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EBEXSBCRG. PI. WEDNESDAY, AUG. 14 1861.
VOL. 8 XO. 36
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THE BRAVE AT HOME.
BT T. BUCHANAN BEAD.
The maid who binds her warrior's sash,
With smile that well her pain dissembles,
The while beneath her drooping lash
One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,
Though Leaven alone records the tear,
And Fame shall never know her story
llcr heart has shed a drop as dear
As ever dewed the field of glory !
The wife who girds her husband's sword,
'Mid little one's who weep or wonder,
And bravely speaks the cheering word,
What tho' her Leart be rent assunder
Darned nightly in her dreams to hear
The bolts of war around him rattle,
Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er
Was poured upon the plain of battle !
The mother who conceals her grief,
While to her breast her son she presses.
Then breathes a few brave words and brief.
Kissing the patriot brow she blesses j
With no one but her secret God,
To know the pain that weighs upon her,
Sleds holy blood as e'er the sod
Received on Freedom's field of honor !
From the Waverley Magazine.
:dith greyson's sacrifice.
BY LIMELLA.
All the world to each other
Those orphan sistcis must be ;
They have neither parents nor brother
To guide them on life's troubled sea.
" Father in Heaven, help me to bear ray trials
s'.ih meekness ; and oh, grant that I may fulfil
the sacred duty entrusted to me with becoming
;ice in thy sight."
These words came monrnfully from the white
i ps of Edith Templeton as she stood near the spot
jHt bad but lately been oj-eued to receive the
Miiains of her father.
Pj-t Edith ! Ten years before her mother had
fi her happy home, leaving a bereaved husband
two children to mourn her loss a loss that
t Cl never be replaced. Calling Edith to her
t-i-ide, the dying mother entrusted her youngest
cill to Edith's care.
" Be a mother to her, my daughter ; try and
take her life happy. Poor Grace ! what will she
o without her mother ?" She was seized with
t of coughing, and when Edith removed her
hadkerchief from her eyes she gazed upon the
ce of the dead.
Faithfully had she fulfilled her mission thro'
te long years that followed. Never once had
e wavered from her duty ; and it trouble came
t; her ia any ford the kind hand of her father
is ever ready to guid her, his wise lips to give
counsel. A Edith thought of this her tears
.jed afresh.
" Dear, kind father," thought she, " what will
1 do without ycur gentle teachings ? We have
ver been so happy together, and now the cold
turtle rests above the breast that always beat in
for his children ; and I have come hither to
llaat flowers on his grave. The winter snows
ill fill on the grass that will soon wave over
km, and the cold wind will sing a departin
ftquiem over his new made grave. The Lord
r.Tetb. and the Lord taketh away ; blessed be the
ae of the Lord forever.' "
Edith lifted her head and met the gaze of Her-
krt Greyson, the only son of 'Squire Greyson.
Ue wealthiest man in Storrington.
; You here, Mr. Greyson 7 This is unexpect
J: I thought vou were still in the city," said
Edith, wiping her eyes.
" Yes, I am here. I did not hear of your fa
ther's illness until yesterday evening, and then
derely bv chance. But I find I have arrived too
ate your father is no more."
It was very kind in yon, Mr. Greyson, to
come to me in my great trial. Oh ! you little
know the sorrow of losing a friend so near."
You forget. Miss Templeton. Child that you
ere, you must remember the day my beautiful
Mother was drowned ; oh, I am sure you remem
W it. My angel mother, can I ever forget that
!" And, as he spoke, he bowed his head and
ept.
Forgive meHerbert," said Edith, " if I have
tacousciously brought to your mind the memory
f your mother. 1 do not forget, nor can I ever,
terrible way in which she met her death.
ut you were young, then, merely a child; you
W a father left still, and kind relatives, while
I am all alone, but for Grace. Foor child ! how
bbe takes our father's death. She must be
i-ely lcw, and wondering why I do tot return."
T E
The shadows of the willows were lengthening
in the old churchyard, and twilight was fast ap
proaching. Silently they left the resting place
of the dead. They walked some distance in si
lence, each occupied with their own sad thoughts.
At length Herbert spoke.
" Miss Templeton, I sought you this evening
to offer you my sympathy, and also to say adieu
to you. On Tuesday next I sail for Europe."
If Edith felt any sorrow at this announcement
she did not betray it. She said, calmly,
" I was not awarp, Mr. Greyson, that you in
tended traveling."
" It is unexpected to me, also, at least for the
present ; but we received a letter from my aunt
Alice, informing us of the death of her husband,
who left his affairs in an unsettled state. She
writes requesting my father's presence as soon as
circumstances will permit, and I shall accompany
him. May I hope, Edith, that you will not for
get me ; and often, when I am far away, your
thoughts will cross the sea to the absent one ?"
" Have we not been friends 1 And think you
I can ever forget the playmate of my childhood,
the companion of my youth 1 No ! but often,
when a wanderer on the broad face of the earth,
will there come wafted to you the pure prayers of
friends far over the ocean's foam."
" Cless you for this, my friend. Farewell."
For a moment her hand rested in his, and he
was gone. Never before had she felt the necessi
ty of his presence to her happiness, lie had ever
been a kind friend to her, and now he was going
far away. Seas would separate them, and she
might never see his face again.
Grace met Edith at the gate.
" Dear sister," she said, " why did you tarry
so long ? Tea has been waiting full an hour ; let
us hasten to the house."
Dear Grace how fondly she repaid Edith for
all her love f jr her, by her childish confidence
She had not yet completed her education. Mrs.
Dewey, her governess, had been in the family
since Edith was five years old. Edith had been
sent to a distant seminary to complete her educa
tion, but Grace had never been from home for any
length of time. The thought of separating from
her sister was painful, and she had persuaded her
father to let her remain at home.
Mrs. Dewey was a highly educated woman.
Mrs. Templeton had been her dearest friend, and
losing her husbaud when they had been married
but a few short weeks, she was received with
gladness into the family of her friend, and here
she had hoped to spend the remainder of her days ;
but she was unexpectedly called to the bedside of
an only brother, now in Scotland, whom she had
long supposed dead. With many tears and sad
hearts the orphans bade farewell to their kind
governess, and .Mrs. Dewey took her departure
from tho place that was hallowed by fond remem
brances of her dear friend.
I wonder," sd Grace to her sister, ou the
evening of which I write. " if Mrs. Dewev has
arrived at her destination ; if so, was her brother
living ?"
" We shall hear frcm her soon no doubt," re
plied Edith ; " but is it not hard that nearest
and dearest friends must be separated forever on
earth ?"
" Yes, but it is f.iith that draws aside the veil
of futurity, and points to us a better world, where
sin and sorrow and disappointment never enter,"
said Grace, softly.
" True, dear sister ; and would that we, short
sighted, erring mortals of this world, hail more
of that faith which enables us to bow in meek
submission to the will of our Heavenly Father."
Edith then informed her sifter of the intended
departure of Herbert Greyson.
Without saying good bye to me ! I thought
he had more regard for his early playmate."
He sent his adieus by me," answered Edith.
As she spoke she arose and rang the bell, and
soon the servants were assembled for evening de
votion. Side by side the sisters knelt in prayar ;
after reading a chapter in the Bible Edith's voice
rose clear and sweet in petition to the Great
Spirit who rules all things.
CHAPTER II. THE BRIDAL.
" Where's the heart that knows no sorrow,
Or the eyes that know no tear 1
Bright the day, but then to-morrow
Often brings us doubts and fears."
It was a beautitul morning in May. Tho vil
lage church bells of Storrington sent forth a mer
ry peal, as if for a bridal. That morning Grace
Templeton was to be married to the man she
loved, but one who was entirely unworthy of her.
But, alas ! she knew it not. She little dreamed
that the one on whom she had lavished her young
heart's warmest affections was a villain in every
sense of the word ; but appearances are often de
ceitful, and, in the dark handsome features of the
gentlemanly Horace Woodley, Grace did not per
ceive the baseness of his heart ; and, although
something whispered it to Edith, yet she could
not pain her darling by refusing her consent to
their union, although she trembled for the future.
Once she spoke to her sister on the subject ten
derly and lovingly, in her own calm manner ; but
Grace assured her it would break her heart to
hear her talk thus. It could not be, she said,
that Horace Woodley was otherwise than what
he appeared ; and so preparations for the bridal
went on, and she became his wife.
On that morning the church was beautifully
decorated with evergreens, and the village mai
dens gaily strewed flowers along the path of the
bride, for Grace was loved by all who knew her.
As the bridal party passed the old churchyard
the heart of the bride sank within her ; she seem
ed to have a presentiment that she, too, soon
would be laid by the side of the loved ones in
that quiet spot. Try as she would, she could
not rid her mind of the impression,
As they neared the church the grand old organ
sent forth a gUah of soul ttirring melody, and
crowds had collected to witness the marriage of j
the village favorite. Tenderly as a father did the
old minister talk to Grace after the ceremony had
ended. He had united her father and mother in
marriage, he Lad christened both her and her sis-
ter in the same village church, and he had re
peated, with solemn tone, " Dust thou art, to
dust return," ut the grave of both her parents.
Mr. and Irs. Woodley were to seek a home in
the far west, leaving Edith alone. In vain did
Grace plead with her to accompany them, but
Edith was firm in her decision.
, " Our father left his estate in my care." she
said, " and would it be right to leave it in tho
hands of strangers merely to gratify my own
wishes ? No ; I must remain here, sad and lone
ly. Go, dear sister, and be happy."
Long and earnestly the sisters talked, for on
the morrow they were to part.
The morning sun rose clear and bright, and
smiled upon the green trees and field 8 that had so
lately donned their summer attire. Many were
wending their way to the wharf, where awaited
the steamer that was to bear our loved one away.
The deck was thronged, each anxious to witness
the last signal from friends on land. Ah ! there
were sorrowing hearts on board as well as on
land !
The signal bell rang forth its warning peal, the
last farewell words were exchanged, the last part
ing kiss given, and the gallant vessel moved
slowly on. Edith watched the white sails until
they were lost in the distance, and then slowly
retraced her footsteps to the home made desolate
by the departure of her sister.
e o o o o o e
Time passed on. Summer had passed with its
sunshine and showers ; autumn, with its rustling
leaves and sweeping blasts ; and winter had
again been succeeded by the bright spring-time.
Miss Templeton was itill at her home, the
same calm, loving friend. The poor never went
needy from her door, and they learned to call her
blesseJ. She lived to do good. May she receive
her reward in Heaven.
Herbert Greyson was still abroad. Edith had
received several letters from him fille 1 with glow
ing accounts of his travels. She heard from
Grace, but not often, yet she knew, by her letters,
that she was unhappy. Her husband hail spent
her money mostly in gambling. Edith had sent
them large sums from her own portion, but sti'd
they were very poor. How her sister's he.rt
bled as she read those sad letters. She wrote
thus in one of them :
" We have a little Minnie here. Sister, you
remember the story of Blind Minnie well I
have given her that name, for, Edith, Minnie is
blind. She opened her blue eyes in this world
not to behold the glorious sunshine, which God
in his gxxlness.has given to the children of earth.
But, I trui-t, like the heroine of the tory, that
her tight will be restoied. She seems almot too
frail for this world, and I pray our Heavenly Fa
ther to spare her fo me, my only source of com:
foit except your letters."
On reading this Edith's resolve was made ; she
hesitated no longer at accomplishing what she
had long designed that was, writing to Mr.
Woodley, offering him a share in her lind if he
would bring Grace home and live with her. She
soon received an answer from him. IL-r offer was
accepted, and, in a few weeks, they were to leave
their present home and come to her.
" Grace's health is very poor," wrote he. " I
fear she has the consuroptiou."
How Edith's heart rose up in rebellion towards
the destroyer of her sister's happiness. How co'd
she meet him as her sister's husband, and treat
him with proper civility? Her pure heart shrank
from deception ; " but what is my own happi
ness," said she to herself. " Did I not promh
my dying mother to shield my sister from all
harm 1 Oh! why did I not yield to my better judg
ment in regard to this man ? But repentance
now is useless ; and even if I sacrifice the wholo
of the property my father bequeathe! me in try
ing to make my sister happier, I shall no more
thau fulfill my duty." Ah ! little did she dream
of the sacrifice she was yet to make.
When the June roses bloomed again Grace
Woodley returned to her childhood homo, never
again to leave it. The sisters met with melan
choly pleasure. Was it possible that tho pale
features of Mrs. Woodley were those of the bright,
laughing Grace Templeton, as she bad been in
her maiden days ? Edith was not slow to per
ceive that consumptin was fast hurrying her to
the grave.
" Nothing is changed, dear Edith," said Grace,
on the evening of her arrival. " How happy the
servants were to meet me, although they hardly
knew their old favorite ; and even old Tray re
ceived me with his usual manifestations of plea
sure." Poor Grace !
" She thought the land that gave her birth.
Ths dearest, sweetest spot on earth."
"All is the same about our home as when j'ou
left it a bride ; but only think of the changes
that have been made in our once happy family
within two short years. But I trust we thall be
very happy together hereafter, especially now we
have a little pet." And, as Edith spoke, she
kissed the baby cheek of blind Minnie, who was
sleeping quietly in her cradle bed.
Every day Grace visited the graves of her pa
rents until her failing strength gave way. Daily
she grew more frail, and Edith shuddered as she
tho't of the future when she should be alone, but
for Minnie, and one would not think, while gaz
ing on her delicate countenance, she would long
survive her mother.
Mr. Woodley had taken the whole management
of the tarm into his own hands. Edith did not
remonstrate, tor the delicate health of her sister
forbade all excitement ; and he had, when he saw
that bis wife could not long be snared, treated
her with m?re kmdpess than formerly.
It was very lovely to witness Edith's untiring
devotion and attention toward her dying sister.
Many, many were the weary nights that she ne
ver rested her weary head on her pillow, although
Grace besought her to. think more of her own
health. But Edith was firm in her resolution to
attend night and day her sister's beds'de.
The kind old minister often came to see Grace.
With childlike faith she listened to him, as he
talked to her of heaven ; and, as his voice rose in
prayer, she thought it would be veiy Bweet to die
were it not for leaving her loved ones.
" I shall soon be with our dear father and mo
ther," said G-"Vco to hcj sister, cne evening. ' I
feel that I ccJ last but a few days longer. My
sands of life are nearly spent ; and when the
summer flowers begin to lade and die, I, too, shall
leave this beatiful world, to bloom, I trust, in
the garden if the Lord. Oh, how sweet a thing
is faith, is it tot, dear Edith?"
Edith's tears were falling fast, and even Mr.
Woodley was deeply moved.
" It cannot be, Grace, that you will die and
leave us," said he; " you must live, and I will
prove my leve for you by being a more dutiful
husband in the future."
" No, Horace, that cannot be," she said, smil
ing sadly ; " but you will be kind to our little
daughter and-Edith, kinder than you have ever
been to me. But I forgive you if you promise
they will be cared for by you"
" I promise. God help me, I will become a
better man," and the strong man bowed Lis head
and wept.
chapter the wanderer.
I've wandered in many a clime, where
Flowers in beauty grew,
Where all was blissful to the heart,
And lovely to the view.
I've seen them in their twilight pride
And in their dress of morn ;
But none appeared so sweet to mo
As the spot where I was born.'
Herbert Greyoon was still a wanderer on the
broad face of the earth. He had visited the cities
of Italy in all their pride and loveliness. Italy,
the land of tho poets' song, and the artist's dream.
Italy, where the greatest philosophers, orators
statesmen, artists and poets the world ever saw,
have lived and died. Home, in all its classic
beauty, whose heart does not beat with pleasure
at the thought of visiting it? gigantic works of
art? but that privilege is not for all, and many
an humble erson has lived and died without
consumating ' their dear, cheriahed hope, that
they might behold the land that they have so
often seen in their dreams, but never in reality.
"Florence on the Arno," how often beneath thy
blue skies, at the twilight and the midnight hours,
ascends the prayers of some wanderer to th e
great Father above for the loved ones far over
the seas.
Beautiful Venice, the bride of the sea."
oltcn on thy green banks the gondolier s song is
heard floating in sweet melody over thy rippling
waters.
1 once knew a beautiful Italian girl, one grew
up beneath the blue sunny skies of Venice : love-
ly was she to behold : but misfortunes came, and
she, with her father, left the land of their
birth to seek their fortune in America. She
sang ia the streets of New York, and as she
sang, a sad smile lit up her counteance. Her
heart was far away, and the words she was sing
ing brought up pleasant but sad memories.
Beneath the cold skies of her new home she
drooped and died, and her broken hearted father
was left alone in the great city. He still plays
Lis favorite instrument to the crowds that col
lect around him, and he hardly Leeds tLcm.-
His thoughts are with his native home that is
far away.
When the minstrel is sorrowful, sad in his lay ;
lou may smile on his song but his heart is away.'
A mid all the pleasant scenes which he had
Msited Uc'ibeit Greyson was not happy. He
sighed for his own country beyoud the seas, and
ruitiiy were the longing thoughts he sent to the
dear ones far away. Y'es, he often thought of
the orphan, for he truly loveJ Edith Templeton
although ho, like her, did not know . it until
they were separated ; but now he reso'. ved to i
return and make Lcr Lis bride ; and, amidst the
scents where their young childhood plaj ed,
spend the remainder of their days in happiness.
liui years ti Miuenrg must pa oeiorc mat nme
would come ; but he knows it not. And so he
dreams on. bright dreams of the future, and of
the Miss that awaits him on las return
Herbert Greysou was c profound scholar, a
great lover oi naiure. ana mucu ui n.s t..ue.
. i c . l i r l - a . ,
peeiAMy wncn travelling, was spent in skeicmug
- t . i a . i -. . r 1 - l
- o
had created. He was also an eminent writer,
and many of the readers of tlas sketch would,
were I to mention his mom de plume, recognize
one whose writings aie as f.m'diar to theni as
hous; hold words. He had, while living with his
father in seciusion. before ho entered College.
where he graduated with great honor, been
taught many useful lessons. Daily he was told
of Lis nrtgel mother, whce death he had some
reccollcctions of. He was taught to lift his
mnnnl he m "ht meet the dear one who had
fono before
soothed the dying with hopeful w 01 ds of pardon.
7 tt ti j j - - TJ
consolation to the afflicted, and many a one Lad
m.iuivCTi vinii w-,i.uj t nivi ivi piniig lutui
. T- l I f 9 Ilit-ll'iilJtT 1 .1 Mia. f. . m ftr.
suh a fiicnd
In arranging tho affairs of his sister's late hus
band. Judge Greyson was called into Scotland
and there he met Mrs. Dewv, who has before been
mentioned tJ the reader. She, with her brother
was stopping at a hotel in Edinburg. He was
better and hopes of his recovery were eiftertaired
One morning as Mrs. Dewy w as ascending the
staircase with refreshments for her brother, Bhe
met, suddenly, lace to lace, with the Judge.
LCONCLL-DfcD NEXT WK J
From the Hove Journal.
MATRIMONIAL INFELICITIES.
BY aIC IRRITABLE MAN.
I order a dinner.
By the by. my dear,' I said to my wife, as I
drew on my gloves, preparatory to going down
towi the other morning, ! very nearly forgot to
tell you that I have asked three or four friends to
dine with me to-day.'
You don't mean to say,' exclaimed my wife.
that you have asked them to come home with
you to dinner V
I certainly do not mean to say anything else,'
I answered. Whcre should they dine with me.
if not at my own table, I should Lke to know V
Why, 1 thought,' she replied, 'you had per
haps asked them to take dinne- with you at the
Maison.Doree,' of which I hear you talk.'
I dont see why,' I replied, 'you should tiiink
any such thing. The fact is, you think a great
deal too much. If you would do more, and
think less, my homo would be pleasanter than it
is.'
'I am toire,' said my wife, I do much more
than I am able to, and how I am going to pre
pare dinner for your company to-day I do not
know. I with, my dear, you would not invite
gentlemen to dine with 30U unless you tell me
of it, at least the day before. I am not always
prepared to entertain company at a few hours'
notice, and to-day especially, it is very incon
venient.'
Good gracious!' I exclaimed, I should real
ly like to know when it has fcever been conven
ient. I go not remember, curing tne many
years of our marriage, of once inviting a friend
to dine with me but you declared it to le incon
venient. Nowr if there be one word I dislike
more than another, it is the word inconvenient.
Well my dear,' she said 'I shall do the best I
can ; but I regret extremely that you selected
this day.'
Why this day more than any other,' I ask
ed.
Because it is washing-day, and it wwl be al-
I most impossible to prepare a handsome dinner,
I at the same time'
I 'Well then, let the washing go,' I said; vho
I cares ! I suppose it will keep till to-morrow,
I won't it V
I 'But the servant has already commenced it,'
J fche answered.
"Then tell her to stop, if yru want her to as-
I sist you in getting dinner,' I said. I suppose
I she can let the clothes soak, can't she?'
j 'I presume she will be obliged to,' my wife
j replied ; 'but she will be terribly cross about it,
I and I dare say before the dinner is ready, she
I will drive me distracted.'
Wei!, if :-he don't like it, tell her she can go,'
I said. I would'nt be ruled by servants, any-
way.
I don't see that sending her away will help
me in the least,' i-he replied, 'as in that case 1
should have the dinner l prepare aL-nc, besides
I a prospect f doing the washing tomorrow.'
I Tshaw!' I exclaimed, 'you know very well
I that you will not have to do any such thing ;
j but you like to say so, just to make me think
vou will Lave a terrible time getting dinner for
five or six persons."
Five or six!' exclaimed my wife ; 'I thought
you said three or four.'
Well, now I sav.' I adJed. 'five or six : and
if that i.si.t satisfactory I'll make Jit seven or
eight. I am sure I ain't partici lar.'
It will make very little difference to mc,' my
wife rti'lied, 'whether a dozen come. I will te
I that everything you provide for the dinner is
I properly prepared, and placed on the table ; but
I for more than that, I cannot answer.'
I Vcll, vou are certainly a pretty wife, I rc-
I plied, if you exrtct that I am going to neglect
,ny business down town by stopping at the mar-
I kct to select the materials of a dinner. I think
I jf j give you the money to purchase whatever is
I necessarv. vou will attend- to that part of the
matter yourself.'
'Now, my dear,' my vife continued, 'it will
be utterly impossible for me to go to market,
and also attend to making pastry, and oversee
ing the cleaning of the silver, the sweeping of
the parlors, and a hundred other little matters
i 0f wnich you have no idea. .No, you must or
I jcr fri,ra tnavket whatever you wish, and also
I see that it is sent home. It is now nearly ten
o'clock, and this dinner, which to be properly
, , . . , ,- -i ,
prepared, ought to have my undivided attention
f , -m gix QJ.
i j.
I
I '11000 gracious : l cxciaimeu. -wnat a iuss
you are making about a little dinner. uac
would think that wc never dined at all. Why,
all you have to do is to cook a trifle more meat,
than usual. It don't seem much of a task to
me.
I "Very well, said my wife, 'just send home
I f,um the market the trifle more meat and vege
I tables which vou think will suffice, and 1 will
I attend to having them cooked.
""' .
I u i. M ' I tni.l I will f r it 4.. ritinnmlu'r 4s
I stoP at lll0 market; but if the meat and vegeta-
Lend , or go yourself, to sec about them. You
I know well enough my dear, that if there be one
tu5ng 1 dislike doing more than another, it is
I Tnl T T t f CTk 'irlrx.f I ...... ( l fj.4 1. a ,1...... tua
i ov"o " vi. jvrm . a .A. mt uiuuti
ready precisely at six o'clock, ard set tLe table
for six persons betides ourselves.'
Stop my dear'.' my wife replied,' you Lave
not told me what vou intend to have f r dinner.'
Yes I Lave, I replied ; meat and vegetables.
But what kind of meat. persisted my wife,
I 'and what vegetables ? ill you have fish and
I soup? and strawberries and jellies? and what
ine will you Lave put en the ice V
-
I declare,' I said. your questions will drive
me crazy. Get the dinner to suit yourself.
Have fish and soup, and all the other tilings you
&tked about ; but dint trouble me wi-h kitchen
matters. Talk to the cook, if yon wibh to con
sult some one, and !et me rest in peace.'
Again I said good bye, and went toward tL
door.
'Suprose before vou go. said my amiable
spouse. vou give me some money, for I shall l
obliged to use considerable in getting this dinner.
Everv dinner cost money, and such a one as will
satisfy you cannot be prepared for nothing.'
Yon are certainly,' I said, 'the most impor
tunate woman I ever met. I ready nave clone
nothing for a month past but give you money.
Well, how much do you want ? Come don t
keep me standing here forever, while you add up
on your fingers. Can't you say at once how
much yon require, and be done with it i
I was trying, she replied, 'to calculate the
sum necessary ; but
Don't for gracious sake, I interrupted, 'have
any huts in your answer. There, take these uis
I added, placing some bank notes in her bands.
ue wnat are necessary, and with the remainder
buy the summci silk for which you Lave been
teasing me for days past,
My wife smiled sadly as she examined the
bills, and, shaking her Lead, said :
Here is barely sufScieut here to pay for the
dinner.'
It is all I have,' I said, to spare at present.
and if it be not sufficient to pay for both dinner
and silk dress, why, I am afraid you will have
to do without the dress.'
I wish,' said my wife, 'you were not going to
give this dinner, It will cost a great deal of
money, and I have no doubt but that the anxiety
and care I shall have to undergo in attending
to it, will make me ill.'
Oh, yes,' I cried, 'that is just the way you
women always talk. If you don't have money
with which to buy silks and laces whenever you
fancy to have them, why you immediately de
clare yourselves to be ill. I have seen loo much
of that kind of tiling since I was married to be
greatK" effected by it. I suppose your head
aches now, doesn't it love V
Yes, it dies," she replied, 'and how I am go
ing to keep tip through the day I don't know
It is not at all probable I shall be able to be
present at the dinner, and how you will get along
without me, I can't possibly imagine.'
Oh, we'll manage well enough,' I replied ;
don't give yourself any uneasiness on tha score.
Keep cool my love, and get the dinner upon the
table, and 111 see to the rest.'
My wife sighed.
I will do the best I can,' she Said ; but, oh, I
do wish you Lad not iu vital your friends to-dav.
I want the dinner to lock and taste as nice as
it is possible for any to be ; but the time I have
to prepare it in is so short, that I doubt if I can
do justice to it'
It was evident to me that my wife really
feared the dinner might prove a failure. So, af
ter a moments hesitation, I said :
My dear, is the money I just gave you ufa-
cieut to purchase ycur summer silk V
My wife brightened up immediately.
C h, yes she answered, 'more than enough.'
Very well then,' I replied, 'use it for that
purpose and let the dinner go.'
No !' she said, you and your friends would
le disappointed. TL dinucr will be ready at
ix o'clock.'
Conf und the dinner.' I said, I won't givit
at all. It Las already caused me more trouble
than it is worth. Besides yu are not wc"l en
ough to see to it, and 111 tell my friends that
vou are ill.'
But that will lc scarcely true,' s-hu said ; 'al
though I am not wcl!, I am far from Leu g ilL'
Never heed that,' I said ; 'my mind is made
up. W you nee I not think any more a unit the
dinner. I Lave decided to dine at tLe 'Maiscn
Dorct' with my friend?-, so they will a be dis
appointed after all.'
Iierpt,' said my wife, ruling, 'ih not Lav
ing me to preside at the table.'
True, my dear.' I replied, but then we will
toast you in a goblet e f the 'Flow er of Neekar ?
And we did.
Tlie mil Tor Direct Taxation.
The bill now liefore Congress Providing for di
rect taxation to raue additional revenue for
uftn,m; proposes v raise J30.000.000 by
I r. a. . . .
I on tt.it itino aim iois ci "round With iliiw
imprmermnt. dwen:Ilff hZl! . ,T,w
slaves. The amount of tax is distributed propor
tionately among each of the thirty-four States
and the territories, according to the assessed val
ue of the projKTty. The amount which Ldls to
i ennsylvania s share is nearlv three million if
dollars C$2.020 ,078.) The several States, it is
probable, will be divided into collection distrie Is.
It is proposed to tix all stills, biters, and othpr
utensils employed in the distillation of spirituous
liquors fifteen cent on every gallon f capacity,
and to lay a tax of five cents pT gallon n all
Jermeiited and malt liquors, and of ten ct-nts rr
gallon on all spirituous liqu'rs. There is a!
to be a tax on carriag.s. excluding velikl-s for
the transportion of merchandize. The Ux varies
I C .1 . . i . f . . 1 r r. .
,, ,. ..,., ,., . iW nonn miy Uollirs
j to forty do.Urs for a carriage valued at one thou-
I sand dollars
K-Willie, a bright little eight year old, pos
sesses the true spirit of piety, an i never uerle
I daily prayers. His extempore tff.itsin h"s line
i are reany rrniarsai ie ior zeal and annropritt
I ,1- l lt
ness. TLe other d ty, in the present of the fam
ily he prayed for his country as fallows ;
'Oh, lord, there never was no gxxl a country
as ours until the civil war broke out; now it U
vary bad. TLe rebels are very bal ; turn their
J hearts to thee, oh, Lrd. They h ive done mauy
I bad things ; they tok Sumter; but. oh. God
I they can't take Pickens!' W :l.i i evident'-
I w
1 a patriot as well as a cL.ri-M.ias.