)1111p N SLOAN, PIIBLISHRS.
M I ME 25.
175111-ZBS DIRECTORY
CLEMENS
a I 1,41 brain• It and imported
getar. Toh.ren. Pru.t. Pbh. rhi.!
fir blonat. HeiAah. Air Su. 7 I<orantii Blurt. Auto.-
Er,f, Ph
1M.1.•
FILER ct WARREN,
n.l Dr.ilefli In Kat ha Nth, No, I 4 mertnah Mat COI'
• made uu all the Principal Vitae ttl the kinated &awls-
N.J..., and pmertrds promptly moulted Rank Mows.
: Itrt Imueltt add Intent. hard oa Time
u Moues rrnlitSed to Enemy laud Vlt'arranta nought,
t Waled oil the 111081 rehrontable terms
JOHN F Dr - N(7o34ft
no 1.01:1111/1./.01/ AT La w, to Marsha 11's (Mier. Erie,
A A CRAIti.
of W Peace, oifirx reard..ved W Nu. I Hu/nes Bkret.lld
11,..a Sole "trivet, Erie, Pa
ellil'lN
•1 the Vl', Ind thitnr; residence on Sixth rt.
t.,,•T 1 ,, John P Vin ern t. 'Music. arranged for
or e. , tillion Bands
H SHERMAN,
RAIRLA Alirt:tr
, imrt fir Ilutel and 'be Reed !knee The
4.4,0114 14 I. toren owarue4l hum fur the best Inc tare+ fur
aro .ur rn•nell Pile.. 81 re and upwards
%V 111..1)8.
e t itet.tfl tuanufae •carer. cm Nell AisJ
ler Itll qua' Ihr beat and etii4prsa now use
t gout r Very ni•rr*. In 'Per n 1 Ltlidert Purnses, att•
a
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Inl :v. , lI.A nir, , wiepo." 11111 SP 10 one,
L T FOX,
Ire gtuur. west 4,4 Pomerrtr as
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DR EMERY,
Ur Ka. ■ ICA floors Seat La Amer rc a•
t; W TODD,
Itrtth OarutA Terry. St Dew.
nr..14 , 1 mama. Jobber. in garfish, 4:ortaat. •nd lb
ti.auwary, Ghat. hauls, IV*LLtera, 14c tit Market
I.t. and Sth. I . 4l.ladtitdia
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fit:RT()N fi 11F,Rit()N,
APOIL• J at ort - r.or lc Co .1
a a. Meal I wrrfet• to loos., Ilecatemecrolots,
tito 8ru.0..., Perfumer% line *IMP*.
I ,, ..dtnz, So. 5 Reed Hone
I qt. L EL 1.101"1',
.T 'Owe and dwol , IBs Woush Mork Row
1 o. I 1111,1
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I'IIONIAS AI'STIN,
. PI NI 0/ O. LOOMIS & CO.)
%Vaiclus, Jewslty. Siliei stpuuns, Musical
ins Waxers Lamps snit Fanc♦ Grinds,
is sail retail
II JARECK I,
%DIV weal rude ofdtate street. tire. Pa.
.1 B 111 . NNISON
„ e+tat..olary. bloodily adiaslares.tlooair Pub.
. r•heell Music. New.i.ainer•, Gold Pena. Pueket Cul
Pro door weal of the Reed Wu..., Flew
BOO'fil it STEWART,
• and Retatillmlel. in Fancy lad Staple Dry Goode
~,..r). betwerii Iter4 !louse and Ileum u'. Ilutrr
LI DD EL L, E I'LE & CU.
Irkat Huller., %atilt(
.r. Proul and all k Ito!. •,( Machin, t% Ind
a-t,n4ii., dour 14., tinier.
;4'l' F.RRN'I"I' A: GRAY,
, Jobt..f, .04 hlevt kl I ealers In Wrt n4l Ilry limrr
Ik)for-1, Fruit, V 1 4.14A1
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stowl. lour Joor•
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Ar Pr Ace in tb. room forbwrly oreepied by
ke Bloc/.
JOILN HEARN CO
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s;fl.fecr.c.. recf , kerN. H•rdwars,
Sew 11.4e1, Pm
:N1 ITU JACKSON S SON.
Iffirfiffka . ie querns Wire.
fINN 1 . 1 1,3 tr,l4, Pa,
Ik' TEitilliTl)N,
NOT I INaIir •'I3EIZ I CLO.
m.nbn n Morwar..., firams. &c
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ROSLIIT i9104111r. Propalistor.
~ .fsur I ...I wurn by Übe pmeat
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The Losiserne .lownsai says: We dory nay tasteful lower
of poetry le mid the following limes without ezelaintiag—
"bew beautiful!"
My soul thy sacred image keeps,
My midnight dreams are all 'dame,
For wawa than is Winne sleep,.
And Alum broods o'er land and sea;
Oh, in that still, mysterioea hoar.
Now eft from wakiag dreams I start,
To dad thee but a fancy dower,
Thou cherished idol of my heart,
non bast each thought and dream of nisi—
Have in turn one thought of thine
Forever this* my dreams will be,
Waage* may be fortunes hers;
I ask not lore—l claim from thee
Only one boos, a gentle tear;
May e'er blest visions from shore
Play brightly round thy happy heart
Aad may the beams of peace and lows
Neer from thy glowing owl depart.
Farewell! my dreams are still with thee,
Bast thew one wader thought aloe
My joys Like summer birds may dy,
Yy hopes like stammer blooms depart,
one dower that cannot Me—
ths ho y memory in my bean;
No dews that llower't cup may fill,
No sunlight to its Mares be given,
Bat it will live sad Sourish still,
As deathless am s doing in have*.
My soul greet thine, numasted, unsought,
Bast thou for me one gentle thought'
Farewell! farewell my far off friend'
Between as broad, bine rivers dow,
And forest, wave and plain, extend.
And mountains in the sunlight glow;
The wind that breathes upon tby brow
Is not the wind that breathe, on mine,
That star beams shining on thee now,
An net the beams that on me shine,
But memory's spell is with us yet—
Cans% theuthe huh' past forget'
The bitter teen that you and I
May shed whene'er by anguish bowed,
Exhaled into the moootide sky,
May meet and mingle in the cloud,
And thus, my much beloved friend. though we
Far, far apart must live and more,
our souls when God shall set them free,
Can mingle/in the world of lore.
==l
This slid as eentaey to me—
Say—would it he *joy t" thee'
Q:pict
=IMO
The cold Christmas moon was shining on the
ttldeping village of Oheriton. It lit up the long,
straggling street, and made every object almost
as distinctly visible as at noonday. But in the
spiritual light they appeared very different.--
A beautiful solitude, solemn yet serene, seemed
to rest on all things. The quaint houses, with
their high roofs, and oddly-clustered chimneys,
looked as if they brooded over the recollection
of the long past times they had knowu; and
the grand old church looked doubly revernend,
with the fret-work glittering about its Nor
man-arched windows, and on the boughs of the
huge cedar which towered beside the doorway
The moonbeams lingered lovingly about the
grey walls; they fell, too, on the white grave.
stones in the churchyard, and made each one
shine as with a still, calm smile—happy and
holy. It was a night upon which thoughtful
men might gaze, and feel rang iu their hearts
simultaneous hope for earth and aspiration to
heaven.
Very quiet was tilt place, the UllOOll we n t
on her way, looking down with her clear, chill
lu s tre of gaze And there was one house, iso
lated from the others by a somewhat extensive
domain of shrubbery and garden, about which
the moonlight istuaae4 to play as if in curiosity.
It was a primitive, old-fasuioued abode; window
shutters and blinds were few. save to the lower
rooms, and the moonbeams penetrated unhin
dered into the chambers, and played fantastic
tricks upon the walls snd Boors. Into one lit
tle room the elfish rays darted on a sudden, as
the moon, rising higher in the heavens, escaped
the le adow of a projecting buttress in the wall;
and the pale light fell full upon a little white
draped bed, wherein lay two young boys One,
the eldest by some years, was asleep, and the
quivering light fell on hie face—a face, every
lineament of which was so full of nervous ener
gy, that even in sleep it did not wear an expres
sion of repose. His brother's pale, delicate
features were, on the contrary, distinguished by
a sort of sculptural calm. He had a high,
straight, thougtful brow, and that sensitive
mouth, which to the most masculine face al
ways adds an almost womanlike sweetness of ex
pression.
The two boys seemed apt illustrations of two
differently eonstituted beings. The one all sd
lion; the other all thought; if the life of the
first might be a picture, that of the second
would be a poem.
The younger brother was awake. His eyes
of dark, deep, liquid haael were thoughtfully
fixed upon the sleeping face beside him, and
now sod again, as with a tender impulse, his
hands gently put aside the clustering brown
curies from the broa4 forehead of the sleeper.—
Presently he drew Wick the whi'e curtain, and
looked out at the quiet, homely scene stretched
in the moonlight— at the foreground `of trees,
leafless, but clothed in a fairy robe of rime, and
(in the far distance strangely clear that night)
the wide wonder of the silent sea. He looked
—his face lit up—glowed with a nameless rap
ture. Unuttered prayers swelled in the young
heart--instinotive hopes—blessed beliefs rose
unbidden to his mind.
And even while he thus peed, and felt, and
pondered the stillness was broken. Vibrat
ing on the frosty air came solemn strains of
manic, played with untaught skill on two or
three old.fashioned instruments. It was an
ancient English air, with a kind of paujovol k al
simplicity in its character, half carol, half hymn,
which harmonised well with the place and time.
As the very voice"( the quaint and
village maw the clear, sweet sounds, bE2 lfid
tig,
like a visible actuality with the wintry stars
dotting the dark sky, with the snow-oovered
roofs, and walls, and trees, and with the pure,
passumleas moonlight shining over them all.
I=l
"Laweaoe, wake! Lactic to the Waits!"
It was some tine before the subdued voles
and tbe patio roue disturbed the sleeper frees
his dreams. When at last he was aroused, he
!darted up suddenly, oryinf aloud
-4.W ho calls? Oh, Willis, is it you?' be ad
ded in a sleepy tome. "What did you wake se
for? 'Tisn't morning!"
"Huai speak low! Don't yen best tba .
®oars?"
There was a pam. The two boys listened in
lime.
"It's aid Giles Basatorth wits iie violimeelko,"
at Issigthisoka is Lassisa, "sad Jan Rawl
with snaked kastboy, sad
“Aig, &eV' cried tioa .yosagts bay, visit a
gamin wars st psis; "sow Wed solo playa
It some osiolonsew, ea—"
,elect Vottrti.
THE WAITS.
A CHRISTMAS STORY
CM=
His wort died away in the intentness of 'his
listening.
"Queer old tune, isn't kr presently said
Laurence, "and queer old figures they look, I'll
be bound, standing in the street, with red noses,
and frozen eye lashes, and muffled in worsted
comforters up to the chin."
He laughed, and then yawned.
"I think I shall /3 to sleep spin. Thee
fellows don't seem inclined to leave off. I shall
be tired of listening before they are of playing,
I expect."
"Keep awalte a little longer, Learemoe, dear,"
pleaded the other. "It's only for one night,
and 'tie so nice for us to hear the. music, and
look out upon the moonlight together."
"Very well, Willie," assented the elder boy,
nipping a fresh yawn in the bud, "anything to
please you, old fellow."
"There—put your arm around me—w," pur
fib
seed Willie, always in the same hushed, whits
peri tone, "and let me lean my head upon
you milder. Now, that is pleasant We
love 41 other, don't we , Laurence!"
An the tender, childish face looked upward
achingly.
"I should think so—slightly! You're a dear
old chap, Will, though you have rather odd,
old-fashioned notions."
He stooped down, and pressed a hearty kiss
on his younger brother's delicate face.
And then the two boys remained silent,
watching the flickering moon-rays, and listening
to the simple music without.
There are some rsoollections, oftentimes trivial
enough in themselves, which yet remain impres
sed upon the mind through a whole life, outlast
ing the memory of events far more striking,
and More recent in their occurrence,
Laurence and William Carr grew' to be men,
went out into the world, and were battlers for
fortune; and one of them, alas: in fighting that
hard fight became hardened in nature, so that
scarce a trait remained of the generous, loving
boy of yore His soul was chilled in the stony
routine of that life which is so scrupulously
practical—one might almost say, material—the
life of a London merchant, devoted, heart and
soul to his calling, and to the ambitions of his
class. his old instincts were almost duad with
in him; his old aspirations, his boyish predilec
tions were crushed out, effaced, as though they
had never been. And yet the cold, hard, money
getting man of the world never lost the vivid
remembrance of that Christmas night, years
and years ago, when his little brother lay with
his head leaning on his shoulder, and they list
ened together to the village Waits.
The brothers were separated now—worse, they
were estranged. The world Dome before them,
and stifled the frank, free lore which each, though
in so widely different a way, bad felt for the
other, ever since the childish days when they had
played together about the old house at Cheriton,
and prayed, night and mrvrning at their mother's
knee.
The two boys were left orphans before William
was twenty years old, and with but little which
to begin life Laureuce's desires hal been all
for a life of change, adventure, and travel; but
instead, he was compelled to take the only op• u
ing which offered to him; and before his father's
death, was e-tablished in the counting hou.e of
a wealthy r•lative. lie soon learned coriteut.
meta with his fate. To pursue an object, be it
fkme, or power, or wealth, seems an inherent iu
stiuct iu man's nature. It fills his energie , , ,I
tistiki his restlessness, and insensibly, but grate
fully, ministers to that vague yearning for do
minion which is the inevitable birthright of eve
ry wan sines the beginning of the world Lau
rence, shut out from worthier aspiration., fouud
his ambition run high—to be ;petit in the sense
by which all those around him understood great
ness He would be rieb He would work his
way to fortune, to position, to influence Keep
ing that goal ever in view, h e would struggle
through every difficulty, force hi; way over Livery
obstacle, but he would gain it at last So he
said to himself, silently, many times, during the
weary time of probation, when obscurity and hard
work appeared to be his allotted portion then and
always. But this dark period did not last long;
it was not likely that it should continue. He
had talents, quickness, vigor, untiring perseve
rance, and unfailing health. His progress was
rapid. He climbed the bill with footsteps swift
as they were sure, and when his father died the
old man felt easy on the score of his eldest sou's
prospects and ultimate success.
But meanwhile William had remaided at home,
pursuipg his self-imposed and dearly-loved stu
dies; reading, thinking, dreaming his hours sway
in perfect happiness.
Prom this content he was rudely aroused to
the dread realities of death and poverty The
pleasant home and the familiar faces which made
it so dear, seemed to slide from him, and left him
standing alone in the bleak world, which was so
new and strange; like one who, reared in au Ar
cadia, is on a sudden thrust into the midst of the
fierce turmoil of a battle.
He sought his brother—but the two natures,
always different, were doubly so now, when a life
of active business had hardened the one, render
ing it more than ever stern and uncompromis
ing, while years of quiet retirement had made
the other yet more refined, more visionary, more
sensitive. & And from Laurence, the younger bro
ther met with no sympathy in all those inner
most feelings of his soul; the closest, domest i
ppoor
tion of himself. There was in William
that inexplicable, intangible somewhat, which
marks one man among his fellows--tho Poet—
even though he be dumb to his life's end
The man of business shrugged his shoulders,
knitted his brows at "William a strange remits."
He did not comprehend—be did not care to do
so, it seemed. The first step towards their en
strangement was taken when William declined,
gently and thankfully, but decisively, a situation
in the same how* where IAIIIIIIIOO worn now high
in trust.
"It is of no use, brother, it 'mkt not be right
to accept it. lam not At for such a reeponsi•
bility. It would be wroug i to my employers to
burden them within my incapacity."
"You will improve. You may leave them to
protect their own interests, believe me."
William shook his head.
And in brief, the-elder brother foiled the deli.
cate.lookinc path immutable in his decision, and
left, him, with words* of impatience and sager on
kis lips.
Sic heart reproached him for it afterwards.—
He was not all encrusted as yet with the ossifi
cation of worldliness. The next day he again
went to his brother's lodgings. Bet William
was no longer there—he bad left London, they
sold him; and it nu cot till he reached his own
home th at be received a letter o? explanation:
"Dana Lavannoit —I thought It beet to go.
Forgive me if you think it wrong,. lam not
able to struggle with the iktree multitude of so
ney-ptters in this dreary London. K old mas
ter, Dr. IC—, has ofiered me a situation as elaa
sileid tutor in his school. I accepted it. ft
is the best thing I see tib do. So formal. Ever
Yours. '
"And my brother will be the paltry usher in
a emmtry oohed!" muttered Imurenee, as be
washed the Letter is his hand. IdGone, too, vide.
out consulting me, his eider, his natural advisee'.
It is badly dose."
And so the eland between the brothars grew
deck" sad papa l& they onedialelly ionw
pooled; but each enseesermg Wee, ineirld or
ERIE, SITURDA V MORNING, FEBRUARY 10,1855.
$1 56 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE.
Uri
drawing them wearer together, seamed only to
widen the girt Thy did not understand one
another. Besides, Laurence was beooming a rick
man, bad become partner in the house where
once he was a clerk; while William still reintin
ed poor and observe, with no prospect of his eir
ournatamees improving. And when the brash
between two brothers, or friends awe eiista, dif
ference of worldly position fatally, icily increases
it
Laurenee married brilliantly, choosing his wife
from a noble but impoverished family, who ware
glad enough to ally their aristocratic poverty
with his wealth, merchant and plebiau though
he was. It was while on his wedding tour, with
his handsome but somewhat passe( bride, that be
received a letter from his brother, forw.lrded to
him from London.
William—qty brother," be remarked,
explanktorily, as he opened it; "in answer I p re.
some, to the announcement of my marriage."
The frigidly high-bred lady responded by a
slight bead of her long neck, and busied herself
wish her °hamlets and maim, while her bus
band perused the letter. When he had finished,
he folded it carefully, and placed it in his pock
et, then turned in silent*: to his breakfast Ws
wife never noticed any peculiarity in his man
ner, she was one of those by whom it is seldom
considered good toe to be observant of other peo
ple's emotions, even a husband's. Lady Henriet
ta Carr was scrupulous is her attention to shah
points of etiquette. One more loving than she
was, might possibly have divined how much was
concealed under the pale facts, the bent brow, and
the remarkably quiet voice of Laurence Carr that
morning. One more tender might have drawn
the secret disturbance forth, and pleaded the
eau* of the absent. offender, instead of leering
the wrath to ferment hiddenly in the stern assn's
breast.
"I will never forgive him—never, never! I *ill
never look on his face again I will never give
him help—w•. are strangers from this hour. Let
him travel his own road—and starve "
These bard, terrible wonb , the brother paseien
&rely uttered, as he trod the room to and fro,
whew he wad alone, and after again reading the
letter.
"DEAR BROTHER LAURENCE", it ran)—"Your
letter, with its brief announcement of your mar
riage, gave me great pleasure, not only for the
Rake of its intelligence, but becau..., of the
manner in which you aouveyed it to me l'er
hops, brother, it is an equal reproach to both of
us, that the cordiality was strange as well as
pleasant. Let us be friends again, in heart as
in name; we were so once—but it is a long while
ago. In our new happiness we may surely drown
all put citreous. For [am also married—not
to a peer's daughter; no, Laurence, with you
alone will rest all the brilliancies and grandeur
of life; I only ask fora little quiet—l am easily
content. My wife y u may remember; we all
knew her when we were boys at school—Mary
Elliott, who, though hit father was a village
tradesman, has had the education, and innately
the refiueinent of any lady in the land.
r
have lovedher, and she me, for six years. 81:113
is an orphan, too, and has lesen a gove.rue4i all
that time. We are rich enough to commence
house-keeping. th nigh on a modest .rule We
ar' very happy; I pray that you may be the ilitne
with my n^w sister, to whom 1 beg to offer my
affectirmate reaard". Msry also joint; up in the
;:iale to yilarocli, my dear trailer And behove
me ever yours, faithfully, °Wiu.IAM etata.•'
"The daughter a u , ,uutry ..hop•keeper and
the daughter of ill. E. , 1 Tvuford to call each
oft', r sister,: And il is done thin lie will
repeat it; lie mu-t he shall He is a di-zrace,
a shame to me. lie might have au
he might have helped my plans But now--to
marry aux. -
Such were some of Liurcuee's disjointed ex
clamation", cut he tore the letter in pieces, and
flung thfrm into the fire Then he joined his
bride the ()cur es of the day he informed her
that his brother had irremediably offended him,
and that he would never speak to him or see him
more. Lady Henrietta elevated her handsome
eyebrows in a momentary amazement, then res
tored her features to their habitual ezpresaionle.ss
composure, and, without any remark, suffered
her husband to turn 'the conversation
Time passed ou 'file wealth of Laurance
Carr mereased yearly; his name grew glorious in
the ars of business men. tits house was a pal
ace: his wife was jewelled like a queen fie
himself still burrowed daily in dusty city hole'',
whence all his riches seemed to spring; and eve
ry year he became harder and more impassible,
and more devoted to the one aim arid cud of, his
life—mone y-getting.
It was his sole ambition now—he had no
11
There hope, no joy in anythiu beyond. The was
no happiness in his gorgeA home, no tender
ness in his majestic and a tocratic wife. No
one who looked on him would have imagined
that he felt the want of love; that there was
any remnant of generous, warm-hearted boy's
nature till lingering in the old grim merchant
—old before his time, bat hard, cold, and pierc
ing as a steel poignard yet But it was sb
There were moments when his thoughts wander
ed at their own will—when he reuses's/A.-rel.--
The face of his mother shone on him sometimes;
and then would mule a flash of memory--44 the
old childish feelings of those days.
And his two children. The boy he ()fumed
pictured to himself as born to continue the
greatness of his facnily--as enjoying, like a
prince, the wealth and hinny he had labored to
acquire. And the fair, gent:e girl, whose pro
gress to womanhood he had followed in his tbo't;
whose birth softened his harsh heart to abscilute
tenderness. She it was who would cling to him
loveingiy in after years—whose soft lips *mid
press epos the wrinkles of his worn thoe--whose
gentle voice would always have the po wer
win him out of his harder ,
sterner sel f. If ei
ther of his children had lived, Laurence Carr
might have been a different man; but both these
blessings which he had prayed for—dreamed of
as the solace and delight of his old age, were
only granted to him for a brief space, sad then
—left his sight for ever.
The blow rent his heart sorely. It was so
deep a grid' even, that at first he forgot the
check to his.labition it involved. No 5011 of
his would carry his name into future ages—no
descendants of his were destined to make Mu
trots the plebeian family he had first raised from
obscurity. When this remembrance came, it
added to his idictioa a something that. was
sold, stony, and almost defiant. Bereaved love
mourns, but blighted ambition erects its head in
very impotence of pride against the band that
chastises. He burred himself anew in his grim
trial* they seemed the be-all and end-a 4 of
• existence now. He said to himself that it
was enough; he would make it enough.
Italy spite of all his inward pr. aestation,i4.lle
looka enviously, and sometimes with a feeling
.less selfish than envy, at the happy pd . trollto of
blooming children. ae would have given well
nigh all his hard-won wealth for one such boon
as sou so freely granted to many. Against his
will he often' found himself inning thus, sorrow
hilly, yearningly. He would awake himself
with amen reiblve; the one half of his "'Stare
would shenkinto Wet / while the other !Coked
on it with a amidotrie aid of pity.
l i
Yet mob sad again same these softensre
varies'. It War in the Oda, of one of t in
the twilight of a dreety %ember mai Aug
be was roused by receiving a letter fr Wit.
..
It was the fast 'duets many tears, during
'With the stern eider became tuba suspended all
intercourse, and had never sought to know what
had become of the other. lie had known some
what, however, for William had come to Lon
don, and had commetteed the new life of author
ship, and Laurence had occasional met his name
in pluming periodicals. But direct communiea-
Gott between the two had altogether ceased He
frowned as he recognised the hand.
Perhaps, had this letter 011118 at any other
time, he might have returned it unopened.—
Oh, men! ye who pray, pray for your fellow
men whine hearts fare hitrdeued. Oh, angles!
plead for them, strive for them; fur verily if
there be a place in all his works where God does
not dwell, and where no saving spark of divini
ty can linger, it must be in the sterile heart of a
wild hardened man.
Laurence frowned; but ho tare the letteropeu,
so soon as the servant had left the room, and he
read:—
"I had almost sworn never to address you
again, after that last letter you sent. In that
you bade me never to trouble you more; you
told me that you would neither listen to me or
assist me, however sore my strait might be. I
forgot you were my brother when I read those
words; the devil rose within me, and I had ut
tered—what hereafter it might have withered
me think of, only my wife name up to me, and
looked in my face, and, God bless her, while her
eyes rested on me, I could not speak, nor even
think of what was hissing at my heart. I tell
you this that you may judge what it costs me
to write to you now. "f might starve," you
said. Laurence Carr, Mom then I have learned
what starvation is like—l have travelled very
near its utmost brink; it is a word the meaning
of I know. That would not drag me one quar
ter inch towards your threshold; its worst agony
is not within a twentieth part of that wkihtb
even the thought of addressing you for help
would have cost me. But that anguish now is
swallowed in a greater I ask your help—l en
treat you, I beseech you to assist me Lau
rence, we are brothers, the children of one—l-tall
er; do not deny me Give to me as you would
to a beggar—fling me some money into the
street. I care nut how, so you Is , not deaf to
my cry—only be prompt, for death is pitile4s
"Brother! God looks on you as yon hearken
to we. My child dying for leant
I wait. "WILLIAM CARA
Linrenee roso from
chair, And tra
versed the luxuri ,u, ehatilher wherein he had
set, stately awl ..litary fie opened the door—
there he paus.sl Then, as if with new re•iolu
ti.e), he .ti pp..l forth iuto the ball.
In a remote corner, which even the brilliant
lamp fsil,•d to cl• rly illumine , br digunguisbed
1 trill, thin figure—a palk, Filched fore, with
grey hair falling tangle , ' over the brtrail brow
Did Laurence g,,e then the vigion of a brigbt
haired child, wli.. slept on hi , breast out; Chriit-
Mst4 night loug intek!
liowbei., ht. retreated tut, tle• ro.itn before
he was ree •‘••••ti by hi, brother:
and it was by a .4ervAut that he sent ki William
a small but heavy p.ieket tie eagerly seized
it, with a kind of stu•ithered ,:ry, alutost Itae
sob, and the next t,.11 •t, lue hr .ther••
house.
The child arts -aced, and titcn William h a d
time to think on the sacrifiee he had made to
MUM It Iris proud heart Yrisa4 torn at the re
membranee that he had be. ti a waitaug pctattouer
in the hall of his brother's housc, and had beoit
relieved at the hands of his brother's lackey
Ile could not know that Laurence. hard mln as
he was, had tried to face him, but eoutd not;
that he had watched him as he dart4.l away
through the street; that he had thought of bun
often since, with something almost apprachiug
tenderness.
lle did not know this, so he strove au I toiled
with desperate energy, till he could give back
his brother's gold, and then returned it with a
brief acknowledgment. He added—"lt is be-t
for us both to forget our humiliation, for you
degraded both in me: Let ns be straingera
again."
The returned money found Laurence Carr a
ruined man. Sadden political troubles abroad,
with their inevitable consequences—two or
three mistakes iu home commercial policy—
had wrought this great change, and he was
bankrupt A. day—two or three hours is that
day—saw the fall, saw the ruin in its climax.
The merchant prince was worse than penniless;
for there were large debts which all his vast pos
sessions, all his accumulated wealth, would fail
to satisfy. His wife, naturally incensed at his
misfortunes, betook herself and her liberal joint
ure to the parental roof, and he remained alone
to combat with ruin.
Then came oat the finer part of his character.
With courage he encountered the host of difficul
ties that pressed crushingly upon him. With
scrupulous (some people called it Quixotic) *lntel
rity he - grave up all he had, and quitly and Pimp
ly announced his intention of paying off the re
eiclue of his debt to the uttermost farthing, if he
lived. Then with proud, silent bravery he ac
cepted a clerkship in some brother merchants of
fice, took a humble lodging, and began again the
life he had commenced in his early youth.
The world—even the world of business and
money-getting—is not so wholly bad as we read
of in novels. Laurence received many offers of
ass i s t a ami, and one or two good hearts persisted
for a long time in following him with their active
friendship. But he was not great enough to feel
gratitude, or even to thoroughly appreciate their
=. His pride was but the pride of a strong,
enlisted man. He disdained sympathy,
and sullenly repulsed all proffered generosity.
The wheel of fortune had made a complete rev°.
lution. While depressing one brother, she ele
vated the other William was growing into that
rare avis, a flourishing author. He was suffi
ciently far from being wealthy, certainly, but he
was at an equally safe distant* from want. And
now—oh, beware! ye who hastily trrite resent
ment—he felt as though he would gladly return
to his old poverty, if be could only recall the few
lines he had seat awhile since to his now ruined
brother.
It was long before he dared to a_ppreaoh him
with attempts stleeoneiliation. „lie felt keenly,
with anguish, the fresh bitterness he had himself
added to the former estrangement. If desperate
then, it was surely hopeless now. Yet he tried.
He wrote again and again, and his letters were
returned with their seals unbroken. He laid in
wait often, and essayed to speak to him—to grasp
his hand. He was coldly thrust aside, without
a word, without a look. He always denied ad
mittance at the door, when time after time he
sought the poor. abode where the former minion
airs had his shelter.
One less tender, less pagentthan William had
been eifeetually repulsed with half the rebuffs he
meet with. But his exceed* love and yearn
ing over Lie brother besides the emmoiousues of
havieg outraged that brother's pride, now that
he was fallen from his high estate, smote him
with an intense, sharp remorse. Only a man
0111 wholly sympathisein a man's pride. William's
own heart, different as it was, told him bow
groat was the barrier he had let between them.
At length William and his wife beamed
themselves of another plan. Their child, the
that IAUIVII6I6 assistant* bad saved frost
&Wi s
was sow grew. into a fair damsel,
• yews. She was like her falba.,
"i` • kink and brown ova, sash as be had.
•es Art tarn As. frees ," mid tie WA.
iiiiiinal=l
er and mother, u with Atoning eyes they
wstehad her on her way. She led her little
brother by the bawl, and - there two presented
themselves before Laurence, as he sat reading in
the quiet sunshine of a Sabbath afternoon.
"We an Willie and Alice,'; said the girl,
timidly, looking in his face, -7--)
He knew them at once, though his eyes had
never rested on them before. Alice was his
mother's name, and his mother's face see
bent on him now, longingly, yearnkngly. W .
Liam and his wife were right—be *ld not
her from him
"Uncle, won't yon look at us?" said the plead
ing voioe again; "won't you speak to us---Ina
and little Willie?"
"Papa's own little Willie," chimed in the
boy inopportunely.
"Gu home to your father," said Laurence in
a harsh, constrained voice; "I have nothing to
say to you. Go home. Ido not wish," he ad
ded in a softer tone "to be unkind to you, but
—but--you mast luive me."
The girl stisxl drooping and tearful; the little
boy looked up at him with wondering eyes
Ue,
was fain to eites.pe from them, and so passed
from the room
after that William grew hopeless. He had
exhausted his stock of expedients; all his Pa
tience, endurance seemed in vain lie despair
ed of ever softening the obdurate heart.
Time passed on, and Laurence was untroubled
by his brother His persevering industry was
working its own way, too, and he was already
clear of the barren poverty he had at first ex.
perienced after his ruin Each succeeding year
found him advancing to ease again, 'if not to
affluence; and he was stern, cold, and unbending
as ever.
Another Cluiettnaside drew near—forty five
years after that Christmas when the moon ~bone
ou the little white bed at Cheriton. It was
Christmas eve, and Launce had been detained
late in the city, balantefitg some completed as
It was passed midnight as he wended
his way homeward. It was a frosty night, and
moonlight, and the suburban streets were quiet
and slumberous; Laurence's footsteps echoing on
the pavement, a lone breaking the stillness
Somehow without his own will almost in spite
of it, indeed, his thoughts -turned back to old
times, and there arose before him a vision of
the quaint house in the country, where histboy
-lo,sl had been passed; the large rambling garden,
the big mulberry trees, and the wood near the
village where he and Willie had used to gather
nuts He and Williel—there he frowned, and
sternly refused to dwell on the retrospection.—
Ile walked quickly on, with lips sturdily com
pressed and brows knitted, resolved to shut his
mind on all softening influences; but he could
not—the thoughts came again, and would nut
be repulsed lie lifted his eyes to the sky, and
the inyre , 4l stars were shining down on him
with a kind of smile as that of long ago
He yould not sleep that night. He lay very
quiet, but with a world of busy thoughts~ flut
tering About the heart, striving for entrance.—
The m•,ouliglit streamed in through a crack in
the blind, and lit up the dreary, comfortless
rood. Lrureuce closed his eyes suddenly
The inooubeatus brought a rewemberance with
them thai he would not welcome
There con' ;L ‘ouu.l of music outside in the
frosty p6tre,•l
The Watts Anti they played the old, oLd
tuu, tw. o.,ys had listened to years age at
l'hyrium
Very strangely it sounded on Laurence's ears
~ f al: because it seemed so familiar
With a tiiyAlen )1.1%, irresistible power the swt•eq
solemu strain smote on his closed heart, xud
his-tore he recognised it he had yielded to
its power, and, wondering the while, felt the
hot tears bubbling thickly to his eyes
And then came thronging the recollections of
the olden days—vanished the intervening years
like an obscuring smoke, leaving clear and vivid
the memory of the happy, Innocent time, w hen
he was a boy, and Willi• was his dear broth(r
The pleasant home, the kind father, and—gen
tlea of ail—the mother who had been
wont every night to hang over her boys in their
little white 6,51, and huiteringly lobs them cre
they went to sleep. How plainly he remenali-r
-ed all The I: fee with its gulden curly;
he opene•t his ye> almost expceting to see it
on the pillow beside him. No. the moonlight
uuly f II Feu his own thin, wrinkled hand, wont
and shrivelled with the cares of well nigh sixty
year•
Prayerful tb,ughts, long strange to him,
alas: came Instinctively to his mind, and he
heard, iuw and -oft, but clear, and blending with
the music to the street, the voice of his mother,
sounding a., of old when she rend to her little
sons from tht large Book on Ler knee. lie
heard solemn, slow, and sweet, the Divine words
—ode,./ this emrantan,/at. pit l I. oe. trdit you,
that you /um 0,0 ow,ther."
He saw the Flo ar mother's eyes as they rested
on her boys with such an infinite yearning ten
derness in th,•ir depths Ile could tell now,
what that earner ineaut. lie enuld guoss,
too, something of wh it were her thoughts, when
often in their childish quarrels she would draw
little Willie close to her side, and then pas' her
arm round tho strong, acuve, vigorous Laurence,
whispering, "Don't be harsh with Willie; take
oars of Willie. Love each other always, my boys
—my darlings "
Tile waits ceased—the au was silent—but
there was music still in the heart of Laurence
Carr.
Christmas Day at Cheriton was drawing to its
close. The evening bells were riuging---the stars
shone in the dark ooloriess sky. - The murmur
of the waves beating on the shore came ever and
snon—a quiet sound and happy.
Only two days before, William OW had come
to live at Cberiton in the old house. It was no
thiag altered; there were the same many-paned
windows, quaint earners, and gabled ends; the
same surrounding domain of garden, with the
grove of,trees beyond, behind which the icy moon
was riming even now.
At the bay window of the oak-pannelled par
kg sat William and his wife, with their two ohil
dren, watching the pale light trembling between
the branches of the glormy firs. The firelight
lashed and glowed within the room, lighting up
the pictures 3n the walls, the books, and prints,
and drawings, scattered on the table, and grace
ful groups of winter flowers lavishly disposed, as
women love to have them—every where. Alice
rested beside her father—his hand wandered
among her bright curls; but he was looking to
wards the fir grove, and his thoughts had travel
ed book many, many years. His wife's eyes were
fixed on his face; she oould read the language of
that sad wistful look; she knew bow eloquently
everything he ea* spoke to his heart of the old
happy childish duty 'if-L.6314er, pathetie memories
that she else loved so dearly for his sobs. The
children prattled gaily for eons tine, bat at
length their voicesceased; they were subdued into
iitess by the unwonted gravity of their father.
Never had they sstn him so sorrowful, and they
marvelled in their innocent Jinni; for be wig
happy, they knew, at coming back t*Cheritou
—to his old bone. AU the diernoos be bad
beta pointing out to then his favorite hatuno--
his garden, his tree with the seal mike it, and
tie little room where he used to sleep. He had
been so nal* and glad this. Whateavid =sits
papa lack grieved sae •
Awed by the apiary, they /pen their good
night kiss with added Madernins, but sandy—
I F. SLOW, EDITOR.
NUMDER 39. .
and eileutly followed their mother from tile room.
But she returne.l mul mule
softly holland the chair wherein her husband bad,
etill lookiug t. , rth with that pr..
gretful look. Even wheu tee felt her arm resat
hie neck he did ti , t tutu But she spoke sottly.
"beerest, / 80 , e. sill fora& It will
be made right 4, till,. .1:1% Perhaps before asedfrr
Chrininiok God h rskr to se. Ike
will not dotty thtt out fili—King yttsi so 81111143, yo
pray for."
And William toldeot 6, r Louis heart, ausismul
ed. Mary's voice u. t. r ~o ko‘ied in his am beC•
to create prase, or to add to ,•ontmat •Vrimosbe
left him again, the moonlight f.,11 Isis bee,
and showed it calm, hopeful, and serest..
There mime a Ituasy treed au the stow Maps,
leading ti the entrattee-.lour, aud theta the vest
bell mug startlingly through the quiet hooey.
rose, and himself went to meet the is
truder
Fairly, purvi) gksmud thi umwmalialit
to at the wmti ,, w; warm anti geuerves glowed
the tire, reveallne t t pioaAaot homelike aspect
of the room.
Bo William threw back xnsy Emir from Joss
brows —a boyisti bubo . (;. , iitiwie4 ever sines Me
time ofeltleu curk—au.l wrut tbeeuier Poor
unbarred and op-tied it
A gush of o.ltta,, sivarp sir —tit • .. ound o.
ti
sea, like a fAr-,,1T 01,AL,t —.1,, w
on t h e Nton.• p trc:„ sud -sad dark
figufr 4tstsji sir t rw, ht.+ was what
Willtaat It•It 111.1 tlysr.l, sod -Lox ....iv first nu-
The I,tiok is ILLiu J hand Tres
etretehed toward. htui, turf uttered rally
nue ward---
"Brother
pyfur him; thou, hke
Joeeph ~f ~Id. h f.•l, hi- u, , A:k, end wept.'
Arid at tit.. Lint N tk( r ehildres hid
An oftou enter fr .in lii, Ow two grey -
inared tueu C;irt-si WA , iri &hieing Jo
their face*
TASTE:. Di FTEIt —ltt a if•our.. qa what he
b a p s seen a;,r, tad, 'Wen 1,-1; Phlll-p- oink:ryes:—
"In Italy, you will - a e Luau breaking lap kin
land with two tou- rut 1 r ht :s tree TUC to
plow, 1111111.• scan. a 'tit the hair
on , In "twi n ..., 1 tempt. and Uar, icu , if you
hire a rata a•. -,w W... Hi, not briag a
hors.: along 11 ~D . . or hid f a th er
befor , : bun hi. !tut, ~t tne saw ow
the ground. and .0 h br,a4t, atasl 'e
king the w,..NYi in hi.- laud, r at, agsitkst, the MI
It a fI, • VI :1 city filled
with tie triatttroi ;ri..r.• a. not a single
augur, and if 3 ,-irp , tit..r. would b.,re a hole, he
does it with a re , .?. 1.,1 rtu- rtaiultet rot
f r o m tLc wauc •.; tudoscr, Aaparaty
though: Th. r, TIC 140 toward
They toil etrly att.i Ity , n, woutou, anti chil
dren, with an an itotry-th;st hibor-saring
Yankees In "tome urinvipwily used
for fuel, and ~ou wra M . !a •tring of tweity
hringtug :tux sack. of it upon. their
backs, wh, u an. asuie e .old draw ail in a cart.
But the chare.Jat vender never had a cart, and
aao kcepi his mules and feetli , theta. This is
from no want id , n.tustrs bat there is want of
col:aped - I iou
A Yaukte rlw,ti l‘wig, haggard sod oorsoos
sq it fit• ,•11, d.tßar With es MOW)"
taro.) tharag, atta . a .r • ) .broad, we are
surprz-.•d t wad . •,! tava evueti to
be almighty t 1 au.; • avtl.., to du a )06
for fifty tra:l i,P .a.,41..,y A, at to,r a do!
lac, and will *5 •i .1 by( 13ut oat.
~f t bC latcaroui •,; •. tv'o• .1. tt+ earned
ter.. cut, itni tti ki, \s,ti work 110 mare
taat d if r L . i ill r iarges..,utu
Lie ha, t'arli • •I.A) , and wants
nn m.iro r! , n,•f"r making
uj o u,..y, c ut .t 1,1, %Li E . ) Lltiy IlitrleS
shairay
TIT): _ou r i 1 th e
sub tsik.u.• Ito I.,an .1. ilflFil giro. the
_ Uri, I .6 Caul)
- .1. (j.. 1
ILL! Me
/ 1 ,, harbor -
lur,u,z, the entire
1 I/W.,*
MEE
unp “A' I I
atteliti..ll• Alto ,„
1. VS'
fn.u, ~ ' L-1/lu_
Ins \ t..lti« tiq , t)
ger
SlAulr•ty Att. - . he w.a,s
h , ult. r eiu: hts wife re
eetve anti ioviugtt i :urn Snyder',
ktse 1,04,,ru n. ;u3..est himself
npou the eihtltt iti
" 11, ~,KAtilu.
all der t.
ter death
1, • I
:.,r 44) toetter as
m ! .wog !avid!'
Overboard ur 1 .it :. wit- beeatwo frau
allu ttleity, . ,• 41, Wit Kat ,ttxyed
by the Lfe, •• e•r lumen. y tai
agonizingly eul: •i r • , t.,‘Cur.tie load(
but bo li rge aphipruu„w•1 110W3Ver
iug eouat.iut•y--tu , I Atio•ttou--the spirit of
deY , ,t,erot) au,l L., Nei:wed anilooki
.1.1e..11..d:ti it a ii • - ,• 'Ave the rutlidd
water. • or • :N.A.& 'bricked for
hllll st..; 1111. N • , it ,s
I=l
• , I am now . 0 .%- r ,ery t> vet, if you
der Su) , l,.r • to 4, tone twain; sad
if YZltt 11 , more i f* , %os roe so good
and better 4.4 ‘IL ' I bin) H wr, vy deo Ico
rites baelt mv.-it 1 Le , , ler taint dailur,
him to ,ret ta.• 1,,r iii-law Mit weib
wife -
A wild. r) e.eati....l the soma*.
She pv11121,1 wit it) utiou her tended knee,
when ?dimly frt,in bent-stn th- ovirtli4 of the &rat
emerged the halltro4, n 1)1/Lehman lie had ma
naged to gain the cover of the guards without
being discovered, and there .upported himself
above the water by the timbers. It is needles*,
perhaps, to .ay, that .4inee then Katriae has been
a meet devoted wit:, and h , , , ids the tailor is Utter
detestation."
THINK FOR YOUStilild —Respect no seetrise
on account of its age or the numbers who beitemi
in it. The precept of the apostle, "Prove all
things, hold fast that which is good," is now be
ginning to be understood, respected and obeyed
Reject no dootrine because it is as yet new, sod
its teachers have their fame yet to acquire; or
because it has tot the influence of numbers to
support it. A man should baok upon the
wrongs, falsehoods, i,o.t the past, AB be
looks upon the follies nii.l —wakes of his own
ehildkood and youth rb..% not to be never
ed or repeated. The pa:t uas lu. lemons; but it
teaches us, for the tri• pax:, what to airtid'
Water- I 'err Jossrom/
lir A letter fr , a, I,.•cidon to the New York
Tribune, says that a:1 the gallant Aeon, who at
the Alma and at Itaiak lava rushed intodemit with
readiness, arc now »celting a potent foe that ra
ms to the emutorte of England. They wish to
sell their couicuisoiqns, or to reties on half pay,
became they cannot lvie is rags,apon half retinue,
unprotected Mainat the drenching twin is Si*
wind of the camp. IN true that they Whys
all those intolerable hardships ought halt hum
obviated by more capacity in the Co
Chief, and more order in his staff. Thy ham
Jest their raistfidric.ti 4- esteem of the opera.
tines, and feelthst their health and *air Nam or.
is c opim
maritiosd to the imbecility of tie.
semis. Still, the nation will *sr wish
ocrwarthos for deserting the post of • ."
4 •,:de • "
CC
i +4
- - - :x - 4 3 t L -
kii.' , , w,• kittlir
. .1 . k p•-• 11
w.1r.1 .litveringly