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VOL. NINE.
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From the Philadelphia Spirit of the Man
I %RIDER IF SHE LOVES ME
DY JOIIN S. DU SOLLE
wonder if she loves hie?
11'd give the world to knOw !
For though her looks still whispers Yes.
Iler lips still niter No.
Why .should she blush so-when we meet,
If I'm not near her heart?
Her tiny hand why tremble, when
We undertake to Part ?
I wonder if she loves me'?
Last night we were alone,
And I thought there was a coldness
Unusual in her tone :
Yet, toying with her curls, I stole
Oh such a kiss ! and though
She looked' innumerable thlngs,
'She 'did not bid me go !
I wonder if she loves me?
To wake het woman's 'pride,
I - feigned to love another once !
She neither spoke nor sighed : '
thongh.she sc:idied emotionless,_
4 '` I watched her blue eye well,
And I'm certain that a tear-drop
'From its silken lashes fell.
I wonder if she loves me? •
I'm sure I can't decide,
For sometimes she's all. tenderness,
And sometimes she's all pride.
In vain I question of my hopes,
My fears still weigh them down,
Biiice even tier sweetest, sunniest smile
lil'faatured by .a frown!
From the Marietta Argos of 1844.
I'III'CERTAIN THAT :SHE LOVES-Y011:'
In answer to "I wonder 4f she lovas me."
BY AN EX-MADIETTLAN
„ .
i'en - certairi that she loves ydu,z--
She'n'ever told me so ;
• .130 all's not litter'd that is "thought,
p r ” folt, or seen, you know ;
She never did avow it,
But once she breathed your name;
She never would allow it
To pass her lips again.
I'm celled that she loves you,—
The first timejthaGyou met,
Those wordS„thnee kind attentions,
She never can foiget
fier wistful glance at muting,.
....040 , "ffertrembling - h - antl'extended
The,tear suppressed ere starting,
How meek, bow unpretended.
I'm certain that she loves you,—
The last time I was there,
I saw upon her snowy wrist,
A bracelet of your hair :
She wore ppon :her finger;
Your ill'atemping,and then
.11er-eye@ wnuld often linger
Upon that magic gem.
I'm certain that she loves you,—
I'll tell you hovel know it
That blush, whorfe'er I speak of you,
.She never can forgot it :
Iferlook sp SWeetly beam lag,
- Her bosom's.gentle swell ;,
Her sighs, their rapid heaving,
Their depth; 0, when ' '
I'm terlain that sheloves you,—
PM , very sure she does :
Or why. so pensive when )ou're gone 7
If 'tis not that she loves:
- Why those smiles when you return ?
Why that heartfelt4ladnesi 7
' - And when you seem her love to spurn
• Why that soul-sick sadness?
1 WONDER WRY?
He pleased my hand, I can't tell why.—
,rov sum .1 wonder why he did it; I
Antthcfc3, heard—oh, suet' a sigh!
As quite alarmed me for a minute.
/ wonder ti;hy lie incised my hand—
. I stondcr why, he sigh'd so sadly—
I'm sure if I could understand
ThO cause, I Would remove it gladly.
Ile told me be had lost his heart,
Ana whispered something about "Hope,"
I Wonder why it did depart—
Or why hearts ever do elope—
I'm rare, if I his heart had been,
I ii,ver would have left his side,
But a happy, joyous thing,
And loved the place till-1 Ins&dicd.
(4utpt6titt VtintsOimuia afournal : gebott. littraturt, Agrituiturt, EtiDS of tilt ga g , Natal c flttiligtittt,
MARIETTA, PA., SATURDAY, MAY 23, 1863.
FANNIE AND I.
Na.
•
'No, John Blaiklie, I shall `never
marry you," I said, in a tone which I
meant.should be particularly severe,—
Let the conversation end here."
Mr. John Blaiklie laughed in my
face, which by the way, was just what
he ought not to have done. The con
sequence was that I grew angry in a,
moment.
'You con .laugh as, much as you
please,P I continued. 'There is a cer
tain class of, people in this world that
characterize themselves •by laughing at
their own, folly. You have heard of
them, haven't you.?'
'0 yes 7'
Again John Mahe laughed a good,
natured, happy laugh, which did not
testify very strongly for the depth of
his anguish at my decision. Of course I
grew more and more piqued I nothing
more could have been expected of me.
'You are very gentlemanly, Mr. Blaik
lie,' I said, in a tone which I mean*.
should be very sarcastic.
'And I am aware of that, too, my lit
tle Bossy,' he answered, good natured
ly.
"Cousin Fannie 'admires you very
much,' I said, significantly, for a mo
ment forgetting my augur.
`She does?'
Ile grew suddenly thoughtful, and
bent his large, honest blue eyes to the
floor. Then as if a now resolution had
suddenly become fixed in his mind, he
arose, saying,
`You are quite sure of this, •.Beesie
quite s re.'
`Yes, quite sure. If you wish to try
your luck in that direction, you may be
curtail, of success.'
"l'hank you Miss Bessie ? - I will
OE
'Miss Bessie In all his life John
Blaildie had dever o.ddniesed mein that
way before. I started at him in very
surprise. lie did Lot appear to notice
me, but went towards the door, saying,
a littlesadly, • I thought, as he paused
at the threshold :
'I h e'troubled sou, not hi-Torte
.
nately, Bessie, but because, until now,
I been ignorant of your true feel
ings. The future shall speak for itself.
Good morning l'
•
`Good morning I faltered forth, still
staring at him in blank amazement.--
For a moment I could not really believe
that he had gone—not until his foot
step, grafi faint in the distance, and
looking eut of the window. I could hut
dimly see his tall .figure through the,
thick mass of shrubbery that lay be
tween the house and the road ; then I
drew ft long sigh, not of relief, I am sure
as might have been expected from a
lady who had suddenly found herself
ridded of an annoying lover; but a sigh
whidh puzzled my own heart to define.
I do not 'know what first put the
thought into my head that I should
not marry John Biondi°. From my
childhood, even, I had been 'taught to
look upon,hirn as My future• husband.—
Through the whole neighborhood our
engagement had grown to be such a
settled affair, and of such long standing,
that the people forgot to tease us about
it, and passed by us as indifferent as
though we had been a married couple
for years, instead of interesting, engag
ed young persons. But somehow, as I
said before, I cannot tell why it came to
me, the ideq that marrying John Blaik
lie was not the best way of settling my-
'self for life, after all ; and so, working
upon this, I grew to believe that I did
not love him—and not loving him, what
could I do but assure' him that I should
never be his wife ? And that assurance
1 gave him as I have already shown:
But after he left mo that morning, I
felt .anything but comfortable; indeed
the tears came constantly to my eyes
and though I tried as well as I could to
keep thetn down they conquered me at
last, and sinking dOwn in my chair, I
gave up, and had a good hearty cry. I
felt a little better after that, and tried
to persuade myself; in my own mind,
that 1 had done just the best thing I
could do for the insurance of John's and
my own happiness. But the worst was
yet to come.
The nest Sabbath • John attended
Cousin Fannie to church. This was
such a new and strange order . of things,
it sot the whole congregation to
staring. Cranston could not sleep un
der anything so incornprehensible, and
for that Sabbath, at least, good Parson
Green preached to a wakeful set of
hearers. But they could only conjee.
ture as to the cause of the change, and
conjecture they did without leaving
but little time for any - other mental
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speculation. Some were ready to de
clare that Cousin Fannie had supplanted
me in John's affections, and that I was
breaking my heart in a secret kind of
way about it ; others said that the fault
rested_with me, and that I was looking
in another and higher direction for a
lover. Bat I had the truth, and most
sacredly did .1 guard it. It grew to be
a very plain truth before the summer
was gone. As time wore away, and I
saw plainly into the depths of my heart
I knew that for a childish, girlish whim,
I had put the happiness of a lifetime
away from me. But I could only wear
a brave face, and keep my secret away
from the prying, curious gaze of those
who were searching for it.
I did not often meet, John, and but
twice during that summer were we
thrown into each others company fora.
sufficient length of time to exchange a
dozen words. Once we met at a picnic.
From the moment that I stepped upon
the grounds I knew that he was inten
ding to speak to me. Perhaps I felt it
by the way he watched me as I went
from place to place. When ho came to
my side, it seemed that the whole par
ty hushed voice, heart and soul to lis
ten to , us. He smiled at this, and com
menced talking in a pleasant way about
the weather, appearing not to notice my
flushed face and slightly disturbed man
ner.
'Are you enjoying the best of health
this summer?" he asked at length, with
I thought, a faint touch of mischief in
his face.
'The very best of health, Ir. Blaik
lie,' answered, curling my lip. 'Perhaps
you have been informed to the con
trary, however,' I continued, more in
answer to his smile than aught else.—
'Cranston gossips, have, I believe, giv
en me the credit of bearing up under a
settled heart'disease.'
• 'They are inferior judges, Bessie. Do
not class me among them.
never have,' I answered, dryly.
`No, I sippose not,' he said, smiling
again. 'This is a-beautiful grove !'
`Very!' I answered, feeling that it
was my turn to smile now.
'Have you noticed the arrangement
•
made'for dancers 7'
I shook my head.
'Come this way, then, if you please.'
Be offered m•! his arm, which I took
without thinking to thank him. For a
little moment I forgot that the right
of claiming his attention was not mine.
It seemed so like old times to be walk
ing. by his side, watching his face and
listening to the tones of his voice.—
Before I could help it, I found myself
sighing long and deeply. If John no
ticed it he was very forebearing, for by
look or word he did not reply to it but
I thought the silence was a little too
long for an ordinary one, and so I made
a bold push to break it. Again I for
got myself.
'What a nice place this is r I said.—
'Do you remember, John, how crazy I
used to be about dancing ! My father
used to say if my heart would always
keep as light as my feet, life would go
easily with me.'
`Yes, yes, I remember,' he replied, I
thought a little sadly. 'Will you dance
with me to-day ?'
'O, yes, certainly V,
I tvas glad to have him ask me that.
Of all persons in the world, I best loved
to dance with him. I had told him so
hundreds of times, too, so that he knew
well enough what smile meant. We
danced, together so many times that
day, that the Cranston people—or at
least all of the picnic—grew bigeyed with
wonder. Noticing how close they
watched, us, John said, as he led me to
my seat the last time :
'We are saving our good townsfolk
from a great deal of sin, Bessie;.be
cause while they are speculating about
such innocent sort of people as you and
I, they cannot be talking about worse
ones. We are getting famous 1'
I was happier that night, after I ro
twned home, than I had been for weeks
before. But my happiness was of short
duration, for after the supper was clear
ed away, and while I sat by an open win
dow, recalling the events of the day, my
mother said to me :
`Your Aunt Ilasting was here to-day,
and she said that John Blaiklie was
finishing his house on the hill. -- Did
you bear anything about it at the pic
nic V
'No,' I said, scarcely above a whisper.
'And said if Fanny was going to mar
ry John, she kept it dieadful sly; for
besides piecing ap a few Names of
patchwork, she bad not made the first
step towards getting ready. What do
you think about it ?'
`I - think she will be ready as soon as
the, house is," I answered, turning my
face towards the - window, that she might
not notice the expression of my feature's:
take it-altogether, Bessie, it's
a queer piece of brisiness?
I did not answer only let my forehead
droop low upon the wiridowseat: See
ing this, mother came up to me, and
rested her hand upon my bead, and said
"Poor child!"
How from my heart'l blessed her for
her quiet sympathy. The next two
weeks that followed were sad and tedi
ous ones to me: ,
Every way that I turned, news of
John Blaiklie's approaching marriage
with cousin Fannie was ponred into my
ears ; and even Fannie herself, who had
always been very prudent , about it,
seemed pleased in telling me of the ar
rangements that were going on up at
John's new -house—of this piece of fur
niture ho had selected, of the carpets
which had been left to her judgement
' . e.;c - Clusively, and of the beautifully toned
seraphim, that John's uncle had present
ed him for the little parlor.
"You will be very happy,' I said one
day in answer to all this.
Fannie looked up suddenly into my
face. I thought a quizzical expression
.
drifted across her features.
`How pale you look, Bessie,' She said.
`What is the matter with you ?'
`Nothing, I am sure,' I answered, with
some little show of spirit.
am glad of it ; but, indeed, you do
look downright ill. Won't_ you go up
to the new houSe with me to-night—
perhaps that will make you foel better.
I believe you keep too closely in the
house. But yea need not shake your
head; you will go, John will be there,
r and we will have a pleasant time of it.'
Ala I went in spite of myself, al
though every step towards ,the house
that was once to have been mine, -was
like very torture to me. 0, what. e.
pleasant house it was I and how simply
and tastefully furnished, from the cun
ning, neatly-grained kitchen to the well
carpeted parlors ! Everything was just
as I had planned it a hundred times, in
a laughing jocose way to John. Had
he indeed remembered it all on purpose
to torture me with it, now? It seemed
'Do you like the house, Bessie 2' -he
asked, as if divining my very thoughts.
'Very ranch, indeed,' I answered.—
'Everything is neat and tasteful. Is. it
too early to wish you joy ?' I asked, feel
ing that he was expectirkg me to say
something.
'No; not too early, but it may be too
late.'
I looked up, into his face. Its expres
sion puzzled me.
do not understand you very clearly,'
I said. 'But never mind,' added, no
ticing that Fannie had gone from the
room. '1 have a wretched headache
to.night, and hardly know what I j am
saying.
Headache I when all the time it seem
ed as if my heart was breaking 1 -
'Where is Fannie ?' I asked, a moment
after, seeing that she did not return.
'Gone home l' he answered, in the
coolest tone imaginable.
'What, and left me here?'
'Yes, and left you herel Are you
frightened ?'
'Not much—my poor head—l will
go:
'Wait a moment,, if you please,' he
said, detaining.me. 'I ' have something
to say to yon.'
Something to say to me I Did ho
know that every kind word that he
spoke to me, pierced my heart like a
barbed arrow 7
'This house is yours, if you wish it,
Bessie,' be began, in a slightly embar
rassed way. am afraid you have made
a hard decision in casting me off for
ever. It seems to me that I know your
heart better than yen know it yourself.'
I looked up into his face. It seemed
to me that I was dreaming. I told him
80, between my sobs and tears.
'God forbid he said, taking both my
hands in his. 'But. tho past summer has
been a. wretched reality of doubt and
despair to me. Tell me, Bessie, is it
ended here ?'
I could not answer him in words, only
to go closer to his side, and nestle my
hands fondly in his.
'This shall bo your home, then,' he
said, kissing me. 'But remember, my
dear, I cannot allow my house to go
withodte.a.o encumbrance, as the news
papers say, Doe,s that idea plfire'yOu ?'
'0 yes l':l.l,:onewered. And John be
lieved me. Why ehonldn't ?
A/Dril 11, 1.85%1.
A,Gopd Camp Story,
A correspondent of a Philadelphia
paper, attached to the Army of the-Po
tomac, ,writesithe following : •• .'.
l'o; show you how rumors will, spread
in the army, I will illustfate an incident.
The lady friends of our fifth corporal
sent him a box ; among the many 'good
things in the said box was a -- life-sized
doll, dressed in full Zonave uniform,
which they won at a soldier's fair in
your city. The corporal, after getting
the box, was taken sick; the boys
started` the rumor that the corporal was
a woman, and• gave birth to a - boy: The
rumor spread like wild-fira';' hundieds
flocked to our quarters to see the won
derful phenornenona new born - babe--;
but we guarded the • tent with zealous•
care, only allowing pryers to catch a'
passing glimpse of the supposed mother
and babe. We could find a number of
men to swear that they had 'seen both.
But the cream of the joke was -to come
off; the corporal received a ten days'
furlough ; all thought that it was the
mother going home with her babe—some
had it, she was a rich heiress escaping,
from a tyrant father; but hundreds be
lieved in the mother corporal and yotag
recruit of Company I, of the Zonaves
d'Afrique. "
The English Language.
The words of the English language
are a compound of several languages.-- - -
The English language may be looked
upon as a complication, both in words
and expressions, of various dialeets.—
Theirorigin is from the Saxon language.
Odr laws wore derived from the Norman,
our military terms from the French, our
scientific names from the Greeke and
our stock of nouns from the Latin, thro'
the medium of the French. Almost all
the verbs in the "Eaglish Language are
taken from the German, and nearly
every other noun or adjective'is taken
from other dialects: The English lan
guage is composed of 15,734 words—of
which 6,732 are frem the Latin, 4,312
from the French,-1,665 from_ the Saxon,
1,669 from the; Greek, 691 from the
Dutch, 211 from the Italian, 106 from
the German, (not including .verbs,) 90
from the Welch, 75 from the Danish, 55
from the Spanish,.so from the Iceland
ic, 35 from the Sweedish, 31 from the
Gothic, 16 from the Hebrew, 15 from
the Teutonic, and the remainder from
the Arabic, Syriac, Turkish, Portugese,
Irish, Scotch, and other languages-
THE BENEFITS OF POVERTY:ShfillS
peare most have had the , following ideas
in his mind when be wrote "Sweet are
the uses of adversity :" "Yeti wear out
your clothes. You are not troubled
with many visitors. You are exoner
ated from making calls. 'Crossing
sweepers do not molest you. Bores do
not bore you. Sponges' do 'not haunt
your table. Tax-gathers •hurry past
your door. Itinerant bands do not: play
opposite your window. Yon ale •not
persecuted to stand godfather. No one
thinks of presenting you with a te,sti
monial. No tradesman irritates you by
asking; 'ls there any other little article
to-day, sir?' Begging letter writers
leave you alone. Imposters know it is
useless to bleed you. You practice
temperance. Yon swallow infinitely
less poison than others*" Flatterers do
t.ot shoot their rubbish into your ear.
You are saved many a debt, many a
deception, many a headache. And last
ly, if you have a. true friend yin the
world, you are 'sure, in a very short
Space of time, to learn it I"
EVILS OF lOLENESS.—Nine tenths of
the miseries and vices of manhood pro
ceed from idleness;; with men of quick
minds, to whom it is especially perni
ciouS, pis habit is commonly the fruit
of many disappointments, and schemes
oft baffled ; and men fail in their
schemes, not so much for the want of
strength, as the ill direction of it. The
weakest living creature, by concentra
ting his powers on a single subject, can
accomplish something; the strongest,
by dispersing his over many, may fail
to accomplish anything. The, drop, by
continued -falling, bores its passage
through
,the hardest rock—the hasty
torrent rushes over it, and leaves no
trace behind.'
A very pious old gentleman told
his sons not to go under any eireumstan- -
°es, fishing on the sabbath : but if they
did, by all means bring home the fish.
a - Eve plucked but one apple from
the tree of knowledge. Many a daugh
ter of hers flatters herself that she has
robbed the whole tree.
NO. 43.
spook no bad Words.
"How is it I don't seem to hear yon
speak bad words ?" asked an "old salt"
of a boy on board aman-ofwar.
"Oh, 'cause I don't forget my cap
tain's orders," answered the boy bright
ly.
"Captain's orders I" cried the old sail
or. "I didn't know he gave any."
. "He did," said Jem, "and I keep 'em
safe here," patting his hand on his
breast "Here they be," said Jem,
slowly'and distinctly : "1 say unto you,
Swear, not at all ; _neither by heaven,
for it is God's throne ; nor by the earth,
for it is his footstool ; neither by Jern•
salem, for it the city of the great
King. Neither shalt thou swear by thy
head, because thou canst nbt make one
hair white or black. But let your com
munication be, Yea, yea ; Nay, nay ;
for whatsoever is more than these corn
_
eth' of evil."
"Them's from the good old log-book,
I see," said the sailor.
LETTER OF Da. FRAzimx..—The fol
lowing characteristic letter of Dr. Frank
lin is said to be -inedited. The ipgen -
ions manner in which he makes the
commencement of his letter convey the
temporary impression that he lent with
a parsimonious reluctance, is inimitable:
"ArRIL 22 1684
"I send
,yon herewith a bill for ten
Louis d'ors. I do not pretend to give
such a sum. I only lend it to you.—
When you shall return to your country
you cannot fail of getting into some
business that will, in time, enable you
to pay all your debts. In that ease,
when you meet with another honest
man in similar distress, you must pay
me by lending this sum to him ; enjoin
ing him to discharge his debt by a like
operation when ho shall be able, and
shall meet with such an other opportu
nity. I hope it may thus go through
many hands before it meets ith a knave
to stop. its progress. This is a trick of
mine for doing , a great deal of good with
a little money. lam not rich enough
to do muck in good works, and so an►
obliged to be cunning, and make the
most of a little.
WICKED EfORSES.—In the year 1763,
Mr. Quinn had a famous racer, who en
tered into the spirit of the course as
much as his master. One day, finding
his opponent gradually passing him, he
seized him by the legs, and both riders
were obliged to dismount, in order to
seperate the infuriated animals, who
were engaged with each other in the
most deadly conflict: they were got
apart with mach difficulty.
Forrester had won many a hardly con
tested race; at length, over-weighed
and over-matched, the rally had com
menced. His adversary, who had been
waiting behind, had been quickly gain
ing-upon him ; he reared and eventually
got abreast they continued so till with
in the distance. = They were parallel ;
but the strength of Forrester began to
fail him. He made a last desperate
plunge, seized his adversary by the jaw
to hold him back, and it was with great
difficulty he could be forced to quit hie
hold. Forrester, however, won the
=
MANNER OF SHAKING HANDS.—Bul
wer thinks a man's nature is shown by
the way be shakes hands ; that he may
have the manners of Chesterfield, and
smile very sweetly, but who chills or
steels your heart against him the mo
ment he shakes hands with you. But
there is, he says, a cordial clasp which
shows warmth of impulse, unhesitating
truth; and even power of character-1,
clasp which recalls the classic trust in
the - "faith of the right hand."
HUSBAND AND WI - rm.—Addison has
left on record the following important
sentence :—"Two persons who have cho
sen each other out of all the species,
with design to be each other's mutual
comfort and entertainment, have, in that
very action, bound themselves to be
good-humored, affable, joyful, forgiving
and patient, with respect to each other's
frailties and imperfections, to the end
of their lives."
42- Ail that Leigh Richmond was,
he attributed to the simplicity and pro
priety with which his mother endeavored
to win his attention, t;;: , l store his mem
ory with religions trails, v:linn yet al
most an infant.
ez- A laqy, in speak-lag of t ;nth
ering of lawyers to dedicate a new court
house, said she supposed they hail gone
"to view the ground where they must
shortly lie,"
1, 8. F 2,