- - . -,•,;,... ~ ' ::--.-,, . '::•'.,,--- . , . , .. ... ~... . . ~ ~.., •. , . • . , - , . - . .• _ .. , 1 , .. , • . , ~ . .. , . • . . . . . .237 ROBERT WEITZ! I,IIIDDLETO.II.I HE GAA Al " With sweetist flowers enrich'd. From various gardens culi'd with care." PROM THE PHILADELPHIA SATURDAY CHRONICLE. The Hour of Prayer. DV MaB. LYDIA JANE PEI/ELDON 'Tis now the hour of prayer, The world is still and calm; And all the trembling air, Seems wing'd with liquid balm. From valley, plain, or hill, No busy voices come; The flocks and herds lie still, Tho labourer is at home. Tho moon in holy light Walks down the spangled sky; And leave; all dewy bright, To stealing breezes sigh. Tho birds who all the day Made field and forest ring; Now sleep upon the spray With head beneath the wing. E'en childhood's voice of joy Is bound in deep control; And blissful dreams employ The light and sinless soul. No sound is on the air • To lead the mind astray; In this calm hour of pray'r, How sweet it is to pray. In this pale, holy hour In mercy's garb array'd TD see the love and power Of Deity display'd. To kneel upon the ground, Beneath the arch He spenn'd; While wide extend around Works of His perfect hand., No rankling passions now Exert their dark control; The moon shines on the brow, And peace is in the soul. No weight is on the mind, In this sweet hour of pray'r The world is loft behind With all its chain of care. How blessed now to kneel Humbly upon the sod; To look to heaven and fool Communion with The God. To feel the spirit melt With love's redeeming ray; From Him who often knelt In night's calm hour to pray. To feel the spirit of tho Grave With soft mysterious sway, Shed o'er the soul that peace 'Which nought can take away. Ch doubly sweet it were With such communion bloat; At this sweet hour of pray'r To pass to endless rest: •IMrr7MTER7=T• 0 a 'V . T.bo Gun-Smith of Orleans, • '..: 2 1019. THE DEAD WO)TAN'S SECRET. ~ EX NEB. ELIZA BREEIDAIC. OILLPTER ONS. • In •an;lkitable street in Paris, occupying the third fioar of a respectable house, lived the hero and heroine of the present tale, Cophiso and Richard Morin. They were orphans, brother and sister, Rich ard was by some years tho elder, Cophiso having just attained her nineteenth year. Their mother, on her dying bed, bequeathed the sister to tho brother's care, With an earnestness that long loft its impression on the heart of Richard; and that ho faithfully adhered to his mother's appeal for protection for her daughter, will bo seen in the events which follow, After his mother's death, (his father having died while ho was yet an infant,) Richard found a situation for his sister with a respectable millin er and dress-maker, with whom she remained until she had learned the business in all its branches. Richard then took the apartments „where himself.tind Cophiso now resided, she at- T. tending to their -little household arrangements, .and doing needle-work fur the store of Madame Dumas, while he was engaged as gunsmith by a master whom he had served for eight years, and who thought highly of him, both as a man and a workman. ••••Indes?‘.l ,tho two orphans possessed among their friends and neighbors high characters for virtue, honesty, and industry. Cophiso soya work in the principal room of their little domicil, every thing around her bespeak ing neatness and order. A small work-table stood at her side, on which lay all the implements requi site for her occupation. The manufacture of some dresses was to lie completedby the following day. There was a restless anxiety in the hurried manner of drawing forth her needle, to the detn. moot of the thread, which broke at every stitch or two. The clock struck the hour of three, and ,as the last-stroke reverberated through the apart ment she throw dOwn her work, rose hastily from her seat, and listened as if to - catch the sound of a step. 4 , Some ono ascends the stairs! it's Edwird, perhaps!" A pause of a second, and tho footsteps passed on to the floor above. With the same air of unquietness, she resumed her work, soliloquize ing as she from time to time raised her eyes from her employment to wipe away a tear. "Two whole days and I have not seen him! two days! What an eget 'Tis the first time he Imo ever staid away so long; he will not come to-dav; ho knows '(is near the hour my brother comes to dinner. I long to see him to talk over our love, and the prospect of our marriage, and to learn when ho will inform my dear Richard of his Intentions. His employment surely could not have detained him so long; ho has been from home all night too, for I hive watched his window op posite, and saw no light shine from it as usual. What, can have happened? If ho hid not so strongly prohibited my avowing our love to Rich , ard, I would entreat my brother to seek him out. '-Oh why should this secrecy exist? this conceal ment of our affection; surely he would not opposd the bestowal of my hand where I bad already given my heart! I will tell Edward, 4hen next wo meet, of my firm determination infiaving no longer any concealment from ono who has been-- is so kind to mc." Appearing bettor satisfied with- herself after forming the above resolution, she resumed her almost forgotten work, which she had suffered to lie untouched upon her lap, when n knock at the door started her once more from her occupation. A hurried "come in," and the door opened, not to give admittance to the person Cephise half anticipated seeing, but to Madam Dumas. "AU!" said the Madam, a at work, eh, Ccphiso? I always find you with your needle in your hand. Your brother at his employment too, I suppose? Well, how do you do, my dear?" a Quite well, thank you madam; I'm not Into with 'my work, em I? I think this dress was pro mised by to-morrow." alt was," replied madam. " You are never behind your time, my good girl. 'Tie not to hasten your completion of this dress which brought me here; I am more anxious about the two wed ding dresses." a They are already cut, and will be finished at the appointed time," said Cephiso. a Those dresses," continued Madam, a must change their destination. I have a hurried order from a family of distintion, for a wedding suit. Will you, then, my good Cephise, for the credit of my establishment, sacrifice ono night's rest to complete this order?" a Willingly, madam. Have you the measure?" "Exactly like those you have, begun, only a little shorter, as the lady has a well-turned ankle." I shall be particular, madam." a The bride is from Orleans; her mother a ha.. renew, and immensely rich," said the loquacious madam. .4 From Orleans, did you say?" end Cephise thought for an instant; "I once knew—but 'tie some time since—a rich baroness who resided in that part of the country; she had a daughter then about twelve years of ago. Ah, I shall never forget them. I wonder if this is the same baroness; do you know the name, madam," "Oh yes," said madam, taking a eard from her pocket, and reading the superscription, " The Ba roness Decourcy." •4 'Tis she, 'tie she," exclaimed Cephise in an ecstasy of delight; .. and her daughter's name is Leonie." How came you to tho knowledge of persons in such high rank'!" inquired madam. .s ll' tell you all about it, madam," and Cephiso began her simple tale: "After leaving your employment, my brother and I had been about two years at our little house keeping, when he was seized with an illness which threatened his life. Alas, I tremble to think of the result. We were orphans, without money or, friends richer than ourselves. My tears were of no avail; they offered no relief. I knew not what to do, when an old and charitable neighbor who assisted me in the care of my brother, told me that a lady travelling with her daughter, to whom she had recommended me, desired me to wait upon her at the hotel. That day my brother was worse. I • felt the necessity there was for exertion part, and summoning fortitude, I hastened•to the hotel. They showed me many handsome dresses, and explained what they wished done.. I-tried to listen to their orders without betraying my emo tion. I thought of my poor dying brother, and in spite of my eftbrts to repress them, tears rushed to my eyes. The lady looked astonished, and kindly inquired the cause of my anxiety. I told her all. She ordered her carriage, and bidding me enter it with her, drove to the humble habita tion of my poor suffering brother! She endeavor ed to cheer and encourage the invalid, and, at her departure, left us gold—yes, gold, to supply the many wants of my poor brother. Ho at length recovered, and 'tis to that angel of goodness I owe all my presort happiness, the Baroness Decour cy, she whom I shall now work for with so much pleasure. Oh take me with you when you go with the dresses, will you, dear madam Dumas'!" "Surely, surely, if you wish it," said madam. , r I have promised the dress by twelve o'clock to morrow; you shall accompany me then." At this moment voices wore heard outside the door, as if in warm discussion. Cephise's heart beat as she listened in fearful expectation of hearing /its voice. Her anxiety was quickly re.. lioved when she hoard the well-known tones of her brother's voice, speaking to a fellow-workman and companion of his, Madam Dumas, with a kind "good morning," took her departure as Richard entered and passed her with a polite salutation. He threw himself into a chair, his countenance appeared flush. Cephise took his hand, and kindly inquired what had disturbed him. , g Nothing, nothing, dearest sister; seo, I have brought you a trifle; 'tis your birth•day;" and taking from his bosom a small casket, displayed to her view a necklace and bracelets. " Des r Richard," said Cephise, "you will quite spoil me. If I should over got a husband he wouldnever be so indulgent as you are." Richard's brow lowered; "do you think of mar riage, Cephisel Are wo not happy as we are!" "Yes,' faltered Cephise, "very happy." a Toll me, Cephise, will you promise never to leave mo—never to marry, if I take a vow of coli bacy7 You shall be mistress of our little domicil, ' the purse, and myself." "And would you, dear Richard, be content to devote your life to your sister 7" dt Hear me, Cephise. I am not the disinterested bro , her you think me; there is much of selfishness in my affection. 'Tie my happiness I fear to lose, in losing you. It is now nine years since our mother died; you were then scarcely more than a child. Her dying words were, Be a father to your infant sister.' The week after she died, I set to work with the hope of gaining sufficient to educate and provide pill with a marriage portion. I laid by something from week to week. In a few years van grew too pretty to remain longer at the milliner's. I procured a home, and here we have lived happy in each other's love, and in you and. this little home is comprised alt I hold deer. on earth; judge, then, the vacuum your absence would create." ' • Poor Cephise checked a rising sigh as she thought of EdWard. u But if a good and honor able man, dear Richard. loved me, would you then object to my rnarryingl" and she listened for his reply with an anxiety she could ill disguise. No, no, not if you wished it; but pshaw, you are not in love yet, (Cephiso bent her bead to conceal a blush,) so there's no chance of marriage — love,dinner,dearestdianer; 1 must hack to work. Their little table was soon spread, and they prepared to deepatch their frugal meal. _ ‘' "I WISH NO OTHER HERALD ) NO canine 'SPEAKER OF MY LIVING .iLoT/ONS, TO KEEP MINE HONOR FROM OORRUPTION.".--MHARR. eikLatTd 4 llrai3tiNl3o472 o /P&G_ WZRZtrAiI.II% QUIPOUPOIP a3le 11.2451c0 Richard addressed his sister. dt Here I am, Cephiso. I promised a speedy return. Why hav'nt you a light? It is a gloomy day without, and rendered doubly gloomy by having no light within." I—l—was waiting your return, Richatd ; I have something to say to you; something I must say to.night." And Cephiso determined to disclose all to Pi. chard, and bo no longer the guilty thing - she felt herself. Riche rd'asked the cause of her agitation, but ore she could reply, a low tap at the chamber door startled them. Richard unlatched the door, on the threshold of which stood a venerable look- f a this was the residence of Richard Morin{" An answer in tho affirmative brought hima few steps further into the apartment. Cophise, a light," said Ricb,anl, handing the stranger a seat. The light was instantly procured * and as its ray fell upon the countenance of tha old man, Richard exclaimed 4 , 'tie he, 'tie heL good father Antoine. " . " Oh, by the by," said Cephise, " allow for our sex's characteristic curiosoty, and toll me what was the subject of your discussion with Julien, on the stairs, as you came inl" " We were speaking of a circumstance that oc curred this morning. Julien and I were left in charge of the shop, when two young men of fash ion came in to examine some pistols; while mak ing choice, a third fashionable joined them, and with the voice of a hunter, cried, Aha, Count Chevalier, how ore you?' and with a hearty slap on the shoulder of the one ho called 'count,' he continued: 'my dear fellow, how comes on your little amour with the pretty sempstress? Have you ended the romance, or do you still act the dis guised inamorata?' In short, dear Cephise, we learnt from their conversation that this count, in disguise and under a false name, was seeking the ruin of a youne sempstress, poor, and virtuous. That which they spoke of as mere pleasantry, I looked upon as a crime. My heart throbbed quickly, my hands rested on my work, and I half raised myself to confront this villain nobleman, when at that moment ho enjoined silence on his companions, as he said he was to be married in three days." "To the poor sempstress?" hastily inquired Cephise, as sho listened with breathless attention. " No. Not to the good and virtuous girl who toils for that subsistence she will not gain by in famy; but to ono of noble birth. Ak, I have no patienbo to think that, to the world, high birth and wealth aro passports to vice, asanction to crime, and aro the means of spreading destruction among our poor but honest families; of bringing misery and ruin upon our wives and, sisters." Do you know the name this man, Richard?" " I have his address where the pistols are to be sent," and handing a richly embossed card to Ce phise, she read the name of " Count Theodore Preys)." Neither of them had ever heard the name before. e I must now to my forgo and files," said Rich ard, rising. e I'll make haste to return as soon as possible; bless you, bless you, Cephise," and snatching up his hat., Richard darted down stairs, and was at his accustomed work in a few seconds. Cephiso sat in deep thought; the fate of the poor sempctress possessed her mind. e Yet, after all, she may be in the fault; a young woman in her situation should not listen to the love of one of high rank. But then he was in disguise, and she was not to blame—yet how easy to see where deceit guides the action. In my case, for example, I have nothing to fear, Edward has told me all. Neither richer or higher in life than I, he laves, and seeks me for his wife." At this moment her meditations were interruptel4y tho door slowly opening, and a young man, habit ed like a mechanic, entered the apartment. He looked anxiously round, as if to assure himself that Cephise was alone, then hastily taking her hand in his, he affectionately inquired how she tunt mot.— " - ' - e Well, quite well. But where havo you been so long, dear Edward?" e I have been deeply engaged in my employ ment, dearest," ho replied, wand out of town on bUsiness, front whence• lam but just returned. I shall be compelled to absent myself again shortly, but only for a few days, to settle some family arrangements." "I thought yeu had , no family, Edward." Edward's face flushed to the temples as ho hesi tatingly replied: e Only an aunt, dearest, who wishes to bavo a will drawn up, and desires my presence as a witness; that done, I shall return and pass with you the happiest hours of my life.' e But_ henceforth, Edward, it must be only with my brother's sanction that tncourage your ad dresses; give mo leave, then, to tell him all our prospects." e Not yet, dear Cophiso; mystery hes always a a charm for lovers, and 'tis only a momentary ob stacle which forces me to conceal our projects. From this aunt I expect to inherit property, which, should I marry without her consent, falls to ano ther heir." "I only ask to make my brother the confidant of my happiness. It is my wish, nay, my duty, so to do. Judge what my feelings would be, did ho learn from another that which I should have been the first to disclose." "And would you be satisfied, dear Cephise, with the cold and formal interviews which the presence of a third person naturally imposeal the warm and buoyant feelings of our hearts re pressed, and our present freedom exchanged for silent bondage. Oh, Cephise, if you loved me"— "If I had loved you, Edward! That word con veys a reproach I do not merit" U Listen to me, Cephiso, grant me an interview to-morrow—the last secret ono I shall over ask— nay, do not deny me. I have much to say to you, and after that you shall bo free to disclose to Rich- and all our 10ve.." A knock was heard at the lower street doOr. 'a Quick! leave me; leave me, Edward, unless you wish to flice my brother." "Promise then an interview to-morrow." I do, I do. Now leave me, I implore pu— sh! you are too late." Edward retreated towards the door, and as i opened to admit Richard, favored by the twiligh and dexterity, it gave egress to Edward, who softly descended the stairs, and gently closing the house door nfter him, found himself once more in safety iu the open street. ng man, of most benign aspect. ,He inquired You remember me, then, my good childrenl" said the father. a Ayo do we," replied Richard. ""You raised our mother's dying head, as, with the glassy eye of approaching dissolution, she took her last look of her poor orphans." a My visit now to these orphans," said the priest, "is neither ono of chance, ceremony, or curiosity. I am here to comply with a sacred promise made that dying mother, but I can only explain myself in the' absence of your sister." "Let her presence be no hindrance, good father; we have no secrets, one from the other." a Nevertheless, you alone must be the master of the ono I have now to disclose." • Richard kindly dismissed his sister to her little apartment, and as ho led her to the door, she bid him summon her the instant father Antoine was gone; and she added, o I too have a secret for your private oar, dear Richard, the revealing of which will relieve my heart of a weight it now labors under." Rickard closed the door, and- drawing a chair neat father Antoine, waited the disclosure of the coming secret. The good man drew from under his gray gown a map wallet, which ho laid upon the table, and thus began: "It is now nine years since I was sent for to attend your mother's dying bed, and received her confeision, as I prayed Heaven to grant her the pardon she implored. The expiring woman with much difficulty drew from under her pillow a seal ed packet, and putting it into my hands, spike these words: hither, this is my,will. In. the `name of Heaven, promise to take charge—especial charge of it.' I promised, and she continued: 'lt is no thing 'of value I leave, for I am poor it is a long concealed secret I do not yet wish my children to know. Cophise is now ten years of age; if, before' her nineteenth birthday, my daughter should marry, do you open that paper, your own conscience will direct you how to act. Should she attain that age without quitting her brother's protection, you, father, find out my ion, sae nix Atose,.give him that packet, to be opened before you, and as regards the secret it contains, I leave him to act as his own heart shall dictate, with tho aid of your advice. " a My dear mother's will shall be strictly obeyed; speak, father, what aro her requester Father Antoine selected a small sealed packet from the wallet, and handed it to Richard, who pressed it to his lips with reverence; then hastily breaking the seal, ho read as follows: a Feeling assured of my approaching death, be fore God, my conscience, and you, my son, I de clare the disclosure I am about to make to be sin cere. and veritable ; do not call me culpable; if I have done wrong, you, at least, my eon, will par don me"—. a Read, father, for I cannot" Aratitwi tookitiei paper; anet-contioussa: "Heaven is witness to the truth of what I hive affirmed. Cephiso .Morin died ten years ago. The child I have left is not my daughter!" Richard's heart beat loudly. Hie blood rushed rapidly through his veins. a Go on, father, go on." Tho old man continued: "I was a widow, and poor Charles, my eon, away at school, when my daughter Cophise was born. Misery and misfortune rendered my consti tution unfit for nursing, my child, and it died Just six months after I took my child to the bap tismal fount, I followed her to the grave. It was night, and raining fast; I threw myself on my knees by the grave of my daughter. At that moment I heard the cry of an infant. I searched among the leaves from whence the cry proceeded, and thorn lay a child as if just thrown there. I caught it up, pressed it to my breast, and fled from the church yard. I was ignorant of the road took, and at daylight found myself in the wood of Romanville. I looked at the infant, closely nestled in my bosom. It was a girl about the age of Cephise. On searching its garments, I found a purse filled with gold, a certificate of its birth, and a note froni its mother. Tho father here laid down the confession, and opened the papers that were enclosed, and select ing the certificate of the child's birth, read as follows: On the 12th of March, 18—, was baptized at he church at St. Pierre, at Bel!villa, Evelina . Father unknown.— And the mother'!" eagerly exclnimed Richard. "The mother's name is effaced," replied father Antoine, and he muttered to himself, 4 , 12th of March--Bellvdle--should it her— But the note, father. The note found with the child. Read that." The old man complied, and read a note written n pencil as follows:. is Whoever you aro, that may find this infant, its mother implores you to cherish and protect it. Leave in this bush your name and address, and every year on this date you will receive a sum equal to that contained in the purse found about the child. Should the day arrive when its mother can claim it with happiness to herself, she will not full to do so." is And the signature!" said Richard. "It has none," answered father Antoine. "Now to finish your mother's will." Heaven pardon me; I did not, steal the child. I was wild with grief; and know not what I did. I never again could find the spot from whence I took the infant. I then became its parent, and you its brother. She has ever since gone by the name of Cephise Morin. Ana now I die, my children, asking pardon of you both, and of my God. CATHATAINE MORIN. " At the closing of the will, both the mechanic. and the priest appeared abstracted; each as if he labored under some great excitement, yet dreaded is confirmation. Richard's elbow rested upon the able, and his head upon his band. Father An. Wine's hand fell by his side, still grasping the document he had been reading. Richard started from his lethargy. _ a.S!le's not my sister, thank God, thank God!" a What - Means this burst of joy, my eon'!" in quired fathdr Antoine. . . a She is not . my inster, , Sther, ; and *ow I feel rising strong _vrithin me the love I hitie so long and strangely borne her ' es, pure, toly, and Antlered love; ian ' . by Heaven now, what happiness mat . , . te! Blie loves L ' 44 me too, father, Pm .'."" . . .;. .—, for oho has known no ,other who sOn . . ), 4 . bet young .affee ,._ , bona; what then remains for us but to be weddedto each other'!" "Be it so, my son, and may you both be happy as you deserve. And when next we meet, I may have another as important secret to communicate. In the mean time, confide to my care the certifi cate And the note in pencil." Richard gave them to him,and gained from the old man the promise of joining their hands u soon as Cephiso was informed of their relative positions. a Willingly, my eon; to-morrow we meet again, till when, farewell. Heaven bless you." And as Cie door closed on the departing priest, Cepluse was heard descending the stairs from her chamber. Richard :met her with a face radiant with expectant joy. But Oh, how different looked the bowed down creature, pale with intense anxie ty, who, placing her cold hand into that warm ono extended to receive it, and looking in his eye, innocently prepared to inflict a death-blow on all his highly colored anticipations of happiness. "Dear Richard," began Cephise, "I can. no longer conceal from you the secret that presses on my heart. I feel, Oh, how culpable I have been in so long concealing from you that which so nearly concerns my honor." Cephise, explain, I beseech you." "Richard, dearest brother, I have deceived you. Often, when we have been, speaking of our affec tion for each other, I have said I loved none but you, my brother"— , s Yon did, you did," exclaimed Richard, doubt ing what was to follow. 44 Richard," continued Cophime, in a cairn low tone, 44 Richard, I uttered falsehood. I did, I do. love another!" Richard dropped her hand, and stood like one patalyzed, hie eye intently fixed on hers. She continued: 44 You shall know all; you shall decide my fate, dear brother. Oh, frown not on me, Richard, but hear me out." I , Go on, go on," cold Richard, in a voice scarce audible. It is now two months since I have known him —since he has promised to demand of you my hand in marriage. His name is Edward Dorville, a journeyman like yourself, and en orphan"— Cephirte paused; Richard replied not. She gazed upon his face. Not a muscle showed the inward working of despair.. All without was calm, statue. like, awl firm. "Yon do not speak to me, Richard," said Ce phiso, getting close to him, and taking his hand. This at once recalled him to himself. is Sure some dream, and I have been too roughly wakened. And." pressing her hand with a convulsive grasp, 4s and you—yen—love him, Cephisel" "I do, dear brother." , g Enough. You shall be his! you sliall be his!" an% throwing himself into a seat, he ,buried his face in his hands, and no longer struggling to o'er master' the *le ot-bittei feelinis that oppressed him, be wept. The sturd y mechanics wept. Ce phise fell at his feet. The big drops trickled I through his rough Angers, and fell upon the,up raised forehead of the only being he had ever loved intensely, and who now clung to his Juices in the agony of aelftreproach. [TO 115 CONTINUED.] wamazatrixo Prom the Munklin Repository, DESPONDENCY. •'Winter and gloom may leave the earth, Their shadows may depart; But what is all the sunshine worth That cannot cheer the heart?' A. T. Las. 0, sou the days, the happy days Of gay, and fresh, and buoyant youth, Ere I had trod in maze, Or ttun'd aside from heavenly truth! 0, for the cheering hopes that beinn'd Along the path of earlier years, When all was trusted as it liveried Undimed by doubts or gloomy fears! 0 for the moments, blissful, mild, To Nature's dearest raptures given, When all her charms my soul beguiled And lured my wand'ring thoughts to Heaven! How are they fled! how darkly now Mis-spent--regretted—pass my. days! Ev'n while at Folly's shrine I bow How scorn's my soul her idle praise. How have the hopes that lit my path Sunk before Passion's thoughtless course, And but their ruins mark the scath Wrought by that tlesolating - lbrce. Even Nature moves not now my soul With all her former power to charm, Though many a thought I must control Her scenes arouse in wild alarm. Hence—visions of delight! away!— Ye golden hopes of life,--adieu!— Why should I mourn your swift decay, Or grieve because ye prove untruel So has it been—so will it be; Illusive all, a pageant fair; Nor is the happiest bosom free From the dark whispers of despair. Then onward—quid no more repine At griefs which all on earth must know; There is a rest will soon be thine, The gray.e has balm for every woe. : The Young Lovers. To the man who is a little of a philosopher, and a bachelor to -boot, and who, by dint of some expe rience in tho follies of life, begins to look with a learned eye upon the ways of man, and the eke of women—to such a man I say, there is something very entertaining in noticing the conduct of a pair of lovers. It may not be as grave and scientific a study as the loves of the planets; but it is Cer tain' ly interesting. I have lingerer° derived much pleasure, since my arrival at the Hall, from ob serving the fair Julia and her lover. She has all the delightful blushing consciousness of an artless girl; inexperienced in coquetry, who has made her first conquest; while the captain regards her with that mixture of fondness and exultaliop with which a young lover is apt to contemplate so beauteous a prise. I observed them yesui, da y in the garden, advancing along one of the bayed walks. The min was shining with, delicious warmth, making great masses of bright lierdure . and deep blue shade. The cuckoo, that harbinger of Spring, was faintly heard in the distanig the thrush piped from the hawthorn, sod the yellow rvou',.:•:.::::s--, .. . • 4. '4 — :' fl,,ci - m.V4 leering sported indi..iyed ilia 11 ,. . .r. , , The fair Julia was ering on;her 1 , V 4,4 1 *l6 listening to his conversation; with be , down, a soft blush upon her - cheek, .164 K ';4 , smile on her lips, while in thif hail] .tftektifftiffi): negligently by her, side, was a buncli,r**,_ ,rvii..y,' - ', In this way they sauntered. along, lind Wii*:*: considered them, and the , scara in 4hi6lit 't/Orf::: 'were moving, I could not but. thintft wthitiarbill pities that the season sherUld, evimgrov,c94o4-*A- . , that blossoms should eviriivn Wily'ln kniti.,='or'' that lovers should ever get tarried . —iivi nip.",::•:,.;:' WHERE Ift /10;113? Where is home', whom- Not in scenes of grief and care; Not 'mid strife, and pain, and ri e j • - t.';-; '..- Therefore'hume is not below. Ina better land afar,.. A Father's house home's mansions Me t In the bowers of Paradise, , .• , Where peace abides,and never dies.. Where no arrow wounds the dove, Whore no parting isior love, Where are no rough ems of foust,-,:- Where joy dwelleth, there is hou, Whore no blight is in the rose, . s. Wheni no storm the lily 'comic Where never fades the blossom fair, Home, dear friend, is them, iithers!- A SMART RITORTr-1.0111 ERilkipB a large party, in which Lady gratin*" and' Mr. Sheridan were present, ighat • wife was'only_ *t in;: .• canister tied to one's tail ;" upon which Sheridan presented Lady Enikine with these lines:—' • - • Lord Enkine at woman presuming to rall,„:` Calls a wife "a tin canister tied to one'a And fair Lady Anne, while the e ir r ilectheeknies.4LO.. Seems hurt at his Lordship's d 'mg comparilkc — /':. But wherefore degrading? cons erertarlicht, A canister's polished, and , useful, and - And should dirt its original purity hide ' is That's the fink i of the puppy to whom t 044', ' ze; THE THREE STAIM-Of - the tliceisaixT and one toasts which we have read "fliiring the last few weeks, (says the Carlisle lffer- ,‘ ald,) the following is one that willpleaterthe': ladies, and cause them to thank the penkin who had the honor of presenting i t. But , should it not satisfy them, we have onti to say that they are a tough set'of folks to ~, please. It was drank at the railroad Cele. bration in this place. Woman—the morning War of our youth, the Day Star °four manhood, the'Evenieg Star of our age. God bless our stars: The following lines Were written an. the , baci of a note fat twenty-line cents, issued Icy the cor potation of the borough of ,Reading: t• . _ Go. ragged wanderer thron' a world of baregi d • • I dare not keep thee longer. Jr' would, r Q r ) Lest. when I wished to spend thee: I' hould Some honid tale of thy not being good- • I motor believe. zeb.o eft been told x •=1 That thou art what is meant by 100tatt,....*: Nest semi hirappking "Ardesel4.l' Well, my good women,' said the doctor, hcivr - '; is your husband to-day'l' better, no doubt.' , Ob yea, surely,' said the good woinins,''' He is as well as ever, and gone to the Bela.*' . I thought so,' continued the doctor,', ' 'Th e _ leeches have cued him. Wonderful effect they have. You got the leeches, of , course:. , Oh yes, they did him e., great'deal of good; though he could not take them Take them sill Why, my'good m ' W 0133811, how did you apply theml' - • . • N _ _ _ Oh, I managed nicely,' said the - wifORWII quite contented with herself. For variety:if sake, I boiled dne kali; and made fry oft,thn:l4ttun',' 4 1 ; The first he got down very vrEditf l bitt made him very sick: But whatliostoak jmike quite enough, continued she, seeing same•horrorin;#l* doctor's countenance, for he wee •betfectitineXt,T' z ' . 4' morning, and to-day he is quite. well?, , Uniph, said the doctor, with a sapientikake%.* of the head, they have cured.him, tbaCiel4ll. - ;.-4 cient, but they , would have been better app4idect-' : . ternally: • • • . -• , fr j The women replied that she;would, do‘se;the next time; and I doubt not that if everfate throws a score of unfortunate leeches into •bet powar again, she will make a poultice of cloim. Ax EXPLANATION. 'Come, payMep ,Up us the rhino.' •What's tip us the rhinol'.'eWhy,-out with the duet.' 41 don't understand. `•Whj post the pony.'' 'Poet the poneyl'. 'Yee, shell out.' ;Really, lamat a loss.' •Why, fork plicable.' aounds, man, ash dourn: !41 Baron Smyth spent two whole &n and nighte".,!: , :tv in considering an answer to the:conundrum,,iiphyi,f, is an egg underdone like an egg overdone!' He would suffer no one.to tell blm, and st fait hi bit on the solution—because both are hardly : dose. Ire is an unwise thin, Who in iiineiiike these; , does not take a newspaper.-- West. Min [And ho is an unjust man,.awho in, times' like these,'L does not pay for his newspaper.] • A late London perialiosgsnys: iihdl9ons now start almost every evaling from various parts of the town—and men, Women ;and monkeys are to be seen asceading,nad de- , scending. We have less commernhkand other distrose, probably, in atonritnence of , the world's looki* ; lt, The Fayette, Missouri, Democrat. an. nouneee Major Horrer as a CSEldidallo t 'The Brigadier General. The N. Ti Star says he ought to be a formidable eatulidatip If ;:;:`s his opponent is not "a man•of courage, be will certmnly get horror.stricken. , LACIONio.—A remarkable eiutiapie4the laconic 813110,1 m recently takets pianpoildels. - would put Leutudns and his MxintrYstmin..t° shame. Au Edinburg-T.4er lOW, brotherquaker in London!" sheet fif.lstior paper, contaiuing nothing .whatissnr:in.** ;- writing way,save note orustestoptimatiki. (7) his friend returned the Al*, sidding . l4 4 a sok reply a 0.. The _ _l/Ma atibeArUalF" lion sad answer, is us fousint-po ,Nothingr The Wheel Time" laYs tINP *044, so bud, and payments ate a:atlaw#-' the girls down out aompbip this 11 : m.n cannot oven PAY thou 00-- MICE MEM 5' l
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers