{ title: 'Herkimer County Democrat. (Frankfort, N.Y.) 1843-1854, May 04, 1853, Page 1, Image 1', download_links: [ { link: 'http://www.loc.gov/rss/ndnp/ndnp.xml', label: 'application/rss+xml', meta: 'News about NYS Historic Newspapers - RSS Feed', }, { link: '/lccn/sn83031097/1853-05-04/ed-1/seq-1/png/', label: 'image/png', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn83031097/1853-05-04/ed-1/seq-1.pdf', label: 'application/pdf', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn83031097/1853-05-04/ed-1/seq-1/ocr.xml', label: 'application/xml', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn83031097/1853-05-04/ed-1/seq-1/ocr.txt', label: 'text/plain', meta: '', }, ] }
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Mtfktmef €0^111® pcmo^M TE RM S-12 A YEAR. t l b e r t y . F r a t e r n it y , a n d £ < |n a lity ’* II 50 IN ADVANCE. mUME II. HERKIMER, ¥EDIESDAY p R I I I f t / MAI 4. 1803. HUMBER §5. fBf£i:Urtitv C o u n t s iifm o c r u t^ prBLlSHBD EVERT -WETiltESEAY MOSNTKS A t H e 3 f k im « r , H e r S t . C o . , Kf. Y« ROBERT EARL, 1 ^ C. C. WITHERSTINE f RRO^ p -^ etors . TERMS.—The Democrat will be left at the sideucedence off villagelb subscribers at §2,1)0 a year. ;2,00 jier year, or $1 50 in resi o vi Mail subscribers advance. ________ _ ___ K i i t e s o f A d v e r t i s i n g . One square or less, one insertion,.. .$0 50 Each subsequent insertion,. . . . . . . . 0 25 One square 3 months, .......... .. 3 00 One square 6 months, ................... . 5 60 One square one year, 8 00 liberal deduction will be made to those whoadvertise by the year. BOOK AND JOB PEINTIirG In all its branches, executed with neatness and dispatch, and on reasonable terms. o::^ Mr. V. B. PALMER is our authorized Agent in the cities of New York, Philadelphia and Boston. All contracts made by Mr. P. will be duly recognized by us SELECT POETRY. THE SHIP AT SEA. A white sail gleaming on the flood. And the bright orbed sun on high. Are all that break the solitude Of the circling sea and sky ; Nor cloud, nor cape is imaged there Nor isle of ocean nor of air. Led by the magnet o’er the tides. That bark her path explores,— Sure as unerring in; The bird to unsee \With wings that o'er the wave® e.xpand, She wanders to a viewless land. Yet not alone ;—on ocean’s breast, Though no green islet grow s . No sweet refreshing spot of rest, Where fat Nor Hn No ! not alone !—her beauteous shade lends her noiseless way ; , uiiJecayeJ, t guides iseen shores •, g r e e n isle t g r o w ;shing spot of n Where fancy may repose, or rock, nor hills, nor towers, n caks the blank solitude of the s A.s some sweet memory, u Clings to I’e; h-arl for a Attends her noiseless wa; s some swt Cling- \u l h iunts it—whereso’er we go. Through every scene of joy-and wo. And not alone ;—for day and night r o'ei the Jeep : . E'cnit her I And round her solita The stars thei icep ; flight its keep, 'ding ski( athwwy lies. Above, below, are cird And heaven around her ,\nd not alone for hopes and fesri Go \nth her. wandering m l « . she could never stay to h 6 ar their aus- [ ter espfecially would hasten home, to ptcions and reproaches—entreating him l^now the meaning of anything so at the same time, to relax Ms grasp o f. strange,; her throat, for she could hardly speak. Being all her life accustomed to the much less do vvhat he hid her, while he | machineTy of the flaill, it w'as the work held her so tight. At length he was of a moment to set it all in motion—a induced to quit his hold, on her remind* j brisk breeze which sprung up at once ing him that he must lose no time, or j set the siails flying. The arMs of the the ifainily would- be returning from huge engine whirled round with fear- church. She then led the 'way to her ful rapidity ; the great wheel revolved master’s bedroom and showed him the on its axle ; the staaller geer turned, coffer where he kept, his 'money .— and creaked add groaned accor<fing as “ Here,” she said, reaching to him an the machinery came into action—the axe which lay in a corner of the room, mill was in full operation. It was at “ you can open it with this whilO I run this moment that the rufflaa intruder up stairs to put all my things together, had succeeded in squeezing himself besides tbe money I have saved since I through the^ aperture in the wall, and have been here.” getting hiipseif' safely lodged in the, in completely deceived by her apparent terior of the great drum wheel. His readiness to enter into his plans, he al- dismay, ‘however^ -^as indescribable, lowed her to leave the room, only ex- vvhen he began to be whirled about horting her to be as quick as possible, with its rotation, and found that all his and was immediately absorbed in his efforts to put a slop to the powerful own operations, first opening the box I machinery which set it in motion, or to and then disposing of the money about! extricate himself from this perilous sit- his person. In the meanwhile, Hanch- j uation, were fruitless. -In his terror en, instead of going up stairs to her ( he uttered shrieks and horrible impre- own room, crept softly along several! cations. Astonished at the nqise, passages till she again reached her Hanchen ran to tht^pot, and saw him master's chamber. It was the work of ! caught like a rat ia Bis own trap, n-om a moment to shut and bolt the dOorup- j which it was ^ JJart df her plan to on him ; and this done, she rushed out liberate him. k|«rw he would be to the outer door of the mill to give the more frighteistd than, hurt, if be kep^ alarm. The only being in Sight was j within his rofary priion jfctihout ahy P OE T i l - A bsaem or life - a paeoby . n'/iat </.e Heart o f the Touns Woman said to the Old Maid. BT HENRY VT. SHOEXEEI.I.OW. For the gir And girliIs dream 1” are now what they seem. e is real ! life is earnest ! Single-blessedness a flh ! * ^ Man thou art, to man retnrnest,” Has been spoken of the rib. ,, Not enjoyment, and not sorrow is our destined end or way But fa act, that each to-*orrow Find us nearer j j g ^ i ||e da lay.. Life is long, aftifl fleeting, And our light-find gaj Still, like are beating tVedding thdrcTies'alT the way. her master's little boy, a c h ild^ five ' Ah years old to him she called with lyH ifb© her might, “ Hun !—nm to roi«t your ^ Oitt; father as he comes from churOh i and tell him we shall be mprdf^red p* not hasten back.” child did as she running on the roao^(®_ Somewhat reUeered by 4 Child unders^oc^ 1 * '* her case knowB,, / momeat on i door, an«lf ' grief and’ tears. BulEya le aroused her i net He'-ur^atL. i8ho« And bright Its distant irayers for her A t i is, eyes wateb liiroai^gW |eif And not alone The vita) light And something tfcsUiH \fMI lan’s spirit there follow, id [oui It lanaiiy, acoom-, aeifi^r#; all Upon the A present. f man » BjHJiv iireic, waste wiA weary road, all pervading God! ' ^ THE TALE-TEL 4 EI. ROMAMTtC 8TO.-«|#i events whick occurred jicar j|^ag® of Udarf, on the bau^ trf -river Rhine, not far from Ikmu. Whether . from I grass, who, hawtever, was too the drain, and sna“tcKing up ! terrified to give them any account of Ms arms, hasten with him I happened/ Hanchen in a ---- mm, in accordance with her spirit, the dkeefSons of his aecoiriplice. In a ' sustained her through such mombM she perceived the full extent Save way under the ■ MlSEELfcOY, i^ e r e ^re they! . 13^'nnot sit now, ai onet.updn the the brook, hour 0 fm hour, and off my line and llaok to the niM Wing roach, and reckon it great sport, 'fhere is no girl with auburn ringlela to .sit .be»id| me and play upon the ^»****»‘— hours _ aye .shorter than they were then; and the little joys, that furnished boyhood till the heart was full can fill no longer- Poor Tray is dead !,Jong ago, and he paunotswim into the ^ools for floating sticks, nor can I sport with him^bour after hour. of the danger, and formed her plan for escaping it, • l^freaiing into the mill, she double sense of safety and relief, and she fell fainting in their arms, and was with much difficulty recovered. The ma chinery of the mill was at once stop- afparimt entranbe into the budding,! dreadful prison* Heinrich, too, was bro’t forth from the miller’s chamber, .§,nd both were, in a short time, sent bound, under a strong escort, to Bonn, where they soon after met the reward of their crimCs. The story of this extraordinary act The following extra<ird*«Wtryj 6 l«rmalf itory is said to be a true narrattiv©. dt maans' of access being pre- IBS by stboBg iron gratings Axed up against all the windows—atid then took her post at 1:116 upper casement, true or not, it.has be^m the subject of determined to await patiently her mas- a famous melo-drama oil the jEnglish j ter’s return, and her consequent deliv- stage, and which has also been often i ery from that dangerous position—or J-ue story 01 tnis exiraorainary aci; produced iu New York. I her owi, death, .f, indeed, inevitable; for j . i P f ’/ Z T \ / o Z n Mo ^ Near Udorf lived a “ ‘Y - ”“ | cured of her penoliant for her unworthy massive wmd-mill was employed by all ferins, and that nothing should induce ! became eventually, the wife of thepeopleformiles aronud, so thatbe her to master's Property ^ was gradually growing rich. One Sun-j D^to the robbers hands. She had day morning, this miller and his family j hM’dly had time to secure herself in her set out, as was their weekly custom, to ' retreat, when the ruffian, holding the attend service at die nearest church in 1 screaming child in his arras, and bran- the village of Heascl, leaving the mill,! dishing a knife in. one hand, came up, to which the dwelling house was at- j and hid her open the door or he would tached, in charge of his servant maid, Hanchen, a bold-hearted girl, who had been some time in his service. The youngest child who was still too little to go to church, remained also under her care. As Hanchen was busily en gaged in preparing dinner for the fam ily, she was interrupted by a visit from her admirer, Heinrich Botteler.' He was an idle, graceless fellow, and her master, who knew his character well, had forbidden him the house ; but Han- break it down, adding many awful oaths and threats; to which her only ansiver was, that she put her trust in God. Heinrich, who from his window was witness of the colloquy, now called out to cut the child’s throat before her eyes, if she still persisted in her refusal Poor Hanchen’s heart quailed at this most horrible threat; for a moment her resolution failed, but only for a moment. The death of thO child could be no gain ta them, while her own death was cer- chen. could not believe all the stories! fain if she admitted tbe assailant; and she heard against her lover, and was her master, too, would be robbed. She sincerely attached to him-. On this oc.- had no reason, either, to suppose that casioir she greeted him kindly, and not only got him sametiling to eat at once but found time in the midst of her business, to sit down and have a gossip with him, while he did justice to tbe fare set be fore him. As he was eating he let fall his knife, which he asked her to pick up for him; but she playfully remon strated, telling him she feared, from all she heard, he had little enough, work, and ought at least to wait upon him self. In the end, however^ she stooped down to pick up the knife, when the treacherous viilian drew a dagger from: under his coat, and Caught her by tbe nape of the neck, griping firmly her 4:hroat with his fingers, to prevent her screaming; then with an Oath,'he aesircd her to tell him Where her mas ter kept his naoney, threatening to kill her if she did not comply with his de mand. The surprised and terrified girl in vain attempted to parley with Mm; he ^till held her tight^ In his choking grasp, leaving ^er up otfei^ choice but to die of betr«^ her master. Sne saw there was no hop© of aoftening him, or changing, his pnrpo^And, »*ltk the full conviction o f H i IrfedCftei-y, all her thl^e’ courage woke in Tier bosom. Af- tedting, however to yield to what was indvitaWe, she answered him, in are - ‘ signed tone, that what must be, must ; only, i f he* carried off her master's gold, he mu§t take her off with him too; ft her compliance would save the life of the child. It was to^ risk all against* nothing; and she resolved to hold out to the last, though the viilian frdm without renewed his threats, saying, that if she would not open the door to him he would kill the child, and then set fire to the mill over hen head. “ I put my trust in God,” was still the poor girl’s answer. In the meanwhile the ruffian set down the child fora mbment, to look about for combustibles to carry out his threat: in his search he discovered a mode of entering The mill untbought of by Hanchen. It was a large apert ure in the wall, commnriicatirig' with the wheel and the other machinery of the mill: and it avas a point entirely unprotected, for it had never been con templated that any one would seek to enter by so' dangerOus an inlet. Tri umphant at this discovery, he returned to tie the hands and feet of the poor chHd, to prevent his escape, and then stole back to the aperture by which -he intended to effect an entrance. The situation of the building prevented Hanchen from seeing anything,of this; but a thought had meanwhile stj;uck her:, it was Sun^y* and the miff was never.at w o rkif, ^erefore, the saffi W p rft fiPftn in m .ofior» all her life on the scene of her immi nent danger and happy deliverehce. A D odge -— When Deacon B -------- , got into a bad position, he was very expert at crawling out of it. Though too quick tempered, he was one ofrthe' best deacons in the world. He would not in a sober moment, utter an oath, or anything like one for his weight in cider. At the close of a rainy day, he was milkiug upon a knoll in his barn yard; on one side of which was a’dirty slough, and on the other an old buck, that in consideration of his usually quiet dis position. was allowed to run with the cows. The deacon was piously hum ming “ Old Hundred/’ and had just fin ished the line ending with “ exalted high”' when ram, obeying a stldden im pulse to be aggressive, ghve him a blow from behind that sent hita up a short distance, only to fall fall Airectly into slough, where the dirty vyater wds deep enough to give him a thorough immer sing. As he crawled out, and hefdte he rose* from his hands and his knees, he looked over his shoulder at the ram, and ftien vociferated— “ You d—d old cuss 1 ” hut on look ing around and seeing one of his'^neigh- bors at the bars,' looking at him, he added in the same breath, “ if I may be allowed shb expression.” I K indne I s in L ittle T hings .'— The sunshine of life is made up of very lit tle beams that are bright allYhe time. In the'nursery, on the play-ground, and in the school-room, there is a room all the time for little acts ofkindnesS that cost nothing, but are worth more than gold or silver. To give up something, where giving up will prevent unhappi ness—to yield, when persisting ■ will chafe and fret others-r-to go a little- around rather than come against anoth er—to takO an ill word Or a c r^s look quietly, rather than resent Or return i t ; ^ these are the ways in which bloudsand atom s are kept off. and it pleasant .«ttn-i shine secured even in the humble h ^ e , among very poor people, as Ih'fefttilies in higher stations.— (oo&. 7 Be a heroine—a wife I Act—act to the 1 Heart Within and hope; ahead! Iftrried folks fetnind us I oar livei as well, Mnd us lotcve behin »a«8bitll teU.» tW another -and asked him i f he remembered Paiil, who saved her from drqwning Under the tree in the meadow? But he could on ly shake his head and mutter something about how old and feeble be had grown. She wrote me afterwards that he died, and was buried in a'fa r away place where hi^ wife once lived, and where he how sleeps beside her. Isa bel was struck with grief, and came to live for a time, with Lilly; but when Why, then, should anybody live?— What was there to live for now that Bella was gone? Ah, what a_gap in the world is made by the death of those we love ! It was no longer whole, but a poor half world that swings uneasy upon its o'wn axis, and makes you dizzjr with the clatter of its wreck. The housekeeper told me all, little , witn Billy ; but when ^ calmness to. listen, last she had’ gone back She had been dead a month ; Lilly was that .covers his- grave is sunken; and the trees that shaded it arc broken dnd mossy. -V, Little Lilly is grown up into a wo man, and is married; and she has-an- other little Lilly, with flaxen hair, she' says—looking as she used to look. I dare say the child is pretty, but it is not Lilly. She has a little* boy, too, they wrote me 1 to her old homq—^where Tray was bur ied—where we had played together, so pftep through the long days of Sum mer. - I was glad I should find her there ivhen I came back. Lilly^ and Ben were both living nearer to the city when I fthded from my long jommey over the seas; but sYlll, 1 went to Isabel.fffst.- Perhaps I had heard so much bftener from the others that I felt less eager to see them; or perhaps I wanted to save rriy best visits to .the last; or perhaps, —I did not think it—perhaps I loved Isabel better than them all. So I went into the country, thinking all tbe way how; she must have changed bince I.left. She must be now nineteen or twenty; and; then, her grief must have saddened her face, somewhat; but I thought I should like her all the better Jfor that. Then, perhaps, she would not laugh and tease me, but would be quieter and wear a smile so calm, and beautiful, I thought.— Her figure, too, must have grown more elegant, and she would have more dig nity in her air. I shuddered a little, at this ; for I tho'I—she will hardly think so much of me ; then, perhaps she will have seen those whom she likes a great deal better. Perhaps she vyill . not like me at all; yet I khevv very well I should like herJ - I had gone up almost to the house; I bad passed the stream where we fish ed on that day many y ears before; and I though/ that now, since she had gfdwn to Womtlnhood, I should nevCr sit with liec there again, and surely never drag her as I did out of the riv er, and never chafe- her, little hand-— and never, perhaps\ kiss her, ds I did, When she sat upon my mother's lap— oh. no—DO—no. I, saw Where she buried Tray, hut the :qld slab Was gone; there.w a s no rib- bon tkere^ now. . ....................... .. I trembled when I went up to the door —for it flased upon me that perhaps— Isabel was married. I could not tell why she should not; but I knew it would make me uncomfortable to hear that she had. There was a tall woman who opened that she cans P a a ._a o U T u t U e 3 rmftnnipmiiQ . * r t t • _ I^ thoughjL ZA-Tha.Hoatar_maii6-a LounfLand put i'ea?t Isabel would have replaced the' both hands to his heart, as if he had slab; but;it was a wron^ thought ^ - - - - - - - . . rogue—she writes, and as mischievous as ever I was. God bless the boy! Ben, who would have liked a ride in tbe coach that carried me away to school—has had a great many rides since then—rough rides and hard ones over the road of life. He does not rake up the falling leaves for bonfires as he did once ; he is grown to be a man, and is fighting his way somewhere in our Western world, to tbe short lived hon ors of time. He was married not long ago; his wife, I remember as one of nay play-mates at my first school; she was beautiful, hut fragile as a leaf. She died within a year of their marriage.— Ben was four years my senior; but this grief made him fen years older. He does not say it, but his eye and figure tell it. • The nurse who put the purse in my hand that dismal morning, is grown a feeble old woman. She was over fifty then; she may well be seventy now.— She did not know my voice when I went to her the other day, nor did she know my face a,t all. She repeated the name when I told her—Paul, Paul, she did not remember any Paul except a little boy, a long while ago. “ To whom you gave a purse when he went away, and told him to say nothing to Lilly or Ben ?” “ Yes, that Paul,” said the old woman, exulting,- “ Do you. khow him? And when I told her—“ she would not have believed it!” But she did, and look hold of my hand again, (fpr she was blind) and then sl^ smoothed down the plaits of her apron, and jog ged her strings “ to look tidy in the presence of a gentleman.” And she told me long stories about the old house, and bow the'people caine in afterwards; and she called me “Hir,” and some times ‘^‘‘jPaul.” Biit I asked het onljr to say Paul—she seemed glad fqr this, ahd talked easier; and went on t o t ell of my old playmates, and bow' we used to ride the p0ny~p6ok Jocko !■—and how we gathered nuts—such heaping piles; and how we used to play fox and geese’ through the long' wintry evenings i and my poor raothef would smile—but here I asked her tojstop.-— •She would have gone on irraoh longer, for i, believe she loved our bouse and people better than she loved her own. As for uncle, the cold silent man who lived, with.his books in the house on the hiff, and who used to frighten me sometimes with his look, he grew very feeblC a fter I left; and almost cra zed; The country people said be Was mad, And Isabel with her sweet heart, clungtohim,. and ’would lead him out, 'whendlls Step tottered, tdfthe' seat in tffB garden, and tead: to >hini solne ^el- 'I ters that I had written to Lilly, or Ben, vants. I asked after the house-keeper first, thinking I would surprise Isabel. My heart fluttered somewhat, thinking she might step in suddenly herself —or perhaps that she might have seen me coming up the bill. But even then, I thought she would hardly know me. Presently the housekeeper came in, looking very grave ; she asked if the gentleman wished to see her. The gentleman did wish it, and she sat down on one side of the fire; for it was Autumn, andthe leaves were falling, and the November winds were very chillyl Shall I tell her—thought I—who I am, and ask at once for Isabel ? I tried to ask—but it was hard for me to call her name; it was very strange—but I could not pronounce it at all. “ Who, sir?” said the housekeeper, in* a voice so earnest, that I rose at once and crossed the room and took her by the hand—“ You know me.” said I, “ you surely remember Paul?” She started with surprise, but recov ered herself and resumed the same grave manner. I thought I had com mitted some mistake, or been in some way, the cause of offense. I called for Madame, and asked for Isabel. , She turned pale—terribly pale.— “ Bella?’’ said she. “ Yes, Bella.” “ Sir—Bella is dead. ” . I dropped, into my. chaff. I said not , a.word, Tlio bopsekeeper—b|ess her kind heart, ’-^passed noiselessly out.— My hand/ were over my eyes—the winds were sighing out side, and the clock ticking mournfully within. I did not sob, nor weep, nor utter any sound* The Clock ticked mournfully and the winds *#ere singing hut I did not bear them an^ longer; there was a tempest .raging..within, me, that would have ; drowned the voice of thunder. Tt‘brok/,at length, into a long, deep sigh— Oh, God !” said I. It may have been a prayCr-^iE was not an im precation*' , > Bella—sw^et .Bella was dead-! It seemed as if with her,;half tbe world were dead—;-every 'br^ht face darkened' —^every - sunshine blotted out—evei^ flower withered—every hope extin guished. - ----- ! ~ ,I walked out into the ait; and stood under the trees where we had played togethef with poor Tray—where Ti*ay lay buried. ^ But it was not Tray I tfao’t of as I stood there, with' the cold wind playing thrpugh gii\ bei^j and my eyes ' Why was'^shp; •gone ? Was it really true ?‘ Was Isa-^ btl indeed dead—in her coffin—^buried? with her through it all,—she died sweetly, without pain, without fear ?— She had spoken often of Cousin Paul; she had left a little packet for him, hut it was not there ; she had given it into Lilly’s keeping. Her grave, the housekeeper told me was only a little *way off—beside the grave of~a brother, who died long- years before. I went there that even ing. The mound was high and fresh. The sods bad not closed together, and the dry leaves caught in the crevices, and gave a ragged and terrible look to thee„grave. The next day I laid them all smooth—as we had once laid them on the grave of Tray; I clipped the long grass and set a tuft of blue vio lets at the foot, and watered it with— tears. The homestead, the trees, the fields, the meadows—in the windy No vember, looked dismally. i could not like them again; I liked nothing but the little mound, that I had dressed over Bella’s grave. She sleeps there now—the sleep of death.— IJc. Marvel's Reveries of a Bachelor. ■— • ri ------ - ------------- — A L I F E IC T U E E . From tbe IfeW York '^Musical World.” LITTLE ilAEWS SlOEY. “Mary !” said the younger of two little girls, as they nestled under a coarse coverlet, one cold night in De cember, Tell me about thanksgiving day before papa went to heav.en I’m cold and hungry and I can’t go to sleep ■7^1 want something nice to think about.” \ Hush I” said the elder child, “ don't let dear mamma hear you; come near er to me ;” and they laid theft cheeks together.' . “ I fancy papa was rich- We lived in a vety nice house. I know there were pretty pictures on the wall; and there were nice velvet chairs, and the carpet was thick and soft, like the gree%mo.ss patches in the wood; and we had pretty gold fish on the side ta- blby and Tony,.my black nurse used to feed thehi. And papa ! (you can’t re member pdpa, Letty,\) he was tall and grand like a prince, and when he smil ed he made me think of angels. He brought me toys and sweetmeats, and carried me into the stable, and set me on Eomeo!s live hack, and laughed be cause I was afraid ! And I used to' watch to see him come up the street, and then run fo the door and jump in his arms ; he. was a ‘ dear' kind papa,\ said the child in a ,faltering Voice. “Don’t cry,” said the little one; “ please tell me more.” “ Well, thanksgiving day we were s 6 happy; we sat around a lafge table— with so many people—aunts and un cles and cousins —(1 can’t think why they never come to see us now, Letty,) and Betty made such sweet pies, and we had a big—big. turkey ; and papa would have me set next to him, and the wish-bone ani all the 'The readers of Bulwer’s new work, •eow in course of publication in “ Black wood,” will remember Dr. Riccabocca, a widower, with one child, a daughter, [ give me who has not yet left her native Italy plums out of his pudding; and after to join her father. Riccabocca, after dinner he would take me in his lap, careful thought, marries Miss Jemima, and tell me \ Red Riding Hood,” and an English lady, and the opening scenes call me “ pet.” and “bird,” and “fairy.” of their married life are quite cheerful | Oh I Letty, I can’t tell any more I be- and happy. But through all the calm lieve I’m going to cry.\ and cheerfulness of the husband, a ner- “ I’m very cold,” said Letty. “ Docs vouS perturbation was sufficiently per ceptible. It commenced the second week Of marriage—it went on increas- papa know, up ip Iltaven, that wo are poor and hungrjLnow ?” Yes—no—I can't tell,” answered ing, till one bright sunny afternoon, as Mary, v/iping away her tears, unable fo' he was standing on his terrace, gazing reconcile her ideas of Heaven with down upon the road, lo ! a stage coach such a thought, “ Hush !—mamma will stopped. We shall let the writer tell j hear !” the rest of the story: been s h o t; he then leaped over the bal ustrade, and his wife from her window beheld him flying down the hill, with his long hair streaming in the wind, till the trees hid him from her sight. “^ h , ” thought she, with a natural pang or conjugal jealousy, “ henceforth I am only second in his house. He has gone to welcome his child !” And at that reflection Mrs. Riccabocca shed But SO naturally amiable was she, that she hastened to curb her emotion,, and efface as well as she could, the trace of a step-mother’s grief. When this was done, and a silent, self-rebu king prayer murmured over, the good woman descended the stairs with alac-. rity, and, summoning up her best smiles, emerged on tbe terrace. She was repaid; for scarcely had she come into the open air, when two little arms were thrown around her, and the sweetest voice that ever came from a child’s lips, sighed out in broken En glish— “ Good mama, love me a little.” Love you?—with my whole heart!” cried the step-mother, with all a moth er's honest passion. And she clasped the child to her breast. “ God bless you my wife!” said Ric- cabocca in a husky tone.” The instant transition from jealousy to love in the young wifi’s breast; eaus- Mamma had “ heard.” The coarse I g a rm ent upon wiiieb ah;©... had toiled since sunrise, dropped from her hands, and tears were forcing themselves thick and fast, through her closed eyelids.— The simple recital found but too sad an echo in that widowed heart. Dear reader ! as you set at your lux urious ThanksgiviLg-table, and see no vacant chair, or number no missing one from your flock; as you lean still on the dear arm to which you trust; remember those who with chilled limbs and bleeding hearts, know of no treas/ ure on earth, save in the church yard. COOL IMPITOENCE. There is a gentleman residing iri Western New York, whom in default of his real name we will call the Colo nel. He has one son, Ned, rather a graceless youth, full of all the wild pranks in which students generally ex cel. Being at home during vacation, he corresponded regularly with hiS chum, who by agreement, vVas to keep posted Up” -ih regard to every- him ‘ thing that transpired wilMhim worthy of note. Of course he was very care ful to kefep all Mfl precious epistles from the e^e Of /be Goldriel and as Ned was' “ Coion'ei Jr.; it became necessary to watch the mail airrivals closely, as his chum wasn’t very particular in adding that distinguished feature to his name. One day he fode fO’und to the Post Office, as usual, and found to bis dis- but who does not feel that it is true to I the life ? Letet uss thankhank Godod fo'r the L u t G power of dependant childhood’s alppeal- ings, and for the unselfish love of wo man responding to them; J a t a gauup, uut wet© uiictuAc? tu me - ' the tiraie, for Joe arrived ahead. Ho- DI/*' A clergyman happening to pass a hoy weeping bitterlys he halted and asked, “ Wljat is tbe matter, lUy little fellow ?” The boy replied: “ Before, we could hardly get enough to eat, of anything, and now what shall i we do? for now there’s another one ping that nothing very bad would come of it, he marched in to dinner as cava lierly as possible. One glance at the Colonel’s face revealed to him that he was in for it. The substantials being disposed of, as usual the lady mother left the room, and left Ned and the Colonel sipping their wine. Leisurely pulling the fetter from his pocket, the Colonel passed it to Ned and asked him what he thought of it,- Ned quietly perused it, its con- without sending something to P it , |ence, and handing it ftacTi to'liis father,' them.” “ I know that,’’ said the boy, “ but then He sends all the mouths to our house, and the victuals to your house.” A n O d d C a s e . —^Professor Winkle, recently deceased in Cincinnati, was buried in St. Peter’s. Catholic Cemete ry; but his body was afterwards taken out fey the trustees of the cemetery, foi* an alleged violation of the rules of the association, he not being an ortho dox member of the church. The trus tees were prosecuted for disturbing the remains of a deceased person, but the Court decided that the 'statute • wffich. the defendants were aileged to have violated, only contemplates cases 0\ feloneousr intent; that it was a pMi_ principle of iaty thatr any one belong*' ing to’a fearial association waarfei^utred to abide by tbe rules of that association. The charge was therefore dismissed. “ Well, sir, considering ;^our Age’ and station in life 1 think yo'd keep very bad company !” ; And b'efo’re the Colo nel could recefvet* hfmself sufficiently to reply, he vanished from the apart ment.— Dutchman. DI/“ Sound economy is a sound under-* standing brought into action^ it is cal- c u T a t i o h ' realized ; it is thU doctrine of. proportion reduced to' practice; it is foresfeeing contlngericies and pioviding against them; it i's expecting contin* geneies and being* prepared for them, DI?* No man ought to take advantage of another’s simplieit|-‘t d ^ thereby for b ii^lf^. * Tn%e ,^ale‘ of An article* every* ptirfichlaY shoh^^^ fee “ ^ly st^ed,-that the purchaser may not be ignur'ant of any of its qualities known to the seller.
