmurs of passionate tenderness and sor
row over the silent, clinging child in his
arms, which no one elm heard. '
And so the days went on till the day
came on which they laid her in her still
grave among the' hills. She had been
beautiful in life, but never had she seemed
half so fair as with the last and sweetest
smile of all frozen upon her face, the eyes
closed gently as if i-n sleep, and the brow
so very white, beneath the shadowing,
-dusky hair.- -In her , firms, close-pressed
to_ tier_ bosaux,..lay . the—litaa _bake __whose
life had been only three days long. Not
till William Conuitock'd eyes should be
covered with the death film would they
cease to behold the awful, statue-like_
beatify , ' of those dead Wiffitat,d
the dead baby on her breast.
Plainer than ever he seemed to see it
when they had shut the lid or the coffin
above her, and let it down into the open
grave, where the snow flakes were falling
steadily. Little Nellie in his arms clung
closer still, and cried shudileringly, that.
he should then put her mother into the
ground. Ile clasped her to his breast
with a quick, passionate gesture and
whispered something which Made her si
lent again. And so they stood around
the young wife's grave--those who had
hated, and those had loved her.
Ey4 o r since Lois's death a half stifled
remorse and vague, shuddering fear of
retribution had lain heavy at the hearts
of Simon Comstock and his wife. They
knew' not exactly bow their punishment
was to come, but road a sentence of
dooM in !their son's implacable eye.
When the funeral was over, and they
were all seated in the room whence the
dead had that day been borne, wlth a wild
courage which is born of despair the
mother resolved to know and provoke the
worst. So she took I.nis's name upon her
lipsiittered, like Job's comforters, some
of. the-common_plati-inde.s-of-sorrow,and -
told him that time would heal the wound
that ached so now.
He put Nellie down from his arms as
ho listened, and stood up before his mo•
ther, straight and strong.
There are men weak by nature and
easily swayed—men who are not firm or
self-reliant yet with a certain vein of des
peration in them which, when once arous
ed, is as long enduring, as terrible, as the
sternest and most well grounded resolves
of stronger men Such was William
Comstock—such a fierce purpose glittered
in his hard eye, and gave a sharp steel
like ring to his voice.
"Not that name nother—never date to
take that name upon put' lips again. You
killed her, you two—chilled, and tortur
ed, and goaded her to death ; and I-1,
who loved her—stood by and never saw
it. 1 can never forgive myself—is it
likely 1 shall ever forgive you ? I will
stay here, unlesq you choose that I should
go—it is the fittest place fin• Nellie, and
there is no need that the world should busy
itself concerning our affairs. But I will
never speak to you, save.when some 'third
party is present, or business requires it—
so help me God !"
When he had said these words he took
the child•up in his arms, and bore her to
his own chamber. lie had spoken pas
sionately. He confirmed his words with
one oath, though he did not confess his
motive to himself, in order that the ter
ror of perjury Might keep him from any
weak yielding. Knowing the weakness
and infirmity of purpose which character
ized ;his nature, he feared to trust himself
without outside support.
The two left ,behind looked at each
other iiblank horror,
"We are punished.' The avords fell
slowly after a time from the mother's
ashen lips. "We have idolized him, and
now he hap turned from us. I cannot
blame him. Wo have sinned and the
penalty is just. I never can forget the
face which Lois lifted to ours the moment
before she died. It will haunt me for
ever."
Simon Comstock was silent. He was a
men of few' words, but the blow fell on
him heavily. He understood his son bet
ter, however, than his wife did ; and in
his heart was a vague hope that resent
ment so fierce, in such a nature, would,
sooner or - later, wear itselLout.
. But weeks and months passed'on and
brought no change. Never, when they
were alone with their 'son, did one word
more cross his lips than business actually
required ; never by any chance did his
eyes meet. theirs When guests were
present, his wanner was so courteous, so
apparently unconscious of any eStrang
manta between -them, that it was almost
beyond their. endurance. But there Was .
that in his face still which told even his
Mother' that words would be wasted. She
did not once appeal to him.
They.Ad try to win'Nellie's love, those
two' pods forsaken old souls; for their
'hearts yearned over the child nowin this.
alienation from bet father. 'They sue
,ceeded in so far that she was alwaysduti
ful to, them, suffered their' caresses,' and
often performed for Chem thoughtful little
offices of attention. To all this her fath
er never objected. Ile ,wCiuld not for
worlds have taught the child one lesson
of hatred or revenge, were it only from
an undefined feeling that her mother
would look on from the far place of her
abode with a still human sorrow. But
Nellie's heart was all his. She loved him
as she had never done during her moth
er's lifetime, for now they were all to each
other. Ile never went to the grave of
hiOtiead young wife without her. They
would sit there together hand in hand, in
a silence drearier than tears or mourning.
At last the child was taken sick Scar-
let fever was in the neighbor hood, but her
father guarded her cat efu Ily,as he thought,
Ifrom contagion. Yet in spite of all pre
cautions, one day he saw the fatal scarlet
• flushing his fair,cbild's face.. From the
first he felt as if sho was doOmed. Ile
watched over her incessantly himself;
scarcely allowinr , e any one else to approach
her. Ire longed then for his mother's
sympathy; for she was his mother in spite
of all, and a fond and loving mother to
him; but he thought himself anew of his
oath and the wrongs of his dead wife, and
preserved his stern silence.
At length one night he s'tt as usruil
alone watching- his child. To all offers
of assistance he had replied that he need
ed none, and so his vigil was unshared.
It was midnight when he knelt. over•
whehned by the anguish of fear, and ut
tered a wild, passionate cry to Heaven for
his darling's life. Was it his own over
wrought fancy ? did he hea . r, or only seem
to hear, a voice rit ” g through the farth
est space—a well known, well loved voice..
" You have forgotten to show mercy—
how can you venture to ask it ? I bade
you with my dying breath to forgive—
you 'hare not forgiven. You,have_taken
away from your parents their child, can
you hope [leaven will spare yours ? De
fying God's offer of peace and pardon, can
you cry to llim for a blessing?"
That was all. It was as if, for a mo
ment Heaven had opened, and the voice
he loved had soundcd down to him through
the fur distance, and then the golden
gates had rolled back upon their hinges,
and the voice was silent forevermore until
he should join her there.
• In that moment he knew that his vow
was not " unto the Lord ;" that the sin
would be in keeping, not in breaking;
and leaving his sick child lying alone in
the dull stupor of fever, he went swiftly
to the room where his parents always
slept, lie found them sitting together
over the fire—it was winter aglin now—
too anxious for slumber:— They started
when he entered with a shiver of agony,
for the child had grown very dear to their
penitent hearts, and they thought he had
come to tell them she was dying.
Once more, as on that. night after the
burial, lie stood before them, and now, as
then, they listened.
" Path er, Mother, God chaSti - Min
roe. Lois bade me, with almost her dy
ing breath, to 14give you, and I have
hardened_ my heart-agai.ast-you. Ibrre
not ask Heaven's mercy for my child till
I have made my peace with you. I have
sinned, forgive nm."
It is not for nic to describe that hour
of confession and pardon—the parch is
who humbled thein,elves in the dust, and
then clung, weeping tears of joy :Ind 'grief
and terror, to the lust son whom they had
found.
William Comstock - watched no more
alone. To2;ether, faihor, mother and son
called on God, and He heard them. Nel
lie lived.
Her illness, or the difference she wit
nessed in her father's manlier of t lonurht
and life wrought a strange change on her.
When she recovered, she was no longer a
pensive silent child, shutting the leaves
of her heart from every eye. She became
joyous, social, caressing—even naughty
and enacting sometimes—thoroughly and
deliciously human:
She grew up to a character,and faith
far other than her mother's. Joy smiled
upon her life, and to-day the hair is white
above her serene forehead, and her chil
dren's children call her blessed.
A LIVING DEATH
It sometimes happens on certain coasts
of Brittany and Scotland, that a man, a
traveller lor fisherman, walking on the
beach at low tide far from the hank, sud
denly notices that for several minutes he
has been walking with some difficulty.—
The sand beneath his feet is like pitch;
his soles stick to it; it is sand no longer;
it is 'glue. The beach is perfectly dry,
but at every step he takes, as soon as he
lifts his foot, the print which it leaves fills
with water. The eye, however, has no
ticed no change; the immense strand is
smooth and tranquil, all the sand hag the
same appearance; nothing distinguishes
the surface, which is solid from the sur
face, which is no longer so , the joyous
little cloud of sand-fleas continues to leap
tumultuously over the way-farer's feet.
The man pursues his way, goes forward,
inclines toward the land, endeavors to get
nearer the upland, He is not anxious.
Anxious about what Only, be feels
somehow as if the weight of his feet in
creased with nvery.step which he takes.
Suddenly he sinks in. He sinks in two
or three inches. Decidedly he is not on
the right road; he stops to take the hear
ings. All at onoe . ho looks at his feet.
His feet have disappeared. The sand
covers them. He draws his feet out of
the sand ; he will retrace his steps ; he
turns back ; he sinkain deeper. The
sand comes up to his ankles; he pulls
himself out and thrrws himself to the left;
the sand is half leg deep; he throws hini
self to the right, the sand comes up to Ilia
shins. Than he recognizes,
_with
.un
speakable terror,.that he is caught in the
quicksand, and that bo line beneath . him
the fearful modium,in which man can no
more walk, than the fish can swim: • }hi
throV l ifi' off his load if ho has one; ho
lightens himself like'a ship in distress;.
it is already too late, the sand is above
his knees. •
. _ .. .
He calls; l ie waves his hat or his hand
kerollief; the sand gains on him more
and wore; if the beach. is descrted,if the
5 $1 60 per annum In advancb
( $2 00 If not paid In advance
land is too far off, if the sandbank is of
too ill repute, if there is no herb in sight,
•it is all over—he is condemned to enlize
ment. Ho is condemned to that appal , :
ling interment, long, infallible, implicable,
impossible to slacken or to hasten, which
endures for hours. which will not end,
which seizes you erect, free and in full
health, which draws you by the feet,
which, at every effort that you attempt,.
at every shout th❑t you utter, drags you
a little deeper, Which appears to punish
you for your resistance by a redoubling
of' its grasp, which sinks the mamslowly
into the earth while it leaveS him all the
time to look at the horizon, the trees, the
green fields, the smoke of the village in
the plain, the sails of the ships upon the
sea, the birds flying and singing, the
sunshine, the sky. 'Enlizement is the
grave become a tide and rising from the
depths of the earth toward a living mad.
Every minute is an inexorabre enshroud
ress. The victim attempts to §it downi
to lie down, to creep; every movement he
makes inters him; he straightens up; he
sinks in ; he feels that he is being Swal
lowed up; he howls, implores, cries to the
clouds, wrings his hands, despairs. Be- ,
hold him, waist deep in the sand. The
sand reaches his breast; he is now only a
Lust. lle raises his arms, utters furious
groans, clutches the beach with his nails ;
would hold by that straw, leans upon his
elbow to pull himself' out of this soft
sheath, sobs frequently; the sand rises.
The sand reaches his shoulders,,,it-rerehes'
his neck; the fiice alone is visible now.
The Moutli cries; the and fills it; silence.
The eyes sail- gaze, the sand shuts them:
night. Then the forehead decreases,
little hair flutters shove the sand; a hand
protrudes, comes through the beach ) ,
moves and - shakes, and - disappears. Sin=
ister effacement of a man.— Victor IIugo:
WASIIIN(ITUN AT WATERLOO.—" My
dearly beloved hearers," Said a very pop- .
.ular preacher down South, when harangtv
ing his bearers on the importance of per
severence and fortitude during the pies=
ent war, you must do what General
Washington done at the battle of Water
loo. In the heat of the shirmish his
horse was killed by a British cannon ball.
Did Washington give up his horse to ,
the enemy Not he. He sung at the'
top of his voice, " A hersc, - a horse, my
kingdom fora Imrs e ! A horse was in- .
statitly brought him by, Frank Altirion i
and he drove the British from the field,
and secured the hberty of South Caroll ,
na."
5T..111". Nat !Ong since a lot
omit am an 11. P , "high private"—were
quartered in several wooden tenements, and
an inner room of one lay the corpse of a
young s.•eesh officer awaiting burial. The
nee,‘ .non :-pre . ol to 11 village not far off, and
ft itritlg a eentimental, not bad
pecienwn of a Virginia dame.
niother-P. , sheerimi
as I intert tirle , l her liregrez•S. "Do let me
I,i-s him 1.. i. ht.. muthct :"
_':The _dear:Eu.lc Lieweri.nt,•-the-one lefiri
lies (lead within I never saw him, but, eh !''
I. led her through a rooni in which young
Lieut.—, of Philadelphia, lay stretched
Out on an upturnoil ihrough fast asleep. Sup
po,ing- him to lie the article sought for, silo
rushed up, exciiiiining: me kiss.him for
his mother,' and approached her lips to hie
f What was her amazement when
the -,,rtisc" elasmA his ;Irma arround her
and exclaimed ;
"Never mind the oil 'Miss, go it OR
yol.r own account. I haven't. the slightest
o',t
THE BEAUTY OF A WoMAN'S
Who has not felt the beauty of a wo
man's arm—the unspeakable suggestions
(if tenderness that lie iii the dimpled el
bow, and all the varied gently-lessening
curves down to the delicate wrist, with its
tiniest, almost imperceptible nicks in the ,
firm softnes:3? A woman'S .arto touched
the soul of a great sculptor two thousand
years ago, so that he wrought an image
of it for the Parthenon, which moves us
still as it clasps lovingly the time-worn
marble of a headless trunk.
.Tor: NEWSPAPER —One of the
greatest and most efficient aids to the
teacher is a well-conducted newspaper.—
In a family, its influence is inestimable.
Children tire of books; they pore over
thorn as a task. The newspaper, howev
er, is always new, always interesting, and
children grasp it and read its content 4
with avidity and pleasure.
tray- Jkatamm went to a party at which
a Mr: Pepper had assembled all his friends,
Jerrold said to his host, on entering the
room, " My dear 111 r. Pepper how glad
you must be to see all your friends mus
tered !"
Ile- Why will Americans, have more
cause to remember the let ter S than any
other in the alphabet ? Because it is the
beginning of secession and the end of
Jeff. Davis.
CauTrous.—•f' Now, wind you," vvhis
pored a servant girl to her neighbor, " I
don't say as how tuissus drinks; but be=
tween you and I the decanter don't. keep
full all day."
IG..When a fish is wounded, otherish
fall upon and devour him. There's some
human nature in fish.
To ..preserve apples from .rotting
put them into a dry cellar, of ett - sy-lidadi:j
to a large family of children. •
Pa—Kindness is stowed away in the
heart like roso lopes in a drinver, to
sweeten every object around them.
n t s„A: traveler on ono of the railroads
speaks of finding "iron clad" doughnuts•
fur sale at one station.
13:Er When wo fall upon=ronk,„we know how'
hard it is. When we , are :thrown, upon oar
resources we know liow'greUl ,t6sy m nre '
/le — Always bequeath to your wifeMi much
money as you can ; .her second httsbanti,, poor
fellow, may not have a cent in his poeko:.,
.XIEI, Foot expre - siedthO beliU. that a oortitin
miser would take We beam out of his own eye,
if liblctiew Natick) ho could sell the timber.
tha: One of tho coniplaintp...4lo in au_ad
joining county unfltneoe 7 mist t sty Brett "'
represents the porsou usitaingh44,ltio'brainz.
" --4 • • - "
NO 41.