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A FAMILY NEWSPAPER-NEUTRAL IN POLITICS. VOLUME I. Sc&std) to jldcnc?, iEtoetatutre, Peefog, JKJccJjHttic flLtta, Vltmpttmtt, 'Nc&cjs of jaggiftg '&ml$, Jrowfan anw) l)<5tuwj3ii* InidMgnwe, 6re. &e. - 'I • NUMBER I. BY S. C. CLISBE, & A. T. BOYNTON. MC'GRAWVILLE, CORTLAND COUNTY, N. Y. AUGUST 12, 1847. THE SISTERS OP THE SPY. BY GEO. LIPPAKD. THE SPY. IT was a flower garden, watered by a spring, that bubbled up from yellow sands. It was a (lower garden, environed by a wall of grey stone, overshadowed with vines and roses. It was a flower garden, standing in the centre of a wood, whose leaves blushed like the rainbow, with the dyes of autumn. Yonder rises the mansion, something be- tween a stately dwelling and a quiet cot- tage in appearance; you see its roof, its grotesque chimneys, the porch before the door, supported by oaken pillars, wreathed with vines. A dear retreat, this placo of fragrant beds and winding walks, of orchard trees, heavy with fruit and flowers, blooming in- to decay, trembling with perfume ere they die. It was that calm hour when the clouds hastened to the west, and range themselves in the path of the setting sun, as though anxious to receive the kiss of their Lord, ere he sank to rest, [t was that beautiful moment when the tree tops look like py- ramids of gold, and the sky resembles a dome of living flame, with a blush of glory pervading its top, from the zenith to the horizon. It was the close of one of these delicious days in autumn, when we love to bury ourselves in the recesses of brown woods, and think of the friends that are gone : when it is our calm delight to wan der through long vistas of overreaching trees, treading softly over the sand, and give our souls to memories of love, or jlwell sadly, and yet tenderly, upon the grave which awaits us when the play of life id over. In the centre of the garden grew four apple trees, their gnarled limbs turning to- gether, while their fruit of various colors, glowed in the rosy light. Beneath the shade and fruitage of these trees, a rugged bench, formed with plain brandies of oak, twisted in various fantastic forms, was placed, presenting a delightful retreat amid the recesses of that rustic garden. Just as you may have seen two flowers, alike beautiful, yet contrasted in their style of loveliness, swaying sido by side in the summer breeze, their varied tints affording a picture of never ending freshness, so two beautiful girls bloomed side by side in the quiet recesses. Their faces are turned toward the even- ing light, as they feel the deep serenity of that hour. One, a delicate, fragile thing, with skin almost supernaturally fair, eyes blue as ah italian sky, hair like threaded gold, lays her hand upon her sister's shoul- der, and nestles gently to her side. Young Alice! A tender flower that has just blossomed from the bud, with the dew J r et fresh upon its petals. The other, a warm figure, ripened into perfect womanhood, her bust rounded, her small feet and hands a strong contrast with the blooming fullness .of her shape. The brown hair that fell back from her white neck in glossy masses,-^-here, dark as a raven's wing, there, waving in bright chesnut hues—affords a fresh beauty to her boldly chisled face, whose lips are red with mature ripeness. Her dark grey eyes, the clearly defined brows, and im- pressive forehead, combine in an express- ion of intellectual beauty. Womanly Mary ! A moss rose, bloom- ing its last hour of freshness, its loaves crimsoning with all of the beauty they ov- er can know. On her full bnsom the headofthe youn- ger .sister was laid, among her brown tress- es the flaxen locks of her sister wandered, like sunshino rays, among twilight shad- ows. 'It is so sweet, at the still hour, Mary, to think of him ! To remember how he looked and what he said v\hen last we saw him—to count the days, yes, the moments, lhat must elapse before he will return to us!' Thus spoke the young sister, her eye gleaming in moisture ; but the elder felt her face flush, and her eyes brighten, as these words came impeluously from her lips: ' But sweeter far, Alice, to think how proud, how noble he will look, when he stands before us, so like a hero, wilh the star upon his breast, the warrior's robe upon his furm ! To think of him not com- ing back to us as he departed, a humble cadet j but a titled General, welcomed by the favor of his king, the applause of his countrymen ! His last letters speak of his certain ascent to fame. Even now he is engaged upon a deed—whose nature he does not reveal,—that will cause his name to burst in glory on his country's fame !\ Sisterly love; pure and child like; spoke in the words of the first. Sisterly lore, tender yet impetuous with ambition, -rung in the strong tones of the other. ' And mother, O, how glad she will be ! We shall all feel so happy, and ' The younger sister started for she heard a step. With one ascent they turned their eyes, and beheld a widowed woman, with her silver hair laid back from a smiling and beaming face, come slowly along the garden walk. It was their mother. They rose and greeted her, and in their different ways told their young hopes and fears. She sat between them on the garden bench, each small hand, on which were marked the lines of time, laid upon a daughter's head. ' How strange it is that we have had no letters for a month! Not a word from your brother, children! Perhaps, since we have retired to this quiet cottage, near a secluded country town, the letters miss us. Come, girls, it is a pleasant evening, let us walk in the woods !\ Taking their soft hands within her own the mother, beside her daughters, looked like a beautiful flower, whose young fresh- ness has been but faintly preserved in the leaves of Time's volume, contrasted with the dewy loveliness of ungathered bloss- oms. She led the way to the garden gate.— Along this this narrow path, where'the thicket stored with berries, blooms in ev- ergreen freshness; into the dim woods, where there is a carpet of soft moss, filled with sunshine and shadows. They strolled along, the younger sister now stopping to pluck a wild flower for herself; the other, talking earnestly to her mother of the absent soldier. ' Don't you remember, mother, how a month ago, when we were working to gether, at our embroidery, I thought I heard my brothor's step, and went to the door to greet him ? I am sure I heard his step, and yot it was all a fancy.' As tho sister Alice Kr»\ke in a tone full of laughing gaiety, Mary changed colour and leanod upon her mother's shoulder; her breast throbbing violently against her dark habit. * » The mother looked upon her with 'un- feigned alarm. 'You are ill, Mary, and yet the evening air is by no means unpleasant,' she said. ' It was the second of October,\ she whispered, as though thinking aloud. ' How can you remember dates V said Alice, laughing. ' I'm sure 1 can remem- ber anything but dates. You know, Ma- ry, when I read my history at school, I always jumbled Henry the Eighth and Ju- lius Caesar together.' ' It happened to fix itself upon my mem- ory,' replied Mary, raising her face, and walking stately around again. ' That sudden faintness is past; I am quite well now,' she said, passing her hand lightly over her brow. 'O, I remember,' said the mother, in a careloss tone; ' on that day, even as Alice hurried to the door, expecting to greet her brother's form, you swooned away. You remember it, on account of your swoon ? Now that I call the circumstance to mind, I recollect the old clock struck twelve as you fainted.' ' Twelve o'clock—the second of Octo- ber !' faltered that pale Mary as the re- membrance of the strange hallucination which possessed her, on that day and hour, freezing her blood, and darkening her rea. son, came to her toul with redoubled force The vision that she saw, sitting in the quiet parlor, she dared never tell, it was so strange, so like a night mare, pressing its beak into her virgin breast and drinking slowly the life-blood from her heart. They wandered on, Alice tripping gaily over the sod, the mother conversing cheer- fully ; even Mary felt her heart bound in the deep serenity of that evening hour. There was a nook in the wild wood where the bank shelved down, and the trees stood apart, forming a circle around an ancient pile of stones, over whose moss-covered forms, bubbled a fountain of clear cold water. Above the fountain rose a form of wood, overgrown with vines, and lean- ing forward. It was a cross, planted three hundred years before when these lands belonged to a Monastery, and the old reli- gion dwelt in the soil. The mother and her daughter approach- ed, and started back vith wonder. A rude form, clad in tattered garments, crouched in the sod beside the fountain. His war worn face was laid against the bank, while his unshaven beard, white as snow, gleam- ed in the light. His coat, which had once been bright scarlet, betrayed the old sol- dier. There was dust upon his gaiters, and his much worn shoes could scarce con- ceal his galled feet. As he slept he grasped his staff, and thrust one hand within the breast of his coat. His slumber was disturbed; he seemed laboring under the fears and hopes of some tumultuous dream. Suddenly starting to his feet, with a horrible cry, he gazed wildly round, and trembled, while the clammy moisture stood in beads upon his brow. ' Who are you ? Back .' You shall not kill him!' he cried, and put himself in an attitude of defence. ' It was the old soldier, who went with my son to the wars !' cried the mother.— ' Abel don't you know us ?' The effec; of his dream passed away, and the aged soldier advanced, his hard hand pressed by the warm fingers of the young girls. As he stood before them, his eyes seemed to avoid their gaze—now downcast—now wandering on either side —his sunburnt face was flushed with a warm glow. ' Speak! Our brother!' faltered the girla. ' My son! Yqu bear a message from him !' exclaimed the mother. The old soldier was silent. ' Your son ? You mean my master— eh? The Major,' he hesitated. ' Why have you returned home ? Is the war over exclaimed Mary. 'Ah! Brother is on his way home—he will be here presently—what a delightful surprise!' cried Alice. Still the soldier stood silent and confus- ed, his hands pressed together, while his downcast eyes wandered over the sod. 'My goodness, ladies,' he mumbled, ' hav'nt you received a letter V Sir Hen- ry wrote to you, ma'am, and' ' Sir Henry write to me!' echoed the mother, her face growing deathly pale ; ' why did not my SOH write himself V And (he sister's laid each of them a hand on the veteran'sarm and looked up eagerly into his rough visage. His nether lip quivered ; his eyes rolled strangely in their sockets. He endeavored to speak, but there was a choking sensation in his throat; all the blood in his frame seemed rushing to his eyes. ' I can't tell it! God help me and forgive my sins, I ain't strong enough to tell it! can't you guess—you see—the Ladies, Major- Through the gathering gloom of the twi- light the mother looked, and beheld his emotion, and felt her soul palsied by a terrible fear. You may see Alice stand there, gazing on the soldier with surprise ; Mary, that stately sister,, is by her side, her face white as a shroud. They stood like figures of ston^, placed in the midst of the wood, with the moss beneath, and the autumnal leaves above.— The sound of the fountain, gurgling over the grey rocks, alone disturbed the silence of the air. The bluff old veteran stumbled forward, and fell on his knees. ' Look ye ! I'm rough ; I ain't afraid of man or devil, but I'm afraid now ! Don't force me to speak it—' Adown that sunburnt face slowly trick- led two large and scalding tears. You see the mother, her face manifesting sudden traces of lhat agony that now comes with overwhelming force, and .takes her soul b}' storm ; you seo her advance and take the veteran by the hand. 'Rise, friend Abel !' she said, in a voice of unnatural calmness. I know your mes- sage. My son is dead.' The soldier bowed his head, and gave free vent to his tears. Alice hears that word, and shrinks to- ward yonder tree, her eyes covered in a strange mist, her heart suddenly palsied in its beatings. The mother stands as calm, as pale as a corse. Mary alone advances, gasps these words as with the last effort of ncr life— ' He died in battle, at the head of his men. Speak! A soldier's death ' Transformed in every nerve, she quiv- ered before him, her fingers clutching his iron arm, her eyes flashing a death like glare into his voice. Her falling hair, sweeping back from her face, completed that picture of a sinless maiden, trembling on the verge of madness. The old soldier looked up and answered her : He died on the Second of October, at the hour of twelve — on the Gibbet, as a Spy V These words, in a hollow, yet deliberate voice, he slowly uttered, and the mother and the sisters heard it all! Heard it, and could not, at the moment, die!' God pity them, in this, their fearful hour. The mother sank on her knees. Alice, the fair haired and gentle, tottered and fell, as though her life had passed with that long and quivering shriek. The rough soldier wept aloud. Mary, alone, stood erect, her pale coun- tenance thrown into strong relief by her dark flowing hair, her eyes glassy, her lips vivid, her form towering in marble like majesty. And as she stood, as though suddenly frozen into marble, her eyes were fixed on the heavens, visible through the intervals of the forest trees. The last flash of sunset had died, and the first star, came twinkling out on the blue walls of space. Only one expression passed her lips. Stifling the horrible agony of that moment, she fixed her eyes upon that light in heaven and said : 'IT IS MY BROTHEK'S STAR V—Saturday Courier. IQ@©[£ULAINII£©(yN Getting a Husband. This title will ensure the perusal of the following—by nineteen twentieths of our readers, at least—else we would call par- ticular attention to it, as being more than usually diverting—as well as cheering to old maids : It is generally the case that the more beautiful and richer the young female is, the more difficult are both her parents and herself iu the choice of a husband, and the more offers they refuse. The one is too tall, the other too short, this is not wealthy, this is not respectable enough. Meanwhile, one spring passes after another, and year after year, carries away leaf after leaf of the bloom of youth and opportunity Miss Harriet Selwood was the richest heiress in her native town ; but she had already com- pleted her twenty-seventh year, and beheld all her young friends united to men whom she at one time or other discarded. Har- riet began to be set down \s an old maid.— Her parents became really uneasv, and she herself lamented in private, a position which is not a natural one, and to those to whom nature and fortune have been nig- gardly of their gifts, are obliged to submit; but Harriet, as we have said, was both handsome and rich. Such was the state of things, when her uncle, a wealthy merchant in the North of England, came on a visit to her parents.— Ho was a jovial, lively, straight forward man,' accustomed to attack all difficulties boldly and closely. \Yoa see,\ said her father to him one day, \Harriet continues single. The girl is handsome, and then she is to have a fortune ; even in this scan- dal loving town, not a creature dare breathe the slightest imputation against her—yet she is getting to be an old maid.\ \True replied her uncle;.\but look you, brother, the grand point in every affair in this world is to seize the prop- er moment; that you have not done it is a misfortune, but let the girl go along with me, and before the end of two months, I will return her to you as the wife of a citizen as young and as weal- thy as herself.\ Away went the neice with her uncle. On the way home, he thus addressed her —\Mind what I am going to say. You are no longer Miss Selwood, but Mrs. Lumley, my neice, a young, wealthy, childless widow ; you had the misfortune to lose your husband, Col. Lumley, af. ter a happy union of a year and a quar- ter, by a fall from a horse while hunt- ing.\ \But uncle—-\ \Let me manage if you please Mrs. Lumley. ^Your father has invested me with full powers. Here look is your wedding ring, given you by your late husband. Jewels, and whatever else you need, your aunt will supply you with, and accustom yourself to cast down your eyes.\ The keen witted uncle introduced his neice everywhere, and everywhere the young widow excited a great sensation. The gentlemen thronged about her, she soon had her choice out of twenty suit- ors. Her uncle advised her to accept the one who was deepest in love with her —and chance decreed that this should be precisely the amiable and oppulent. The match was concluded, and one day the un, cle desired to say something to his future nephew, in private. \My dear sir,\ he began, \we have told you an untruth,\ \How so ? are Mrs. Lumley's—\ \Nothing of the kind ; my neice in sin- cerely attached to you.\ \Then her fortune, 1 suppose, is not as great as you told me ?\ \On the contrary, it is larger.\ \Well what is the matter then ?\ \A joke, an innocent joke, which came into my head one day, when I was in good humor; we could not recal it afterwards. My neice is not a widow.\ - , •'What! is Col. Lumley living V . ' \Ob no—she is a-spinster.\^ The lover protested that he was a happier man than he ever conceived himself; and the old maid was forthwith metamorphosed into a wife. A 'Cute Grocer. The following excellent story, which is told of a Mr. Sheafe, a grocer in Ports- mouth, N. H., is one of the richest things we ever read : It appears that a man had purchased a quantity of wool from him, which had been weighed and paid for, and Mr. S. had gone to the desk to get change for a note.— Happening to turn his head while there, he saw, in a glass that hung so as to reflect the shop, a stout arm reach up and take from the shelf a heavy white oak cheese. Instead of appearing suddenly and rebu* king the man for his theft, as another would, thereby losing his custom forever, the crafty old gentleman gave the thief his change as if nothing had happened, and then, under pretence of lifting the bag to lay it on a horse for him, took hold of it— on doing so, it appeared heavier than he appeared to expect, upon which he ex- claimed. \Why bless me, I must have reckoned the weight wrong.\ \Oh no,\ said the other, \you may be sure o' that, for I counted them with you.\ \Well well—we won't dispute about the matter- it's easily tried !\ replied Mr- S., putting the bag into the scale again. \There !\ said he, \I told you so—knew I was right- made a mistake of nearly twenty pounds : however, if you don't want the whole, you need'nt bave it— PIl take pari of it out /'' \No no,\ said the other, staying the hands of Mr. S. on his way to the strings of the bag, \I rather guess Flltake the whole !\-— And this he dW, paying for his rascality by receiving skim-milk cheese, or tap-rock, at the price of wool! SOMETHING NEW.—A new kind of a cab was lately introduced in the streets of London. The chief novelty is the absence of springs and the substitution of a ca- outchouc (Indian rubber) tire to.the wheels: an elastic tube encircles each wheel, neu- tralizing every jolt, giving a singularly smooth and steady motion, deadening the noise, and having the further advantage, that in case of accident the wheels may pass over any one without much hurt.— Many suffered the wheel to cross their feet without experiencing a worse sensa- tion than a little numbness. Good Advice. We cut from the Brooklyn Advertiser, the following capital remarks on farming. Read it ye city boys who are clerking it for ten dollars a mouth, or less, above your board: If you have \an eighty\ of solid land, with a little that goes down to the centre of the earth, and up to the sky, stay on it. Go three miles to mill, five miles to mee!- ing, and ten to market, but when you are at home, let it be on that eighty. Sell your corn tor fifty cents if you must, seventy- five cents if you can; but don't exchange if. for city lots, or bales of cloth, or cases of silks, unless it be a dress for your wife, and a coat for special days and Sundays.— Plough, dig, toil, not too hard, but as harl as you can, and if your \brow is wet with honest sweat,\ the poet's other line will also be true, \you fear not any man.\-^- With breathing room and elbow room, with nobody's brick hiding the sun from your garden, and nobody's hens writing their names in your melon patch, you can wear your own cloth, clipped from sheep, raised on your own plains, and wrought by the hands of your own daughters in your own looms- In a word you can be what the poets say does not exist, almost \an in- dependant man,\ \co-worker with the God of season, looking to every sunshine and rain for a dividend, liberally discounted, had without usury, at the \bank of good soil,\ the only institution of the genus banks that thrives the best with the hardest run. \Why don't you-practice as you preach ?\ perhaps somebody says. The reply is obvious: we have not got the \eighty.\ Give us a respectable patch, only let it not be like the \Frenchman's water lots,\ and we'll go on digging for dear life. Press on. Here is some capital advice from an English periodical, which will stir the heart of the desponding man like the sound of a trumpet: \The mystery of Napoleon's career was this:—under all difficulties and discour- agements to press on.\ It solves the prob- lem of all heroes; it is the rule by which to judge rightly of all wonderful success and triumphal marches to fortune and gen- ius. It should be the motto of all, high and low, fortunate and unfortunate, so call- ed_'press 0 ii,' never despair never be dis- couraged ; however stormy the heavens, however dark the way, however great the difficulties, or repeated the failures, 'press on.' If fortune has played false with thee to-day, do thou play true for this to-mor* row. Let the foolishness of yesterday, make thee wise to-day. If thy affections have been poured out like water in the desert, do not sit down and perish of thirsty but 'press on,'—a beautiful oasis is before thee, and thou mayest reach it, if thou wilt. If another has been false to thee, do not thou increase tho evil by being falsa to thyself. Do not say the world hath lost its poetry and beauty; it is not so; and e- venifso be, make thine own poetry a od beauty, by a brave, a true, and above all, a religious life.\ They Say. \They say\ tells (hat which is not trtte at leasi three quarters of the time. He is about the worst authority you can produce' to support the credibility of your statement* Scarcely was there ever a suspicious re- port put in circulation, but this Mr THEY\ SAY was the author of it; and he always escapes responsibility and detection, be- cause, living just no where can never be\ found. W ho said that Mr. E., the Mer- chant was supposed tobe in a failing con* dition ? Why \ they say\ so. Plague off this Mr THEY SAY ; he is half brother to 1 that Mr. Nobody, who does all the mis- chief and lives nowhere but in the inven* tive brain of those who undeserving *es<* pect themselves, are desirous to pull down others to their own level. We always suspect the truth of a report which comes 1 from the authority of **THE? S**A The Boston Mail says a native of \Down East,\ describing tfJfh character- istic exaggeration the feroaffcabfe propers A ties of guano' as a promoter' of vegetation, said that a few hours after plsniing cucum- ber seeds, the dirt begtui to fly and the vines came up like a streak | and although he started off at the top of his^ *peed\ the vine overtook and cavsMid' fiini^ and oft taking Out his knife to cut tii6 n \darned- things,\ hfaunda targe mciitiibsit-gmie to seed in his pmskei. 6^\Jimmy can you tell w&fit gave the , name to weeping willows if\ *'Yes,' i re- ^ plied the youngster, \because you gets sticks off from it, and I weeps when you cks me with it!\
