New York Weekly, Vol. 16, No. 22

Vol. XVI.
STREET & SMITH.
No. 11 Frankfort Street.
HEW Y(M, APRIL 25, 1861.
TWO DOLLARS A YEAR, Invariably in Advance.
No. 22.
[WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY j
THE POSSESSIONS OF POETRY.
BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.
I.
The Earth is Song’s. How radiant she Waves o’er the wood her holy lyre, And by the Mountain’s regal side, And by the Volcano’s shrine of fire I
It sanctifies the smallest flower;
It glorifies the smallest stone;
It makes the humblest hillock fit
To hold the Storm-King’s blazing throne;
But in the wondrous Human Heart
The Enchantress holds her dearest part.
II.
The Sea is Song’s. How sweetly she Stoops smiling o’er it's angry mane, And soothes the maddened one to sleep
Beneath her soft, yet master strain 1 * How glorious with her the ship !
How grand the sailor with his beard
Kissed by the mild breath of the South, Or by the great North tempest stirred!
So, still since first her rule began, Her mightiest heritage is Man!
' III.
The Heavens are Song’s. There’s not a star But in its golden motion sings; f
The comet from her fancy takes
A larger circle for his wings;
How in the glorious Sun she plants An angel to the kindling eye, An angel with a human shape, - Who blesses Earth and rules the Sky. $
So, still Humanity unrolls
The dearest in her shining scrolls.
IV.
Sing on, sing on, Enchantress sing !
And wave thy rustling mantle wide In music o’er the embowered Earth, And by the coral-templed tide 1
But chiefly in the homes of Men, Beside the altar, cradle sing, Or glorify the gloomy grave
With murmurous touches of thy wing !
For chiefly thou hast queenly part Within the wondrous Human Heart!
* See the story of Arion.
f Shakespere.
j See Apocalypse.
Entered according to Act of Congress, by Street & Smith, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Lnued States for the Southern District of New York.
BIG MINK, THE TRIPPER;
OR,
THE DAUGHTER OF THE BRIGADE.
A Story of the Far West.
BY AN OLD TRAPPER—(THE AUTHOR OF “ZEKE JOHNSON.”)
CHAPTER VIII.
BEN AND POLLY.
The two men under the willow stepped forward as soon as Bobstay made his appearance outside the door. One of them laid his hand on the shoulder of the sailor, and said,
“I arrest you in the king’s name.”
“Not while 1 have my flippers loose!” cried Ben, knocking the man down as he spoke, with a blow of his fist.
At the same moment the other man and Mr. Brandon seized the prisoner. The man who had been knocked down was also upon h-is feet very soon, and though Ben struggled desperately, yet he was, at length, overpowered and bound.
“What do you have to say against me, you murderous villains ?” inquired the sailor.
“Enough to hang you,” said the one whom Ben had struck; “you are a pirate; and you have murdered this gentleman’s daughter.”
Ben laughed aloud, and said scornfully,
“You’re mistaken in your man, you lubberly villain ; but I’ll have satisfaction for this.”
Mr. Brandon pulled a small, spotted handkerchief from bis pocket, and holding it up before the eyes of Bobstay, said gravely,
“Did you ever see this handkerchief before ? Do you know whose initials these are ? If not I will tell you—it is the name of Jane Brandon, my only daughter, who, coming from England to join me in America, was killed by yourself and your piratical crew.”
Ben appeared to be somewhat struck by this apparent evidence of guilt, but said, as he was led toward the fort,
“Allowing the handkerchief was hers, what proof is that of my having killed the woman ?’’
“We have other evidence,” replied Mr. Brandon; “and nothing remains but for you to confess your crime, and make peace with your Maker, for you can expect no mercy from man.”
Here a wailing cry was heard just behind them, and, turning his bead, Mr. Brandon saw the wife of Bobstay bathed in tears, and following at the heels of her husband. Already she had the appearance of a broken-hearted woman, and her sobs convulsed her whole frame.
Ben was taken to the fort, heavily ironed, and locked up.
“I ARREST YOU IN THE KING 8 NAME.” “NOT WHILE I HAVE MY FLIPPERS/LOOSE!” CRIED BEN, KNOCKING THE MAN DOWN AS HE SPOKE, WITH A BLOW OF HIS FIST.
It appeared that the wife of Brandon bad died in England, and his daughter bad been sent for to join him in America. She was bis only child» and be had awaited her arrival with impatience* The time passed by, and a recent letter from a friend in Virginia, at whose house she was expected to put up on her first coming on shore, expressed anxiety on account of the non-arrival of the brig in which she was expected to sail.
Finding that handkerchief in the possession of Bobstay, had troubled the Englishman a little ; but on the arrival of Big Mink’s Brigade at the fort he had heard some things which excited bis suspicions. Mink had spoken to his companions about the sailor, bis strange mutterings in his dreams, and the horsemen from whom the sailor had fled. The men had talked of it at the fort, and the Englishman, coupling their reports with the finding of his daughter’s handkerchief on the person of Bobstay, was led to believe that she had been murdered. But when, soon afterward, a couple of men from the Southern country came up, and reported that Bobstay was hunted as a pirate, be thought it was quite time to have him arrested, and held for examination.
When her busband was locked up, Polly went back to her once more desolate home. For a moment a bright sunbeam had streamed across her night, only to render the darkness more impenetrable than ever. Polly had always confided in her husband, and believed that he would one day return to her. He had returned, but only to be separated from her forever by an ignominous death.
There was much talk among the trappers at the fort, who universally commiserated Polly Bobstay; and Big Mink was said to have reproved bis companions for their chattering propensities.
“ They say,” observed Mink, “ that it’s better nine guilty men should get clar than that one innocent person should go under ; but they lie, for Folly’ll suffer more’n Ben, and Polly is innocent. I’d ruther bev a dozen redskins drawin’ a bead on me, plum-center, than to be throttled with a white rope lariat; but I’d ruther be swung up a dozen times than to suffer what Polly will suffer when Ben is ru-bbed out. This shows purty clar that they’d ruther one innocent should suffer than that only one guilty should float bis sticks a little longer. So much for thar pot-book lamin’, and snufflin’, and pettifoggin’.”
The den in which the prisoner was confined had been improvisized for the occasion ; it was a little apartment made by heavy plank partitions, one of the port-holes serving for ventilation,while a couple of sentinels stood guard both within and without the fort. In a day or two evidence sufficient to convict the prisoner was expected to come up the river.
On the first night of his incarceration, Ben sat looking toward his little cot in the distance, and through some foliage near it he could discern a faint light from the window, proving that his Polly was keeping her vigils in the absence of her husband. This gave rise to thoughts too painful, and Ben turned away to invite repose. He lay long awake, however. The drowsy sentinels were almost nodding at their post; all was silent in the fort; it was past midnight, and on the lids of the prisoner sleep had already begun to weigh
I “ Polly shall never want after you are gone; I’ll promise you that if you’ll give me a faithful account of what was done with my daughter. I ask for nothing else; keep all the rest of your secrets^o yourself, only tell me how my daughter died.”
As be pronounced these words, the lips of Brandon quivered, and his voice was nearly choked with emotion.
“ What if I should say,” returned the sailor, looking keenly at his interrogator, “that if you will give me a fair chance to escape, I will tell you all—everything that you wish to know ?”
The Englishman shook bis bead. “ You ask too much, my man ; I can’t do that lawfully; besides I haven’t any power to do it; I should only injure myself without doing you any good, if I attempted such a thing.”
“ You’ve always been a friend to Polly, I believe ?”
“She regards me as her friend ; that is true,” answered the Englishman.
“ Then if I confessed what you wished me to confess, innocent as I am, I don’t perceive as it would make any difference.”
“You shall swing ! Your infernal neck shall be stretched!” roared the Englishman, losing all patience at the apparent ingratitude and cunning of the pirate. “ Yes, I have always been a friend to your ill-used wife that you abandoned to poverty; but as for you, I’ll do my best to have you hung, you base villain—yes, bung by the neck till you are dead I”
So saying, and shaking his clenched band at the manacled prisoner, the Englishman suddenly departed.
Scarcely bad he taken his leave, when Ben saw, through the open port, bis wife wending her way toward the fort, but her step was unsteady, her eyes were cast d«wn, and she bore every appearance of a woman who bad received her death wound.
Instead of coming directly to the fort, Polly sheered off toward a cluster of poplars on a piece of rising ground, from the midst of which could be discerned the red roof of a square wooden building.
“She is going to see Brandon,” said the sailor to himself. “ She’ll find a poor welcome there.”
Indeed, but half an hour had elapsed when one of the guards announced to Ben that his wife had entered the fort. The sailor endeavored to nerve himself for the approaching interview, but bis limbs trembled, and the tears rushed to his eyes when he beheld the pallid countenance of Polly, and her eyes red with weeping.
One of the guards banded her stool. She placed it near the square opening in the upper part of the partition, and, without looking in at her busband, sat down and covered her face with her hands. Both Ben and Polly seemed unable to speak for some moments.
Polly was the first to break this mournful silence.
“ I’ve called to see Mr. Brandon, and be refused to let me enter his house,” said she, without looking up.
“ For a liar as be is,” cried Ben ; “ he told me that he should always treat you kindly.”
heavily, when the latter was aroused by the following words, sung in a strange, unearthly tone, but from what quarter they proceeded it was impossible to divine:
“ Cnmk I croak ! the gallows tree, That’s the music, lad, for me, Ha I ha! ba 1
“ Sailor bold, and sailor free, Hemp is spinning now for thee, Creak I croak!
« Twisted neck and breaking heart, Ben and Polly now must part, Ha I ha ! ha I
“ Creak ! creak ! the gallows tree, That’s the music, lad, for me, Hit! ha I ha!"
The words were bad enough, but the horrible laugh which was given as a chorus was fiendish, and might have been compared to that of the hyena, only that proceeding from a human throat, its effect was far more chilling than if it had come from an unreasoning beast.
Ben started up and looked from the port-hole ; two bayonets were instantly crossed before bis eyes by the men without.
“ Did you bear that voice ?” inquired the prisoner of the sentinels.
“ Keep quiet!” replied one of the men ; “ and don’t go to blathering here when the banshee is about.”
Ben lay down again, but not to sleep; that ghastly voice, that horrible laugh—so unaccountable and so mysterious—banished sleep from bis eyes, and he arose in the morning haggard and gloomy.
At about eight o’clock Mr. Brandon made his appearance. The sentinels stepped aside at his request.
It is certain that the sturdy Englishman was, with difficulty, able to restrain bis rage at the appearance of the man who had robbed him of bis daughter; yet he partially succeeded in doing so.
“ My man,” said he, “ yours is a bad case ; it’s bad for more than you.”
Ben thrust his bands in bis beckets and tossed up his bead, as if be would have said,
“And have you come here to tell me that?”
The Englishman sighed heavily, and went on : “It may ease your conscience, Benjamin Bobstay, if you confess to me the whole truth ; for I am very anxious to know all the facts, and no one but you can tell me.”
“ Have you come here,” said the prisoner, “ to ask me to cut my own throat? Just suppose I bad been a pirate, d’ye suppose I would give you the history of my cruise ?”
“ It’s not of any use to withhold from you the facts,” returned the other, “ that there are proofs enough coming in very shortly that will be sure to convict you of willful murder; therefore you’ll do yourself no barm by speaking out, and you may do yourself some good.”
. “ Good! What good ?”
“It’s said that open confession is good for the soul-----”
“Faugh! never mind the soul,” interrupted Ben ; “ what good will it do to me or Polly to pretend that I’ve been a pirate ?”
“ Catching at the suggestion, the Englishman approached nearer, and in a low, confidential tone, said:
“ No, no,” returned she, “ he is not a liar, but be sent word to me that an interview would do no good, and it was, therefore, better to spare both his feelings and mine.”
“Ho! bo! bis feelings!” said Ben, contemptuously ; “ and how could it hurt his feelings to see you ? What have you done to injure the old porpus ?”
“ He knew what I bad come for, of course,” answered Polly ; “ he knew that I could have but one errand.”
“ Oh ! yes, io inquire for work ; and he was not willing to give it to you!”
“ How can you joke, Benjamin, when your life bangs on a thread ?”
Ben laughed at his joke.
Polly’s tears flowed afresh, for she well knew that Ben assumed this careless air to dissipate the gloom which hung over her spirits. It was only another proof that be thought of her happiness even while death stood frowning him in the face.
“ They cannot prove anything against me, for this good reason,” said Ben, “ that I am innocent.”
Polly looked up hopefully a moment: she had been accustomed to place the most implicit confidence in her busband ; but, in spite of himself, Ben could not throw into bis countenance the cheering hope of an innocent man. Polly gave him credit for his endeavors to remove her despondency, but she had heard too much from others since Ben’s incarceration, and it tallied so exactly with some things which had come under her own personal observation, that she felt all hope was madness.
After a sad and tearful interview with her husband, Polly retired.
CHAPTER IX.
THE WIFE AND THE FATHER,.
The silent grief of a breaking heart affords a better subject for the pencil than for the pen; though neither can fully bring up from the abyss of woe, that gnawing, hopeless agony witnessed only by the sleepless watchers whom Heaven has placed as sentinels over the human heart, that its sufferings may not be greater than it can bear, and who, even in the gloomiest hour, occasionally launch the light from their radiant wings upon the spirit which is ready to sink in darkness forever.
On the day after her interview with her husband, Polly might have been seen bowed with grief, thinner than usual, and slightly staggering in her walk, with face partially muffled, approaching once more the dwelling of the bereaved Englishman. Polly knocked loud and boldly at the door, which was opened by a short, stout mulatto man, who, as soon as he detected the worn features of the suppliant, exclaimed pompously :
“You heab agin! What you want ?”
“To see Mr. Brandon,” was the choking reply.
“Go ’way! What I tell yer de lass time you come heab ? Misser Brandon has udder bizness dan to talk wid pirate and tief.”
“I must see him!” cried the despairing woman, whom grief rendered bold, and pushing in by the astonished blackamoor, she soon reached the door of Mr. Brandon’s office. She opened it, and saw the Englishman sitting in a large oak chair, and holding in his hand a portrait, upon which he gazed, while the big tears gathered in his eyes, and now and then fell upon the frame of the picture.
“Come in, then! come in and shut the door, since you will hear the truth,” cried the Englishman, passionately. “Look upon this picture!”
He held up the portrait before her eyes, and Polly saw a most beautiful little girl of some seven or eight years of age.
“How like you that ?” said he.
“Oh! my God!” ejaculated Polly, gazing steadfastly on the portrait.
“You realize what must be a father’s feelings. ’Tie well. Just so she looked when she used to say to me, ‘Papa, let me comb out your hair,’ and when she found a gray one, those eyes laughed as plainly as her voice; and whew I said to her playfully, ‘Oh, yes, Jenny, my bud of beauty, I’m getting to be an old fellow !* she would put those little plump haads to my two cheeks, and while her large dark eyes softened with affection, she would say, ‘Never mind, papa, I will be a young woman when you are old, and then I will take good care of you ; and if your hair is all gone, I will comb out your wig for you. Never mind growing old, papa ; I will take care of you then, and tuck you up all nice on cold nights, just as mamma used to tuck up me.’ ”
Here he paused a moment, and then turning suddenly toward Polly, cried, in a terrible burst of grief,
“Yes, I am growing old—but, Jenny! Jenny! you are not here to fulfill your promise.”
Polly cast up her dry and aching eyes to| Heaven, moved her white lips as if she would' speak, and fell apparently lifeless to the floor.
[TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN FOR THE N. Y. WEEKLY. ]
BY JUNIUS B. ORMAN.
THE WORKMEN WHO WORK IN THE TEMPLE.

I toiled all day ’neath the arches
Of Cologne’s lofty halls;
I worked for good St. Crispin, Bettor than workmen all;
But day after day, as I worked,
And harked to the monks’ low prayer, 1 hewed and morticed the stone. And laid it layer on layer-
Up, up to the vaulted roof-Down to the altar and font, I heard the workman’s scoff
Echo the solemn chant;
Blasphemy, deep and loud,
Cursing the name of Him For whose glory all of us worked.
We heard the solemn hymn
That thro’ the architrave lurked.
Then I tho’t how tallied the world To the little world I was seeing, How the honor and praise of God Was wronged and defiled in the being;
That the hotior of His great temple Was soiled by the souls within,
How the workmen who work in the temple v/ere lost in the woes of sin.
'WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.]
JACK FLANDERS, THE BUFFALO HUNTER, OR, THE HEROINE OF THE PLAINS.
tBY J. WARD CHILDS.
I was sitting by my office fire one cold, blustering afternoon, in the early part of winter, vainly endeavoring to draw from my imagination suitable material for a story for the-----Magazine, when there came a loud rap at my door, and the next moment in stepped a tall, fine-looking gentleman, whose prepossessing countenance was not altogether unfamiliar, although I was unable either to call him by name, or call to mind when and where I had seen him.
As he advanced toward me with his hand extended, doubtless observing that I did not recognise him, he remarked,
“Why, Tom, you haven’t forgotten your old friend and school-fellow, Jack Flanders, have you ?”
“Jack Flanders,” I exclaimed, seizing him by the hand. “Jack Flanders, can this be you ? Is it possible that after all the rumors we have heard respecting your being murdered by the merciless Indians that you are still in the laud of the living?”
“I am most happy to say, my old friend, that I have came tiiis afternoon to give you the most unmistakable proof of the fact, which I trust you will have no disposition to question.”
I assured him that I bad no such inclination, but that I was happy to find those painful rumors which had caused us so much sorrow to be false, and bidding him be seated, we were soon deeply engaged in narrating to each other in turn, our adventures since we last had met, some nine years previous.
Since that period I had been four years at college, and the remainder of the time engaged at my profession in a small town, adjoining our native place; while he had been there many years, a wanderer amid the wilds of the West. At one time associated with an exploring expedition, at an other engaged in bunting cattle, catching wild horses, and bunting buffalo, and other game on the vast prairies of the territories and Mexico.
Having made him familiar with my history and experience, and with matters and things at home, I most willingly subsided to an attentive listener, as be in turn took up bis own adventures, and, commencing with our last parting, related in his graphic and thrilling style, tbo hairbreadth escapes he had passed through, and the Wild romantic times generally he had enjoyed.
The fallowing, which was bis last, and, ia man^ respects most interesting, I will give thd reader as nearly as possible in tho Barrator’s own words.
“But ray wildest adventure of all,” he continued, having just concluded an interesting narrative of one he had had in the mines of California, “was iny last buffalo hunt”
“ It Was a beautiful morning in the early part of last fall, that a company of tas, four in number, started out for some wild sport among the buffaloes. We were all mounted on four of the finest mustangs in the country, well provided with weapons and ammunition, and full of life and animation, as every one is sure to be on such occasions.
“ A more glorious time was never enjoyed by four young men than was that day’s hunt by us. Game of every description, from the timorous hare to the huge bison, fell victims to our unerring aim.
“ So rapidly and unconsciously had the hours slipped away that ere we were aware the sun was sinking in the west
“Just as we were on the point of starting homeward, our attention was arrested by the approach of some eight or ten Indians from behind a small strip of woods which stretched along to the westward of us. They were but a short distance in our rear, and upon discovering us they immediately started in pursuit.
“ This was no new position for us to be placed in. We had often been engaged in skirmishes' with the copper-colored rascals, and could refer back to some of them for many of our most interesting adventures.
“ Remaining perfectly cool and collected until they bad come within range of our rifles, we each selected our man and fired upon them. The result was as we bad intended. We had now four the less to contend with.
“ Wheeling our horses we broke for another small girt of woods not far in the distance, hotly pursued by the surviving Indians, who returned our fire, which unfortunately resulted in the loss of two of our companions.
“ This sad affair, in a measure, disheartened us. This was resulting more seriously than we had anticipated. We bad often proved a match for more than twice our number, but now it was evidently destined to prove quite otherwise.
“ We had gained considerably on our enemy, and having managed to reload our rifles during our flight, just as we reached the woods, we turned audzfired upon them again. The result was as satisfactory as before ; we bad now but three left.
“ Two of them again returned our charge, but fortunately without any effect, my companion receiving but a slight wound.
“ It was now to be a contest of two against three, with tomahawks and knives. Just as we were alighting for their reception, we observed the hindermost one suddenly dart into the woods in another direction, leaving the other two to advance to the attack alone. In a moment more we were desperately engaged in a struggle for life or death. I bad somewhat the advantage of my companion in being mu.h more expert in the use of the tomahawk, although I had the most formidable antagonist, be being a stalwart six-
footer, brdad and powerfully made, while the other was rather diminutive in size.
’ “But alas, he was master of his business. Scarcely had we engaged, when I saw my poor friend, my only surviving companion fall beneath the dexterous and fatal blow of his antagonist; and heard—alas, what words can toll my feelings in that trying moment, when my own life seemed about to be sacrificed for the gratification of such blood-tlafrsty* villains—bis dying groans. What possible room for hope had I now. I felt that my time bad come. I was growing weaker and weaker from the many wounds I had received,
• but the consciousness of the perrilous condition 1 was mj, for the moment nerved me with superhuman strength.
“Scarcely had my dying companion’s last faint groan fell from his lips, when the silence of the twilight hour was broken by the unearthly yell of my antagonist, as he reeled to the ground beneath the skillful and powerful blow of my weapon.
“ Startled and surprised at the unexpected fall of his companion, the other Indian, throwing the scalp be had just cut from the head of his victim, to the ground, and seizing his tomahawk, still warm with the blood of my friend, with all the ferocity of an enraged figer, sprang upon me, and showered his deadly blows upon me in a manner I was unable long to withstand.
“At last, overcome with the loss of blood, and his superior skill and strength, I staggered to the ground with his ferocious grasp on my throat, and his merciless weapon trembling above ray head.
“ Just as he was about to bury it in my head, and the last ray of hope had flickered away, the report of a gun broke on our ears, my bloodthirsty foe relapsed his grasp, his weapon fell harmlessly at his side, and without a groan he fell heavily to the ground.
“ Springing to my feet to ascertain the cause of my mysterious and unexpected preservation, I beheld through the dim twilight, sitting on a milk-white horse, in the deep shade of the forest, but a few yards from me, the form of a beautiful white female, attired in Indian costume, with a rifle in her hands and a scalping knife in her belt.
“Approaching to where I was standing, she inquired if I was dang ?rously wounded.
‘•I told her I thought not, although very much exhausted from the loss of blood from a few deep wounds I had received. I could hardly find words to express my thankfulness for her timely aid in thus snatching me from the jaws of death, and my utter surprise at finding my deliverer a fair and beautiful girl. Various conjectures possessed ray mind as to the cause of her mysterious appearance in such a place, so far from the haunts of man, and under such peculiar circumstances.
“ Judge of my surprise upon her informing me that I was not under the slightest obligations to her, as I bad also proved her deliverer from a thraldom worse than death itself. To my proffered services to escort her to her home, she : replied that she trusted that she had looked for ; the last time on wbat had been, not a home, but ] a prison to her for the last two years, and that < she would be under the greatest obligations to I me, would I take her to a home among her own people and kin.
“ Thus assured as to what course to pursue, I again mounted my horse, and informing my fair co.ir inion that a ride of some two or three hour & across the prairies would bring us to the nearest settlement, and my home, we turned our backs on those dark and bloody scenes that had proved so disastrous, and had cast such a gloom and melancholy over my spirit—robbing me of three of my dearest earthly triends—and pursued our way toward the settlement The full moon was just rising in all its splendor, the stars shone brightly from a cloudless sky, and all was as bushed and quiet as the chamber of death.
“ Once under way, I made known ray desire to become better acquainted with the peculiar train of circumstances which bad placed her in so singular a position, and bad resulted ia her rescuing me from so sad a fate.
“ ‘ Two years ago,’ she began, ‘ my parents and rayself, ^teir only child, left our home in New England, in company with several other families to seek new homes in the Western country. I was delighted with the change. The idea of a home amid the wild and romanfe gfiSfiSS of the great West; pleaded toy girlish fancy. I was charmed with every changing scene and adventure connected with our journey, until, alas! that fatal night closed in upon us, when, oh ! how my blood chills within my veins as I think of it—when our peaceful and happy encampment was broken in upon by a bloodthirsty horde of savages, who, with a merciless hand, murdered all but myself and one other young girl, who were taken prisoners.
“ ‘ Early next morning, we were placed upon horses, and in company with some halt-dozen of the tribe, rode to their encampment, some ten miles distant, while the remainder, with their plunder, took another route.
“ ‘We met with much kinder treatment at their bands than we had anticipated. But 0! how much rather would we have shared the fate of our dear parents and friends, than to have fallen into the hands of such barbarians, after having witnessed the inhuman slaughtering of those so dear to our hearts.
“ ‘Time wore heavily on, but brought no hopes of deliverance. A year had passed away, and still we were in bondage. During this period we had not seen a white person. We were so closely watched that all attempts to escape were vain.
“ ‘About this time ray companion was taken sick, and after lingering along for some six weeks, she died. Poor girl! how welcome was death to her. Grief was the cause of it. She was not as strong as 1 was ; she could not endure the exposures and hardships of such a life ; and the sad recollections of the past worked upon her delicate nature, until they ate her life away. She could not have felt worse than I did, or have felt the loss of her dear parents more than I did mine; but she had not the power of controlling and overcoming her feelings, like myself.
“ ‘I could not but feel a regret that the grim messenger did not take me also, as I gazed upon her placid features, on that lovely afternoon, when we consigned her lifeless form, beautiful even in death, to the silent keeping of the grave.
“ ‘While I had her with me, I could find much to interest and console me, and make the leaden hours of our captivity pass off in some degree pleasantly. But now that she was gone, and I left all alone, with no one to talk to, or to share my griefs and sorrows, or my happiness, which would now and then visit my lonely heart, I knew not what to do. In prayer and tears 1 found my only relief, my only peace and happiness.
“ ‘With but little to interrupt the monotony of my forest life, another year rolled away. Si tcei my companion’s death, I was frequently permitted to accompany members of the tribe on their bunting excursions, which I usually enjoyed very much, and which afforded me a faint hope of making, by some fortuitous means or other, ray , escape.
“ ‘So long had I been looking for some favor- . able opportunity, which I flattered myself these excursions might sometime afford me, without the . least sign of one as yet, that I was about giving ■ up in despair, when, 0! what language can des- i cribe my feelings, as I saw your little company in the distance, the first white persons I had seen i for two long years. But judge of my horror upon. 1
s hearing the Indians plotting an attack, and on being threatened with being shot down if I made any attempt to escape.
1 “ But, notwithstanding, I was determined to
let no opportunity pass. Just as the only two surviving ones were about rushing upon you, you doubtless observed me dart into the fore?A It was my intention to join you if possible, and help to save you from their merciless hands. I might also have been the means of saving the life of your friend, had my rifle been loaded. But I had just discharged it previous to our discovering you, and they would not allow me to reload it. The rest you are painfully familiar with.’
“ During this sad but interesting narrative I had become entirely lost to all surroundings in my interest in hey brief history of her sufferings and sorrows, and in my profound admiration of her beautiful and intelligent countenance. 1 thought her the most beautiful creature I bad ever seen. To come directly to the point at once, I was in love with the girl.
“ If romance can lend a charm to the ecstacies of love, there could dertainly be nothing wanting in our case.
“ We now put spurs to our horses and rode the remainder of the distance in comparative silence, making the distance in a very short time.
“ As we entered the town the news of the sad fate of my companions, and of our own thrilling adventures, spread like wildfire, and in a short time the greatest excitement prevailed. The next morning a company of armed men set out in search of the bodies of the unfortunate young men, which were found and brought in the same evening. A deep gloom was cast over our little town by this sad occurrence. They were three of the most promising young men in the country, and greatly beloved by all who knew them.
“ In my opinion as to the charms of my fair and heroic deliverer, who gave her name as Isabel Lansdale, I was most fully sustained by all who saw her, particularly the young men of the town, who fell most desperately in love with her, and envied me and my good fortune, although so dearly won. But they said that I had the best ; claim on her affections; and what was better i than all, she said so, too, on a certain occasion when I told her I loved her and asked her to be 1 mine, which statement sho most beautifully and I satisfactorily corroborated a few months after- ; ward, but a few weeks since, by permitting me to < lead her to the altar and having her name 1 changed to Mrs. Isabel Flanders. 1
“And now, my good friend, if you will get i your overcoat and hat and accompany me to the J hotel, I will be pleased to introduce you to the 1 girl who so heroically saved my life, and is now 1 the light and happiness of it, and have you judge 1 for yourself as to the justness of the encomiums I 1 have lavished upon her.” (
I need not say that it was with the greatest 1 satisfaction that I accepted my friend’s kind in- 1 vitation. And when I say that the lady to whom ‘ be so proudly (and justly, too,) introduced me to i as his wife, is one of the most beautiful and ami- i able of ladies that ever inspired the sentiment of pure, devoted love in the heart of man, I but s echo the thoughts of all who have ever enjoyed i the pleasure of her acquaintance. ]
My k»vo 1—my own!—sweet chirming words, They vibrate through iny frame.,
As if the chord of life was struck,
And sacred musie came;
\nd though but plain and simple, words,
Yet much do they convey—
What fond regrets—what tender thoughts, When thou art far away,
And naught but love and tenderness Shall in life’s path be known,
If walked with thee, beloved one, My beautiful 1—my own I
Thou wert the first that ever claimed
The worship of my heart;
But now to God who gave me thee,
* I dedicate a part.
Yet Still I fear that love for thee
Has far too great a sway;
And God will ask me for the love
I am giving thus away.
Yet unto Him I c’or shall bow
And bend before His throne;
And bless Him for His priceless gift, My beautiful I—my own I
MY GRANDFATHER’S STORY.
How glad I was when a letter came, in the plain, old-fashioned handwriting of my grandfather, inviting me to spend the winter with them, and saying I must be there before Christmas, as all the grand-children were coming to “ grandfather’s ” to spend the holidays. Eagerly I rau to mother, asking it she was willing I should go, then to my father, who, business-like, before be could consent, must know bow many dollars it would require to purchase my outfit, and bow much I should want to expend for trifles while at grandfather’s, and the number of fashionable dresses I expected to bring back to my prairie home. So he will not consent, I thought, and with a feeling of bitter disappointment creeping into my heart, was turning away, when seeing a merry sparkle in my father’s eye, begged to refer him to mother for satisfactory answers to bis numerous questions, and hurried away to read again my grandfather’s letter.
Happy memories I bad of a time, far back in early childhood, when I heard the cheery voice of my grandfather, and sitting upon his knee, listened wonderingly to the wild, weird stories of olden times, while my eyes wandered to the calm, sweet face of grandmother, who sat near, quietly knitting. Then, too, I remembered Uncle Richard, only ton years my senior, who used to permit me to follow him over the farm, now in the field watching the baymakers, and now in the orchard gathering fruit. But that pleasant visit was ended all too soon, and my child heart swelled with grief when we all said “ good-by,” and for days after we reached our wilderness home, I begged to be taken back to grandfather’s that I might see Uncle Richard.
It was the day before Christmas when I stopped at a station ten miles from my grandfather’s, and found the dear old gentleman waiting for me. Not many silver threads were gleaming among his dark locks when we bad last met« but now bis hair was of snowy whiteness, and bis form was slightly bowed, yet there was a ruddy glow upon his furrowed cheek, and the same cheery voice that cbarmed my ear in childhood asked many questions about the loved ones in my prairie home. With kind words and pleasant smiles grandmother met me, and I followed her to my room, where a bright, cheerful fire was blazing. After laying aside my cloak and bonnet, lunch was brought up, when grandmother left me, saying I must sleep, as my cousins would all be there in the evening, and I looked so weary that she would not disturb me until time to dress for the evening reception. I slept for hours, and did
[WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 1
MY LOVE!-MY OWN!
BY FINLEY JOHNSON.
[WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.]
BY ANNA RAYMOND.
not waken until grandmother came in with lights, saying my cousins were all there, and when I inquired how many, she replied, only fifteen, the youngest six and the eldest twenty-three years.
The group assembled in the parlor that evening made a home-picture. The young men and boys were enjoying the fine skating, Uncle Richard being the only gentleman who preferred our society to that exhilirating exercise in the keen, bracing air. The crackling hickory wood, piled high upon the hearth, burning in bright flame, cast a halo around the cheerful face of grandfather, sitting in the corner, one arm around a little girl, who had climbed upon the arm of his chair, while another, sitting at his feet, was putting on grandpa’s slippers. A young maiden, whose pale lips and lustrous eye foretold that not many Christmas mornings would dawn for her, was kneeling on one side of grandmother’s chair, an aged hand resting lovingly on the bowed head, while I stood opposite listening to a story of my mother’s childhood. A beautiful girl, my Cousin Mary, the fairest of the group, was seated at the old-fashioned piano, sometimes warbling a gay song and playing the accompaniment, then turning to speak to Uncle Richard, who was regarding her with admiration, and as he leaned upon the back of grandmother’s chair, he seemed to have no eyes or ears for any other than Mary. Two girls were sitting by the table conversing in low tones, and turning over the leaves
of a pictorial volume ; and two kittens, playing at grandmother’s feet, completed the group.
An hour passed in the interchange of pleasant thoughts; then remembering the weird stories I heard in my childhood, I asked grandfather to repeat one. He couldn’t tell one of those wild stories on that evening, be said, he had promised Richard that he would repeat a story of real life, but thought it would be better to wait until New Year’s eve.
“ Don’t defer it, I would rather we all hear it to-night,” said Uncle Richard.
“No, no, it always makes my heart ache, though that sad hour brought us a blessing and ray grandmother looked imploringly into Richard’s face, but he would not be put off.
“ Thirty years to-night,” my grandfather began, : “ the storm-wind howled dismally as it swept in fitful gusts around the house ; the sleet pattering ] against the window-pane, and the leafless branches of the trees, as they swayed to and fro, woke wild, weird echoes. The children having spent the evening in pleasant games, bad gone to their rooms, and my wife and I were sitting in this room, talking of the future and laying plans for the welfare of our children, listening meantime to the storm. The clock struck the midnight hour, and as the last note died away, we beard the wail of an infant It might be the bowling of the storm, we thought, but there came a moan, followed by that infantile wail, and then we knew it was not the moaning of the night-wind. ‘ God forbid that any human being perish so near us said my wife, as we threw up the window, and looked out into the wild storm. [
“ Though half blinded by the sleet we could see the dark outline of a figure near the window, and as I again heard that smothered, wailing cry, I sprung out and found a half-frozen woman, with an infant clasped tightly in her cold, stiffening arms. The wind had blown out the lamp and while my wife was relighting it I carried the woman in, and laid her upon the lounge. A physician was summoned, and all that warm hearts could suggest, and willing hands do, was done to save her life, but in vain all our efforts. There was a few minutes of consciousness in which she asked for her babe, and as she pressed her cold lips to its cheek, she, in a faint whisper, besought my wife not to let her child be taken to the almshouse ; her husband was dead, and though they had no relatives on this side of the ocean, they were both of good parentage.
“ My wife bade her not to let a fear for her little one darken her last moments, he should be to her as one of her own children, and while she lived he should never know the loss of a mother’s love. Faithfully has she kept thift promise, while I have striven to act a father’s part toward the little orphan waif so strangely sent to us.”
“ Is the child living ?” I asked, going to tho side of my grandfather; “if so, tell us wbat has become of him.”
“ He bas ever been to me a dutiful son, and now as ray trembling footsteps are nearing that misty stream which bounds the shore of time, I lean upon him, and if she, who has traveled by my side for nearly half a century should linger longer, I know that he will love and cherish her —will be the comfort of her last days.”
“ Can it be that child was Uncle-------but I 1 could say no more, for strange thoughts were thronging my mind.
“The foundling was ho you call Uncle Richard, and will you love him less now that you know be is not your mother’s brother and Uncle Richard laid his hand upon my head as be spoke.
I looked up into the dark eyes fixed so inquiringly upon my face, and without asking why my heart throbbed so gladly, replied that I should never love him less.
We were none the less happy, during the week that followed, because Uncle Richard was only the adopted child of our grandparents, but gradually I, who bad not known him since I was ten ! years old, become shy, never going to his side, 1 and seldom joining in conversation when he was ’ the center of the lively group. New Year’s came and passed happily, and one after another left, until the family group consisted of only my ’ grandparents, Uncle Richard, and myself. But , why should I linger—the winter is goue, and in a few weeks I shall return to my prairie home. Richard will accompany me. I do not call him uncle now ; and if my parents consent, I shall be his wife; and his home will be mine also. And so will end my visit to grandfather’s.
[WRITTEN FOR TEE NEW-YORK WEEKLY.]
“ONLY IN FtN.”
BY BULLA FRENCH.
“ Well, Ida, your father has really consented to our marriage.”
The speaker was a tall, slouchy-looking young man, who made some attempts at dandyism, and the person addressed was a lovely young girl, upon whose sunny head the light of seventeen summers rested. She was a merry young creature, this Ida Clair, for • shadows were not wont to rest upon her brow, nor homes to be dreary where the light of her smiles chased away the darkness. Yet she was much given to coquetry, and did many absurd things, which, when she was reproved for doing them, she said she did “ only in fun.”
“Who bade you ask my father?” she asked, looking comically at the young man.
“ Why—no—one,” Mr. 0. Albert Slaback stammered. “ I thought you wanted me to by your letter.”
“ Now, 1 declare! vou are a greater goose than I thought you were,” she said, laughingly.
“And you don’t intend to marry me ?”
“ Certainly not, you great jackanapes you. If you hadn’t been a fool you would have known that I was making fun of you.”
“ I’ll pay you for this!” be cried angrily : “ you shall marry me, or I shall sue you for breach of promise and rob you of all your fortune !”
“ Sue away, Mr. Fortunehunter ; but if you’ll
listen I’ll tell you a better way. Just go to the city and hire out for a lamp-lighter. You are so tall you wouldn’t have to use a ladder, and so could light twice as many lamps as any one else. You’d surely make your fortune in that way. Better try it,” and with a low, musical laugh the young girl fled from the room.
She sought her father in the study, and asked, abruptly,
“ Why did you tell Mr. Slaback that he might have me for a wife ?”
“ I told him that you could have the man of your choice,” was the reply.
“ But he is not my choice.”
“ Then why did you tell him so ?”
“ I did not.”
“ Nor give him to understand so?”
“ Well—I—might, but I was only in fun.”
“ Well, as be is the third man that has asked me for you, with your consent, which you afterward declared was given ‘only in fun,’ I have determined that you shall marry him.”
“Father,” she said, *you would not want me to marry a fortune-hunter—a coxcomb—would you ?”
“He is a fit companion for a flirt!”
The blood rushed to Ida’s face, but she said nothing.
“Tell me all about this courtship,” he said, at length.
“Well, yesterday, be came to me, and said that be had a secret to tell me. I
asked bim wbat it
was? ‘I love a young girl,’ be said, ‘but I am too bashful to tell her so. ..............
What shall Ido?’
‘Send her a bouquet,’ I said, ‘and hide a love-letter among the flowers.’ ‘Do you think that she will bid me hope?’ ‘Certainly,’ I replied. ‘Would you if you were in her place?’ ‘No one could help loving you,’ I said, ironically. He said no more then, but this morning I received a bouquet and a note ; and such a note! Ha J ha! he 1 be 1 be! be I” laughed Ida, unable to restrain herself any longer.
“How unladylike you do laugb. Ha! ha! be! he! be 1 be! How does that sound ?”
Ida only laughed the louder.
“Come,” be said, sternly, “what about this note?”
“Well, here it is,” she replied, drawing a crumpled letter from her pocket, she read,
“Dear Miss, when first your fair form met my eyes My heart did leap in glad surprise;
For ne’er before did I behold
A maiden, of such beautious mould;
I thought some one of angel birth Had rode a rainbow down to earth, And old but stop to rest its wings Before itsoared to Heavenly things.”
“Accept these roses, they are fair. Fit gems to deck thy yellow hair. Tbey’ll tell you that my love for thee Will last to all eternity.
Yes, even when I’m dead and gone, My love for you will still hold on. 01), have ine, dear, or I shall die— I pause, I wait, for a reply.”
Mr. Clair turned his bead to hide the smile that would creep over his lips, as be asked,
“ What reply did you make ?”
“ This was it”
Just like a dart, straight to my heart Went all your words of woe ;
But my dear dad, would use the gad., If I should have a beau.
So we must part, though all my heart Was given long ago ;
And you must die, and I must cry, And thus will end our woe.
“ Hem,” coughed Mr. Clair, “ was that all ?”
“ Yes. Do you wish me to marry such a jackanapes as be is?”
“ Yes. In just one month.”
“ But, pa, I am engaged to Charles Ellis.”
“ You can tell him that you were ‘ only in fun,’ ” he replied, with provoking coolness.
“ As you will,” she said, and with a merry twinkle in her eyes, she left the room.
He had expected tears, and bad been disappointed. He did not want her to marry Mr. Slaback. Ah! no, He wanted to punish her for her coquetry, knowing that her ingenious little head would soon get her out of the scrape.
The next time Ida saw Mr. Slaback, be asked wbat her father’s decision was.
“That I shall marry you,” she replied.
“ Do you intend to obey him ?”
“ Implicitly.”
Mr. O. Albert Slaback congratulated himself on his chance of gaining a fortune.
Three weeks bad passed, and Mr. Clair was almost in despair, fearing that bis daughter intended to many the dandy. When one day as Ida was passing the parlor, she saw Mr. Slaback sitting asleep, in a chair.
Ida sped away to the kitchen, where she found Biddy, the cook, an ugly, broad-faced, but good-hearted Irish woman, who was always willing to help her young mistress out of a scrape.
“Biddy, you’ll help me out of this scrape, won’t you ?” she asked.
“ Yis. me darlint, I thought that it was after slighting old Biddy you was, ’cause you didn’t come afor,” was the reply.
“ I’ve been studying up a plan, now I’ve got one,” Ida said.
“ Got one, ye have, and wbat is it ?”
“Slaback is asleep in pa’s study, and as be sleeps very soundly, you may go in and sit down in his lap, put your arm around his neck and pretend to be asleep. Then I will bring pa, and he will kick him out doors.” I
“ But Miss Ida, maybe he’ll be after kicking me out, too.”
“ No danger. I’ll stand between you and all barm.”
And she led Biddy up the stairs, and after she had seen her seated on Mr. Slaback’s lap, she went in search of her father.
He was in the garden, and she soon found him.
“ Pa,” she said, “ there is something in the study that I wish you to see. Come quickly, and noiselessly, if you would see it
He followed her wonderingly to the room, and there be saw the dandy, slicked and perfumed, sitting fast asleep, with Biddy, who being in the habit of going to sleep every time sbe sat down, now was asleep in earnest, sitting with her arms around bis neck, and her face, streaked with potblack, pressed close to bis.
Mr. Clair had a notion to be angry, but when he heard Mr. Slaback murmur “ my own one, mv sweet one,” in his sleep, be could restrain himself no longer, but burst into a loud laugh that woke the loving couple ; and 0, Albert seeing bow matters stood, tried to spring to bis feet, and throw Biddy—who, in her fear of falling, clung the closer, and being very heavy, pulled bim to the floor, where they lay some time, kicking and squatting in an awful manner.
“ What docs this mean ?” Mr. Ciair af'ked, at length.
“ Plaise, Mr. Clair, don’t be after skoulding, when yeas know that I’m a poor ould woman, wid no one to love me but the dear boy here.”
Mr. Clair picked up “ the dear boy” in no gentle manner, and threw bim from the open window to the grass below. And there he lay ever so long, moaning, and declaring that it was all a plot.
The next day Charles Ellis came to demand the band of Ida, and it was given to him.
“ Ida,” said Mr. Clair to the fair, young girl, who, decked in bridal robes, leaned, ]>roudly, on her husband’s arm, a month later, 11 Ida, to-day yon promised to love, honor, and obey Cbarles| Ellis. Do you intend to keep your promise ?”
“ Oh, I was only in fun, papa,” she said, looking n^p, archly, inAo his face.
2
unhappy woman had revived, be continued, “You would come in against my orders, you
The Englishman summoned aid, and when the ! consultation. She feared that her worst fears • - - • ’ v-----------------------xs—were true. But now she heard footsteps approaching the house. She went to the door and opened


would hear what a distracted father bad to say-so, listen—I shall soon be done. Look again upon this picture. See that sunny hair, those flowing locks of gold; it was iuto that mass of bur • nisbed ringlets that the remorseless pirate thrust his bloody hand ; it was by those shining locks that be held her while he drew his knife across her pure white throat, and even after she had been thrown into the sea, and still clung to tbe gunwale of the boat, they were those little hands —those hands that had so often smoothed my careworn brow—those same hands that he chopped off at tbe wrist with the gory axe, and then laughed to see the rich blood spurt from tbe stumps as she sauk beneath the devouring wave to rise no more-----”
“ But, sir”—began Polly.
“ And you come here,” interrupted Brandon, “to ask me to forgive the wretch who mangled my angel child, and has shut down the black canopy of despair upon my soul forever!”
“ He knew not that it was your child,” said Polly, hastily, but with death in her face.
“Polly Bobstay! have I been mistaken in you ?” said Brandon, with fearful calmness ; “can you plead for such a monster as that ? Can you ask me—even if I had tbe power—to send forth that wretch to murder some other man’s child, to bring rui<i, despair, and worse than death upon some other parent’s heart ?”
Polly rose up suddenly, and standing erect, almost like one inspired, her hollow eyes gleaming with a light which seemed scarcely of earth, she said :
“ I am a wife ’. When I gave my hand to that man whom you curse, I gave him my heart, for better, for worse, through joy and through sorrow, through honor and shame. His I am in prosperity or in woe, in the palace or in prison, in tbe nuptial couch, and at the foot of the gallows tree. Mr. Brandon, can you as a true Englishman, as a believer in the holy church of our fathers, can you ask a leal, honorable and virtuous wife to desert her husband in tbe hour of his extremity ?” Having uttered her whole thought, in the majesty of womanly virtue, sustained by the consciousness of an MQblemished life, of conjugal trust and confidence through all the weary years that she had been separated from him to whom she gave her girlish heart, a reaction now took place, and Polly sank upon her chair, pale and almost as lifeless as when she received the first shock from tbe violence of her benefactor’s grief.
The Englishman clasped hip hands, looked per window open, and the voice of Bragg, which down a moment, and then exclaimed: ’ 1 -----—
was abrupt and testy, as if that gentleman was Oh ’ Polly ! Polly » would to God that you no{ at all pleased at being broken of his rest.
“Who is it disturbing folks at this hour of tbe
were as bad as your busband!”
A terrible struggle now took place in the mind of the Englishman : grief for his daughter, and sympathy for the poor, friendless woman, for whom he could not but entertain the most pro-

found respect, contended violently in his stern but generous soul ; be became nearly as pale as the anguished wife before him, he shook in his seat, and large beads of sweat stood out upon bis forehead.
Polly sank on her knees at bis feet.
“ No—no,” cried he, aloud, as he extended both bands to raise her up ; “ whatever your husband is, that is no place for you. I am nothing but a sinful man, suffering no doubt the meed of my ill-deservings. It is not well that a wife—a pure and virtuous being—an angel like you, should kneel to me. Rise, Polly, rise i There— there—poor, good creature, do not tremble so, you deserve to be happy at any rate. Come, come, do not look so despairing. Poor woman ’ poor woman!”
What could Polly glean from those words ? He bad told her not to look so despairing. Did-he then bid her hope ?
Polly’s whole soul was in her eyes as she bent them upon the lips of the man who seemed to hold in his hands the fate of her husband. Silent as a marble statue, she seemed to feel that death and life hung suspended upon that moment.
“Jenny! Jenny! my poor, murdered Jenny! what would you say if you were here ?” cried the Englishman.
“ Ah !” shrieked Polly, “ what could an angel do more than to repeat the words of her Saviour : ‘ Go and sin no more!’ ”
Entirely overpowered by his contending feelings, the Englishman seemed now to be reduced to the feebleness of a child, and after two or three efforts to speak, faintly uttered,
“Polly Bobstay, I shall always abhor your husband—but go home, go home, child. It is not in nature that any man should add to your sufferings.”
It was rather the tone and the look than tbe words which caused Polly to leap from her chair and fling herself at the feet of the suffering father. She clasped bis knees, she wrung and kissed his band a thousand times, and with violent sobs and streaming eyes, she called down a thousand blessings upon the head of her benefactor.
Brandon was, all this time, endeavoring to extricate himself from her embrace, but could not immediately succeed ; when finally he broke away from tbe transported woman, he rushed through the nearest door and fastened it after him.
Polly pressed her hand upon her heart, which seemed ready to burst, and for some minutes was unable to stand upon her feet.
At length she gathered strength to move, and passing out stopped one moment in front of the house. Her lips were seen to move, while her eyes were elevated toward Heaven.
Who can doubt that the blessing which flowed from those pure lips was borne, on angels’ wings, over Heaven’s high battlements, and reached tbe Throne o* the Eternal ?
CHAPTER X.
THE FUGITIVE—A SECRET ENEMY.
When Polly got home it seemed to her that she had been walking on the air. There could be no doubt that Brandou would contrive tbe escape of Ben that very night. Owing to the loose manner in which matters wero managed in the settlement, that would be a very easy matter.
For some minutes Polly could do nothing but walk the room, and think of the words of her benefactor, asking herself what return she bad ever made for the many favors that she had received at his bands.
As it grew dark she became anxious. Might not Ben be recaptured after bis escape ? There were fleet horses and bold trappers at tbe fort, and a Mr. Bragg, who bad been most active in the arrest of her husband, lived near the place of his incarceration.
Hour passed after hour, and all was quiet. At length the cottage clock struck one. Polly looked out into the darkness and thought she could perceive lights rushing backward and forward at the fort and iu its vicinity. Another moment and there arose a loud yell, the. trampling of feet was beard, and then tbe galloping of horses.
“Now, Heaven speed thee, Benjamin! God help us! God help us!” cried the trembling wife, as she threw herself on the floor, and press-
43 cd her hands against her ears.
Thus she lay a considerable time before she ventured to remove her bands and let in the sounds which broke tbe silence ot night, and brought from his bouse every man within a circuit of two or three miles. She could now hear only a murmuring pound, as of several personsjn
it.
“Is Bobstay here ?” cried a vo’ce, which she knew to be that of Mr. Bragg.
“He is not here,” replied Polly. “How could he be here when be is shut up in tbe fort?”
“He has escaped,” replied another ; “andso/rw-body has had a band in it—the worse for them, as they are sure to be found out.”
“Search the grounds, the garden, and the bushes,” said Bragg to the rest, “while I search tbe house.”
Then he added with an oath,
“If he’s not found somebody shall pay dearly for it.”
Polly was surprised at the zeal of this man in searching for her husband, aud tbe enmity which his every word betrayed toward him. She had not yet learned the fact that the reckless sailor could not leave the place without passing off one of his practical jokes upon the man whom he had the most cause to dread.
Mr. Brandon had, during the day, persuaded the doctor at the fort to have Ben’s irons removed, on the plea that his health was suffering, and that it was highly necessary for him to live long enough to be brought to trial, as important developments would then be made, affecting the interests of many persons. While the manacles were being removed, tbe Englishman gave Ben a meaning glance. He was evidently astonished at tbe conduct of Brandon, but perceived that, for some inexplicable cause, tbe latter had determined to set him at liberty
For some moments, the two sentinels without maintained a strict watch, but as midnight approached they found themselves strangely inclined to sleep, and finally they gave way to the inclination. The time had come for which Ben had been watching, and be now darted out of the port-hole, unobserved by tbe guards within, who contented themselves in watching the square hole in the bulk-head.
The escaped prisoner might have got several hours’ start of bis enemies if be bad acted prudently ; but he had gone only a short distance before he observed the house of Mr. Bragg, dark and gloomy, and shaded by an immense willow tree. Running up to the door of this house, he knocked aloud. Every one was asleep ; he was obliged to knock again, and this time he did it with such earnestness that the sound reached the fort.
After waiting two minutes, Ben heard an up-
night ?” cried Bragg.
“Is that you, Mr. Bragg?” cried Ben.
“Yes; and who the devil are you ?” was the reply.
“ I’m one of your admiring friends,” said Bobstay ; “ I was going by your house, and thought I’d just stop to give you a piece of advice. It is that you’d better put your head in soak over night, as the devil is coming to saw your horns off in the morning.”
“ Thunder and furyI” exclaimed the exasperated agent; “ I’ll shoot you! bring here my rifle—a revolver—I’ll kill the rascal I”
“ You’ll catch him first,” replied Ben, passing on bis way.
All this time Bragg had never suspected who the impudent fellow was that had thus insulted him, but as he stretched his head out of the window, and gazed after the retreating fugitive, the moon came out from behind a cloud, and revealed to the astonished eyes of the agent'tbe unmistakable proportions of Ben Bobstay.
Of course, he instantly gave the alarm, and a dozen men set out in pursuit of the late prisoner. Ben was soon so hard pressed, that he was obliged to dart off in a tangent toward the river. Here he found a canoe, in which was a man asleep. Springing into the slight bark and pushing off from the shore, he paddled out into the stream. As there was no other boat at band, his pursuers could not follow him. As soon as he reached the opposite shore, he was lost sight of, and although the river was afterward crossed, no trace of him was discoverable.
When Polly learned that her husband had actually made good his escape, her joy was unbounded. She believed that, in a very few days, she would receive a letter from him, giving all the necessary directions for finding his place of concealment, and that then she would have nothing to do but to join him. Sho knew that, whatever were Ben’s faults, ho was devotedly attached to her ; and she was sanguine in the belief that her persuasions would induce him to forsake his evil courses, now that they were known to her.
She began immediately to pack up such things as could be carried without too much difficulty, and the time passed pleasantly while she was thus engaged in sorting out the best clothing and such other little matters as would be best calculated to please her husband.
But, this task performed, she waited impatiently to hear from Ben. A whole week had passed away before an Indian lad, who had evidently been hired for the purpose, by the fugitive, threw a dirty package in at her window, and then passed rapidly out of sight, as if afraid of being seen.
Polly seized the bundle and tore it open with a throbbing heart and trembling hands. It was a bundle of dry leaves, closely packed in a rag, and in the centre of the leaves was a piece of paper well folded.
This last Polly opened. As her eyes fell upon the lines which were written there, she gave a sudden start. She continued to read. It ran thus:
“ To Polly Bobstay—/row her injured husband.
“ I am clear of the Philistians that gave me a hard chase. But that is neither here nor there. I have something to say to you, and as it is for the last time, you will know that I am in earnest. You know, Polly, bow I loved you like my two eyes, and that one hair of your bead was worth more to me than all the rest of the world.
“Then bow could you do as,you have done? The letter that I received from an unknown hand was left in a cave where I hid from the Philistians. I found it close to my head when I woke up, but it explains itself. You might as well have left me to die by the hand of man as to purchase my liberty in the way you have done it. That infernal rascal I 1 thought be was very good all of a sudden, to set me adrift after the cursing begot from me; but its all accounted for now, your firing at me when I first came home, and then taking on so, as if it was all an accident.”
“But your good friend was not far off; he happened to come in good time to take care of us, and the way you have both gone on is all explained in the letter that was laid there for me to read, I understand some things now that ! didn’t understand before. I see through all your praising of Mr. Brandon, and now I’m not sovry that I killed bis daughter. I got my revenge beforehand.
“ But Polly, you have now broke up my home. I can never see you again, for your own sake as well as mine, while I had you, and believed you to be a good, honest woman, nothing could discourage me ; but now I feel down in the mouth. I shall never trouble you again, and as to where I go, you shall not know the place, because you may take it into your head to betray me to my enemies. A false wife can never be trusted iu
anything. You may love some other man, and want to marry him. and then you would want me out of the way. You could do it, very soon, by sending the officers to the place where I was to be found.
“ By the time you get this, I shall be a great many miles off, and now, Polly, I bid you a last farewell.
“Your injured husband,
“Benjamin Bobstay.”
Ab Polly read, her hands trembled, and her cheek grew pale. For a moment she was struck with astonishment, then wondered who could be the writer of the infamous letter to her husband, but when sho concluded the terrible epistle, and thus received her husband’s last farewell, a strange light gleamed, for a moment, in her eyes, her lips became livid ; she put her hand to her head, dropped the letter, and giving a wild laugh, sat like a marble statue gazing on vacancy.
Reason had fled forever.
[To be continued ]
[WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.]
“mTnT’ow'n.”
BY MAUD MAIDEN.
Hiou art mine!—aye, mine! And though we meet No more on thia changing shore,
My heart’s deep cry will be “Mine own !”
Till life’s last pulse is o’er.
Mine, mine, “Mine own I” what matter where
Whether on land or sea,
Thy restless spirit roams at will— Mine, mine I thou still must be.
Not hero ! not here I do I ever seek
To look on thy face again
And never, save when alone with God, Do I breathe my own one’s name.
Fetter thy heart with earthly bands,
’Twill not matter then to me;
But remember this, in the Spirit-land, Mine—mine, eternally!
[WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.]
THE COQUETTE’S WAGER:
OR, FRED GRANVILLE’S SCHOOL TEACHING.
BY MOLLY MYRTLE
Fred Granville was twenty-eight years of age, healthy, handsome and intellectual, (you perceive, reader, I mention the most important item first.) Do you wonder that he was a flirt ? What was that you said ? Never knew an intellectual man a flirt? But I tell you he was a flirt. It’s essential to my story that he should be a flirt; so if you never knew one, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Fred Granville. Now that you’ve bowed and smiled, and expressed your happiness at making the acquaintance of my hero, 1’11 proceed.
It was a glorious day in the month of July—the summer sunshine poured down on the earth as if cooking it; nicely roasting it for the palate of some huge epicure. Pshaw! I perceive I’m not describing the day sentimentally, as story-writers generally do.
Well, you dear, imaginative reader, just conceive that it was a very romantic day, altogether as it should be—that above-named Fred was engaged in that most laudable of all employments, smoking a cigar, and casting glances ot unqualified admiration at his elevated heels.
“ Ho, Fred, I’ve news for you.”
It was a cherry voice that announced the arrival of Bob Reldon.
“Ah!” exclaimed Fred, tossing his cigar out the window, and turning to listen.
“Yes, sir, the celebrated coquette, Mabel Reeves, has laid a wager that she will bring you to her feet within six months from this date,” said Bob, gleefully, rubbing his hands as he thought of the pleasant excitement to arise from the wager.
“ What a very modest estimate she must place upon her attractions!” said Fred, with a good-humored sarcasm.
“ There’s no mistake about her being the most enchanting woman iu New York,” returned Bob, with enthusiasm.
“ Haven’t a doubt that she possesses the beauty of Venus, the dignity of Juno, the wisdom of Minerva, and the modesty of—well, whoever is goddess of that old-throned article that has grown valuable from its scarcity,” said Fred, half bitterly.
“Pshaw, Fred, you’ve flirted so much, that you’re disgusted with the whole sex. Now do be generous and surrender graciously your fascinating self to Miss Mabel,” said Bob Reldon, playfully.
“ Perhaps I will,” returned Fred, in the same spirit; “ but when does ma belle contemplate beginning her attack upon your bumble servant ?”
“ Oh, sho won’t begin with you for some little time yet. She’s going in the country, to spend a month or two with an aunt of her’s, and win back roses to her cheeks from the breezy hills,” explained Bob, with a mock sentimental air.
“ Better try to win back truth and modesty,” returned Fred.
“ Really, Fred, you’re sore, sour and cynical that I’m inclined to think you must have made a ,mistake, and sweetened your coffee with vinegar instead of sugar—I’ll retire until you recover from it’s effects!” So saying, Bob Reldon departed.
Fred smiled a proud, self-satisfied smile, glanced in the mirror, (you see, my friend, that article is not patronised by feminines exclusively, and then left for dinner.
Very handsome, proudly irresistible, looked Fred Granville, as be walked in the glittering path of the sunbeams—and yet, haughty as he appeared, way down in bis heart there was a yearning for something good and true. He had mingled with the fashionable butterflies that surrounded him—but the uncontrolable longing in his soul wofld not allow him to unite himself for life to the painted, insipid creatures that lisped nonsense and waltzed divinely. Fred had eaten his dinner, taken a little lazy stroll, and returned to his office to think of Mabel Reeves.
“ Fred, Fred, offer up a sacrifice to the gods for an idea that you’d pay me five hundred dollars for, if you had any conception how brilliant it is.”
It was B;:b Reldon again, and his quick, energetic tones roused Fred’s curiosity to the highest pitch, and made him ask with animation,
“ What is it, Bob ? Out with it. Don’t keep me waiting.”
“ Ha, ha, it’s too good !” gasped Bob, almost convulsed with laughter, as be pointed to an advertisement in a daily paper that be held in his hand. Fred leaned anxiously forward and read that “Oak Hill Seminary wanted a teacher. Young man preferred. (The trustees of that school doubtless had marriageable daughters.)
“I don’t see anything remarkable about that,” said Fred, coldly, as be gazed half contemptuously at his laughing friend.
“ Ha! ha ! Fred, it’s too,good! ha! ba! Mabel Reeves ha! ba! is going there! ha! ha! Apply for the situation ! ha! ha! Outwit her! ha! ba Jha!”
“ It’s a glorious idea!” said Fred, gazing at
his friend in wondering admiration. “Stop your laughing and let’s talfc it over.”
And they did. For two hours they talked, making arrangements for Fred to take the school at “Oak Hill Seminary” and outwit Mabel Reeves.
“ Good evening, madam.”
“ Good evening, sir ; walk in and take a seat.” It was a pleasant little cottage, and the vines crept over it, shielding it from the sunshine and bathing it in perfume. ’Twas very inviting, so Fred Granville thought, as he walked in and took a seat on a low, old-fashioned chair.
“ I s’pose you’re our new teacher,” said old Mrs. Mayfield, looking scrutinizingly at him.
“ Yes. madam,” returned Fred, trying to look as tecwherfied as possible.
“ What may your name be ?’’ queried the old lady.
“ Charles Brinkley, madam,” answered Fred, blushing for the falsehood, while the truthful eyes of Mrs. Mayfield wandered over his face, noting the blush and setting it down as a “good sign, as it showed he warn’t brazen.”
Monday morning dawned (a remarkable circumstance) and Mr. Charles Brinkley (alias Fred Granville) took “ the teacher’s chair,” and prepared to do penance for his many sins of “ omission and commission.” His terms were so extremely low that the house was crowded with children from six to twenty years of age. Half the day was spent, and Fred was eating cold peach pie, from his little dinner basket, and mentally contrasting “ country and city life,” when he beard one of the little girls say, “Alni there a heap of scholars ?” to which her companion replied, “ Yes, it’s cause he don’t charge much.”
Here was a new idea, and the next day a note was sent to each of the patrons, giving information that Mr. Charles Brinkley was obliged to raise bis rates of tuition. This had the desired effect, and only a few of the “ better class” remained.
A week rolled away, and Fred was on the point of giving up in despair, when Mrs. Mayfield informed him that “ My niece, from New York, will be here to-morrow.”
Fred was too much agitated to converse that evening, and so he retired early, thinking of Mabel Reeves.
The next day was Wednesday, and oh 1 the long school duties seemed interminable. They were over at last, and Fred walked home a trifle faster than he usually walked in his Broadway strolls. Mabel Reeves had a tall, queenly form, and her face had a regal beauty that was enchanting. Fred Granville bowed to the introduction Mrs. May field gave, and looked with a half-defiant admiration down in a pair of dark, blue eyes, as a merry, musical voice pronounced his name.
“ What a waste of beauty on so heartless a flirt!” mentally exclaimed Fred, as he took a proffered seat. Mabel Reeves was evidently studying him, for, ever and anon, quick, sharp glances shot out from under her dark lashes toward him.
“ Look till you’re satisfied, queenly one I You mistake your man if you contemplate beholding Fred Granville kneeling at your feet,” was Fred’s mental exclamation.
“ Don’t call me Bell, aunty, call me May, as mother used to.”
The tones were musically tremulous, and the moonlight laid a radiant crown on the regal brow of Mabel Reeves.
Perhaps she isn’t quite heartless after all!” soliloquized Fred, as, hidden by luxuriant vines, he could “ observe unobserved.”
There was a silence of some moments, and then Mrs. Mayfield said, in a kind of tender, rebuking tone, “ See here, child, Mr. Brinkley, is a nice, clever young man, and I don’t want you to go to breakin’ his heart, as I hear you’ve been in the habit of doing young men”
Mabel gave a little confused laugh, and said, “ Breaking his heart I Why, aunty, I’ve no such intentions!”
“What do you mean by fixin’up in flowers and flounces of evenin’s, then?” queried Mrs. Mayfield.
A blush flamed up over the face of Mabel Reeves, but she answered with forced gayety,
“ Why, aunty, I didn’t know it was any harm to try to look pretty.”
“No barm at all if you have any idea of marrying him.”
There was no reply to this ; and after some moments Mrs. Mayfield continued,
“Mabel Reeves, answer me one question— don’t you consider yourself a long ways ahead of Charles Brinkley ?”
A husky, trembling voice answered,
“Oh, aunty, he’s bo much better than I am!”
A sob smote Fred’s car, and he blushed for his own unworthiness.
A moment they lingered in silence, then went in, leaving Fred most hopelessly in love with Mabel ReevesJ
“I’ll propose to her to-morrow evening,” was Fred’s mental exclamation as he went cautiously up to his room.
“How she has been slandered! Heartless coquette, indeed! She’s as pure and truthful as sunlight 1” were some of Fred’s comments as he closed his eyes in vain attempts to sleep.
The morrow was a clear sunny morn iu September, and Mabel Reeves sat singing gaily, fondly dreaming of Charles Brinkley.
“I have at last found one true, faithful heart,” she murmured ; and then her soul chanted a melody of gratitude to Heaven.
The sunshine crept round on the porch, making it so warm and sunuy that Mabel was obliged to leave it. As she entered the cool, wide hall, she saw a brown envelope, directed in a bold, masculine hand-writing. Picking it up, she glanced at the superscription, and recognised the name of oueof her New York admirers. Her curiosity was excited, and opening it, the first words that caught her eye were, Mabel Reeves.
That decided the little struggle going on in her breast, between honor and inclination, and she yielded to the latter. Her checks flushed and paled as she read, aud when she had finished, her eyes flashed indignantly as she exclaimed,
“Oh, ho! my bewitching Mr. Granville! how much pleasure you must have anticipated in winning Mabel Reeves, and remaining unwon ! A brilliant idea, truly!”
A scornful curve was on her lip, and her cheeks burned with wounded pride ; and yet, reader, an hour later Mabel Reeves was sobbing bitterly in her room. It was her first love and with her to love once was to love forever!
Poor Mabel! It was a day spent- in utter desolation of soul, and yet when evening drew near her eyes flashed proudly, and a scornful smile sat on her beautiful lips.
Very fascinating she appeared to Fred Granville, as she came in the misty twilight, and sat down where the honeysuckle blossoms drooped low and fragrant.
“Will you take a walk with me in the garden, Miss Mabel ?”
Fred asked the question in musical, tender tones, that twenty-four hours before would have sent a thrill of bliss to the heart of Mabel, as it was she merely bowed a cold assent.
Fred was too much agitated to notice her manner, and the consequence was he carried out the intention he had formed the night previous.
Mabel listened in silence to his declaration. Once she was on the point of giving up, then she
remembered the better that she clutched nervously, and asked in a tone meant to be sarcastic, but it was only tremulously anxious,
“ Are you certain that you really love me ?”
“ Love you ? Oh May, darling, 1 cannot tell you how I love you I” said Fred, passionately.
With a mighty effort Mabel rose and said scornfully,
“ Then I think, Mr. Granville, I’ve won my wager, for if I remember rightly, the six months have not expired 1”
Fred sprang to his feet as if doubting the evidence of his own senses I In a few moments he recovered his self possession, and said, with a scorn that eclipsed hers,
“ If Miss Reeves values her triumph, she is welcome to it 1”
“ Thank you!” replied Mabel, with mock humility.
A moment they stood regarding each other with intense scorn, and then ’twas Fred that broke the silence.
“ Allow me to congratulate Miss Reeves on being so consummate an actress I From the little scene I witnessed last night, I am inclined to think she might make a fortune on the stage.”
Mabel stared, bewildered, while Fred, as if to refresh her memory, began imitating her tones.
“ ‘Don’t call me Bell, aunty, call me May, as mother used toF ”
“ How dare you ?” almost screamed Mabel.
“ It is strange how I should dare to spoil by a repetition so affecting a little speech. I don’t suppose, however, I should have dared to, but for another interesting remark—4 Oh, aunty, he's so much better than 1 am P v answered Fred.
Mabel stood a moment irresolute.
“ If I tell him I did not know he was there, he will know that I love him so I cannot tell him,” was her mental conclusion.
Controlling her voice, she said, haughtily,
“ Mr. Granville does me much honor, to think my remarks worthy of repetition. Allow me to express my gratitude by returning a letter that I was so fortunate as to find.”
Mabel swept proudly toward the bouse, but when only the starlight saw her, bitter tears fell thick and fast.
Pride, triumphant at the victory it had gained, laughed scornfully at her desolate heart throbs. The air seemed heavy, almost to suffocation, and Mabel walked out from the room into a wide hall, where the moonlight lay in broad shining bands. She seated herself by a low window, and the night winds soothed her, with a tender lullaby, until she fell asleep.
But what of Fred ? On reaching his room, he began, with some trepidation, to read the letter Mabel bad given him. It was one written the day after his first interview with her.
“ No wonder she hated me!” be soliloquised ; “ but then she need n’t have been so deceitful*?” he muttered savagely.
“ Would n’t you have done so?” queried an invisible questioner.
Fred was forced to confess that be would.
“ But, then,” muttered be, “ that acting last night proves what a heartless actress she is—to bring up a dead mother’s name for such a purpose.”
Fred was disgusted I In silent, bitter revery, he sat until the old clock, striking twelve, roused him. A sudden memory swept over his brain, and he sprang to his feet, exclaiming impetuously, “ By Jove, it wasn’t acting after all!”
He remembered that he had read the letter over that very morning, and iitended to destroy it, so of course she couldn’t have found it until after the little scene of the night before. His feelings underwent a complete change, and he murmured,
“ Mabel, darling, what a wretch I was!”
I seemed as if the air was “in the plot,” for it immediately began to stifle him in the same way it had done Mabel. So opening his door, he passed out into the broad hall that separated his room from Mabel’s. He started as be saw the Bleeping figure at the window, as he approached nearer, he saw tears resting on the pale face upturned in the moonlight; and his heart smote him.
“ May, darling May,” he whispered.
She started, but did not seem to comprehend the scene, until Fred murmured,
“ Can you forgive me ? Will you love me, Mabel, darling Mabel ?”
Reader, the writer of this entertaining sketch has no experience in such scenes as must necessarily have followed. Ergo, she’ll jump at the conclusion, and end by giving you the astounding information that they were married.


[WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.]
BEAR IT PATIENTLY.
BY GERTRUDE MARY TAPPAN.
“ Bear what patiently ?” some one says.
Bear the burdens of life ; not burdens that require manual strength, but strength of mind and heart, and firmness of purpose. It is not so much the size of a burden as the form that makes .it hard to bear. An unmerited rebuke pains us worse than a blow. Words of bitter satire weary us more than many days labor. The burdens of the heart are seldom visible to the eye. A smiling face often hides a fainting spirit. Surely each heart knoweth its own bitterness.
And you whom a loving Father has richly gifted with talents, most stand in need of words of patience. You see others filling stations in life for which they are unqualified, and while they are forced to acknowledge your capability these gifts are denied you. The fool in rich robes places his feet upon your rights and the gain-loving|world applaud. The sycophant,thinking you may yet rise above the obstacles that weigh you down, looks upon you with a patronizing you-might-be-one-of-us-if-you-were-rich-enough air, as if being elevated to their sublime society would be the standard of all perfection. And you grow soul-sick of all this and cry out wearily, “ How shall I bear it?” Patiently ; there is a by-and-by.
And you who are not clothed in the royal purple and flue linen of life—whose hands are hardened with toil—to whom justice seems only to dwell in the courts of Heaven, remember that poverty is not a crime, though its children are treated little better than criminals. Poverty is slavery But bear it patiently.
When hopes you have cherished, tender heartplants you have trained into forms of beauty, and watched them with the warm sunlight of prosperity, wooing them forth into bud and bloom, then when the frost of a chill adversity overwhelms and change them into dust, that with every panting heart-breath rise up, and almost stiffle you. Experience says, “ Bear it patiently.”
When the world speaks ill of you falsely— when your actions are misconstrued—when things that you have done purely for good are said to have’been done for gain—when those you have confided in and supposed to have been your friends, you find to be your bitterest enemies— then you have learned life’s great lesson—to trust only God, and be patient under trials.
When affliction falls heavily upon you—when the loved ones are numbered with the lost—when a dark fate has closed darkly around you—yes I when life’s burdens seem almost too heavy to bear, and the heart’s blood rushes onward in mad waves of care, trust in God ; His hand hath chastened you, His burdens are glorious.
a
NEW YORK, APRIL 25, 1861-
O’ ROSS & TOUSEY, NO., 121 Nassau street, are our 'General Agents for supplying dealers with the Weekly.
NATI0NAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN-PORTRAITS.
We have paid more attention to the portraits on exhibition than to any other class of pictures. Of these there are some thirty or forty, of which not over ten or twelve can be called good, and only three or four are first class. The balance range from bad to worse, and a large proportion are not worth noticing. Some of them, however, have a meretricious value, and will pass with the crowd for capital pictures. Only three or four of the best portraits are hung on the sight line, while of indifferent, bad and worthless portraits, no less than fifteen or twenty are on the sight line, and generally have good light.
No. 477, by D. Huntington, is well drawn and painted, but the flesh tints are too near the color of the back-ground, and this spoils the relief. No. 491, by H. A. Loop, is a full length female, modestly robed, and tbe picture generally is well painted; but there is too great sameness about it, tbe features are not well relieved, and the whole picture is too sober. No. 454, by D. Huntington, is very well relieved, but uneven in execution. The beard is bad, and the whole picture is too cold. No. 456, head of Dr. Francis, by the feame, is very similar to No. 454, but better. It is warmer, and the background contrasts better with the head, giving fuller relief. No. 389, by James Bogle, has warm and natural flesh tints, but is not strongly enough relieved. No. 196, by Alanson Fisher, is the best head in the exhibition. It is in all respects a first class picture. It is a truthful copy from Nature, and hence we have no fault to find, no sugges-
SIMPLIFICATION OF GOVERNMENT NEEDED.
If legislators and statesmen were honest, they never would recommend any other mode of defraying the expenses of government than direct taxation. If a thing is worth having, it is worth paying for, and no one would any sooner object to paying for the benefits of government than be does to paying for a pair of boots, a coat, or any other article of use. But office-holders of all parties belong to a class who desire to live easy by some method of compelling the industry of the nation to support them ; and they are well aware that the people would not stand the expense if it were placed directly before them, so that they could realize how enormous it is. Hence it becomes necessary for these public leeches to practice duplicity and indirection—to obtain by deception what they could never get if they made a direct demand. Besides, by raising revenue by a duty on this, a license on that, and a tax here and there, they increase the number of offices, and make a better chance for themselves to get position, and grow fat on the substance of others. If we were to do away with all custom-houses, postoffices, and everything whereby revenue is raised indirectly, we would diminish the number of official posts at least nine-tenths, and of course decrease the expenses proportionately. The amount of public property held for official uses would be correspondingly reduced, and we would hardly spend thousands for government purposes where we now spend millions. What a burden this would relieve us of, and how wonderfully it would simplify and facilitate the transaction of business. Everything would be open to individual enterprise, and competition would secure advantages to the public that government never can give us through the grant of privileges and monopolies. Let us have a complete clearing out and simplification of government—and let each man know precisely what he has to pay for what he receives.
tions to make.
He has two other portraits
—No. 165, the head of a boy, capitally executed, but hung in such a bad light that we hardly know how it would appear in a favorable position. It gives evidence of being carefully finished, is rotund and life-like, and a much better picture than No. 164, by George A. Baker, which hangs immediately beneath it. This latter is flat, the nose is badly relieved from the right cheek, and the whole picture needs relief. Judging from the shadows, or lack of shadows, the sitter must have been in a singular light, if the picture is a faithful copy. Fisher’s other portrait is No. 236 —a rather stiff, red-faced, angular individual, sitting in an arm-chair. The portrait is nearly full length, and is relieved against a huge block of granite, with a perspective on the right, giving us a glimpse of High Bridge in the distance. cThe portrait is carefully and .faithfully finished, and compares favorably with anything of the kind in the exhibition. Perhaps we would not be far out of the way in saying that Fisher has the three best portraits in the Academy. He is a careful student of Nature, and despises all resorts to trick or attempts at idealizing. A good anecdote is told of him, which well illustrates his peculiarities,
Soon after the marriage of William Overton Waddell, formerly Surveyor of the Port of New York, bis wife persuaded him, considerably against his inclination, to get Fisher to paint his portrait. Waddell had little faith, and failed to see a good likeness in the picture even up to its completion, or near it. At the end of a sitting, he says, “Fisher, I wish I could see that picture as you do. Can you make me see it so ?” “ I don’t know—I’ll try!” replies Fisher. So setting the portrait by the side of Waddell, he took a mirror and turned it so as to bring the portrait first in view. Waddell saw that the corner of the shirt-collar had a dog-eared look, and not doubting that it was his own veritable reflection that he saw, he put up his hand and pulled up his collar. To his astonishment, he saw no hand and the collar remained the same. With a half-frightened look, he made another grab at the collar, with the same result. At this, he sank back in his chair and turned as pale as ashes, giving a look of earnest inquiry at Fisher. A moment’s reflection, however, showed him what it was that had given him such a start. Fisher had copied the dog’s ear on his collar, and he had been deceived by taking the portrait for his real person. He did not afterward doubt the likeness.
No. 192, by D. Huntington, is a good picture, but rather weak. No. 175, by H. P, Gray, is one of the very best heads in the Academy. The execution is almost faultless, and every feature stands out c1ean and clear. It is the head of an old man, and the artist has toned his picture down accordingly. He has been guilty of the rare fault of getting below Nature, and hence few will at once recognize the real merits of his picture. No. 127, a female head, by T, Le Clear, is capital. It is vigorous, is faithfully painted, well drawn, and admirably relieved. No. 503, by E. Saintin, is well painted, but is altogether too frigid. The flesh tint is livid, almost ghastly. No. 451, two children, by John T. Peale, is admirable. We do not know whether they are portraits or not, but the picture deserves more than a mere passing notice from the spectator. No. 78, a crayon, by
REASON AND PREJUDICE.
We are more and more satisfied every day that what men call reasons and arguments are but the excuses they put forth for entertaining their peculiar prejudices. Otherwise, how can we account for the diversity of opinion that now prevails in regard to the causes which have brought about the present political crisis and its consequent bard times ? One man lays it all to the abolition sentiment ; another to the pro-slavery doctrines of the Southern fire-eaters ; a third to the cowardice and imbecility of James Buchanan ; a fourth to the election of a sectional President; a fifth goes behind all these and refers everything to the plottings of the English for the dissolution of the American Union—and so on, each, of course, proposing his own remedy, Now, we have our notions about these things, and all the reasons and arguments of those who do not believe as we do, sound absurd and silly. Yet we have the charity to believe that others are sincere, and that, to them, their reasons and arguments appear sound. Therefore, we are willing to believe that reason is but the apology for prejudice, and that each is right as the subject is seen from his stand-point, none having a clear and comprehensive view of the whole ground
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DISHONEST COLLECTORS.
It appears that our city has been cursed, from time to time, with a most rascally set of collectors, who have been in the habit of neglecting to credit the moneys collected, and have compelled the necessity of a new book of registry for receipts for moneys never entered on the books. Hundreds have had to pay assessments over a second and a third time through not keeping receipts. Many have made these second and third payments, supposing them to be new assessments. How much our citizens have thus been swindled out of, can never be fully ascertained. The amount of moneys already found to have been collected, without any entry being made of the same, is over a quarter of a million. This, of course, is not where receipts have been shown for the same ; but where the receipt is lost, the party must pay over again, and there is no means of getting at the amount the public have thus been swindled out of. There is no safety except in carefully preserving your receipts. Let all look well to that in the future.
THE ROAD TO INDEPENDENCE.
The expense of living and uncertainty of being able to get the wherewith to sustain life, are two of the strongest causes for the great amount of immorality that prevails in the city. Young men are afraid to assume the responsibilities of married life, under these unpromising circumstances. For the extravagant expenditure thought to be necessary, the girls are in a measure to blame— entertaining, as they do, the idea that when they get married they will be able to dress finely, and do little or no work. True, all do not entertain such ideas, but the majority do, and young men are made to feel that idleness and fine dress on the part of the wife constitute a large portion of the responsibilities assumed by the husband. All this should be changed. Girls, few of whom are able to live without work while single, should evince a willingness to become helpmates to the young men disposed to marry them and deal honorably with them ; and until they do this, they may expect to have to complain of the falsity of the male sex. The uncertainty of obtaining a livelihood is something that cannot be removed in an overcrowded city. The salvation of young men lies in their determination to economize and save up a little money wherewith to go into the country and buy a little farm. In this direction the way is clear, and it is the only sure one that we know of. Every industrious young man in this country can manage to become the possessor of a small farm. With this, he is prepared to “marry the girl that he likes best,” and begin married life in a sensible way. Girls, can you not better bear the idea of rusticity and independence, with honest, indus rious young men for husbands, than that of taking the chances in a crowded city where everything is yearly growing worse and worse for you ? ------------------
HARD LUCE-
Some people seem to be pursued by a relent less fate. They no sooner recover from one blow and get fairly on their feet, than some misfortune knocks them down again. This principle is sadly illustrated in the case of J. N. Stearns, publisher of “ Merry’s Museum,” who has just been burned out at No. 114 Nassau street. He started in Ann street, and had only, by hard digging, got fairly going, when he lost everything by fire. Rallying again, evincing a determination and energy highly commendable, he began anew, and hardly had he recovered from the first shock when everything is again sacrificed to the Fire-Fiend. Such luck is exceedingly discouraging, and it is hard to account for it on any principle of justice. But we cannot see all the operations of great internal principles, andean only judge by a few external effects. Beneath these severe external disasters may lie a great future good which we shall recognize and appreciate in the great day of reckoning. We would fain hope so ; and in the meantime we would pray that another like bitter cup may pass such a hard-working and worthy man as Mr. Stearns. We hope that there is a bright and successful future before him, and that it may prove consistent with the scheme of divine administration to make him amends in this world for all hi^past losses and disappointments.
didn’t know anything of his sickness till he was dead. He didn’t see the death pang. 1 was glad of that, for the child died of croup—a suffering death, poor thing; but when Robin came to see him, it was all over, and he looked in his little shroud, quite as though he slept. Robin took the dead band in his. and then with the ready tears in his eyes said, “Mother, Jimmy’s so cold.” I explained to him, as well as I knew bow, that this was death; but at the grave he stared first at one and then at another, with a frightened wonder that brought tears to other eyes than his; and when they lowered all that was left of little Jimmy into the place prepared for it, and began to heave down the dirt, that first, indescribable sound of the clods falling on the coffin lid, did not thrill the mother’s heart with a wilder pang than it did my Robin’s. He buried bis white face in my dress, and as I, stooping, put my arm around him, bis heart was beating as though it would burst out of his bosom. He was greatly agitated, and with some alarm I led him away toward home, soothing, and telling him in my own imperfect way, all 1 myself knew of this sweet and terrible mystery.
“ See here,” said I. “ Robin, don’t you know a little while ago, this hillside was covered with flowers, and that by and by, they drooped their heads, and were gone ? That is the way it was with Jimmy. The flowers are all buried away under the ground till next spring, when you’ll find their bright faces here again, waiting for you; just so Jimmy will rise again some time.”
With ready faith he accepted my explanation. “ Who buries the flowers, though, mother ?” “ God.”
He glanced upward at the new fallen snow, at the snow-birds in a tree that we passed—he knew that God made all these, and he thought it very good of Him who could do such mighty things, to have a care for the burial of the tiny flowers. He said, so in his childish way ; and then, (we had reached home by this time,) sat with a grave, earnest face, upon my knee, while I told him bow even the small sparrow did not die without God’s loving eye upon it. How He even knew the number of the hairs upon our heads, and everything we thought of all day.
Robin missed Jimmy ; I know he did, but he never grieved after him, at least not in words. He would sit for hours in the window seat, looking away toward the grave-yard, with a face that would have puzzled any one who did not know
bis thoughts. I sometimes asked him what was thinking of.
“ Ab, of Jimmy, mother,” with a smile.
“And what of Jimmy?”
be
I watched them. How slow they moved! They are tired, thought I. But I couldn’t see Robin’s scarlet cap, oh! there it was—but surely not on Robin’s head.
“ He is so warm, poor boy, that he carries his cap in his bands—I am afraid he’ll take cold,” said I to myself.
The evening had grown blustering ; the autumn winds had risen since they had left the house. I bad noticed it with some misgiving, very soon after they were gone.
“ I am afraid he will take cold,” I repeated mentally. “ It’s not like Robin to take off bis cap ; I often tell him not to when be is warm with exercise, and Robin never disobeys me. How slow they come, surely, surely they are carrying something—what can it be ?”
Unconsciously I had left the bouse, and gone forth to meet them. It could not have been long, but it seemed to me an age. I know7 now that I ran swiftly, but it seemed to me then, as though my feet were shod with leaden weights. I reached them at last. Yes, it was, it was my Robin borne in his brothers’ arms, his fair curls dabbled in blood, his blue eyes closed on earth and me.
“ He has only fainted, mother,” said Evan ; “ a tree blew over on him,” but I scarcely beard him.
How we reached home 1 know not, but as we crossed the threshold, Robin moaned. They laid him on his own little bed, and went for the doctor. He wasn’t long in coming, but he only shook bis head, when he saw him ; he couldn’t do anything for my boy, He was injured internally, he said— besides there was a terrible gash on his bead— enough of itself to let his young life out; the wonder was that he breathed at all.
But I know Robin wouldn’t die without speaking to me again. He was in great agony all night; moaning in delirium, and not knowing me. But toward morning be began to ask— *
“ Is it morning—will it be morning soon ?”
“ Yes,” I told him, forcing myself to be calm. He knew me at last— and such a tender pity for me was in his fading eyes. How he tried to smile through the pain that momently contracted bis features. He was suffering terribly ; and every pang that smote his dying frame, seemed as if it would rend my heart in twain.
At length, just as the gray light was streaking the east, blessed be God, bis pain left him. He was easy—but it was because death was so near. He put one arm—the other was crushed—around my neck, as I bent my face near him to catch his every word.
“ Kiss me, mother—in the resurrection-morning we’ll all be there—dear mother—I’m going home—to God.” The lips I kissed never moved again. My little Robin bad gone borne to God.
[WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.]
OR,
THE MOTHER’S PRESENTIMENT.
BY NONESUCH.
E. Saintin, is a splendidly executed head.
It is
bold and vigorous, and modeled to Nature. Nos. 64 and 62, miniatures, by IL C. Shumway, are capital. No. 92, a case of miniatures, by John Carlin, are fine ; and No. 88, by Miss M. L. Wag ner, is decidedly good.
These are all that struck us as specially worthy of notice, because of their merits. Of those that deserve condemnation, we prefer not to speak. We may have overlooked some, and possibly done injustice in some quarters ; but we have not done so intentionally. We have spoken of the portraits
no^ce th® more prominent landscapes.
SATAN GOOD TO HIS OWN.
The whole external world seems to be governed by the spirit of injustice and favoritism. Your great man is seldom your good man, or your good man seldom becomes great. Men full of push and impudence, and blessed with a lack of principle and conscience, are your thriving and leading men ; while people generally are rewarded, not according to their honest industry and the amount of useful labor performed, but for their successful scheming, and the performance of that which is superficial and showy, it being exalted in the fancy of mankind, and clothed with a fictitious value. How often do real talent and merit have to complain of these things, and finally fall back upon the consolation that, notwithstanding the unjust rewards of mankind,
The humblest dewy daisy That blossoms on the sod, May point like the pine-tree skyw : And drink the light of God.
-----------------------------------
SUNLIGHT AT A DISCOUNT.
There is a discount on everything in this world. Even at the present time the Spirit of Darkness takes from us over one per cent, of our sunlight—as also of the beat from the sun. The “spots” on the sun, some of which are visible to the naked eye through a smoked glass, diminish the sun’s light and heat over one per cent.; and the question has been raised among astronomers whether the light and heat of the god of day are not gradually fading and dying away. Are we beginning to witness the lulfillment of the prophecy that tbe sun shall be darkened in the latter days?—and are the “wars and rumors of wars,” so universal now, a further confirmation that we have reached the “beginningof the end?” Are “coming events casting their shadows bc-
as we saw them, and would not be true to our- fore ?” This is certainly one of those subjects on
Robin was my youngest; the wee lamb of the flock. Boys and girls bad preceded him, but they had all grown out of my arms save this one, who still clung to my lap, and was often humored— though six years old—to the extent of nestling his curly head on mother’s arm, and going to sleep there. He was quite small of his age, was my Robin, slender and girlish in bis looks, but growing away from me as the rest had done ; and I often sighed with a shy, sweet sadness, thinking of the time when the others were as little, as loving and dependent as he. And he too was coming on ; hurrying all too swiftly up the hill of life ; and by and by, I should reach my arms after him in vain. My little boy would be gone ; never more to call at my knee in bis coaxing way :
“Rock me to sleep, mother ; rock me to sleep.”
I expected be would grow away from me, but I did n’t think * * * * Ob, Robin !
Robin was n’t much like other children ; at least he was not much like my other children. They were all, boys and girls, a merry set— noisy, rompish and roguish, into all sorts of mischief; never quiet long at a time, and making the bouse and yard ring with their sports. But Robin wasn’t at all like them. He*was the embodiment of quietness. Not that be couldn’t run, or didn’t as fast as any of them; or that he didn’t laugh—perhaps not so much or so loud as the others, but his laugh when it did come, was mirth itself, a joyous laugh as ever I heard. I have seen strangers turn, with sparkling eyes, at sound of that child’s laugh. It was like the trill of birds in the early spring mornings; the genuine voice of gladness. You might watch him hour by hour, and day by day, and you would pronounce him both the merriest and quietest child in the world.
He had a better comprehension of the mystery of life and death than many heads a great deal older. I never taught him to fear death, but tried to lead him along the paths of smiling trustfulness that his young feet seemed eager to tread. There was a far-away look sometimes in his blue eyes that smote my heart with a sudden pang ; and people often shook their heads, and said, ‘‘She won’t keep that child long,” but I tried to smile at such things, and folding my boy closer, claimed him as pre-eminently my own, own Robin, the dearest blessing ever mother bad. I tried too commit him to God, I was so afraid I should love him too much, and that God would take him from me in consequence; and I said often to myself, “Little children keep yourselves from idols.” I prayed with all my might that I might not make an “idol” of Robin ; and that his Heavenly Father would let him grow up, and keep him always as pure in heart as the child be was now. What a deal of good Robin will do when he grows up! Heaven pity me if there was any sinful pride in my thought. I wasn’t conscious of it then, but I can see now that there was.
I watched Robin very close; he was never an ailing child, though certainly not a stout one— light and slender in bis make, but healthier than mo^ children.
“ Wbat you told me about it,” and off be would go into bis musings again, or perhaps come to me with some new phase of tbe question, which had presented itself to his mind.
Once when Jimmy’s mother was talking to me of her boy, and crying, Robin came from the window, and putting one hand on her;s and the other on my lap, said :
“ Don’t you know Jimmy will rise again, by and by ?”
The woman looked at him through her tears. “ You’re a blessed boy, Robin,” she said, and then not to grieve him with the sight of the sorrow that wouldn’t be^stayed, she went away.
With the first shy steps of spring, Robin was alert to greet her, and watching with the most intense eagerness the young blades of grass sprinkling tbe sod with their freshness. At length he came in one day with a radiant face, and a sin gle violet in his hand.
“ See, mother, tbe flowers have risen. May I go to the grave-yard ?”
“ To tbe grave-yard, Robin ; what for?”
“ To look for Jimmy ; maybe he’s risen, too.”
I must have looked strangely, almost frightened, for his lip quivered, and he said :
“Don’t you want me to go, mother?”
I gathered him to my arms. My poor innocent. How should 1 explain to him the mistake be was under, without grieving his waiting heart.
“Robin,” said I, “I didn’t tell you Jimmy would rise when the flowers did. Tbe flowers will fade and bloom again many times before Jimmy will come back to us. We shall go to him ; be cannot come to us; but sometime, we don’t any of us know when, there’ll be a bright resurrection-morning, when all those down there in the grave-yard, will rise up and stand before God. We shall all be there, dear, and then we shall meet Jimmy again.”
His face drooped at first, but with my last words it was bright again ; and all day he prattled occasionally of that resurrection-morning, never weary of questioning me.
Ah! how I loved the boy; I couldn’t bear to think of him sleeping away down in tbe old grave-yard. He seemed perfectly well, but there was something about him so different from most children ; such a gentle sweetness characterized him; such radiant joyousness; such a pure, faithful looking forward to tbe resurrection-morning, that I could never entirely banish the fear, that my little Robin would not stay long with me
Spring in her vernal robes gave place to summer crowning the bills with her golden tints, and autumn, many hued, followed in her steps.
One afternoon, when it was sunny and warm for that time of year, I allowed Robin to go with his older brothers to gather Chesnuts. I gave them many charges to look out for him, he laughing all the time in his eagerness to be off, and saying archly,
“I can take care of myself, mother. I’m almost a man now.”
lie was seven years old that very day; and looking so handsome and well, that it gladdened my heart to look at him. My eyes were moist with happiness thinking of my little boy, and I turned back to the door when I bad once left it, to look after him. They had stopped for something, and looking through the fence Robin saw me. Perhaps there was an expression in my
ITEMS OF INTEREST
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face that touched his tender heart, for he was quick to see any change in my countenance. At any rate he dropped his basket, and ran back to me. I, supposing he had forgotten something, said,
“What is it, Robin ?”
“Only—I thought maybe you didn’t want me to go. Had you rather I’d stay at home, mother?’
“No, dear, certainly not. I like that you should enjoy yourself. But you will be careful, Robin.”
What made me charge him so?
“Yes, mother, I will. I won’t even climb a fence; and I’ll bring you the very biggest chestnut there is in the woods.”
He put up his face, sparkling with youth, health and happiness, for a kiss, and darted away.
Ob, Robin, my little Robin !
I stood as long as I could see them watching the scarlet cap that Robin wore, till it was quite out of sight; and then I went in and kneeling by Robin’s chair, thanked God for my youngest boy.
I had been a woman of many troubles. Sorrow bad dwelt with me a weary time, when Robin came and clothed my life with the fullness of consolation. God forgive me as He surely does if in my mother love, I at any time forgot who had lent me Robin, and might soon call for him again.
I hurried through my work, (I was ironing,) and then prepared supper for the nutting party. When it was all ready, I went to the door to look for them. The sun was just setting, and there they were coming over the hill. Shading my eyes from the golden gleams of the expiring sun,
The Rev. James Hobart, Congregational minister at Benin, Vt., is now nearly 95 years old, yet ! fully as active as men ordinarily are at 70. It is not unu sual for him to walk four or five miles on a Sabbath morning, preach twice, and tnen walk back to his home. Within a year and a half he has walked fifteen miles to fulfill an appointment to preach. Since he was 90 years old he walked seven miles one Sabbath morning, and preached in the forenoon, then five miles further and preached m the afternoon, then five more and preached again
The feuilletoniste of our excellent Brussels cotemporary VUniversel, in his notice of the death of the too celebrated Lola Montez, has the following “ The celebrated pecheresse died, it is said, in a most religious spirit, deploring the scandals and extravagancies of her life. She was taken care of, during the last days cf her life, by Mrs. Buchanan, wife of the President of the United States, who had known her formerly, and took pity on her abandoned condition.
From a compilation in Hunts Merchant's Magazine it appears that the population of the seceded Slates is—Free, 2,703,147: slave, 2,350,607; total, 5,053,754. The seven seceded States contain 2,350,607 slaves, and the eight remaining slave States contain 1,648,676 slaves. South Carolina and Mississippi are the only two States in which the slaves outnumber the free.
Dr. Seaman, Commissioned by the British Government to explore the Fejee Islands, arrived at Sydney on the 11th of December, on his return from a visit of inspection. His opinion of the capibilities of these islands is very favorable, and there seems every probability that they will be added to the possessions of the British Crown.
No less than 1,600 steamboats run upon the Mississippi river and its tributaries. The total value of these is estimated at $60,000,060. The Mississippi drainsan area of 1,200,000 square miles,washes the shores of twelve States; and from the Gulf of Florida to the source of the Missouri, it is 4,500 miles in length, its average depth 30 feet, and its width over half a mile.
A minister of the gospel, residing in Milwaukie, recently attempted to argue a fast youth into leaving a number of dissolute companions. One of the companions in question struck the parson for his interference, when the clerical gentleman off coat, pitched in, and walloped the rowdy to his heart's content, in about five minutes.
Sir Charles Fellowes has bequeathed the watch of Milton to the British Museum, on the following terms. ‘I give and bequeath Milton’s watch to the Trustees of the British Museum, to be deposited m the British Museum, upon condition that the watch may be placed under glass, or in some other way be always kept exposed to public view.
The Emperor cl * ustria has been present at some extensive artillery experiments in the vicinity of the capital Amongst others matters which engaged the attention of his Majesty'was gun-cotton, with which several guns were fired, and it is said that ah the inconveniences arising from the use of this material have been successfully overcome.
^^A fire broke out last November in the cellar of a candle manufacturer m Paris, in which were 200 tuns of oil and great quantities of candles The doors and win dows were closed tight and steam was introduced from a boiler by a pipe, when the flames were extinguished m five minutes.
There are 165,226 children who daily attend the public schools of the city of New York. The number of teachers is 1,548. Of these, 1,368 are women, and only 180 men. The ladies—God bless them I—are the natural instructors of youth, and we are glad to note that this truth is so practically exemplified in the Empire City, j A suspension bridge is now being con-*strucied by Mr J, Roebling over the Kentucky River, on ( the Lexington and Danville Railroad, which will have a span of 1,224 feet from center to center ot the towers, over a chasm 300 feet deep. When completed, it will be the longest single span in the world.
The Paris, Lyons and Mediterranean Railway, whose lines now comprise 1,201 miles, is-the largest establishment of the kind in the world. Its receipts for January were $1,783,335, whilst those of the London and North Western. (966 miles,) were $1,450,465.
They get up model love-letters at Cleveland, short, sweet, and spelt upon the principle of complete secession from dictionary rules. Here is one read m court last week : '‘dear- tbow abcent not forgotten thares a good tim cumin wate alittel longer.’’
According to investigations lately made in Paris, it has been discovered that the gaudy colors and the great glare of gas lights in the cafes tend to produce brain diseases in persons who frequent such establish- , ments.
Photographic pictures have lately been taken in London with Way’s electric light. It is scarcely possible to detect portraits so taken from those obtained with sunlight. Such pictures are sharp in outline, and the toning is said to be excellent.
A bill has passed the Virginia Legislature making it a misdemeanor to send a false statement by telegraph. The penalty inflicted for violation of the law is a fine of not more than $500 and not less than $50, or imprisonment as the court may direct.
A marriage took place in Indiana lately, and just as the knot was tied, the newly-made bride received a telegraphic dispatch to the effect that her husband, Lewis Snowden, was already married. Upon investigation this turned out to be true.
Soon after be was six years old, one of his
ua i iie, one that he was very fond of. Robin
REMOVAL.
From this date, our friends will find the NEW YORK WEEKLY OFFICE
AT
11 FRANKFORT STREET, N. Y.
[WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.]
THE MOTHER’S PRAYER
BY AUGUSTUS.
Wearily, silently, lonely,
The mother sat watching the rain, Thinking the while of her only
Loved son on the desolate main-Thinking if tossed on the billow,
When tempests their revelry keep-.
Or low with the rock his pillow, He slumbered far down in the deep.
Silently watching in sadness,
Till darkness bad folded the day, Memory murmured of gladness, So rapidly vanished away.
Breathed of the loved and the cherished, So tenderly loving and true—
Those that had faded and perished, Now meekly at rest by the yew.
In long ago days another
Had wandered away from her home, Bidding adieu to his mother,
Far off on toe ocean to roam.
Tears, with their sympathy soothing
Like angels that dropped through the rain, Came, as with longing and rutting, She thought of her son on the main.
With thoughts of the foam capped breaker, Where billows broke loudly and wild, Humbly she asked of her Maker, His care for her desolate child.
Humbly, thus bended before Him, Her heart filled with yearning and pain;
Long did she fervent implore Him, Her son might be with her again.
Sudden, and boldly in seeming, Came rapping and voice at the door;
Hark !. Could it be she was dreaming ? A voice she had oft heard before.
Filled with a joy without measure, She lovingly, fondly, again
Clasped to her bosom the treasure, Returned from the billowy main.
( *** Entered according to Act of Congress by Street
&
Smith, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York
DIBK1WS iw nmw
OR,
THE SACRIFICE.
A TALE OF COLLING-WOOD.
BY MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,
Author ofMarian Grey,” “ Lena Rivers,” “ Tempest and Sunshine,” “ English Orphans,” “ Homestead on the Hillside,” “ Meadow Brook; or, Rosa Lee,” “ Dora : Deane,” “ Maggie Miller,” u Cousin Maude,” “ Jessie . Graham,” ” Rosamond, or, The Youthful Error,” “ Mil ■ died; or, The Child of Adoption,” etc., etc.
[Back Numbers of "Darkness and Daylight" canbe obtained fromeoery Ne ids Agent throughout the United States. J
CHAPTER XXIX.
DESTINY.
“Charlie is beginning to walk in darkness, too,” the old Captain muttered to himself, as, day after day, Edith’s cheek grew paler, her step more languid and slow. “ Charlie is walking in darkness. What is it, Charlie ?” and his shrivelled band would rest lovingly upon her head.
But “ Charlie” would answer, laughingly, that nothing was the matter, she was only weak, just as she always was in the spring. She should be strong again when the summer came, and a shiver ran through her frame as she thought of what the summer might bring to her. Still she did not for one moment waver in her purpose, and lest Richard should suspect what he could not see, she affected a gayety in his presence sadly at variance with her real feelings. Never had her merry laugh rang out so frequently before him—never had her wit been one half so sparkling, and when he passed his hands over her flushed cheek, feeling how hot it was, he said to himself, “ The roses are coming back, she cannot be unhappy,” and every line and lineament of the blind man’s face glowed with the new-born joy springing up within his heart, and making the world around him one grand jubilee.
Victor was quick to note the change in his master, and without the least suspicion of the truth, he once asked Edith, “ What made Mr. Harrington so young and almost boyish, acting as men were supposed to act when they were just engaged ?”
“ Victor,” said Edith, after a moment’s reflection, “ can you keep a secret?”
“ Certainly,” be replied, “ I can do anything you bid me do. What is it, pray ? Is Mr. Harrington matrimonially inclined ?”
Edith’s heart yearned for sympathy—for some one to sustain her—to keep her from fainting by the wayside, and as she could not confide in Grace, Victor was her only remaining refuge. He had been the repository of all her childish secrets, entering into her feelings as readily and even more demonstratively than any female friend could have done. Richard would tell him, of course, as soon as it was settled, and as she knew now that it was settled, why not speak first and so save him the trouble. Thus deciding, she replied to his question,
“ Yes, Richard is going to be married ; but you must not let him know I told you, not yet, at least; not till the engagement is made public.”
Victor started, but had no shadow of suspicion that the young girl before him was the bride elect. His master had once been foolish enough to think of her as such, be believed, but that time was passed Richard bad grown more sensible, and Edith was the future wife of Arthur St. Claire. Nina would not live long, and ailer she was dead there would be no further hindrance to a match : every way so suitable. This was Victor’s theory, and never doubting that the same idea had a 1 lodgment in the minds of both Arthur and Edith, be could not conceive it possible that the latter ' would deliberately give herself to Richard. : Grace Atherton, on the contrary, would be glad to do it: she had been coaxing his master these 1 forty years, and had succeeded in winning him at last. Victor did not fancy Grace ; he could not ] endure that she should be the mistress of Col- ’ lingwood .; and when at last be spoke, it was to call both bis master and Airs. Atherton a pair of < precious fools. Edith looked wouderingly at him as be raved on. i
“A sweet time of it she’ll have, putting on his socks, buttoning his shirts, combing his hair, tying his cravat, and all that. I wish her much joy, and you may tell her so for me. I can’t bear her, I never could, since I beard how she abused you. Why, I’d almost rather you’d be his wife than that gay widow.”
“Suppose I marry him then in her stead,” Edith said, laughingly. “ I verily believe he'd exchange.”
“ Of course he would,” Victor answered, bitterly. “The older a man grows, the younger the girl he selects, and it’s a wonder he didn’t ask you first.”
“ Supposing he bad ?” returned Edith, bending over a geranium to bide her agitation. “ Supposing he had, and it was I instead of Grace to whom be was engaged.”
“Preposterous!” Victor exclaimed. “You could not do such a thing in your right senses. Why, I’d rather see you dead than married to your father. I believe I’d forbid the banns myself,” and Victor strode from the room, banging the door behind him, by way of impressing Edith still more forcibly with the nature of his opinion.
Elith was disappointed. She had expected sympathy at least from Victor, bad surely thought be would be pleased to have her for his mistress, and his words, “ I would rather see you dead,” hurt her cruelly. Perhaps every body would say so. It was an unnatural match, this union of autumn and spring, but she must do something. Any thing was preferable to the aimless, listless life she was leading now. She could not be any more wretched than she was, and she might perhaps be happier when the worst was over and she knew for certain that she was Richard’s wife. His wife! It made her faint and sick just to say those two words. What then would the reality be? She loved him dearly as a guardian, a brother, and she might in time love him as her husband. Such things had been, They could be again. Aye, more, they should be, and determining henceforth to keep her own counsel, and suffer Victor to believe it was Grace instead of herself, she ran into the garden, where she knew Richard was walking, and stealing to bis side, caught bis arm ere he was aware of her presence.
“ Darling, is it you ?” be asked, and his dark face became positively beautiful with the radiant love-light shining out all over it.
Every day the hope grew stronger that the cherished object of bis life might be realized. Edith did not avoid him as he feared she would. On the contrary she rather sought his society than otherwise, never, however, speaking of decision. It was a part of the agreement that they should not talk of it until the four weeks were gone, the weeks which to Richard dragged so slowly, while to Edith they flew on rapid wing, and with every rising sun, she felt an added pang as she thought h w soon the twelfth of May would be there. It wanted but four days of it when she mined him in the garden, and for the first time since their conversation Richard alluded twt by asking playfully. “ what day of the month it was ?”
“ The eighth and Edith’s eyes closed tightly over, the tears struggling to gain egress, then with a mighty effort she added, laughingly,
“ When day after to-morrow comes, it ^11 be the tenth, then the eleventh, then the twelfth, and
, then, you know, I’m coming to you in the library. , Send Victor off for that evening, can’t you ?
He’s sure to come in when I don’t want him, if he’s here,” and this she said because she feared it would be harder to say yes if Victor’s reproachful eyes should once look upon her, as they were sure to do, if he suspected her design.
Richard could not understand why Victor must be sent away, but anything Edith asked was right, and he replied that Victor should not trouble them.
“ There, he’s coming now!” and Edith dropped the hand she held, as if fearful lest the Frenchman should suspect.
This was not the proper feeling, she knew, and returning to the house, she shut herself up in her room, crying bitterly because she could not make herself feel differently I
The twelfth came at last, not a balmy, pleasant day as May is wont to bring, but a rainy, dreary April day, when the gray clouds chased each other across the leaden sky, now showing a dispo. sition to hang out patches of blu?, and again growing black and heavy as the fitful showers came pattering down. Edith was sick. The strong tension of nerves she had endured for four long weeks was giving way. She could not keep up longer ; and Richard breakfasted and dined without her, while with an aching head, she listened to the rain beating against her windows, and watched the capricious clouds as they floated by. Many times she wished it all a dream, from which she should awaken ; and then, when she reflected that ’twas a fearful reality, she covered her head with the bedclothes and prayed that she might die. But why pray for this ? She need not be Richard’s wife unless she chose—he had told her so repeatedly, and now she too said “I will not!” Strange she bad not thus decided before, and stranger still that she should be so happy now she had decided I
There was a knock at the door, and Grace Atherton asked to be admitted.
“ Richard told me you were sick,” she said, as she sat down by Edith’s side ; “ and you do look ghostly white. What is the matter, pray ?”
“ One of my nervous headachesand Edith turned from the light so that her face should tell . no tales of the conflict within.
“ I received a letter from Arthur last night,” Grace continued, “ and thinking you might like < to hear from Nina, I came round in the rain to : tell you of her. Her health is somewhat im- < proved, and she is now under the care of a West ' India physician, who holds out strong hopes that i her mental derangement may in time be cured.” 1
Edith was doubly glad now that she had turned f her face away, for by so doing she hid the tears which dropped so fast upon her pillow. <
“ Did Arthur mention me ?” she asked, and ] Grace knew then that she was crying. <
Still it was better not to withhold the truth, ( and bending over her she ausweied, i
11 No, Edith, he did not. I believe he is really striving to do right.”
“And he will live with Nina if she gets well ?” came next from the depths of the pillows where Edith lay half smothered.
“Perhaps so. Would you not like to have him ?” Grace asked.
“ Ye-ee-s. I sup-pose so. Oh, I don’t know what I like. I don’t know anything except that I wish I was dead,” and the silent weeping became a passionate sobbing as Edith shrank further from Grace, plunging deeper and deeper among her pillows until she was nearly hidden from view.
Grace could not comfort her; there was no comfort as she saw, and as Edith refused to answer any of her questions upon indifferent topics, she ere long took her leave, and Edith was left alone. She had reversed her decision while Grace was sitting there, and the news from Florida was the immediate cause. She should marry Richard now, and her whole body shook with the violence of her emotions, but as the fiercest storm will in time expend its fury, so she grew still at last, though it was rather the stillness of despair than any healthful, quieting influence stealing over her. She hated herself because she could not feel an overwhelming joy at the prospect of Nina’s recovery; bated Arthur because be had forgotten her; hated Grace for telling her so 5 hated Victor for saying he would rather see her dead than Richard’s wife ; hated Mrs. Matson for coming in to ask her how she was ; hated her for staying there when she would rather be alone, and made faces at her from beneath the sheet; hated everybody but Richard, and in time she should hate him—at least, she hoped she should, for on the whole she was moro, comfortable when hating people than she had ever been when loving them. It bad such a hardened effect upon her, this hatred of all^mankind, such a don’t care influence, that she rather enjoyed it than otherwise.
And this was the girl who, as that rainy, dismal day dvcw to its close and the sun went down in tears, dressed herself with a firm, unflinching hand, arranging her hair with more than usual care, giving it occasionally a sharp pull, as a kind of escape valve to her feelings, and uttering an impatient exclamation whenever a pin proved obstinate and did not at once slip into its place. She was glad Richard was blind and could not sec her swollen eyes, which, in spite of repeated bathings in ice-water and cologne would look red and heavy. Her voice, however, would betray her, and so she toned it down by warbling snatches of a love song learned ere she knew the meaning of love, save as it was connected with Richard. It was not Edith Hastings who left that pleasant chamber, moving with an unfaltering step down the winding stairs and across the marble hall, but a half-crazed, defiant woman going on to meet her destiny.and biting her lip with vexation when she heard that Richard had company—college friends, who, being in Shannondale on business had come up to see him.
This she learned from Victor, whom she met in the hall, and who added, that he never saw his master appear quite so. dissatisfied as when to|d they were in the library, and would probably
mind a plan for testing his identity with Nina’s Charlie. Tossing aside sheet after sheet, she ran her fingers lightly over the keys, playing a soft, mournful prelude to the German air she knew was Niua’s favorite, and which she herself bad set to words. Then from her lips there issued a strain of low, rich melody, which made Charlie Hudson hold his breath, as leaning forward he listened eagerly to an air first heard across the sea, on the sunny plains of France. Not a change cf bis muscles escaped Edith’s watchful eye, nor yet the tear which moistened bis eye-lashes, and < long ere her song was ended she knew he was 1 Nina’s Charlie. 1
Turning a little more toward him, she said, 1 “I never sing this without thinking of a dear, i unfortunate friend, a Miss Bernard, who left i Shannondale last winter, and went back to her 1 home in Florida.”
Edith did not look up, but she knew that Mr. 1 Hudson started quickly, exclaiming, in a voice 1 too low co be heard by the occupants of the other e parlor, i
^Nina! Do you mean Nina, Miss Hastings?” I “Yes; I mean Nina—crazy Nina. Do you ] know her?” and Edith’s eyes met bis with a J steady, serene expression, which went far toward i re-assuring him. 1
“I knew her years ago,” he replied. “I met t bertaroad in Paris. I was with her in the ship when her father died, and after bis death took 1 charge of her until Boston was leached, and I I placed her in the care of a Mr. St. Claire. They * were engaged, I think. Is she now bis wife?” 1
What should Edith say ? What could she say ’ Ibat would still be true and not betray the se- : crct ? <
“He is her guardiail—made so by her father’s < will,” she answered at last; “but he surely is ’ pardonable for not taking as his wife one hope- 1 lessly insane. Still she lives with him, and no i brother could De kinder than he has been to her.” i
“I do not doubt it,” Mr. Hudson replied. “He 1 always impressed me as one who, while possess- i ing the many sterling qualities of a true man,was 1 still as gentle and winning as a woman. I never < blamed Nina for loving him.'’ ;
Mr. Hudson bad unwittingly put in words what i Edith had felt but could not express, and remem- i bering what Grace had said of his aristocratic father, who died ere Arthur could remember him, < and of bis proud, imperious mother, whom he seldom mentioned, she wondered whence he inherited the rare, winning virtues which made him so attractive. She liked to bear Arthur applauded, but Mr. Hudson would far rather talk of Nina, asking many questions concerning her, commenting upon her exquisite beauty, and saying at last, “ My only daughter is called Nina Bernard.”
“ You are married, then ?” Edith rejoined, by. way of experiment, for she would see if it were possible to outlive one’s first love so far as to be happy with the second.
“ Yes,” he answered readily. “ Aly wife is ■ something of your style of beauty, too. 1 am very proud of my Margaret,” and the husband-i love broke all over bis face as he told her more 1' of his queenly Margaret
I ^He has forgotten—be is happy. * I can be so, r to^’ Edith thought, as she left the piano, fol-
: flowed by Charlie Hudson, who little dreamed bow i fmueb good be bad done her by speaking as be bad of bis beautiful wife.
pas|Jk^ight. Edith readily gues^d the .pause "of bis disquiet, and impatiently staiJiped her littlefoot upon the marble floor, for she knew their presej.de would necessarily defer the evil hour, and she could not live much longer in her present state ef excitement.
“I was just coming to your room,” said Victor, “tofiee if you were able to appear in the parlor,’ Three men who &ave not met in years are stupid company for each other : and then Mr. Harrington wants to show you off, I dare say. Pity the1 widow wasn’t ’here.”
Victor spoke sarcastically, but Edith merely replied,
-“Tell your master I will -come in a few minutes.”
Then, with a half feeling of relief, she ran back to her room, bathing her eyes afresh, aud succeeding in removing the redness to such an ex-
1 tent, that by lamplight no one would suspect she had been crying. Her headache was gone, and
1 with spirits somewhat elevated, she started again for the parlor, meeting a second time with Victor, who said,
“I made a Flight mistake about the gentlemen. They are brothers ; but Mr. Harrington has only been in college with the elder one. The other is much younger, judging from his looks.”
* What did you tell me their names were ?” Edith asked ; and Victor replied,
“Hudson, from New York. Mr. John Hudson and Mr. Charles. I saw it in their bats.”
Edith started, for the latter name brought Nina’s golden hair before her. Could it be the Charlie who had wept to see his early love dancing her mad dance behind the iron grate. She would ascertain, she thought, and passing on through the wide hall she entered the parlor where Richard was sitting with his guests. He knew it was Edith, and he blushed like a young girl as he presented her to bis friends. He could not see the look of mingled surprise and admiration with which they regarded her, but he heard it in their manner of addressing her, and with a proud, pleased expression, he resumed his seat, while Edith, too, sat very near to him, and just opposite the younger Mr. Hudson. He was a handsome man of thirty or thirty-two, and Edith thought she could detect a shade of sadness upon his face and in his smile, which grew more frequent as she exerted herself to entertain him Never bad shebeen more brilliant, and the strangers gazed at her in wonder, as like some rare diamond she sparkled and flashed, and grew each moment more and more beautiful. Richard was charmed—Edith was doing herself justice ; and wishing bis guests knew what she was to him, he sat in his arm-chair, listening to her lively sallies, until the younger Hudson asked her if she sang.
Edith answered in the affirmative, and went at once to the instrument, which stood in the back parlor. Charlie Hudson was passionately fond of music, while his brother cared nothing for it, consequently the latter remained with Richard, i while the former followed Edith, who had in her j
i may retire as soon as you choose.”
Something in bis manner awakenod Victor’s ' suspicions, and his keen eyes flashed upon Edith, who, with a haughty toss of the head, turned away to avoid meeting it again.
The door was closed at last; Victor was gone ; their guests were gone, and she was alone with Richard, who seemed waiting for her to speak; but Edith could not. The breath she fancied would come so freely with Victor’s presence removed, would scarcely come at all, and she felt the tears gathering like a flood every time she looked at the sightless man before her, and thought of what was to come. By a thousand little devices she strove to put it off, and remembering that the piano was open, she walked with a faltering step across the parlor, closed the instrument, smoothed the heavy Cover, arranged the sheets of music, whirled the music stool as high as she could, turned it back as low as she could, sat down upon it, crushed with her fingers two great tears, which, with all her winking she could not keep in subjection, counted the flowers on the paper border, wondered how long she should probably live, and if Charlie Hudson ever loved Nina as she had loved Arthur. Then, with a mighty effort she arose, and with a step which this time did not falter, went and stood before Richard, Mho was beginning to look troubled at her protracted silence. He knew she was near him now, he could hear her low breathing, and he waited anxiously for her to speak.
Edith’s face was a study then. Almost every possible emotion was written upon it. Fear, anguish, disappointed hopes, cruel longings for the past, terrible sbrinkings from the present, and a still more terrible dread of the future. Then these passed away, aud were succeeded by pity, sympathy, gratitude, and a strong desire to do right. The latter feelings conquered, and sitting
down by Richard, she took his warm hand between her two cold ones, and said to him,
“ ’Tis the 12th of May to-night, did you know it?”
Did he know it ? He had thought of nothing else the livelong day, and when, early in the morning, he heard that she was sick, a sad foreboding had swept over him, lest what he coveted so much should yet be withheld. But she was there beside him. She bad sought the opportunity, had asked if he knew it was the 12th, and, drawing her closer to him, he answered back: “ Yes, darling ; ’tis the day on which you were to bring me your decision, You have kept your word, birdie. You have brought it to me whether good or bad. Now tell me, is it the old blind man’s wife, the future mistress of Collingwood, that I encircle with my arm ?”
He bent him down to listen for the reply, feeling her breath stir his hair, and hearing each heart beat as it counted off the seconds. Then like a strain of music, sweet and rich, but oh, so touchingly sad. the words came floating in a whisper to bis ear, “ Yes, Richard, your future wife ; but please, don't call yourself the old blind man. It makes you seem a hundred times my father. You are not old, Richard—no older than /feel!” and the newly betrothed laid her head on Richard’s shoulder, sobbing passionately.
Did all girls behave like this ? Richard wished he knew. Did sweet Lucy Collingwood, when she gave her young spring life to his father’s brown October ? Lucy bad loved her busband, he knew, and there was quite as much difference between them as between himself and Edith. Possibly ’twas a maidenly weakness to cry, as Edith was doing. He would think so at all events. It were death to think otherwise, and, caressing her with unwonted tenderness, be kissed her tears away, telling her bow happy she had made him by promising to be bis—bow the darkness, the dreariness all was gone, and the world was so bright and fair. Then, as she continued weeping and he re-memb red what had heretofore passed between them, he said to her earnestly : “ Edith, there is* one thing I would know. Is it a divided fove you bring mo. or is it no love at all. I bavo right to ask you this, my darling. Is U gro^^i alone which prompted your decision ? If it is, Edith, I would die rather than accept it.v Don’t deceive me, darling, I caim^^^^pur fac^—cannot read what’s writteirt^sO; Alas! alas! that I am blind to-nigbt^btf^rirtrust you, birdie ; I’ll believe what y^hmay tell me. Has an affection, different from Aster’s, been born within the last four weeks ?• Speak! do you love me more than you $id ? into^hy eyes, dearest; you will not deal faMMith me^en.”
Like an erring^?t penitlrft child. Edith crept into his lap, but did not look into the sightless eyes. She dared not, lest the gaze should wring from her quivering lips the wild words trembling the: e, “Forgive me, Richard, but I loved Ar-i thur first.” So she bid her face in his bosom, and i said to him,
“I do not love you, Richard, as you do me. It j came too sudden, and I bad not thought about it. But I love you dearly, very, very dearly, and I , want so much to be your wife. I shall rest so • quietly when I have you to lean upon, you to - care for. I am young for you, I know, but many > such matches have proved happy, and ours assuredly will. You are so good, so noble, so un-
He did not tell her bow sometimes in bis drcams Selfish, that I shall be happy with you. I shall
other arms than Margaret’s were twined around his neck? while golden ringlets floated across his bosom where Margaret’s darker tresses lay, nor how in the blue eyes of bis favorite child there was an expression which soothed him as by magic when head and heart were weary. Nina was not forgotten, but as we think of the beloved dead, so he thought of her, and was happy with the living. The latter Edith guessed, and her own heart grew stronger for the hour hastening on apace. She would answer Richard that night, and when at last, as the clock struck eleven, be summoned Victor to the parlor, bidding him show the gentlemen to their rooms, she crossed to his side, and in a whisper so low that no one heard her, save himself, said to him,
“ Tell Victor be needn’t come back.”
He understood her meaning, and unmindful that his guests were with him yet, he laid bis arm around her waist, giving her a loving squeeze as he said to his valet,
“ I shall not need your services to-night You
[ be a naughty, wayward wife, I fear, but you can j control me, and you must. We’ll go to Europe • sometime, Richard, and visit Bingeu on the • Rhine, where the little baby girl fell in the river, । and the brave boy R’chard jumped after her.
Don’t you wish you’d let me die? There would then have been no bad, black-haired Edith lying in your lap, and torturing you with fears that she docs not love you as she ought.”
Edith’s was an April temperament, and already the sun was shining through the cloud ; the load at her heart was not so heavy, nor the future half as dark. Her decision was made, her des-tiny'acccpted, and henceforth she would abide by it nor venture to look back.
“Are you satisfied to take me on my terms ?” she asked, as Richard did not immediately answer.
He would rather she had loved him more, but it was sudden, be knew, and she was young. He was terribly afraid, it is true, that gratitude alone bad influenced her actions, but the germ of love was there, be believed ; and by and by it would bear the rich, ripe fruit. He could wait for that ; and be loved her so much, wanted her so much, needed her so much, that he would take her on any terms.
“ Yes,” he said at last, resting bis chin upon her bowed head, “ I am satisfied, and never since my remembrance, has there come to Rfobard Harrington a moment so fraught with bliss as this in which I bold you in my arms and know I hold my wife, my darling wife, sweetest name ever breathed by human tongue—and Edith, if you must sicken of me, do it now—to-night. Don’t put it off, for every fleeting moment binds me to you with an added tie, which makes it harder to lose you.”
, “Richard,” and, lifting up her head, Edith looked into the eyes she could not meet before, “ I swear to you, solemnly, that never, by word or deed, will I seek to be released from our engagement, and if I am released, it will be because you give me up of your own free will. You will be the one to break it, not I.”
“ Then it will not be broken,” came in a quick response from Richard, as he held closer to him one whom he now felt to be bis forever.
The lamps upon the table, and the candles on the mantel, flashed and smoked, and almost died away—the fire on the marble hearth gave one or two expiring gasps and then went out—the hands of the clock moved onward, pointing to long after midnight, and still Richard, loth to let his treasure go, kept her with him, talking t(Wer of bis great happiness, and asking if early June would be too soon for her to be bis bride.
“Yes, yes, much too soon,” cried Edith. “Give me the whole summer in which to be free. I’ve never been any where, you know. I want to see the world. Let’s go to Saratoga, you and I, and to all those places I’ve heard so much about
Then, in the autumn, we’H have a famous wedding at Collingwood, and I will settle down into the most demure, obedient of wives.”
Were it not that the same roof sheltered them both, Richard would have acceded to this delay, but when he reflected that he should not be parted from Edith any more than if they were really married, he reluctantly consented, stipulating that the wedding should take place on the anniversary of the day when she first came to him with flowers, and called him l: poor blind man.”
«• You did not think you’d ever be the poor blind man’s wife,” he said, asking her, playfully, if she were not sorry even now.
(To be continued.)
OUR KNOWLEDGE BOX.
A FEW PARAGRAPHS WORTH REMEMBERING.
[We have received numerous communications from persons who are desirous to contribute to “Our Knowledge Box,” providing they are paid for their trouble, and we here desire to say to all such that we opened this department for the beue-fitof thereaders of the Weekly at large, and are always supplied, gratis, with matter enough to make it Interesting. We shill be thankful to all who willfurnishus valuable receipts, etc., and in doing so, they will be benefitting themselves as well as us. because for any one item which they may furnish they will receive half-a-dozen in return. I
Questions Answered and Information Wanted. —Paracelsus sends us the following answer to Livelle H. D.: To remove Iron rust.—Saturate the stain with a strong solution of oxalic acid in water, then wash out m clean water; repeat until removed. Tartaric acid also answers the same purpose, but does the work slower. Let it stay on a few minutes each time that the acid may have time to dissolve the oxide of iron formed iu the texture of the fabric. The same correspondent sends us tho following answer to G. Naismith: Cement for Repairing Broken Marble Statuary .—Dissolve equal parts of gum mastic and bleached gum shellac in 95 per cent, alcohol to the consistence of thin molasses. Apply a coat with a camel’s hair brush, previously warm, in the marble to expel moisture. Let stand until dry, which will be but a short time. As the alcohol rapidly evaporates; then apply a second ooat, unite the parts, and tie firmly together. Please say to your correspondent who wishes the process of Ambro-typing that it will come iu next No. I am very busy just now, but will this week write you the entire process-instruments, materials, chemicals necessary, and recipes for collodion—making silver bath, developing liquid, fixing solutions, mounting, etc., etc., etc. Will “Paracelsus” oblige us by writing only one side of the paper which he uses ?.....A Constvnt Reader asks : Would some one of vour subscrtoers enlighten us, through your Knowledge Box, as to the correct manner of liquifying phosphorus, without adding much to the bulk ? It can be liquified by water-bath or ether ; but, in both cases, but a small portion of the phosphorus cau be dissolved. The same concspOMent sends us the following cure for drunkenness; SulphafPof iron”, five grains ; magnesia, ten grains ; peppermint water, eleven drachms ; spirit of nutmeg, ope drachm (mtsoe). To be taken twice a day ; the above is the amount taken in one dose. Tho recipe came into noto-.riety through the efforts^a distinguished English gentleman, whose name is not given out of respect to his family He had fallen into such habitual habits of drunkenness that bis most earnest efforts to reclaim himself proved unavailing. He sought the advice of a« eminent physician, who gave him the above recipe, the ot which he followed up faithfully for eleven montkfc. At the end of that time he had lost all desire for liquors, though bo had been a slave to it for many years......F B. A.— The black spots to which you allude are known as flesh worms. We have published a doziqm^cipes for their eradication already, and we cannot repeal them, or any of them.......The same reply will .go for A. W.,who wishes a stain for violins. Those who value our Knowledge Box should either file the pa|>or or clip Hie department out and lay it away.J. L. B. sends the follow, iug in answer to a correspondent, who wished to know how to paint magic lantern glasses : To paint the glasses for a m igic-lantern is as follows . Draw on a paper the subject you desire to point. Lay it on a table, or any flat surface, and place the glass over it; then draw the outlines with a I very fine camel’s hair penoil, in varnish mixed in black i paint, and, when dry, fill up the other parts in their proper colors. Transparent colors must bo used for this purpose, such as carmine, lake, Prussian blue, verdigris, sulphate of iron, tincture of Brazil-wood, gamboge, &c. ; and these must be tempered with a strong white varnish to prevent their peeling off. Then shade them with black or bllstre, mixed with the same varnish..... Carondakt writes : I have a spring, with a pump in it, that is very much infected with those little bugs -which are found in living water. So much so, that wo think the water is unhealthy on account of them, can you give me a plan to fitter the water in the pumps. I am about digging a cistern and wish to filter the water as it goes in, can you give me the best mode of doing it......Constant Reader.—We will give you the receipts for ice cream and root beer next week.A Subscriber wishes to know how to re-gild old picture frames.Jacob A. Crawford.—Wo wili give you the information desired next week.P. S G. wishes receipts lor making the red and green flowers used in theatres in spectacular dramas
How to Cure Bacon—Bacon Is cured in very different ways For domestic use, it is usually laid upon a tabte, and salt, with aHlttl* nitre added, well rubbed in first on one side and then on the other, either with »he bare hand or the salting-glove. Some straw is then placed upon the floor of an out-house, a flitch laid thereon, with the rind downward—straw laid above this, then another flitch, and so on; above the whole is placed a board, and heavy stones or weights above all In three weeks or a month the meat is sufficiently salted, and is hung up to hooks in the kitchen rafters. The general practice of burning wood ami turf in Irish kitchens, imparts a sweetness to the bacon thus cured that is not to be met with in any which you can purchase Another mode is as follows: Prepare a pickte by boiHug common salt and nitre in water; mix, for a siugle pig, of tolerable size, one pound of coarse brown sugar with half a pound of nitre; rub this well in with ihe salting glove, then put the meat into the pickle, and let it lie in this for two days, afterward take it out of the pickle, and rub it with salt alone, then put it back into the pickle,
A Simple Cure for Cancer.—We believe we have published the following receipe before, but on account of its great importance—if it really is, as it purports to be, a cure—we again give it a place : Boil fine Turkey figs iu new milk, which they will thicken ; when they are tender, spilt and apply them as warm as they nan be borne to the part affected, whether broken or not; the part must be washed every time the poultice is changed, with some of tho milk; use a fresh poultice night and morning, and at least once during the day,and drink a quarter of a pint of the milk • the figs are boiled twice in 24'hours. If the stomach will bear it, this must be persevered in for three or four months at least. A man aged 105 years was oured about six years before his death with only six pounds of figs. The cancer, which began at the corner of his mouth, had eaten through his jaw, cheek, and half-way down his throat; yet he was so perfectly cured, as never to show any tendency to return. Should it ever do so, the figs should be again applied The first application gives a great deal of pain, but afterward each dressing gives relieL A woman cured by this remedy hid been afflicted ten years ; her breast bled excessively ten pounds cured her.
Preservation of Grapes and other Fruits.— A Frenchman, Mons Charmeux, who bus lately excited great astonishment by the exhibition of fresh grapes in spring and early summer, employs the following method; The grapes are allowed to remain on the vines as long as the weather permits They are then cut fu such a manner Ehata piece of the vm« remains on both sxles of the stem of each bunch It. is best to leave two buds or nodes above, and three or four below. The upper end is carefully sealed with wax; the lower is inserted in a suitably sized vial, filled with water, to which, in order to prevent decay, a quantity of charcoal’ powder is added The neck of the vial is then closed around the bit of vine by means of wax. The grapes thus prepared are either hung up or laid on straw or cotton, in. a cool, not freezing room, where they keep with no other care than removing such berries as occasionally decay.
How to Make Calves’ Feet Jelly.—To four calves' feet, well cleaned and divided, pour four quarts of water, and boil it to one half ; when perfectly firm and cold, clear off the fat, and add one bottle of sherry, three quarters of a pound of powdered sugar, the juice of six moderate sized lemons, and the. whites (with tho shells finely crushed) of eight eggs. If you should wish to mould it, about three quarters of an ounce of isinglass ought to be dropped lightly in where the liquid becomes visible through the head of scum, when the mixture begins to bail. It may be roughed, or served in glasses, without this addition. The calves’ feet should not be bought ready boiled, but only scalded. Cows’ feet or heels make nearly as good jelly as that from calves’ feet, and ?,re much more economical.
best working the corn can have. And as a hand, with a good horse, can scrape 8 or 10 acres a day, a farmer can get his whole crop worked over in a few days, and thus get the start of his work—no small matter in so busy a season. My main crop lias been tobacco for a good many years, and at some future time I may give you the most approved plan of managing that very troublesome but profitable crop. The year before last, my crop averaged me $120 dollars to the acre, on new ground, without manure. The land cost four dollars per acre. Last year I put the same land in tobacco, without manure, and had Justus good a crop as the year before. It is now In wheat, and if the season is a good one, will make a large yield. So much for some of our North Carolina land A. C C,
Covering Grass Seed—E. S. Allen, a Vermont correspondent of the New England tanner, says that he has “found a slab from a sawlog better than brush, to give the last finish to seeded land, and better than the roller on heavy land, as it pulverizes the lumps, giving the surface a smooth, fine tilth, without packing it.” He describes its construction and use as follows : “My method is to take a large slab, a foot wide or more, about 9 feet in length, with a 2 inch auger hole at about 2 feet from each end, into which 1 fasten two small chains, and bring them together in the form of a triangle ; these are attached to the whiffletree, and drawn by a horse, with tne convex side down. A weight of any desired heft can be attached to the top, or the operator or teamster can ride on tho slab, where the surface is not too unequal or stony.”
Care of Young Pigs.—A writer in tho Ohio Firmer says that farmers sometimes lose young winter I pigs by feeding them on heavy, raw, and cold food. They need their food cooked and given warm; a bran and milk mash, and a few boiled potatoes cut fine, are better than richer food, which is apt to scour them.
SCIENTIFIC NOTES.
The Sun Analyzed.—Two German chemists, working together in their laboratory at Heidelburg, have analyzed the body of the sun! Fabulous as It may seem, this is literally true. The accomplishment of such a feat might bethought difficult. It seems to imply that they must by some supernatural agency have obtained a fragment of the substance to be analyzed. It was, however, by no cabalistic arts that these alchemists of modern days achieved their wonders. They arrived at the results of their analysis without employing crucible or alembic, without the aid of either acid or fire, and solely by close examination of the rays of light, in the manner we shall now explain. It had been discovered several years. ago by another German philosopher that the solar spectrum exhibits numerous dark lines, crossing it in parallel directions, at certain though irregular distances apart, and of various thicknesses. Those lines were conjectured to be occasioned by tho absorption of some of tho rays of light in thoso parts of the spectrum by causes unexplained. Further researches have made known that the rays emanating from other sources exhibit different spectra when decomposed by a prism, each kind of light having its peculiar and distinctive spectrum. The variously-colored lights produced by the combustion of metals, for example, when they pass through a glass prism, and the images are received on a white screen, present separate spectra which never vary for each metal. This distinctive property is so well preserved that, when the light produced by the combustion of several metals mixed together is decomposed the several spectra are maintained separate,and the combined yet distinctive imago shows the spectrum of each metal as if its light alone were decomposed. By varying the experiment this combined colored spectrum may be converted into a negative Image of dark lines only. This is done when the rays of a more powerful light pass through the colored flame. The dark lines thus formed correspond exactly with certain of the dark lines in the solar spectrum. It is therefore inferred that the lines observed crossing the decomposed colored light are caused by the absorption of portions of the intense light from the body of the sun in passing through incandescent vapors that surround it. Proceeding on that hypothesis, those hitherto inexplicable dark lines have been closely scrutinised in order to discover whether they correspond with tho spectra of tho metals. It has by this means been ascertained that tho negative spectrum of iron exactly coincides with a certain number of those lines; that the spectrum of nickel coincides with others of the dark lines; and that the negative spectra of magnesia, sodium, and of some others of the metallic bases of the earths, also have their exact counterparts in the solar spectrum By ibis means it is ascertained, in a manner quite convincing to those whe have witnessed the experiments, that the body of the sun contains large portions of iron and of other metals and earths common on this gfobe of ours. The gradual steps in tho progress of discovery and investigation which have led to this bold induction from observed phenomena presents a striking example of the manner in which each successive discovery opens the way to others, and affords additional ground for hope that ere long many of tho hitherto inexplicable mysteries of nature may be penetrated by the accumulated forces which science is daily bringing to bear on them. When Newton discovered the compound nature of light, and decomposed it into its various colors, he could not have imagined any relation between that discovery and the analysis of the component parts of the sun, nor could Fraunhoffer havqi conceived, when he observed the dark lines in the spec* trum, that they were pregnant with meaning. This writing in the sunbeam, which Bunsen and Kirchoffbave now so far deciphered, promises, when further examined, to disclose other and more important secrets yet unknown. The method of analysis by the spectra of luminous vapors detects minute quantities of substance which entirely escape observation in the modes of analysis hithertq adopted. Two new metals have thus been discovered in the waters of Baden Baden, enough present in quantities so small that from several tons of the water only a few grains can be extracted. Tho all-pervading presence of soda in the at-I mosphere has also been ascertained by spectrum analysis, j which is so sensitive that tho huydred-milliouth part of a grain becomes a very appreciable quantity. With this feearching means of investigation placed at the command of scientific inquirers, we may expect the revelation of wonders surpassing that of the analysis of the sun.
Prussian Blue for Calico Printers.—Dr. G. Calvert lately brought under the notice of the Manchester Philosophical Society an interesting communication made to him by Professor Arnaudon, of Turin, to the effect that I oxalate of ammonia completely modifies the action of yel-(low prussiate of potash when mixed in solution with a salt ot peroxide of iron. Thus, if oxalate of ammonia be added to this metallic salt, it will give no Prussian blue I when a solution of yellow prussiate of potash is added; but on the addition of an acid Prussian blue is immediately produced The knowledge of this fact may be interesting to calico printers, as it will give them the means of easily producing Prussian blue on their fabrics. To attain this desirable end, the printer will simply have to pass his fabric through a mixture of persalt of iron and oxalate of ammonia, dry, and print an acid where he wishes to produce the blue.
The Minerals in our Bodies—In the body of a man weighing 154 pounds there are about pounds of mineral matter, consisting of phosphate of lime, 5 pounds 13 ounces ; carbonate of lime, 1 pound ; salt, 3 ounces 376 grains ; peroxyd of iron, 150 grains ; silica, 3 grains. Making 7 pounds 5 ounces and 49 grains, with minute quantities ot potash, chlorine, and several other substances. The rest of the system is composed of oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, and carbon ; 111 pounds of the oxygen and hydrogen being combined in the form of water. Though the quantity of some of these substances is very small, it is found absolutely essential to health that this small quantity should be supplied; lienee the importance of a variety of food. It we furnish nature with all the material required, she will select such asthe*system needs, and always just in the proper quantities.
[WRITTEN FOR TH© NEW YORK WEEKLY ]
THE INDIAN THIEF:
A BORDER STORY.
BY WILLIAM EARLE BINDER.
ITEM^OR FARMERS AND GARDENERS.
Indian Corn.—While I am writing, I believe I will give my plan of planting corn. After plowing the land, run off the corn rows with a “shovel plow,” and drill the corn. Then with a “bull tongue,” or narrow shovel, run on each side, making a “list” on the corp In about ten or twelve days—that is, about the time the corn is sprouting—take a board 14 inches long and 8 or 10 wide; bore a hole In it, and screw it on to the shovel plow stock,’ and run it on the top of the “list.” It levels the list down beautifully knocks ofl’ the clods, breaks the crust, gives the young grass and weeds, which had sprouted, a back set, and in a few days the young corn comes up through this clean mellow bed, ready to grow right off It is tlie
Sixty odd years ago, three hunters, all of them i men with wives and children, occupied three rough-looking but comfortable cabins in the wilderness of Kentucky.
Around each cabin a spot of ground was cleared for gardening purposes, and everything looked thriving and prosperous, time, place and circumstances duly considered.
For some weeks previous to the period of this sketch, these honest, hard-working frontiersmen h*d been missing various articles from their dif-icrent places, and though they had made numerous efforts to discover and catch the thief, they had not been able to accomplish their object
One morning, at the time indicated, they sought each other in a great hurry. Simultaneously they declared that they had again been robbed, bn the ni^ht previous, one of one thing, and another of another.
’Tis too bad, I swar!” exclaimed one, named Jacob Thaney, u an’ I won’t stand it any longer if J have to keep on the watch from one week’s end to t’other, or even all the year round, for that.”
44 Seems as if the skunk knew when we warn’t on the watch !” responded another named Anthony Burr.
,4-4 Wal, then, let’s take turns an’ watch every night!’ said the third, whose name was Moses Airy.
The men agreed to the proposition, and finally separated, vowing vengeance of the real back-woods sort.
The thief, whoever he was, managed things very adroitly, and timed his yisits in the most admirable manner.
Well, night came and Moses Airy shouldered his rifle and mounted guard, the settlers having decided upon their turns by the toss of a penny.
The night passed away, however, and the thief did not make his appearance, nor was Airy disturbed by any one or anything else.
The next night Burr took his turn, and with a eimilar result. He neither saw the thief, nor was otherwise disturbed.
The third night Haney mounted guard, and about the mid-hour the watchful hunter suddenly noticed something or somebody, silently, cautiously, with the soft tread of a cat, stealing along in the shadows toward the cabins. The pioneer was well hidden, and kept perfectly still.
Slowly and carefully, on and on came the midnight visitor, and at length Thaney made out the object to be a redskin.
“I thought as much,” mentally muttered the pioneer. “ Now, redskin,” he added, cocking his rifle, “ your time’s cum fur sartin. Ye wur tried, condemned, an’ sentenced to death afore ye wur found out, an’ it ’pears its cum my turn to be yer ’xecutioner.”
With all the care and caution of bis race the redskin went creeping about from point to point, evidently reconnoitering the field of his operations to see if any one was on the lookout.
Why he came alone, and apparently without any other design than that of robbery, there was no means of knowing.
Finally he approached the cabin and halted within a few feet of the hidden borderer. Plainly enough he was now looking around to see what he could steal.
il Guess it taint worth while to let the thing go eny furder, ’cause the slippery cuss might ’scape nv yet!” muttered Thaney, as he carefully brought bis rifle to an aim, and covered the dusky form of the savage. a Ketch the varmint alive,” he added, “ I don’t ’spose wud be a very easy matter, so I might as well blaze away fust as last. Here goes then!”
Thaney placed his finger upon the trigger, and sighted his piece. At that moment a loud hubbub—the sudden crying out of several children —struck upon the still air and diverted him from his purpose.
The sounds alarmed the Indian thief, also, of course, and be turned and fled from the spot.
The next moment the noise ceased, the children having only cried out in their sleep, as it subsequently appeared from the mother’s statement,—the scream of one alarming the others, and setting them all going for a moment
44 Wal, thar, drat it, that redskin’s off!” cried Thaney, with the deepest disappointment. 44 I’ll have a shot at him, though, an’ trust to luck!” he added, again leveling his piece.
The Indian was still in sight, and the borderer blazed away, though, of coarse, at a great disadvantage.
For a moment the redskin hesitated. Then he again dashed forward. Apparently the shot proved ineffectual.
441 ought to a hit him, but I ’spose I didn’t!” muttered Thaney, between his teeth. 44 Howsever, redskin!” he added, “you aint out o’the woods yet, not by eny manner o’ means.”
The report of Thaney’s rifle soon brought out Burr and Airy, and, after a few moments hurried explanation, all three started off in hot pursuit of the fugitive Indian.
The moon was now coming up high and bright, affording much better facilities to the borderers for keeping upon the trail.
For an hour or more they worked themselves forward as rapidly as possible, only occasionally stopping to make right sure of their course.
At one time when examining around closely, the settlers detected spots of blood in the path, and by that they knew they were close after the sajage, and also'that the latter was bleeding.
‘‘I must a hit him arbr all,” said Thaney.
The others assented.
“Wal, way we go agin,” added Jacob. “The blasted thief kan’t ’scape us ef his hurt ’mounts to much, an’ I rather think it’s sumthin’ pootty bad, or he wudn’t leave sich marks behind him. What do you think ’bout it?”
The others assented to this also; and the next moment the chase was recommenced with fresh ardor.
After proceeding on for some distance further the pioneers were enabled to detect the sound of the Indian in advance of them, though the trifling noise would not have been noticed by any less practised ears.
The borderers allowed that the Indian was losing, and they were gaining ground, and the former must be weak from the loss of blood ; and they were correct, no doubt.
Still, however, the redskin kept on his course, though his pursuers evidently gained upon him faster and faster.
Through the deep woods the parties dashed forward, straining every nerve in the midnight race.
Suddenly the still air resounded with two cries instantly succeeding each other. The first resembled the loud shriek, deeply intensified, of a terribly agonized woman, and the other the despairing cry of some one in their last, fearful agony.
The pioneers halted with a jerk.
44 What was that ?” they simultaneously exclaimed.
A moment of silence followed, and then Thaney added,
44 The fust sound wur the cry uv a painter, ef I ain’t lived in the woods fur nothin’.”
44 Nobody kin deny that, Jacob !” said Burr.
44 That Injun’s got into a bad box, sartin!” exclaimed Airy. 44 Let’s hurry on! Thar’s three uv us, an’ we ain’t much to fear, I guess.”
Again the borderers started forward, though at a slower pace, and with more silence and caution.
In a short time they entered a small patch of woods, beyond which they could see an open space, where the moon shone down clear and bright.
A few moments afterward they emerged from the woods, and had a fair view of all that was before them, and the sight was one well calculated to startle anybody.
41 know’d it!” muttered Thaney, with bated breath.
44 Wal, ef that Injun ain’t in a tight place, I’m a fool!” exclaimed Burr, iua deep whisper.
44He’s whar I wudn’t like to be!” added Airy.
Briefly we will describe the scene upon which the borderers were gazing.
A deep, dark gully, or ravine, it appeared, crossed the clear, level plat, some rods beyond the woods. The chasm, at that point, at least, was twenty or thirty feet wide, and the only way of getting across was over the trunk of a fallen tree, which reached from side to side. About the center of this sort of natural bridge the Indian was standing, and immediately in front of him, crouched down on the log for a spring, was a huge, fiery-eyed, glaring panther.
Judging from appearances the Indian and the panther must have been coming from different directions, and in that way bad suddenly met—at the time we heard the double cry—in the center of the bridge; but, of course, nothing certain could be known. There they stood, however, facing each other. The whole scene was clearly defined in the white moonlight.
The Indian seemed taken all aback by his critical situation, and well he might
A few momonte following the appearance of the j pioneers, who held back in the shadow of the woods, the panther uttered another threatening growl, and almost instantaneously bounded at the redskin, who made an effort to spring backwards, but missed his footing, as might pretty certainly be expected, and with a yell of terror, went tumbling down headlong into the dark abyss below.
Tho panther, however, landed just where the Indian thief had been standing. Glaring around with his fiery, burning eyes, he uttered a growl of disappointment The monster looked pecu-iarly ferocious—particularly dangerous.
By this time the last cry of the doomed savage had rolled up from the hollow sounding depths of the dark chasm, and all was comparatively still—the growling of the panther alone breaking the silence.
44 That painter’ll give us trouble ef we don’t tumble him over soon !” whispered Thaney to his companions.
The men leveled their rifles at the fierce monster, and fired altogether. The shots were fatal, for the panther uttered a howl of pain, staggered, clutched and tore at the tree trunk, and finally tumbled over in the darkness down below.
At the same time the borderers ran forward to the edge of the ravine. Far down, where nothing could be seen but blackness, they could hear the cries of the panther, growing fainter and fainter.
“ Wal,”faid Thaney, at length, “I guess that Injun won’t do eny more stealin’.”
“ Should think not, arter failin’ down thar!” added Burr, pointing down in the darkness below.
44 Wal, I don’t pity the cuss a bit more’n I do the painter—not a bit!” said Airy.
The others fully concurred with the last speaker.
Finally, nothing more being seen or heard of the Indian or the panther, the borderers turned their faces back again, and started off on the homeward tramp. They had ridden themselves of one trouble, even it another should rise up in its place, as was more than likely.
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MIRTHFUL MORSELS.
ORIGINAL AND SELECTED.
In one of our city schools not long ago a member of the committees asked the scholars of a class which was under examination why the water of the sea was salty. One of the little girls raised her head, flushed with the discovery which bad flashed upon her mind. “ You may tell,” said the committeeman. “ Salt fish, sir,” said she.
A dandy said to a fair partner at a ball, “Miss, don’t you think my moustaches are becoming?” To which Miss replied, “Well,sir, they may becoming, but they have not arrived yet.”
Young Lady—44 Oh, I’m so glad you like birds; which kind do you most admire ?” Old Squab—“ I think a goose with pleaty of stuffing is about as nice as any.”
An old farmer in Ohio was anxious to have his pastor dismissed, and was asked the reason. “I’ve heard say,” was the reply, “that a change of pastures makes fat calves, and I’m for a change.”
A fellow charged in an indictment with stealing a hoe, was discharged upon trial, it being proved that the article taken was an axe. The matter was a regular hoax
A letter from China says that the Chinese have succeeded, by the skill of their cultivation, in producing ft. new and delicious variety of tea. We suppose they have accomplished this by crossing their teas.
A young man advertises for a wife who is pretty and doesn’t know it If he wanted one who is homely and doesn’t know it, he would find no trouble in getting suited.
Wisdom often comes to us too late in life to be of much service to us. There’s n-o use of mustard after meat
Never flirt with a young widow who calls you by your Christian name the second time you meet her, unless you have quite made your m’nd up to the worst.
44 La, ma, what are you beating John so early for i,” “’Cause! know he’ll deserve it to-night, and I have got to attend meetiu’ then.”
44 Friend, the Bible tells thee to swear not al all.” “Oh, well, I don’t swear at all; I swear only at those lam mad at.”
Why cannot President Lincoln insure his life ? Because one can be found who can make out his future policy.
“ I’M glad this coffee don’t owe me anything,” said Brown, a boarder,at breakfast. “Why ?” said Smith. “Because, I don’t believe it would ever settle.
It is said “ the hare is one of the most timid animals, yet it always dies game!” Why shouldn’t it, when it is made game of?
Why should potatoes grow better than other vegetables ? Because they have eyes to see what they are doing?
A civic youth, intending to offer marriage to a young lady, wrote to a-<k her to unite with himself in the formation of a ’Art Union.
A cobweb marriage is thus noticed by one of our cot unporaries: • ‘Married, last week, John Cob to Miss Kate Webb.”
A money-lender serves you in the present tense, he lends you in the conditkmai mood, keeps you in the subjective, and ruins you in the future.
We were considerably amused by an account that we lately saw of a remarkable duel. There were six men upon the ground and six misses.
An eminent teetotaller would only consent to sit for his portrait on condition that he should be takeri in water colors
Indians may be considered the “copper-faced”
type of mankind.

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[WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.]
QUESTIONINGS.
BY ALB JRT VIVIAN.
Is such thy choree? Can thy young heart bo pure As we have deemed it, if thou can’st endure? Nay, more, can’st love that sordid mind debased, From which aU virtue is by vice effaced.
From the loved child so guarded from thy youth, So early counselled in the ways of truth, Kept with such earn from every sinful thought, And in all purity and goodness taught ?
Now turn’st aside; for goodness charms not thee— Faithless and fickle, thy vain heart must be False to thyself, when purity like thine Is linked and fettered in embodied crime;
Joined to the vile, whose groveling nature stilt Seeks foul corruption with a greedy wilL Is such thy choice ? of all thine eyes have seen— Must one so vilely base, so foully mean, Possess thy heart, as crawling worms repose In the sweet shelter of the opening rose ?
In daily prayer thou nam’st Heaven’s high name; He speaks it oltener in the oath profane.
Chaste are thy words—thy thoughts are ever pure, How can’st thou then his ribaldry endure ?
How can’st thou love the filthy lips that speak Words that would shock thy heart and stain thy cheek ? Why dost thou love ? Not manliness, nor grace, Nor worth, nor truth is written on his face.
Nature is true; ’tis thine own thoughts mislead, And thine the fault for which thine heart shalt bleed In bitter grief, when grief shall be in vain, For hopes o’erthrown, when disappointment’s pain Fills thy sad breast, when all that thou hast sought, And loved, and worshipped crumbles into naught But ashes; when thine idol formed of gold, And rising now in majesty untold, In thy wild fancy, disenchanted lie, A loathsome vampire to thine open eyes;
And than shalt shrink in horror from his Bide, Loathing and shudder that thou art his bride. Is such thy fate, or will thy changing heart In his vile nature take a willing part, Till thou shalt boar, beneath his fiendish spell, A*face like heaven and a heart like heli ?
[WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.]
A TRUE SKETCH ABOUT COUSIN KATE.
BY L. AUGUSTUS JONES
“ With a light laugh and jest, she said ‘ good bye/
And with her merry footsteps went a sigh;
I shuddered as she left me in despair, My soul was too unearthly dark for prayer— Again—I was atone I”—J. Hal. Elliot.
“ I start for home in the morning, Kate,” said my companion and friend, Fred polling, to my cousin.
Fred and myself had been staying at “ Uncle John’s,” in the country, two weeks. !• always took him with me whenever I went there, because he was a good-hearted, clever fellow, besides being an excellent companion whenever I went on a hunting or fishing excursion. Three times Fred had been out to visit “ Uncle John,” and the rascal fell in love with Uncle John’s .pretty daughter. When I saw how matters were working, I left the eoast clear, knowing lovers don’t wish a third party in their way.
We had supper early, and I thought Fred would like to “ say a few words ” to his “ Ladye Fayre,” as we left “ Rosedale ” early in the morning, I put on my hat, lit my cigar, stole Uncle John’s “Weekly ” out of the inside breast pocket of bis linen coat that hung on a peg in the kitchen, and walked a short distance from the housQ. I sat down under an old elm, pulled out my paper, and began to read. I bad got about half way through a chapter of “ Mildred,” when I was disturbed by hearing the voice of Fred Collins. I looked through the rose-bush beside me and saw Fred and my cousin standing within a few feet of my concealed nook. I had a great mind to run away, but feeling comfortable where I was, I concluded to sit still.
“ I start for home in the morning, Kate.”
These words made me lay down my paper and look. They was standing side by side in the sunlight; and they looked very, very handsome and happy.
“I don’t care,” replied the maiden, and a merry laugh broke from her lips as she turned aside to pick a rose from a bush near by.
Fred turned pale with vexation and sorrow, and he bit his lips to hide his mortification.
“ This is unkind in you,” he said, reproachfully. “ Do you not love me, Kate ?”
“ Love you? Oh yes, I love everybody.”
“ 1 had thought—”
“ Ob, you’re always thinking. I’ll be up early in the morning to bid you farewell, so don’t be sentimental before the time comes.”
She tossed the curls from her face as she spoke, and began to pick the rose in pieces.
“ You nave wounded my feelings deeply,” said Fred.
“ I don’t care! I’m full of fun, and any one that gets mad at me is a fool I Ab, yonder goes Nat Smith past the gate ; I’m going to have a chat with him.” 1
Away she ran down the path, singing merrily, while poor Fred folded his arms, and sighed as he gazed after her retreating form.
“Strange, wild, wayward girl,” he exclaimed, “I am afraid her unkindness will cause us both misery ] it is folly to waste my affection on her. I don’t care,” he muttered, as he retraced his steps slowly toward the house. When I went in I found all the family assembled in the parlor. Cousin Kate was seated at the piano, moving her fingers carelessly over the keys, and her lover was entertaining Uncle John and the old lady with a
story.
I went and seated myself by Cousin Kate.
“What is the matter with you this evening 2” asked.
1
“Nothing,” she replied.
“Have you been quarreling with Fred?”
“No; he’^ a regular baby. I’m sick of his nonsense; and I wish you wouldn’t bring him here any more.”
“Why, I thought you were engaged. I am afraid you are acting wrong in some way, Kate. Be careful how yoa trifle with him, or you may lose him.”
She made no reply, but rising held out her hand, and said,
“Good night.”
“You are not going to retire and leave us so soon, are you ?”
“Yes.”
I saw that she was agitated, and I did not urge her to stay.
“Good night, and good bye,” I said kindly. “We leave very early in the morning; and I am afraid you will not be up to see us start.”
“Good bye, Charlie. You will write to me, sometimes; and you will be here to spend a Happy New Year with us; won’t you ?”
“If God spares me, I will.”
Her hand trembled as it pressed mine. She crossed the room and went up to Fred.
“I shall not see you in the morning, so I will bid you farewell to-night, Mr. Collins.”
Poor Fred was astonished; he arose, and took her hand, saying loud enough for all of us to hear him,
“Farewell, Gear Kate; may God Watch over you and protect you.”
In a moment more she had gone.
Fred told ne more stories that evening; and, at an early hour, we all retired.
I said nothing to Fred about my cousin’s conduct ; and, at an early hour in the morning we partook of a hasty breakfast and departed.
We reached home in safety. The time passed slowly by ; and every fortnight I received a letter from’my cousin.
Fred came in one evening to spend an hour with me. I was reading a letter thalt came from Rosedale.
“How are you, my boy 2” he exclaimed, as he sat down in an arm-chair, aud cooly lit a cigar.
“I’m well, Fred, thank you, I have just received a letter from Cousin Kate.”
“Ah! how is she 2”
“Very ill. You may read the letter if you wish.”
He took it eagerly from my hand, and read it all. A glad smile stole over his pale face as he laid it down again.
“Poor Kate—poor Kate,” he murmured sadly, “ she is very ill: I see she has been careless ; and she has caught a heavy cold.”
“ You have not written to each other since we came home, Fred 2”
“ No, Charlie! we had a little difficulty when I was there : she acted very strangely—I may say very unkind, and our parting was cold and unfeeling. I shall always love her the same, though.”
He went to the window and gazed out. His back was toward me ; but I knew he had gone there to hide his emotion,
“ I shall start for Rosedale to see her, in a day or two : have you any message to send 2”
He turned around and gazed at me earnestly.
“ If she inquires about me, say to her Fred is well—tell her I am sorry, very sorry she is so ill; and I hope she may soon recover again.”
“ Is that all 2”
“ Yes, Charlie, that’s all t”
The clock struck eleven as he ba me “ good night.” I did not see him again before I went away. When I arrived at the farm-house, Kate was much worse. I sat down by the bedside, and the tears dimmed my eyes as I took her thin, wasted hand in mine.
“ I am glad yon have come,” she said, in a faint voice ; “ how is Fred 2”
“ I left him in good health : he was very sorry because you are ill; and be hopes you will soon recover.”
11 Did he say that V' inquired the invalid. “ I have not written to him since we parted ; I have done wroag in treating him so ; and I would like to see him, and ask him to forgive me before I die.”
“ Shall I write and tell him so 2” I inquired.
“ Do you think he would come, Charlie 2”
“ I am sure he would,” I replied.
“You may write to him then, for I am too weak.”
I went to the little writing-desk that stood near one of the windows, and wrote as follows :
“ Dear Fred—Cousin Kate is very ill, and she wishes to see you vary much. Come to Rosedale as soon as you can. Yours, Charlie.”
On the fourth day after I posted my note, Fred Collins arrived. I was sitting under a tree in front of the bouse, when I saw him enter the gate.
“ How is Kate 2” was his first exclamation, as he came up and grasped me by the hand.
“ She is much better,” I replied.
“ Can I see her now 2”
“ Yes! follow me to her chamber.”
“ Stay here a moment, and I will tell her you have come,” I said when we came to the door. She was sitting in her easy chair when I went in. It was the first time she had been up during her illness.
“ Somebody wishes to seo you,” I remarked carelessly.
“ Is it Fred 2 has he come 2”
“ Yes!” I replied. “ Will you see him now 2” “ Yes! Let him come in now, for I feel real strong,” she replied.
I went out and motioned for Fred to anter. The door closed behind him, and I slowly descended the stairs.
An hour passed away, and then Fred came : down. I knew that matters were all right between them as soon as I saw him.
“ I thank you, Charlie! you have done all this ’ for me!” he exclaimed, as he grasped my hand.
From that time Cousin Kate gained health and strength rapidly. Before Fred and I returned 1 home, the fair girl was able to walk out a short * distance under the old trees in the yard. When , we started for home, the kind physician informed us Cousin Kate was beyond all danger. We were ' standing at the gate the morning we were to start , for home. Cousin Kate aud Fred stole away from me while I was lost in meditation. I was thinking of home—my home far away ; and memory was painting the happy group assembled in the
“ Yes, but I’m nothing but a little girl; 11 never come into the room when the gentlemen are reading poetry and talking sentiment to you; and I have nothing to wear but white muslin
dresses and coral necklaces ; and I’m tied down to that horrible geography and algebra; and mamma makes me practice two hours on the piano every day! O, Mildred, it must be very fine to be a young lady, with lots of beaux and tarlatan dresses!”
Mildred laughed as she smoothed back the jetty tresses from her fair forehead and tied on a fascinating gipsey hat, with a fall of lace round the edge and long blue ribbons.
“Where are you going, Milly2 I thought Colonel Forrester was coming to see you this afternoon !”
“ So he is!” said Mildred, with a toss of her beautiful head; “ and that’s the very reason I choose to go out walking with Mr. St. Eval.”
“ Why, Milly!” said Kate, opening herblack eyes very wide, “ when Colonel Forrester is so tall and so handsome—how can you ?”
“ Nonsense!” said Mildred ; “ I don’t care a fig for Colonel Forrester; and I intend he shall find it out, too!”
“ Oh, Milly, he loves you so dearly!”
“ What makes you think so, you foolish little Kate?”
“ Why, he sits and looks at you so earnestly, and—and------”
“ Nonsense, pussy! that’s only because he has nothing else to look at! Fasten my slipper, please. There, now, I believe I have kept poor St. Eval waiting about long enough!”
And Miss Ellsworth tripped down stairs, leaving little Kate in a terrible perplexity between her implicit belief in what Mildred said, and her pity for the handsome Colonel Forrester.
The afternoon sunshine crept slowly across the emerald velvet of the lawn—it quivered over the oval beds of white and scarlet verbena, and wooed the fragrance from the half-open moss-rose buds that clung around the antique little summer-house at the foot of the garden. Kate sat there on the mossy step, her dimpled face prettily framed in by the moving leaves and pearl-white blossoms, with the puzzling French grammar open on her lap, at the naughty verbs that wouldn't be learned. Sometimes the book slipped down from her lap among the grass-blades, and the brilliant Oriental eyes wandered off, in a sort of waking dream. Kate never could study in a summer afternoon.
“Is Miss Ellsworth at home 2”
Kate’s eyes suddenly came back to the world of reality—it was Colonel Forrester’s voice, speaking to the servant.
“No, sir ; she has gone out walking with Mr. St. Eval.”
Forrester stood a moment in blank amazement and woeful discomfiture. He had signified to Mildred his intention of calling on that particular afternoon—in truth, and in fact, he had hoped to find a suitable opportunity to ask the eventful question that had been trembling on his lips for weeks—and this was the consequence thereof.
“Will she be back soon 2”
“I believe not, sir.”
He paused again for a few seconds, unwilling to abandon the matter.
• Very well—1’11 just stroll about the grounds awhile—she may possibly return.”
He threw his horse’s rein to the servant, and stepped with quick, feverish impatience across the lawn.
“I am acting like an unmitigated fool,” thought he, “waiting on the footsteps of this heart? less coquette, who don’t care a straw for me. What am I lingering here for? I’ve a great mind to go home and never see the black-eyed minx again.”
Just as Colonel Forrester came to this indignant conclusion, his eye fell on a little figure in white muslin, sitting on the step of the summerhouse.
It was not a disagreeable sight at all; the black ringlets fell in glossy masses around her fair white forehead, and her cheeks were tinted with the freshest rose-bloom, while her exquisitely 1 shaped lips half apart, were like cleft coral. Col. Forrester had seen her before, occasionally, but he never had been fully aware of her fresh, girl- ‘ ish beauty, nor her remarkable likeness to Mildred.
“ She’s prettier than Mildred—she is, upon my word!” he pondered, as be watched her, through the trellis of vine leaves. “ What eyes—what a complexion!”
Kate looked up, unconsciously, and the very brilliant orbs he had been admiring caught his own. He colored deeply, and came forward.
Excuse me, Miss Kate ; I called in hopes of find-
“ Wall, you aee, replied Mr. Cobbler, “ my basket guv
“ Good evening, Miss Ellsworth,” said Forres-1 ‘ . ------, -----
ter, rising, as she approached, “ I was just about ( 7^’^ 1
. , . T 1 i a 7 n aqm bags. Bol, nowsomever, they wouldn’t have fetched
taking leave, but I am very glad to see you first 2”
“Indeed? and why?” There was a little anxious throbbing at Mildred’s heart.
“ We wanted to ask your consent, Katie and I.”
Kate buried her crimson face on her sister’s shoulder, as Forrester explained the state of things. Mildred’s cheek slowly blanched as she listened.
Ah, Mildred ! coquetry is a dangerous experiment! Many a girl, besides you, has lost a lover by its influence!
But she was brave enough to veil her heart, and answered gaily, and with congratulatory phrases. And when Colonel Forrester was gone, she folded Kate tenderly to her breast, whispering—
“I am very, very glad, dear little sister! lie is a noble man, and worthy of your heart’s dearest love! May you be happy!”
Kate retired to rest that night, with a heart full of tremulous joy. She thought it was very pleasant to be a young lady.
And that is the way Colonel Forrester won bis beautiful young wife, and the reason Mildred Ellsworth is an old maid.
J WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.]
PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS,
— A new contributor sends us the following string of comicalities:
A HAPPY FATHER PUZZLED.
A gentleman related the following anecdote the other day, and, though you may laugh at the ignorance of tho farmer, you cannot help a feeling of pity at tho same time. Said he, “Several years ago I was appointed District Clerk, and, among other duties, I was required to make out a list of all births, marriages and deaths that had occurred within the year. One sultry afternoon I was riding over the country, and, as I camo over the hill, saw a largo, portly man staudiug on the porch of his house, and I proceeded to make the usual inquiries of him. ‘Have there been any marriages or deatlw in your family, the past year?’ ‘No, sir.’ho answered. ‘Any births?’I inquired. ‘One, I believe.’ ‘Was it a male or a female ?’ He hesitated, looked down, then up again, and was at a loss what to say I supposed he bad not heard distinctly, and asked again, ‘Was tho child a male?’ ‘Yes—no—I think not—finally— any way, I’ll ask my wife, she will know.’ He turned to enter the house, and I, who understood tho case now, hurriedly repeated, ‘Was your child a boy?’ ‘Yes, sir, oh, yes.’ Just then my attention was attracted in tho opposite direction, and you would have declared that I worked hard to conceal the hearty laugh I felt inclined to indulge.”
“YOUNG AMERICA.”
“Here, my boy, you must not throw stones at that cow any more; don’t you know it is wicked? The Bible tells us of a good man, Stephen, who was stoned to death.” “Was ho,” sail the roguish little fellow, eyeing his father with a curious look of mingled wonder and fun. “Didn’t he know beans, why didn’t he get out of the way ?”
couldn’t DEFINE HIS POSITION.
A jolly fellow of our acquaintance, whose love for ardent spirits was too great for his or his family’s good, had been enjoying an unusually merry evening with his loafer ac-■quaintances at the village tavern, but finally, at a late hour, concluded to return home. His route was rather circuitous but he advanced slowly in the wished-for direction, and finally brought up at the door of his residence, as he supposed; but, as bo gazed upon the color of tho house and observed other changes, his wrath began to rise, and ho spoke angrily, “Who the devil lias been painting my house red and putting a pad look on the door?” The truth was, he was standing lu front of a wagon shop a few rods boyoud his house.
A STRAY LAMB.
“Who is that making such a noise?” said a wit to his companion, as they were strolling pasta small church, whose members wero getting their voices raised to the highest pitch. “Don’t you know his voice ?” answered the other, “why it’s old Deacon Lamb.” Well, if that is him, I think he must have strayed from the fold,” said the first, “for he makes such a confounded bleating.”
ELOQUENCE NIPPED IN THE BUD.
Connected with my school-days I call to mind an awkward youth whose talent for books was small, and whoso ungainly proportions suggested anything but grace or agility. He had beeu learning a piece to speak, the stylo of his own selection, and night after night he had studied and dwelt upon it, until it seemed to him he could not possibly fail. The eventful afternoon camo, the boys were laughing slyly at the fun of seeing rough John speechify, and anxiously waiting for his time to cotno. The oration commenced thus, “And there came another mighty angel down from heaven,” &c. He marched up, made his bow well, and looked confident that be would succeed. Tho silence was broken, and ho proceeded, “And therejeamo another almighty great angel down from heaven.” Ho would have continued but the scholars wero roaring with laugh-tor, and John shuffled to his seat rather crestfallen.
— The lovers of the double-and-twisted sensation style of novelettes will appreciate a stunning thing which “H. H.” sends us, entitled
THE MYSTERIES OF SAKCAJ.
INTRODUCTION.
The incidents upon which the following thrilling story is based, were related to the writer by an eminent lawyer, the oldest inhabitant of Sakcaj, a few minutes before ho expired.
parlor while I was away in the West.
“ Come, Charlie I are you dreaming 2”
The voice aroused me, and I looked up. and my cousin had returned.
“ What time is it 2” I exclaimed.
Fred
“ Half-past six: if we don’t hurry we shall miss the stage 1” replied Fred.
The stage left Rosedale at seven. We hurried into the house—put what few articles that were scattered about into our traveling bags, and then ran down stairs. Our “ adieux” were short. We gave each one a hasty embrace, and started across the fields for the village.
I am sitting in my chamber to-night, and I have a letter of Cousin Kate’s to answer. Fred Collins has proposed, and she has written to know if I will give my consent to their union. I took him to Rosedale, and introduced him as my friend. Yes, I did. Then I must know all about him ? I think I do. Cousin Kate writes me a very long letter; consequently I shall write a very short one.
Her letter concludes thus:
“ I have made up my mind never to be cross with him, and never again will I wound his feelings by a thoughtless jest, I have been punished for my wickedness, and from the past I have learned a lesson. Fred has written often. I love him. He has asked me to marry him. Shall I do it?”
Thus ends her letter. Here is my reply : Brooklyn, September, 1860.
Dear CozI have received your letter. You ask me, “ Shall I marry Fred?” My answer is,' “ I do not care!” * * * *
They will be married about New Years.
He did not finish the sentence, but sat down on the grass at Kate’s feet.
Kate blushed the prettiest carmine that ever artist dreamed of—she had often longed to be a young lady, with a gentleman “talking sentiment” to her, and now she thought it was an exceedingly delightful thing, only she was a little puzzled to know just what to say! Colonel Forrester did not seem at all uncertain, however, he chatted away, as gaily as if they had been on flirting terms for years. As Kate began to feel more at ease, she told Colonel Forrester all about her cares and trials—the big geography and the algebra, and the French verbs that couldn’t be learned, and confidentially imparted her desire to be a “ young lady,” as Mildred was!
Colonel Forrester listened, with a countenance of the deepest interest, watching the play of Kate’s color, and the sparkle of her eyes, with growing admiration. As he sat there, charmed and entranced, a sudden idea shot into his brain.
“But, Miss Kate, you haven’t told me yet what it is that constitutes the pleasures and privileges of a ‘young lady’ ”
“ Oh,” said Kate, “ I can’t exactly describe it, Colonel Forrester; scattering books and studies to the four winds of heaven—keeping a journal— and—”
“ And what?”
“ Having a real, genuine lover I” said Kate, with a blush and laugh !
“ Well, I’ll tell you what, Miss Kate,” said Colonel Forrester, “ let’s strike a bargain! You want a genuine lover, and I want a darling little wife ? Will you allow me to supply the deficiency 2”
Kate looked at him, the innocent dimples com-
CHAPTER. I. ' >
OUR HERO.
Late on a cold, cheerless afternoon in August, a solitary horseman might have been, and possibly was, seen descending a gentle declivity of a precipitous mountain road which led (and may still lead) to the village ofSakcaj. Tho cavalier was a man in the prime of life, and had a broad, intellectual brow, about which there clustered a neglected profusion of bright auburn hair. His face now wore an uneasy, troubled expression. His dark eye (he had ouly one) would ever and anon rest for a moment ou a pair of saddle bags,which he held upon the pommel of his saddle, and then it would turn with a wistful, anxious look forward. The noble mare which he so gallantly rode was of pure Arabian breed, as her long earg and tail plainly indicated. At last, with au exclamation of joy, he (our hero) put spurs to his horse, and-
CHAPTER II.
OUR HEROINE.
In the doorway of the blacksmith shop of Sakcaj, there stood at the time when our story opens, the manly form of the master of the forge, and his lovely daughter, Alva. The golden beams of the declining sun streamed through a loop-hole above the bellows, and fell qpon the bright golden curls and the heavenly nose of our sweet heroine who, with her honored parent, was gazing with earnest, expectant looks at a way-worn and travel soiled horseman; who, with a wild, distracted aspect, was rapidly approaching them. It was our hero •
CHAPTER III.
AN INCIDENT
Our hero dismounted hastily from his reeking steed, and then took from his vest pocket a clothes line, with which he secured his noble stallion to the door-knob ; and then (after a little pause) ho carefully and tenderly removed the saddlebags, and with them held at arm’s length, approached the spot where stood our heroine.
[WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY,]
THE LITTLE SISTER.
BY LUCY A. RANDALL—(Helen Forest Graves.)
The June roses swung backward and forward in front of the casement; the muslin curtains swayed softly in the summer breeze, and Kate Ellsworth, sitting on a low stool, where the shadows of dancing leaves and crimson buds wove an arabesque around her slender form, watched her beautiful sister’s toilette with childish interest.
“ How pretty you look, Mildred ! O, I wish L were a young lady ‘come out!’
“ You silly little thing,” said Mildred, fastening a cordon of pearls round her regal throat, with a smile of scarcely repressed gratification, “ are you not almc' sixteen?”
^ing and going round the surprised mouth.
“ May I be your lover ?” he pursued. Will you some day be my wife 2”
Kate reflected demurely for a minute. Mildred had said she did not care for Colonel Forrester— he was very handsome, and she did like him— that is just a little! So she said,
“ Yes,” in a scarcely audible voice.
And Colonel Forrester pressed her fair little hand so tenderly to his lips, and they had the pleasantest tete-a-tete in the garden summerhouse that ever engaged lovers revelled in.’ Somehow they felt as if they had been good friends for about ten years!
The sunset was shining redly through the tall old cedars on the lawn, as Mildred Ellsworth came slowly up the rose-embowered path leaning on Mr. St. Eval’s arm. She bad not enjoyed her woodland ramble very much—the afternoon had been sultry, and her cavalier was decidedly stupid, so she returned with some curiosity to know whether Colonel Forrester had waited for her.
There he was, sitting on the grass at little Kate’s feet—what could they be talking about so earnestly ?
CHAPTER IV.
A SURPRISE.
The maiden hastened forward to meet our hero, who— while a death-like pallor overspread his face, placed the bags gently on the ground, then seized tho hands of our heroine, and drew her away from the door, and then— whilst his limbs (his lower ones) trembled violently, he put his lips to her ear (she had two, but ho put his mouth to only oue of them) and whispered
CHAPTER V.
A STARTLING INCIDENT.
As tho whispered words of onr hero entered the oar of our heroine she sprang backward, with amazement expressed upon every feature of her sweet face, and cried :
“ Oh I Sylvanus, how could you ?” and then she fled into the shop.
CHAPTER VI.
A MYSTERIOUS CALAMITY.
The noble blacksmith was drying his countenance (with a towel) after his evening ablution, when his fair daughter came hurriedly to his side, and spoke to him in a whisper: “Not all I hey?” he exclaimed.
“ Yes, all 1” answered our sweet heroine.
The blacksmith dropped the towel, and rushed out of the shop and our fair Alva followed him.
CHAPTER VII.
THE denouement.
“Why, how is this, friend Cobbler?” exclaimed the honest blacksmith ; and he gazed earnestly at the saddlebags, from which a reddish substance was oozing. “It ’pears to me that you have met with au accident.”
much, nohow, fer eggs is awful low.’’ i
“ Well,” said the blacksmith, who had boon catching some of the reddish matter which was oozing out of the I
bags, in the palm of Ins hand, aad was now smelling of it, I
“ they would not have been worth much of you had brought |
’em back unbroken, fer they are spiled. You must have sot on ’em too long.”
THE END.
— “ H. H.” lias made bis ma •! in that................
A. T. W. sends us
TIM MURPHY’S EXPERIENCE AT MAPLE SUGAR MAKING.
During my residence in Michigan I become acquainted with Tim Murphy. He had been only one year from tho “ auld countrie,” and yet, to use his own language, he aL ready had a bit of experience of Merica. He had settled down on his bit of a farm, with the auld woman and bis two strapping las'es, as he called them. But he bad been but a few days when he and his family were taken down with the ague, and was not able to do a dael of a thing, (as he said.) It being early in the spring Tim got over’the ague in time to get in his prathes and corn, and, not having much else to do, Tim thought ho would go into a sugar speculation, he having found out that his timber was mostly of the sugar maple, and having seen his neighbors making sugar a month or two before that, be imagined that tho process might be gone through with at any season. So he set abaut and hewed out bis troughs and tapped his trees and set his troughs. Iu a couple of days after that 'Tim went over to see one of his neighbors, and told him that he had went to work and tapped his sugar trees, and a devil of a drap of sugar water would run, and he wanted to know the difficulty. After being told that the sap would not run at any and every season, Tim went home a sadder but wiser man, declaring that he w®uld be arley enough fur them next spring. *
— Here is a good story which a writer out West teUs
ABOUT PHRENOLOGY.
In one of the interior cities of this State there lived, on a time, a very clever fellow of a lawyer, who had once been a judge of some small local court. He was rather soft, but lived on in happy unconsciousness of the fact. He could not see farther into a millstone than others could— unless there was a hole in it. But he thought he knew a thing or two, although he was a leetle wanting in the bump of far-reaching sagacity—that organ called causality,which distinguished such men as Bacon and Bonaparte. One day one of the Fowlers came to his town, and began, as your countryman has it, to “feel of folks’ hedds, and give a receipt of what’s inside on ’em,” and eur friend, Judge H. went to be “felton.” A friend met him coming out of the Professor’s room with one of his Wue pajiers, and said to him. “So, Judge, you’ve been to have your head examined too, have you ? What do you think of it ?” “Oh V: said thepudge, “it is wonderful 1 Look here I There’s casualr ly marked very low. 'That’s very right—I never had an accident in my life I”
— An Ohio writer “gets off” the following
TALE OF A TRAVELER.
While sitting in front of a store the other day, in a town on the lower Ohio river, waiting for a steamboat, I listened to and laughed at the following story, and if the reader is “so dispoged,” he can “go and do likewise.” A gentleman, who seemed to be known as Doc, said, “Last summer, Bill 8--and I wanted to go to I^uisville, and we waited two days for an up-river boat, without getting one; and as the river was pretty low, I tokl Bill I should take the packet to Evansville, and .go from there in the cars, and that he had better go along. Now Bill had never seen a railroad in his life, and he was ‘mighty skeery” about riding on the ‘keers,’ as he called them. But I told him I would see him through all right, and finally he ‘reckoned he’d try it;’ so when the packet camo along, we got on and went up to Evansville. Next morning I got BH1 a ticket, and we started out for Vincennes. After we had got under headway, Bill looked out and said, ‘Well,she’s a-clat-toring along right smart.’ ‘Oh, this is nothing,’ said I, ‘just wait until we get onto the Ohio awd Mississippi Road, if you want to see running ; When we arrived al Vinoen-nes,we had to change cars for Louisville; and we bad not much time to do it in, either. Bill was about wild at the rushing of the passengers on the platform, the rumbling of the baggage-truck behind him, and the blowing and the whistling of the engines. I pushed him through into a car, however, but it was so full that we could not get seats together; but I got him a seat in the forward part of the car, and I took one farther back. We soon got under way and you know they run that express train ‘like sixty / and I could see by watching Bill, that he was getting' * ‘mighty onaizy ’he looked ail around him, and overhead and then back at me. but I never ‘let on’ that I saw him.’ By-and-by the cars roared into a tunnel where it was as dark as tar; and you know what an awful noise the cars make in those tunnels. Well, as soon as we got out into daylight, up jumped Bill; and as he turned around, I saw that he was a-winking and a-blinking, and rubbing his eyes at a great rate. Pretty soon he made a start down the car toward me, groping and feeling along like a blind man. When became to my seat, and had taken a good bold of it, ho leaned over, and in a low, frightened, stammering voice? said,‘Doc,I—I—Isay, there’s something the matter with me. I—I—I was blind for about a half minute just now I31 ‘
— Here is something about
THE VARIETIES OF OLD MATOS.
The poetic did maid and the scientific old maid are rather common cases. The former is plain in face, but all soul. She has her pet poet, and though unacquainted with him, writes him the most charming letters in praise of his last volume. Sho herself publishes in provincial newspapers. She is above low mercenary considerations, and so the editors are very polite to her. Her “ Ode to a Grasshopper,” in heroic metre, has bean reprinted, for private circulation; a sensible restriction, but quite unnecessary. She talks of love in the Platonic style, and has a spiritual attachment to some author or other with whom sho corresponds in letters of six sheets. Sho is untidy in her dress, not to say dirty, lives much alone, and weeps over her blighted life. The scientific old maid, on the other hand, is all sense. She began with ferns—maiden-hair naturally attracting her—proceeded to botany, soon slipped Into geology, and, after hearing a lecture of Faraday’s, plunged bravely into chemistry. Sho wears green spectacles, strong shoes, short petticoats, and an old brown hat, and may be seen with a geologist’s hammer in one hand and a basket in the other. She is quite harmless, and, except when she insists on explaining the migration of ants, and tho formation of oak-balls, not necessarily disagreeable.
— Speaking of old maids, here is A WORD FOR WIDOWS.
Travelers tell us that America is the country whore young and pretty widows are seen than in any other—owing to the intense over work by which our men kill themselves and die young. As the widows are so large a class, let us copy for them a passage from the book of “ Gangooly,” giving an account of what widowhood is in Bengal:—“ The very day a girl becomes a widow, her colored clothes, silver aud golden ornaments, are all taken off, and a mark of red powder, which every married woman wears on the forehead, is rubbed out. Henceforth she is to dress in white, and wear no ornament of any kind whatever during her lifetime. Her daily meals are reduced to one, and that is prepared in tho simplest way possible. She is strictly prohibited the use of any sort of animal food. This restriction has been carried to such an extreme that, if ascale of fish be found in the plate of a widow, she must immediately stop eating and go without food the same day. Each widow is required to cook her own food, and to abstain entirely from food and drink two days, aka-thusly, iu every month. There are other fasting days for this class of wretched women, but the young ones feet satisfied with observing the two fixed ones. Who can witness the sufferings, tho sighs of the Bengalee widow of thirteen or fourteen years, on the fast days, without pity? In tho warm days of April, when the burning sun dries up the ponds of their water, scorches the leaves of the trees, th^o poor victims to the rigidness of superstition, faint and pant in hunger and thirst. If they are dying on the dha-thusly day, a little water will be put to the lips, merely to wet them. In order to escape these continual sufferings, it has been the practice with many widows to burn themselves with tho corpse of the husband, and though the subtle Brahmins inculcate various rewards for the burning of the Shutteo, yet I cannot see anything more weighty than the putting an end at once to all their troubles, even at the guilt of suicide. Thev have no hope of ever cheering their widowhood in the world.”
COTTON-GROWING.
The soil and climate of the Southern States are generally admitted to be the best in the world for cotton-growing. Seventy years ago our cotton exports were 420 bales; now the cotton fields of America furnish five-sevenths of the surplus cotton of the world. These fields cover 500,000 square miles, and employ a capital of $900,000,000. The advantages of the South are shown by the following: “Cotton requires a warm, moist climate ; it is as? sensitive to droughts as to frosts, and so far as wo know, the warm breezes of the Gulf of Florida supply that moisture to the plant in America, which cannot be obtained in any other warm climate without artificial irrigation. Cotton is raised in Egypt, the land of no rain but the plants are watered by artificial agencies, from the Nile, at a great cost for such labor. In India, Africa, and China, wet ' and dry seasons prevail—there are no gentle I showers of frequent recurrence, as in the South-; era States—therefore the droughts in those countries are unfavorable to the cultivation of cotton, as compared with America.”
[WRITTEN FOR THE NEW YORK WEEKLY,]

MY BROW-EYED GATTIE BELL.
BY GRACE GRANVILLE.
She is the sister of my heart, That brown eyed Hattie Bell, The little loving family pet, And loved, none knows how well She's the light and warmth of tbe household hearth, With her sun wreathed brow and her winsome mirth
She has a face of olive tint.
Like the maids of an Orient clime And rose-bud lips and starry eyes, Has this Hattie Bell of mine
She’s a wild, wee thing; sho was formed to dwell 'Mid the song-filled wood, where the fountains swell:
With playful fawns, and babbling streams, 'Mid melody and flowers, ’Mid the divinest harmonies
Of 'ove’s: enchanted hours. 'Mid dews and sunbeams, stars and bliss, Where the fields e’er smile Death the summer’s kiss.
We shudder to think of the coming time, When her tender feet alone
Must tread the winding paths of life, With thorns so thickly sown
When the summer is gone, and the wintry hours Drink the sunbeams up, and crush the flowers
Alone, alone । shall our Hattie Bell Go forth o’er the earth to roam, With no Father’s hand to guide Her unto the angels’ home
Oh 1 when the storms, and blights, and griefs of earth are given,
Give, oh. my Father, unto her a blissful bower in Heaven.
%♦ Entered according to Act of Congress, by Street & Smith, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.
THE GOLD BRICK
BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS,
Editress of Peterson’s Magazine, author of “ Fashion and Famine,” “The Old Homestead,” ‘The Heiress.” “Mary Derwent. • “Malaeska,” &c., &c.
CHAPTER XXIX.—(Continued.)
Down in the depths of those prison mines many a terrible scene took place at which humanity shuddered. Once buddled under ground and sealed in with the massive iron bars that c rossed that small trap door, little care was needed for the safety of the prisoners. So like wild cattle hustled into a pound they were left to their own vicious instincts, and those often led to riot and revolt. Sometimes the terrible monotony of this life was broken by a new gang of prisoners who, shocked and outraged in every manly feeling by the degradation heaped upon them, fiercely resisted the rules which leveled them below the common brutes of the field, and like wild animals just lassoed in the prairies turned fiercely upon their tormenters.
A case like this had just occurred in the prison; Catharine knew of it only from the fierce cries that echoed through her cell one night, and by and by the frightened faces that passed before her during the next day. It was enough to shock the most hardened human soul, to know that any of those terrible means of punishment, invented as the curse of our prisons, was in progress. The very idea was enough to drive the blood from Catharine’s heart. But she was helpless—had noteven the power of protest—all she could do was to turn her pitying eyes on the poor wretch when his sufferings were over, and thus prove that compassion existed even in that terrible place. Usually these scenes of punishment ended in the hospital, and then her sweet ministry made itself deeply felt, and many a hard heart yielded itself to her kindness which the most bitter correction had failed to reach.
Something of this kind had just transpired in the prison. A new convict had been sent in from the courts, and his first resistance of the prison laws had been met with unusual rigor. That night Catharine bad heard groans, but no cries follow the crack of the lash, which fell so sharply and lasted so long that every nerve in her body quivered and shrunk with that keen sympathy which made the anguish of a fellow-creature her own.
She arose in the morning literally sore at heart, wounded with more tender anxiety than had ever affected her before regarding the man who had borne those awful lashes so bravely. Her duties for a time lay under ground, where much of the prison work was done. She went about them with a heavy heart. Tbe damp, the close atmosphere and absence of all sunlight deepened the despondency that had seized upon hen In these subterraneous vaultsis a vast oven, in which tbe prisoners’ bread was baked, and here her duties for the morning were appointed. A woman stood before this oven casting wood into ihe red caverns of fire that glowed behind tbe rolling smoke. The woman paused with a huge stick of pitch pine half lifted to the oven, and balancing it a moment cast it to the earth and sitting down upon it began to cry.
Catharine advanced that moment and touched her on the arm.
“ I can’t—I can’t 1 Whip me if you like—put me in with him, but I can’t do it!”
The woman evidently thought it one of the keepers who bad watched her rebellious movement. Catharine bent over her.
“ What is tbe matter, Jones? It is only I. Can I help you ?”
The woman looked up, relieved by tbe voice.
“ No,” she said, heavily, “ It is tbe old story You heard the lash last night—it kept us all awake. It is a new mare they are breaking in ; a handsome, fine fellow, but he stood them out like a lion, and now.”
The woman paused and looked toward tbe oven with a sort of terror in her eyes.
And now—oh J Jane, is he dead ?” whispered Catharine, “ did they kill him?”
Tbe woman pointed to a narrow door built close to the mouth of tbe oven, and whispered
“ He is in there I”
Catharine recoiled.
“ In there, and that fire raging so ; God have mercy apon us! it is death I”
“ No, not always; not often, I think,” answered the woman, “ but I never did this work before. The sweat oven has not been used iu my time till now. It’s awful!”
A smothered moan which rose above the roar and crackle of the fire, curdled tbe very blood in Catharine’s veins.
“ What is it ? what is the horrible thing they are doing?” she cried wildly. “What is that . place ?”
“ You see the door—how narrow it is—a poor creature can hardly push through—inside, it is jut as narrow, stone walls pressing close up against the wretch, heated from tbe oven hot as life can bear.”
“ Oh ! my God, my God, is this thing true ?” cried Catharine, cowering down and covering her face with both hands.
“ I won’t heap on tbe wood I” cried tbe woman bitterly. “ They haven’t tbe power to make me.”
“ Hush, bush, some one is coming.’’'
It was the keeper to whom tbe terrible punisb-ment had been entrusted. Catharine rose slowly
its place; soft words came to her lips, tears swelled into her eyes; she had but one thought-holy thanksgiving to Heaven.
Directly the keeper came up, wondering that his victims should remain so long at the well.
“ Hello!” he said, “ what is this ? I thought you were half dead, my fine fellow!”
Catharine looked up ; her face was radiant, and yet a tender pity beamed there.
“ Hush!” she said ; “he is my husband.”
The keeper gave a prolonged whistle that echoed mournfully through the caverns, but Catharine repeated,
“ Yes, yes, it is my husband.”
Thrasher did not speak, but she felt him tremble in her arms ; bis head rested more heavily on her bosom ; he scarcely breathed.
The keeper felt some gleams of sympathy swelling in bis bosom. With him Catharine had always been a favorite. He took compassion on her now.
“ Poor rellow!. he has bad a tough job of it,” he said ; “ weak as a kitten—why, see how be trembles ’. I’ll just go to the warden and have him sent up to the hospital, where you can tend him till he picks up again.”
Catharine smiled gratefully, and they were left alone, Catharine and her husband. She bent down and kissed him.
“ Nelson, my husband, speak one word—say that you know me.”
He whispered hoarsely, “Yes, Catharine, I know you.”
“And love me yet?”
The proud man was shorn of his strength and burst into tears. When the keeper returned her band was locked in that of her husband. He was talking to her in a full voice, broken with grief, telling her things which made even that dark place still darker—of his unfaithfulness and its stern retribution. His heart was touched, and be kept nothing back. His crimes were great, but the record was given in few words, saddening the poor wife, who had been so happy a moment before, in spite of her bonds. She heard him through, wondering that so much of joy should lie underneath these facts and whispering to herself, “He will be here seven years and I with him. Oh, bow much can be done in seven years I”
The keeper bad compassion on them ; he led Thrasher away to that portion of the prison devoted to the sick, and there the heaven of Catharine’s prison life grew bright, for she saw the path of her duty clear, and knew in her soul that a holy work lay in her hands, a work of comfort and regeneration, which should lead him into the sunlight again.
She forgave him from the depths of her own pure heart; she forgave him all the wrong he had done, and all the hopes be had destroyed. Her care, her gentleness and the holy faith that pervaded her words and acts, as perfume steals from a flower, had its effect on this weary-hearted man. I cannot describe that which is beyond words, or tell how this gentle martyr reached the stern man’s heart, but it softened day by day under her patient tending, and when he went back to the dreary duties of those prison mines it was with a changed aspect. She had taught him not only how beautiful a thing human love is, but through that must sacred of earthly feelings, led him to the holy source of all love, that which carries the true soul meekly to the throne of God,
And so the years of their imprisonment wore on, and these two people bore their fate with something better than mere resignation. They were content to work out the duties before them, feeling it recompense enough if they could smile on each other in passing down to their places of rest, or exchange a word of comfort and encouragement now and then by the well where they had first met.
“But—but you won’t go Paul? It is too
to her feet and stood before him, her bands clasped, and the pale anguish of her face revealed by the firelight which illuminated the darkness all around them.
“ What are you women talking about ? Go to your work, Catbarine Allen.”
She could not speak, but .1 upon her knees, beseeching him with those wiki eyes.
“What is all this about,” said the man, softening his voice.
“She wants you to let that poor man out— that’s it,” answered the woman, resting both elbows on her knees, and looking up from her seat on the wood. “She knows it ain’t human to treat any of God’s creatures in this way, and wants to tell you so, only them groans has frightened the soul out of her body.”
The man looked down at the young creature kneeling at his feet, and a shade of sympathy swept over his face.
“Get up,” he said, almost kindly. “I have just come to see about him. This sort of thing don’t gibe with my feelings more than it does with yours, but the fellow was obstinate as a mule--wanted a little of the proud blood sweated out of him, but I reckon he’s got enough of it by this time.”
“Oh, bo quick, be quick, or be may die I” cried Catharine, gaining her voice. “How faint the moans are I Open the door! open the door !— bear bow his poor hands beat against it!”
“Well, go away—this is no place for you. Run to the well, and have some water dipped up ready. They always make a dive for that first.”
Catharine sprang to her feet, and darting across the space illuminated by the oven, made her way toward the well, which gushed out pure and crystalline in the depths of the mines, the only untainted thing in those subterranean regions. An iron lamp swung in the walls of the cavern.
Near this outgush of pure water, which turned all the wavelets it touched to gold, this was the spot to which the prisoners came when athirst, like cattle to a spring; and to this place, as the keeper truely said, the man who had suffered from the flames of that hot oven, must surely come. t
Catharine -took an iron dipper, which was chained to the stones of the well, and filling it with water, held it till the weight bore down her hand, then she filled it once more from the centre of the well, and again held it ready. This time she had not long to wait, for she saw a human figure coming through the darkness with desperate effort, but slow progress—making futile efforts at speed, and giving broken leaps that brought him reeling and staggering every instant against the sides of the cavern.
Catharine poured out the water, and dipped it up afresh, as if that little effort could make it cooler. She would have gone forward to meet the man, but the chain would not permit it, and thus she stood waiting till he came up. He saw the vessel in her band, dripping over with a rain of cool drops, and seizing upon it before she could look up, drained it off in wild, greedy baste.
“More ! more 1” he cried, dropping the dipper, and sweeping the perspiration from his face. “More ! more I”
Catharine plunged the dipper into the well again. He would have snatched it from her but she lifted it to bis lips. In this position the lamplight fell upon her face. He dropped the iron vessel from between bis two hands, uttered a low cry, and fell forward with his face to the earth. She did not breathe—for her life she could not have uttered a sound—but dropping on her knees beside the prostrate man she lifted his head from the earth. The light lay full upon , his face. His eyes looked piteously into- hers. , She drew him up to her bosom ; with the folds of j her prison dress she wiped the rain of perspiration from bis forehead and left tender kisses in ,
Do not pity these people, where true love and the old fellow will wouder what we are talking true faith exists there is little need of compas- about.” sion. Out of the depths of his penitence sprang “ 1 ’
up the perfect love which makes a heaven of any cruel.” place; and she, was not her prison life made
bright and beautiful. What was seven years of toil hunger and thirst to her if it redeemed the husband who had been lost?
CHAPTER XXX.
Years had passed-—seven long years—and in that time many a pleasant change had taken place ' around the minister’s dwelling. Little twigs of , rose bushes had grown into blossoming thickets, the big apple tree in the meadow bad dry spray , among its branches, like gray hairs on the head ; of a strong man; tiny honeysuckle shoots had spread into luxuriant vines ; a row of red cherry . trees along the fence were beginning to glow with ' fruit iu their season. Everything inside and out of the minister’s dwelling had prospered. He had scarcely grown a day older in his own person. Indeed, with his home comforts so cared for, and bis wardrobe in order, he seemed a younger man than we fo ind him, when standing between the two deacons, counselling about the meadow-lot, which now bloomed Eden-like around him.
As for the minister’s wife she had never looked young ; and it seemed impossible that she should ever grow old; a few almost imperceptible wrinkles marked tbe caverns of her prim little mouth, but that was all.
Still youth has rapid changes, and other things than honeysuckles and roses had bloomed into perfection at the parsonage. There was a lovely girl sitting under the apple tree, not gathering fruit or blossoms as of old, but busy with her crochet needle, aud a ball of crimson worsted, that would keep rolling from her lap into the grass in the most provoking manner, and by her side, half lying on tbe ground, was a youth, the most splendid specimen of early manhood you ever saw, looking at her as she worked, with an expression in those dark eyes which could only have sprung from the one great passion of life.
As Rose worked, a smile dimpled the fresh mouth, and she glanced sideways at the youth from under those long, brown lashes, coquetting with him in her innocent way, but with a grace that was enough to bring the youth’s heart into his eyes. Jube was at work in the garden at a distance5 singing to himself, and pausing now and then to regard the scene going on under tbe apple tree.
This was what was passing between the young people. Rose paused a moment with her crochethook in a half-looped stitch, and the smile trembled on her sweet mouth. Paul had asked a question, expressed a thousand times before, but never with that intonation„and significance
“Rose, do you love me?”
How the glow of roses mounted to her forehead, and swept down the snow of her neck! Paul saw it, and blushed also—the lashes drooped over those great velvety eyes, and a strange thrill, too sweet for pain, too new for entire pleasure, ran through his whole system.
“Rose, do you love me?”
As I have said she bad answered that question a thousand times before, but now it took away her voice. She bent her head and commenced her work agaie, looping up the worsted with desperate haste.
“Why don’t you speak, Rose ?”
“ I don’t know what to say,” she replied, trembling all over.
“Don’t know what to say!” repeated Paul, setting upright, and turning his startled eyes full upon her. “ I ask if you love me, and—oh, Rose is there a doubt ?”
Rose shook her head and bent down over her work.
“ If I ask this now,” said Paul, very earnestly, it is because I wish to be certain that—that—oh, Rose, why can’t you answer me ?’
“ I have answered, Paul.”
“ But you turn away. You will not look at
TO CORRESPONDENTS.
me.”
“ Yes—see, I do.”
His face brightened all over, taking her dimpled band be pressed it to his lips,
“ I am going away, Rose?’
“ Going away—oh, Paul!”
“Yes, don’t turn so white. I shall come back again in a few months—it is not so far off.”
“ Where, where?”
She could not complete the sentence, her tears rose so quick and fast.
“ I am going back to my old home, Rose, in St. Domingo. My father was a rich man there— one of the first and highest in the Island. I can remember that without help, but Jube has told me more than this. He and his brothers, a large family, were all killed in that awful massacre. They had great riches in gold and jewels. I saw riles and piles of gold brought into my father’s louse that last week, and heard those gentlemen, my father and his brothers, pledge themselves to defend it each for the other, so long as one of them should live. This compact was not written, but engraved on a brick of gold, that it might be permanent, and carry its own record wherever the treasures went. I was a boy, and two young for a trust of so much magnitude. Where these treasures were put I never knew. My uncles were all killed. My father, my mother—oh, Rose, you know about that. I alone was left of the family. Jube, dear old Jube yonder, is all the servant of our great household. My mother had entrusted him with her jewels. They fell into the hands of Captain Thasher.”
Rose utteivd a faint cry, and covered her face to bide its shame.
“ Don’t, Rose, don’t, said Paul,” I am not blaming any one. Only telling you how it happened that Jube and I became so poor. There was some gold with tbe jewels, and that Rice made Thrasher give up. It has supported us ever since, for Rice traded with it, and kept it grow
We are often requested by correspondents to answer them by letter. This we should be very happy to do in all cases, if we could find the time, but as we have but very little leisure, we can hardly undertake so onerous a task.
W" PARTICULAR NOTICE.-WE DO NOT WISH TO PURCHASE ANY MORE MANUSCRIPTS. NOR CAN WE UNDERTAKE TO RETURN REJECTED MSS. KEEP A DUPLICATE OR YOU WILL LOSE THEM.
J. Henriques.—The power of volcanoes almost surpasses belief. Here are a few examples: Cotopaxi, in 1738, threw its fiery rockets 3,000 feet above its crater, while in 1744 the blazing mass, struggling for an outlet, roared so that its awful voice was heard a distance of more than 600 miles. In 1787 the crater of Tunguragua, one of the great peaks of the Andes, flung out torrents of mud, which dammed up rivers, opened new lakes, and in valleys of a thousand feet wide made deposits of 600 feet deep. The stream from Vesuvius, which in 1737 passed through Torre del Greco, contained 33,600,000 cubic feet of solid matter; and in 1794, when Torre del Greco was destroyed a second time, the mass of lava amounted to 45,000,000 cubic feet. In 1697, Etna poured forth a flood which covered eighty-four square miles of surface, and measured nearly 100,-000,000 cubic feet. Ou this occasion the sand and scoriae formed the Monte Rossi, near Nicolisi, a cone two miles in circumference, and 4,000 feet high. The stream thrown out by Etna in 1810 was in motion at the rate of a yard per day for nine months after the eruption, and it is on record that the lavas of the same mountain, after a terri-ble eruption, were not thoroughly cooled and consolidated ten years after the event In the eruption of Vesuvius, A. D. 79, the scoriae and ashes vomited forth far exceeded the entire bulk of the mountain, while in 1660 Etna disgorged more than twenty times its own mass. Vesuvius has thrown its ashes as far as Constantinople, Syria and Egypt; it hurled stones eight pounds in weight to Pompeii, a distance of six miles, while similar masses were tossed
ing, good fellow. But that is very little, Rose. It kept us from being a burden here, but would it amount to when—when-”
wbat
“ When what, Paul ?”
“ When you and I are married, Rose.”
The young girl drew a quick breath, crochet hook fell from her hand—arms, neck face were bathed in blushes.
The and
“ Have you never thought of this, Rose ?” said Paul, tenderly.
“ I don’t, don’t know, Paul.”
“But you will think of it?”
“ Yes—yes.”
“ All the while I am gone ?”
“Gone!” The tears that had been lining her eyes dropped onto the roses of her cheek. He saw her grief and exulted in it.
“ Jube knows where those treasures were buried. It was a safe place, deep in the vaults under my father’s bouse. The negroes would never search there. Jube will go with me ; we shall find all this gold, and then, Rose, then-”
She looked up piteously.
“ I don’t care for gold ; I hate jewels, and have from that day. Don’t go, Paul; I shall die before you come back.”
“ But we must live. When your father comes from the Indies I cannot ask for hi.- daughter without some way of earning or giving her bread. Those treasures belong to me. I am the last heir of our bouse. It is for your sake 1 shall search for them.”
“ No, no, I am afraid. There may be another shipwreck,” cried the young girl, wringing her hands
“ Hush, hush, Rose i Jube is looking this way ?
up 2,000 feet above its sumniit. Cotopaxi has projected a block of 109cubic yards in volume a distance of nine miles, and Sumbawa, in 1815, during the most terrible eruption on record, sent its ashes as far as Java, a distance of 300 miles of surface, and out of a population of 12.000 souls only twenty escaped.
Orator.—The lines
“No pent-up Utica contracts our powers, But the whole boundless continent is ours,” were written by one Jonathan Mitchell Sewell, a Portsmouth poet, as an epilogue to Addison’s play of Cato, on the occasion of its performance by an amateur company in that place in 1778. The whole production was one of decided power. The spirit of the Revolution entered into every expression. We give a few lines :
“And what now gleams with dawning rays at home Once blazed in full-orbed majesty at Rome.
Did Rome’s brave Senate nobly strive t’ oppose
The mighty torrent of domestic foes, And boldly arm the virtuous few and dare Tbe desperate perils of unequal war?
Our Senate, too, the same bold deed has done,
And for a Cato armed a Washington 1
“Rise, then,my countrymen, for fight prepare, Gird on your swords, and tearless rush to war I For your grieved country nobly dare to die, And empty all your veins for liberty.
No pent-up Utica contracts our powers,
But the whole boundless continent is ours.'”
Utica, a town older than any in the vicinity of ancient Carthage, was the place where Cato died. This fact, with tbe above extracts,will sufficiently explain one of the most expressive quotations in our language—a quotation which has been frequently made by the most distinguished orators, Webster among them.
A Subscriber.—It is difficult, if not impossible, to tell who invented the plow. It has been in use,’in one form and another, from time immemorial From the wooden plow with the iron point—which is even now used in some localities—gradually was developed the iron plow. The cast-iron plow was introduced in this country about eighty years ago. The invention was disputed by a man named Wood, and one Thomas Freeman or Freeborn, and the ques' tion of right was a long time in our courts of law We do not know how the matter was decided. Probably both parties had some claim to consideration in the matter As in most other cases of important discoveries and inventions undoubtedly different minds were engaged in the improve ment of so important an agricultural implement as the plow, and no one is wholly entitled to the credit of having invented the iron plow. For the substance of this para graph we are indebted to Prof. Mapes, whose agricultural warehouse is in Nassau street, near Beekman.
Jack Reagtn.—We presume you have reference to Col Joseph G. Totten, who, we believe, is Brigadier General by brevet. He is the Chief Engineer of the United States army. He graduated at West Point in 1805, was attached to the army in 1808, and lias therefore been fifty-three years in Uncle Sam’s service. He was Gen. Scott’s chief adviser in the war of 1812, was taken prisoner with him, and exchanged with him. He was also wfth Gen. Macomb at Plattsburgh, and was elevated to his present post in 1838, on the retirement of Gen. Gratiot. Col. Totten was also with Gen. Scott during the Mexican war, and greatly to his skill as an engineer, in planning and throwing up works at San Juan, was Gen. Scott indebted for his easy capture of the beleguered city and castle. As Chief Engineer of the array. Col Totten’s duties are very important and arduous and yet. though over seventy years of age, he pursues his labors and studies with unremitting assiduity He is a native of Connecticut. Now, Jack, is this satisfactory ?
g —Poe’s complete works have been published, but we do not know by whom nor bat price. Probably any i
Of our publishing firms cor ly you.
“Not till you consent. You are my queen now, Rose, and shall keep or send me as you like.”
She brightened with a sudden thought.
“Wait till father comes,” she said, dashing her tears right and left with those white hands, “ and then we can all go together—that is, if father has not money enough of his own.”
Paul pressed her hand again gracefully, as if she had indeed reigned his queen, and once more they sunk into the old attitude, save that she did not pretend to work, and Paul no longer veiled the joy in his eyes.
They did not hear the rattle of wheels, or know that a wagon had stopped at tbe parsonage ; so when Jube came hurriedly from his work in the garden, with intelligence in his face, Rose received him with a pretty pout, and Paul inquired rather sharply what he wanted coming upon them in that rude way.
Poor Jube was quite taken aback. Never in his whole life had he been so received by the young people ; the joyful words were driven back from his lips, and he stood mute, gazing at them like a Newfoundland dog rebuked for too much spirit.
“What did you want?” inquired Paul, self-rebuked and softened.
“ Why, nothing, master, only Tom has just got out of the wagon and is coming this way.’’
“ Tom! What—Tom Hutchins ?”
“ Yes, master; that’s him coming through the kitchen door.”
Rose started up all in commotion. The idea of meeting her rustic boy lover just then filled her with dismay. But there was no escape. He was half across the meadow then, making directly for the apple tree. A fine, powerful young fellow be certainly was—broad-chested and stout of limb—but there was the same frank face, the same freckles on the cheeks, the same laughing blue eyes. He came up a little awkwardly, not exactly knowing how to use his arms in walking, and halting a few yards from Rose in blank astonishment at her beauty. She went toward him at once holding out her hands.
(To be continued.)
Botts.—This correspondent would like to know “ the proper way to write a regret for non-attendance at a party.” The following would be a proper form : “ Miss Smith; I regret exceedingly that untoward circumstances wilt pre-vent me from being present at your social gathering to. night. Allow me,nevertheless, to thank you sincerely for your very kind invitation. Yours truly,
John Brown.”
J W.B—From the commencement of the “Shooting Star,” to the close of “ Mildred,” running through fifteen numbers of the New York Weekly, will cost you sixty cents.
“Albert K. We have answered your question a dozen times, and the last time no longer ago han week before last
Albert —Yes, we do intend to publish another of T. S. Arthur’s stories. We have one on hand now, and will probably publish it in the course of a few weeks.
A Subscriber to the Weekly —When a lady receives an invitation to a party, she will of course be expected to find her own escort.
L. G. D.—It is called three quarters of a mile around the City Hall Park.
J.—We know nothing whatever of the gentleman concerning whom you ask information.
“Keystone.”—Your advice comes too late. The series is completed.
G. H.—We can do nothing for you. We are overcrowded already.
Arcadia.—The word hebdomadal is from a Greek word, signifying seven days.
To Whom rr May Concern.—The following are received and accepted: “ Words of Counsel “ Wallacian Hymn” —“On the Mountains”—“Stand and Deliver”—“Wake Me to Thee, Mother”—“A Picture in Memory’s Hall”—“Records of Turtle Hill Gossip”—“The Indian’s Revenge”— “.he Poor Artist”—“The Merchant’s Clerk”—“An Earnest”—“Friendship”—“The Mysterious Murder”—“Happy days of Childhood. ”....The following are respectfully declined: “ATeardrop”—“Nature”—“Arnella”-‘TI1 come” “Pleasure”—“The Untomed Mariners”—“Starry Eyes”— • ‘ The Convict’ ‘The Panther’s Death’ ’—‘‘Lady Malorine’ ’ —“How a Sheep won a wife”—“The Twilight Hour”—“The Old Elm Tree’—“Management of Children”—“ 1 Cannot Weep”—“ Loving—Loved”—“Sonnets from the German,’
*$* A number of letters remain over till next week.

r
PROBLEMS, PUZZLES, etc.
Iowa.—Correct. See last week’s Weekly, We give your problem: “A bucket of coals was drawn up from a mine io within 48 feet of the top, when the rope parted, and 21 seconds afterward the bucket was heard to strike a brace known to be 88 feet from the toot of the shaft. How deep was the shaft, supposing the velocity of sound to be 1120 feet per second, and that of fulling bodies 16 feet the first second ?
Mattie—Gives us the following interesting problem for colored persons: “A ship’s crew consisted oi SO men, one-half of them white, the other black. Shortness of provisions made it necessary to throw one-half of the crew overboard. They were placed in a circle and every tenth man thrown into the sea, till the number was reduced one-half, when it was found that all the white men were remaining. How were they arranged ?”
W. L. H.—Furnishes the following enigma •
I am never in thoughts, but I’m ever in words;
I am never in flocks, but I’m ever in herds, And I always am heard in the carol of birds;
I never flash in the lightning; and yet, what a wonder,
I always am heard in the rumbling of thunder;
I am found in the water, iu earth, fire and air ;
I am never in foul, but al ways jn fair;
I am not in a beach, but yet I’m in shore
And without me you never could hear the waves roar; Though I’m not in the tempest, I’m found in the breeze; Though I’m not in their boughs, I am always in trees; Although not in the heavens, I am in the stars;
Though banished from Venus, 1 am always with Mars; Although not in the globe, yet I am in the world;
While without me a banner was never unfurled;
I am never found in battles, yet always in wars;
I am never in coaches, yet always in cars;
When the heavens look gloomy I’m then in tbe dark;
And yet, strange to say, I am always in spark;
I am not found in flames when they fiercest aspire, And yet without me you can never make fire;
I am found in the lowliest flower that blooms, As well as in roses which yield sweet perfumes; lappear in the hunter, his courser, his lariat;
But I’m loved most because I am found twice in Harriet.
ANSWERS TO PROBLEMS AND PUZZLES.
Alpha’s puzzle about counting the eggs by twos and threes, and so on, having one remainder till ho counted them by sevens, has been answered by “ Tom Terii,” “ Young Innocence,” Mattie,” “ Louis 1/ “ J. J, McC,” “DanielS,” “ G. H. McG,’’ “ Warshawk,” “R. B.,” and “ I. J. O. R. /’ who ad give the number 301, which is “Alpha’s” answer. “ E. R. P.” gives 721 as the answer. This literally fulfills the conditions of the puzzle, but evidently the smallest number that will prove satisfactory is the one intended in all such questions. It would be well to bear this in mind as a general rule m giving answers. “ Isaac R S.” is wide of the mark in supposing 49 satisfactory. How can he divide 49 by five and have only 1 remainder ?
Alpha’s enigma, running as follows :
The % a beast with long ears on its head, The same of a fish in fresh water not bred, The of a bandage that ties round your knee,
Would tell you of a fair town in Leinster, you see— has been successfully answered by “DanielS.’ and “L McG.” Mule, Ling, Garter, are the words, thus: % of Mule is mui, % of Ling is lin, % of Garter is gar. These combined make Mullingar—the name of a town in Leinster. Also answered by “ Lewis O. F.” and “James C. P.”
E R. P.—Wrong. Try again.
G. AV. H.—Right in both answers. Sae previous numbers of the Weekly.
J. J. Snow’s problem of the frog and the well is answered correctly by ^Semloh.” If the frog climbed 8 feet in the day and fell back four it night, of course he gained 4 feet e ich day. In 8 days he would have ascended 32 feet. At the end of the ninth day, not falling back any in consequence of having reached the top, he would * e 40 feet from where he started. This is the depth of the well.
M. Milan’s puzzle of writing the 9 digits in three columns, of three figures each, so that they will foot up exactly fifteen perpendicularly, horizontally and obliquely, is answered, as follows, by “ Semlon:”
8 16 3 5 7 4 9 2
A correct answer is also given by “ Jersey City” and “ H T W.”
Phelosopher’s problem of tbe two boys with the apples is answered by Semlon. The large boy had seven apples and the small one five. Therefore, if the small boy gave the large boy one, he would have twice as many as tbe small one ; but if the large boy gave the small boy one, they would have an equal ntimber each. Also answered by “ Henry Alexander,” “ H. T. W ”
Stars and Stripes —This correspondent offered a year’s subscription to the New York Weekly to any one who would give a correct solution to the following .
Twelve times have I besextile seen ;
But tell how can this be,
Since twelve times four are forty-eight, And I’m but forty-three ?
“ Henry Alexander, of New York,”-sends the following answer : “ 1’he twelve besextile seen were those of 1816, ’20, ’24, 28, *32,' ’36, ’40, ’44, ’48, '52, ’56,’ and 1860. He was born on the 31st Deceizber, 1816 ; but, as he must attain the age of one year before be can number his years, he necessarily commences to count from tbe 31st December, 1817. from which date to tbe 31st December. I860, forty-three years have elapsed, being the age he claims.” Mr. Alexander thinks this entitles him to the year’s subscription. What says “ Stars and Stripes ?” “ W. B. Walker, of Brooklyn, L. L,” gives the tame answer, received after the foregoing. Also, “ C. R. Leonard, Fiftieth street, between Tenth and E'eventh avenues. ” “ Hope I am Right” sends nearly the same, placing the birthday on the 31st of December, 1804, “ U. T. W.” gives a similar solution.
R. B.—Right as regards “J. C’s” stone broken into Four pieces. See last week’s Weekly.
T. S. H.’s algebraic problem is correctly answered by •‘Cal.” Answer x=25.
H. T. W.—Correct. Tbe decimal point before 91 makes it less thana unit, thus; .91 is only 91-1000ths of a unit.
Buckeye^s chicken and goose question is answered by “O. P. U.,” “Omega,” “Isaac R. S.” and “Ariel.” There are 4840 square yards in an acre. This multiplied by three gives tbe number of geese, 14520. It takes two chickens to pay for one goose. Twice 14520 is 29040—the answer required.
During the year 1859, 273 persons were drowned in the State of Massachusetts ; 100 died from burns and scalds : 62 from fractures and contusions ; 13 were-accidentally poisoned , 17 suffocated, and 25 died by violence, the causes of which are not stated. During the five j ears ending in 1859, no less than 1,149 persens were drowned in Massachusetts, and 436 burned or scalded to death In addition to these there were 236 accidental deaths—1859 not classed. There were exactly the same number (18) of homicides in the Sta*» in 1858 and 1859, and the whole number in the five years ending in 1859, was 109.