{ title: 'Herkimer County Democrat. (Herkimer, N.Y.) 1856-1861, September 25, 1861, 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/sn92061596/1861-09-25/ed-1/seq-1/png/', label: 'image/png', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn92061596/1861-09-25/ed-1/seq-1.pdf', label: 'application/pdf', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn92061596/1861-09-25/ed-1/seq-1/ocr.xml', label: 'application/xml', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn92061596/1861-09-25/ed-1/seq-1/ocr.txt', label: 'text/plain', meta: '', }, ] }
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H. G. CHOUGH, P r o p r ieto r . Office corner of Main and Albany Streets* T E R M S : - - $ i , 5 0 A TEAR YOLUME IX. HERKIMER, HERKIMER COHHTT, K I., WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25 , 1861 . NUMBER 8 . Caimtu gemacntl ca-. o s t o T x o x a : , EDITOR a n d p r o p r i e t o r , 2KUKIMER, IIERKIIHER COUNTY, N .T . TERMS. — The DEMru’R\r iviU i»‘ cvitt WcdaosdiiT morning, an I scut to snl t-cribcrafor tfhon paia in a a T anre; if not In aaTunec. wiU aeohiirged. There will be no deviation truiu these KATEJ O? ADVEETI3IN6I. One scluarB or less, one insertion. - . -'fl 00 Each ssbsequent i n s e r t i o n . ........................... 0 25 One tiiinare 2 m im tli.s,...................................... .... >•\’ One squares m o n t h s , ...................................... ..... oO One square C m o u t h s .......................................6 Oi) wm Ce made to 'tl^osl HClvSlse'by t BO>K AND JOB I •SHButed wUhueatnc tlNTI.NO in all its hrancl 1 and dispatch and on rea.sot AXtplaJ from the BostoiTTrans.-ript. Ths Wide-Awake Man. CSOiCATED TO THS sT.t i ..T B JiiE BUiCa-C.tPS. Now, wliilc onr ri.}ai''r.s are fly-hting mir balHos, Rich at his past to do all that lU' f.vu, --------- \ . . ......... . .... ' Ail tile hravc hoy.s naJer c.auv iss arc slecpinK, Ail of them pressiug to w.iroU with the van, Far from the homo whore tiioir swocl hearts a W iut are^’ou waiting fur, Wide-Awd:i> man? Brin:; liim ttia huttonicss g.arm--ut of woman! C.vcr lus racy k-st it freckle and tan; cort a file of young miase.s, liom armed with a rie.tdly rattan; lereii.l inro from la-iJht T and hiss.' Give him for esc Fneli »f them i _ TU-y sh ill dereii.l him from la-i^ht t and hiss.^a, Aimed by luw b.ivs at thij IVide Awake nna. luig's tlw worst Et.ind, says the IVido-Awake man. AU the r.iir maidens ahmit him .shill c.lnst.or, Phiek the wUito feather from h.mii t ant fan, M.ikrf him a plnme like a turkey-iving .insf.’r— That IS ths Uiest fur the Wi.lo AwaSte man. O, but the Black-Cape Guard.s are the follows! Drilling each day since our tronbh s beRtn— “ Hip 11.- your walkiiig-sla ‘-lih.iuUcr umbrella.^!\ Thai i.i the style tor Ui) WiJo-Awakc lu lu! Haro we a nation to save? lu llie Dr.-t pi f^av’iug ourselves is ihe seoHihl*? pluu— Saiviy tiie spot wiwrc. tli.;rc's shooung' Triiere I ca {tit.-li mo confldisg my person with stranger.^! Think how the coirar.fly Bull Runners r.aul In Iba Brii;.id? of Satav-at-Hmuo IStack Ca[.es Marches luy corps, says the Wi.lo Awake min. Such W.T.S tiio .=tuir of the Mtilakoif takers. Such wcr.» the so! that sealed tho K“.lan; Tniciileut ton*miat k an.i hio-id-thi.sry >} t tke s Bravo nut tho wrath of tu.o Wide-Aivaku m.ui- Ti'l.! hi n the side-waHt. ye nursery imideU'! Scirc gui prut! Brnlg.-t, ,au.| right alwi.t Aon— I ; .IK a shark in a .setuuil of nu tmaid.'KS, S.e him advancing—the Wide Awck*- in.n Wiiea the re.l tlail-S of tl,.:- battle flel.l thr.-shcT3 Beat out the continent's wheat Irom its bran. ■While the wln.t s-atters the .-haffy sec.-slic-a, What will bacomeofour IVido-Awake man? - Wb.aa-th-'0>r- .wn s-.W-rACom;;-hs.k .'.r-m tki b rd, ;,'. How will they lo.jk whilftSis featuro.s they scan ? How will he feel when he gets mareliing ordens, Signed by his lady love, Wide-Aw.iko m.in? Fo ir not for him, though the rebels o.'Cp‘''Ct him Life is loo precious to shorten it.s .sjnn ; Woman her broomstick shail raise to pr.jtect him, ItTiilshe not light tor the Wi.te-Awako m.m? Kow,then,‘nine cheers for tlioTorch-be.aringRmgers Blow the great lish horn and beat the big pan !, First in tho lieid that is larthest from danger. Take your white feather plume, Wide-Awake m.an. everywli knmvn v imvn you were here, on your I shall be jealous of them, if ttl.twA... ,S.lc 5 S^ you persist in liking them better than my society. “lie quiet please. Paul, ami sit; said ; “ 1 have not done looking at the sea down,’’ I ^ f e a l k i 3 |. Written for the Herkimer County Demo.-rat. Day-IdgM, Twilight and Mght. BY g, E. E. 1>. C hapter 1.—D aylwht . I sat a long, time on the c.Uffs that night, The sun set behind lookiiig at clouds of crimson and gold, the Waves rolled in ( the sky pale twilight sloi On the n broken sheets of to an amber hue, and thi iwly appeared, but still I lii rrow i shot lonid be far a'Wf I should be no more Aluriel Browning, bi Muriel Weir—Paul Weir’s wife. Thei •were no dark clouds in my thoughts, as I sat there dreaming of the future. There would be no loosing of dear ties, no severing of the links of love aud friendship. I was gaining all, losing nothing. 'I’he future lay before me US a summer sea; bright, beautiful, glorious ; each ripple tinted in the warm, yellow light; each drop of spray sparkling in the sun shine ; each wave rolling proudly to its sure and certain haven. Had 1 lorgotten that the twilight had gathered and the night would ingered. Then come? 'I'he moon rose full and clear, shedding its mellow■Tigh? light on the restless rolling sea, and the rugged clilFs throwing dark shadows rocks rugged Clift: rregular rocks which surrounded me. I watched her as she glided on her way in the blue- sky, dotted with soft fleecy clouds, which near the horizon were gathered in a grey hazy line. It was a quiet, peaceful hour; the moon smiled lovingly upon me, as 1 leaned back in my rocky seat, and looking at her, thought that only tho calm, deep hap piness of my own heart surpassed the quiet loneliness of the scene. So still! so calm! Only the far-oS' breaking of the waves on the beach below came to my ear, and the silver moon seemed a goddess ot silence, g&zicg down through the infinite space, on a still and pulseless world. It has been said that the most intense ,— jgjfjj j g, gjgp j-emovcd from the happiness deepest misery; reach the dividing' line, and^yon heaven to hell. ; that in lac the boundai 11 as far 1 do not say that this feelingeeling or alT^ctk: fall as true; that in any earthly f or a there cau be heights as high as lies depths as low as Lull; but th.at it is dary, cross far as fron laven, or \^'\Yes, this is your last look at it now, Muriel ; to-morrow uight you— we shall be home.’' Those four little words—how much they said to me! I thought them over in the next few minutes in which we were silent. \We shall be home.” “We”—Paul and 1— in our home, My first real home. I should never have but two. This was to be my first; where would my second be ? IIow happily I could have died at that moment— there, in Paul’s arms, with ray hand in his! Bat witether living or dying—it must be to gether—nothing should separate us. My fingers tighteneued over his in a convulsive grasp. I think I must have hurt him, for he started and looked at me in surprise. “Paul,” I said, drawing closer to him, “I wish 1 could die now, when I am so Irappy.’’ “Die, indeed ? and because you are to happy? You must not talk so, darling. lUnat could I do without you ?” 1 looked np into the dark eyes bent upon me, and, reading there all his love and ten derness, I could not wish to leave him, scarce ly wish to (lie—unless ------ We went home then. I had been there too long, Paul said, as he smoothed my damp hair, on which the dew lay thick. We were a long time crossing the cliffs, and the dow beyond. 'The night was beautiful, and perhaps we lingered to enjoy it—certainly our own thoi my home. crossing the . 'The night we lingered to enjoy it—certainly mgiits. We parted at the gate of Paul would not go in ; but left ith my hand still warm from his fond clasp, and his whispered words, “ It is time, darling,” still ringing in my'' those little words oftentimes i bitterness! “’riie last” word “ the last’’ kiss, remembered long after the dear lips are cold in death ; last’’ meeting; “ the Jast\ parting ; how bring to us memories “of the days ' was truth and goodness, aud reality in the world, not merely in the world of letters, not confined to the velvet-bound volitmesHDu rose wood tables; but that a matt hold those ojunions and views, and carried out those principles in daily life. I uev^er wearied listening to his conversation with others, though to me he said notiting. That was at first; but perhaps he noticed, after a time, how little interest I took in the gay .assem blies at my cousin’s, and how wearied I looked in my cpiiet corner; for he began to talk to rue and pay mo little quiet attentions, as he miight to a sislar. Healwaj's managed to bring me out, and make me ‘e.xpre33'‘an opinion, whether I would or no, and when he wont away left me something to think of and ponder over; sometliing which made me for get myself and go on to what was higher and better. He taught mu to forget myself; but with it I learned a lesson he did not teach me. I never hoped that ho, Paul Weir, would loved me, Muriel Brownir\ plain, ufialtraetiv'e. I knew there wiis no need of the re i often. Ever since my childhood, when I caught the aside words, “ VYhat a plain child that is,’’ I have b?en ptinfully cons.dons of my want of all b aaty in feature or expres sion, and had suQeied accordingly. SnSer- ed, as I think almost e'ery woman d063, wHo has love and perception for the leautifnl; uch from remarks mads on he7' ugli- the w sh she has to be beautiful me ■ head ing my it my love is not enough, darling,’ •not so much she lores beauty. Dolor Weir d'-d not seem to bi o Y deficlei the last hey bring to aa memories “of are'no more—of all that \a most preclons, blessed, never to bo forgotten ; of what has been and may not be again ! But that night th.^y brought only joy to my heart; tho.-e seemed no undortone of sadness; only, like the sweet discord of the seventh, they indi cated an unfini-shed, imperfeeted jov, whii would be fully reached, surely as tho resolu tion, on the morrow. So I stood and watched Paul an Then 1 entered the hi it night; a fear Test the bappine^ I h.id attained might be too great to lasst; ‘est ! of love 1 held in grasped too closely, and in. It; might have been ; fo r a wish might have been ; in iny heart to die when I —with Paul, when our sky was love so deep. To die before ?at to la l tlie my hand miolit be crush the be'e with- ight, our ir sorrow or world love so deep. To die before sorro change had come; together to cros waters of the dark river, and reach the unending happiness beyond. B u t a sound came to my ear; not the ishing of the waves below, but a voice—a 1 listened; I beard Uriel !'* How the voice calling my it then distinctly. “Mu tonene thrilledhrilled throughhrough m ee !! t t m “Here, Paul” I answered. He come to me. 1 saw his tall form clambering up the rugged pathway, long be fore he reached me. - \Here so late, little one,” he a'sked, as Im bent to kiss me. “ I have been lookh 3 joy, which tho resolii- Tow. So I stood at the gate iched Paul until he v/as out of sight, entered the house. How well I remember it as it looked that night. The square, stiff, white building, standing out boldly in the moonlight, flanked by tall trees, v.'hile behind it ro.se a range of niDuntains covered with forests. A straighi gravel path lead to the front doer, boi'dered by prime flower beds, edged with box. 'rhere s a garden seat at the right, and one at the left, placed in exactly tha sanio angle. A .June rose bush under our p.arlor window, corresponded to a simiii'r rose bush under the corresponding sitting-room window. Even the beds of heartV-ease ftnd verbena were ranged, on either side of tho path, in the same order. A stiftj prim, old-fashioned house, which I called ray home. Not be cause it was where the heart, with all its best and holiest feelings, centered; whore those who were near and dear lived ; around which memories, precious even in their p'din, clung with caressing tenderness ; where there were rooms sacred to one presence, one who had gone, whom I hoped would “sit and love np in heaven where partings and meetings, lovea 1 called it home, because 1 had no other. Years before, my cousin Sarah Grant had brought me there, after my mother died, a pale, sickly child, pining, not so much for the fresh country air, which she said would soon make me strong and happy, as for the love ami sympathy she could uotgive me. I lived with her ; not on her charity, for if I was no 3 there had been !3 aud losses ; but I felt, child though I was, and would permit it I was sent was no expense burden. This I soon as she would permit it I was sent to school. It was at my own request; for I knew we would both be happier separated. She did not like me ; I was in her way. My hiugs gave an air of untidiness , well-ordered household; my iss ways annoyed her, and a certain .re would be ex pected from her to one who.was homeless, friendless. Perhaps I wronged her; but heedles mint of attenti ;led from her friendless. Perhaps I wronged her; but childish eyes see clearly. AVlien I returned from school someyaaisyaais after,fter, there was the t of iS a ne want of love between us, the same lack of kiud feeling and regard ; but as all cause of active dislike was removed, and I was perfectly indifferent toiler feelinp concerning me, a sort of passive antagonism took the place of the o d active one. I was not a Ohristian—in the true sense of the word— but 1 felt great contempt for alms given be cause they were expected and customary ; for the handsome sum placed at the top of a subscription paper, opposite the giver’s name, because it was fashionable; for the wmekly pilgrimages to church (it was not fashiona ble to attend daily service) and ostentatious piety, while the beggar boy was tnrned cold ly awf.y. Sarah Grant, may God forgive you the ex ample of Christian* life you set me, and me for judging of religion from your precepts and practice! My life was aimless, my heart empty ; It could not be otherwise. I had nothing to live for, nothing to love. The frivolities which marked my cousin’s existence had no charms for me; for her superficial tastes, fashionable friends, false ideas of life, and u irrow-minded views, I had a most decided contempt. Nov/ looking back, through the mist o f’jiassed and passing years, I feel only for the weakness which I once despised. , unloved, uncaredcared for,or, pily So I lived, alone, unloved, un f busied with my daily walks aud roading, and striving to forget that there was anything be yond, any life b.^j’ond the worthless one of which 1 was so weary. 1£ there had been one helping hand ; ono voice to t-*!! me of a better, truer existence; one wuvd of advice and sympathy ; some ore to point to a life less centered in self, pure, nobler. I had been a belter, tni>-r woman. -Vny one more or les^s i. wish oTew up gifted would have bi>en liappiev. I bad nut happyf 'riieii strength to break iny bonds, or weakness 3 so bright, our enough to Submit calmly to a life which I felt to be useless. Had my sight been clearer, I might have looked thro that tinsel and drot to something deeper, to the true aims an nds of existence ; had 1 been yet weake should have been content to be what those to something deeper, to ends of existence ; had 1 been yet weaker, I should have been content to be what tl around me were, vain, frivolous, worldly. Then I met Paul Weir. I liked him at the first. I felt instinctively that he was true, that among all the false jewels glittering around me, he was real. It was a great pleasure to am him uiur uff; Irom a quiet corner of Sarah Uratit’s dmwmg-roum to see him, the haiidsotiie, talenteci Doctor Weir, making his priuciplea find opinions respected even there, To feel tliat tiiei aot seem to bs conscious of any deficiencies, and I blessel him for it. N o tpiat I supposed ha did not see them at plainly as others—aye, more plainly—but I knew his kindness and tact, and felt that he knew and was m of his respected iny weeakness. wonder that I learned t( loble and -------- 1 *.!.—*. ■ Is love him, one thought returning mi? affection; without a except to be permitted to love him for without < ;ion; without a wish ;o love him for ever with‘that blind idolatry. And it was idola try—I loved him too well; not positively, bu1 comparitively; for I loved him better than my God. And he loved m e! It was long before T knew i t ; but oh, the joy condensed, almost tortured, into pain, which that knowledge gave me I The joy to know that I wag the one above all others whom he chose for his own—his wife; and I so little worthy of him! I well remember how he once play fully said those words, ho had read to me, “I am worthy Of thy lovin/; lor I lovo thee— I am woitliy .as a king;.” if him I could len my un- ! precious to me. S ) we wore to be married on the morrow, the eve before my bridal. I never forgot them; worthy n^iver be, but if my love could worthiness it was prociou: S ) we w( and that wi C h a f . II. — ^T wilight . There w.is a quiet wedding iit St. PcTter'.«. believe thei'e wore several persons present ut I sav/ only Paul. Unfalteringly the •ords “ for better, for worse, for richer, .sic'kneimess and in health, to love cherish” were said—and we were one. ,nd quickly took me from congratu- poorer, in .siekr and to< cherish” My liasband quickly took me from congrat Intions. of which I was only half conscious, put mo into a carriAge and we w nt homo,— Home! Through all the dost and confusion of onr journey, through the noise and heat of the train, and the bustle of the stations, that little word kept ringing in myear, Horae! it would be home any where with him. Years have passed since then, many times the roses have bloomed and faded, and the yellow autumn leaves have fallen, and the wintry winds of sorrow swept chillingly across my heart; but they could not take from me the memory, precious, most precious now when hope and joy are only memories, of the peace ■ happiness of our hon f was night when we reached it and I very weary. Paul sent me directly t > my room with orders to sleep until he callel me, while he went to see that his arrange ments for my comfort had been attended to. It was sueli a rest to be there in the quiet dimly lighted room, while far-off sounds of life came up from below, which soothed in stead of disturbed me. I felt like n, child who, starting from a fearful dream, finds it self cradled in its mother’s arme, safe, loved, Tound his neck—it was the last tin pressed on his lips my farewell kiss, caressed, every fear vanished,every joy come. ^ went to bed at my usual hour, but not i My husband’s love was such a tower of sleep. Medusa was nei streii'/th to me such a rest ' T was an sale the clock strike ( ;reiigth to me, such a rest! I was so sate, ) cared for, so loved for; my cup of joy ned full—another drop—it would have I’flowed. It was withheld ! was very happy then. The days passed quickly while I learned my new duties m arned my new housekeeper, took long walks ivith Paul talked to him in the evening. In his absence I read his books, lingering longest over pass ages he had marked, loving them better for the penciling on the margin. But a darkning, stealing slowly, sili ntly, imperceptibly, as'tha first grey of tlie twilight, came upon me. I grew moody, gloomy and fitful, I could not bear for Paul to leave me^ for a ] moment. More than once he told me that I should not ha’ again the one shadow, \v le like an April cloud lughingly i-iiried a ; absent 1 again ihi gone llkf my bridal cro£ a j>hysi( was obliged to home so much. *gain ~ ■nd A a id come and night before 1 my path. ’The moi fear lest we might be separated, the pass ..... die together grew ui wisli that we might me day by day ; strengthei ror, from a wish to an int ’ grei d from fear t< ise desire. '*Panl interest me in any subject, conversed as 1 had always done. 1 know that he feared that niy mind ; for he iBtions which, at something was preying asked me a number of the time, surprisicd i me. ^One evening I un- :hh catechising.atechising. My derweut a thoroug c My hus band became suddenly interested in my early history, of which I had little or nothimr to relate. What I knew of my parents I had before told him. My father had been a law yer in London, and died in my infancy, my motl e (who as herself an orphanjsome years later, ivlien I went to live with my father’s cousin,Sarah Grant, who was his only relative. Had 1 heard from lierl&tely? I remember how anxiously he asked this. He was standing l>y the fire—it was a chilly au tumn evening—and leaning against the uuintle p iece; a dark shadow rested on his haridsi-ime face, as he fixed his eyes on me and awaited my reply. Once—he had read the letter—I |received it soon after I came liiMiK*; it was merely a summary of the fes- tivltius which fuiluwed my marriage, ending with her regrets that I liad so obstinately persisted in being married so quietly in my tniveiiing dress, when I might have had a grand wedding in white satin, orange flowers and so on. He looked relieved then, but Continued his question until I was tired. “ Paul,” I asked abruptly , \ why do you question me thus ?” “ Because, Muriel, you are changed ; you are no longer the happy bride of tw'o months ago. Y'ou are strange ly altered ; Something is troubling you.— Why will you not tell me, and let me help you bear it'?’’ “ I have nothing to trouble me,” I replied. “ I have no one to care for roe—no one but you.” against hair tho whilp. “ Oh, wlmt I mean dear- one to trouble about—” “Not that he interrnpte “ N o , your love m.afce3 me richer than a queen, Paul, and I am Very happy.” So I was at that moment, and yet. ivitli his arm around me, niy head on his shoulder, and his kis.ses on my cheek 1 could hav Strangled h im! He was only half .satisfied—oh ! if I could have told him ! He, my patient noble hu.s- band—he would have borne with me, trusted me, believed that I was only mad in my love lor him ! But my lipj were sealed.. He said no more me then; but was more ivatchful, tender,'loving and gentle to me than ever before. Sometimes when I en- kiiocking—which I longht he was alone stily closed tho book he was reading and put it away. Once when .riosity was aroused, and he would not e what it was, I could not undprstaud it, I noted its place and afterwards found it to be a “ Treatise on the disease of the brain.” It was a subject much written and talked of by medical men at that time, and he was of course interested in it. Jly curi osity was baffled; and my husband s care and watchfulness did not solve the mystery of roy conduct. I did not passively give way to the infatu ation creeping over me. God’knows I strug gled—as only those do struggle, who feel that a power, external to themselves, is closing uppn them, binding them with invis ible unconquerable chains and hurrying them to destruct 'ed, as I had my tell irrying Struggled—aye—and done before, that the jetween me and hap piness ; which cast its hideous unearthly shadow on peace and love ; and made joy a iry, a drt destruction. prayed, as I had never t phantom which stood bi be put away from me. and the brimiug cup of pleasure withdrawn, if with its sweetness ich bitterness. I tried r love ; and made joy a lich had passed, might . and the brimiug cup was mingled so raucli bttterne to think—I shut my eyes that I might not see, I read, walked, studied filled my rooms with the gay and worldly and was the gayest, frivolous among them a il; but they did lear, as I did--3hudderingly, feat fully—- low chuckling laugh which echoed to mine, tho phantom form which was ever at my side. Days, weeks, months passed, and I strug gled on ; ever growing weaker, more hope less and more despairing. A stronger will at length conquered mine, and goaded to the last stage of endurance, snffpring beyond what I had thought it possible tfi.it any hu man being could sufFer—I j ioMed! I was to be a murdej-ier and a suicide. Cm r. N ight . ■\VJicn the last misty grey of the twilight of my lifo faded, leaving me in its darUesl. night, it was winter, 'f'he snuw lay in unbro ken sheets in the garden, the trees bent be neath the weight of their feathery burden, and the deer invigoratin:vg,wd bright sunny days night a woman sat crouching on the floor of the room above, never movinff, scarcely breathing, only listening, with de.spair on her face ana in her cold grey eyes, to the slow, steady footsteps in the room below. So tin ‘ “ \ “ vigor;rtin:vJ,M.d bright sunny days accorded little with tYe gloomy fearful state of my mind. Yet the last evening that Paul and I spent together, I was very happy. The wearying struggle, the bitter suffering, thp keenest pang was over; before the morn ing broke we should both be dead. I tho’t of it quietly, calmly, without adtetion or fear. I thanked my husband gaily for a new pen knife he had bought me, and laughingly asked if it were very sharp. I tried careful ly with mj finger, and a drop of blood stain ed its shilling blade. So I consecrated it to its work. Paul read to me nearly all the evening.— I saw that he was much pleased with my al tered manner, and the dark cloud which had rested on his face so long seera?d lifted, and hia old beaming smile broke forth once more. When I stood by the fire, a few minutes be fore going to bed, he gave me a kiss for be ing, as he said, such a good child—1 had not moped at all that evening, and threw my arms around his neck—it was the last time and pressed on liis lips my farewell kb I went to bed at my usual hour, but not to never more wakeful. I 5 clock strike twelve; every stroke bant into my heart, ’i'heii all’was Still again, not a somul came to my ear; not a mimse scratched in the wall. 1 listened ; Paul was sleeping quietly, his breathing even as a child’s. So Bollly I stole from niy place, and my bare feet pressed the thick carpet with out a sound. .Slowly I crept to the dressing table, deluged a handkerchief witli diioro- iked V it’i me, mile, aud her ened his sleeve and bared the arm, which lay on the counterpane, to the elbow. The moon aided me ; in the bright light, I dis tinctly saw the vein stand out, blue, full and throbbing, in which ran the life blood of him better tlu as he had been the night before, to my < white apparel and the shawl thrown over shoulders, to 1 before I remeni all came back to _ husband regarded me with of disgust and pity ; no wonder th contempt for one whom he had 1 iherished, and who had seemed to return lypoerite so bosom, and No wonder that iny with that expression dor that he felt had loved aud cherished, and who had seen his affection ; wiio had been a . long; who had nestled in his then attempted to take liis life ! I Cjuld not bear it, and I told him all I I went over the past clearly and fully. Begin-, niii? with that evening when I sat alone the clifl’s, and the wish I then first felt die, because I was hajipy, when 1 was happy, aud with him, I heard it through ail itis stages from a passing wish to tiie most un controllable desire. I kopt back nothing; I told him of my sufferings, struggie.s and prayers; of the power which I could not control, and which bad eoutrollecl me; of my love, stronger than death, dearer than life ; of the voice which had goaded me on to madness, and then I prayed him, on mv knees, to pi(y me. believe me, forgive me i He did not once intercept me ; but, sat down when I began, and listened without a lord. I watched his face as I went on. I change from contempt to incredutiiy, o.ider, amazement,fear, pity. Sorrow there to and love. WlK'n I finished he held out his hand to me, saying in a tone of sorrowlul tenderness. “ Poor Muriel, poor child !” But Y drew back, I dared not take liis hand— dared nev er take it again ! Me forgave, trusted me, when I had well nigh been his murderer, riy broken his heart; he should not tempt me to ask the second t im e ! I told him this through blinding tears; entreated him to leave me that I might not bring the curse of Cain upon my soul, and raysolf enter unbid den into the presence of my Maker, A ll that night a man's firm, slow step \ heard pacing up and down the room beli until the 'hey •0 distinctly heai paused at the door of a room w] .n sat the stall woman sat listening to them with sn.sp.-m breath and fi.xed unseeing eye.?. ’I’hey pass ed the threshold slowly, steadily, with a cold, hollow sound like clods falling heavily on a ffin. i'he ck-ck struck twice before fh<y ire hiv.i'l again. Tlien a woman's bent, drooping firm pissed the threshold—never to I’l’oss if iigfiin ; 'i'he night which followed the fwilight of that idorion.s .summer day has been daik and d.-c:iry. ,Si.\ yeais have cif^pt with slow tinC'Ttnin slej>a’ to their graves, since I p-j^s ed from the room, in the cold, grey moriiiug. IVom which I had well ni>rh been* earned a murdci>*r and .a suicide. But through it a)!-- -throogli all the misery and anauish of fbul light of sorrow—there has been one ray of -shall I call it peace? Something, neilh«r hope nor joy ; neither happiness or content; but something which has soothed all, com forteil all. My husband forgave, trusted, believed everything. He told me plainly that I was a mono maniac ; that my brain, sound, healthy, responsilde in all other points, was in that one diseased—it might be hopele.-^sly. llis plans for the future were laid ill those few terrilile hours wliieh aiic needed my confession, and wliicli he told me that niurniiig. They have been fully carried For six years we have lived beneath this lOt— miles and miles from our own hom e - id only twice have I met my husband face I face. He goes and comeo. and I hear his tep in the hall. I know his hours for rising .nd retiring, and when he takes his meals. 1 retiring, and when he tak 'atch him day after day from me, nevei ickening gatherinj 111 my window ; but lie never sees roe, never looks up. riil- thickening in his dark hair, ver threads ai and wrinkles ing on his brow, life has darkened lat so!r )W throws 'i’wieo I have been ill, very ill. They were G liuppiert, brightest spots in my night of Ilia; but the liuppiert, brightest spots in my nfg gloom. Paul was wilh me, watched me, never left me. While my illness tinued 1 was free from my mono-mania; I when I grew better, it returned in full foi and darkness gathered aneiv. mg years of night have passed, and ly be doubled. 1 may live until old be far off'— God only S d Six loi they ma] —the rest Uh, I ’aul may be al, Paul, my husband, would blight were taken from thy life I It may be only m idnight; but it may be that the iiight is far spent and tha day is at band. athiin m Ve” la*y t H ‘^8?e?ping so ^ at thy feet, cofd aud still as the quietly, so utterly unconscious of the evil « ehlbs in the churchyard, and this which awaited him, and for an instant I wa- bUght aere taken from thy life I It may be vered. But the moon loc and she smiled a cold cruel light glittered like a sneer on the sparkling blade in my hand, and the phantom crept again to my side, looked over my shoulder and hissed his words of poison in my ear.— Paul Stirred in his sleep, I waited an instant with suspended breath, and then threw the handkerchief over his face. Gently I unfast- ined his sleeve and bared the arm, which there w( of these D ray own soul, rnent,ent, standin;tanding Yes, at that mom s over him, so lurderer, the knite g litterin g in soon to be a n — my hand, and the cool determination to kill him in my heart—I, his wife, loved him bet ter, far better than my own soul. IVitli a steady hand I began my work.— Holding his arm firmly, I placed tlie blade lengthways on the vein, it glazed the skin and glido'd off. Again I tried. This time with better effect; for the blood started in little treniulons drops, rolling off the arm and Staining the knife, I pressed it deeper, fir.in' 1 ', hut at that instant a spa.sin seemed to contract the am), then jit was snatched vio lently eway. and looking up 1 met Paul Weil ’8 eyes fi.xed on me in a wild, unearthly eyes li.xed on me in a \vild, unearthly gl-ai.ee, saw his ghastly affiiglited, liorrol'- strieken face, heard ’ ror and di: \V1 en I ifclm itig in a sraali arm chair, and souk uiie- vas bathing my face with sil-vnlutile. I opened ray eyes and saw my Imabgnd quick ly t!iiiv<‘ from me, aud when Le hud put hall the room between us. stand still, le'with such s i ghastly ur Ilia exclam’Aliou of ter- isinay—and knew no uioiv. returned t© ounaeiansuess 1 was face with si!-’ the wii and look at rae'with such an expression rnifieled couterapt, disgust and pity tha1 could not bear it. “ Paul,” I said. “ Yes, Paul, dear Paul,’’ be answer-J. mockingly, with a seorofnl smile. Do you rioh to finish your work ?’’ He pointed to bis arm as he spokt-. Hii •eve was rolled to the elbow. From then the wrist it was f'glitly bandaged, and ir some places the crimson tide liad penetrated tho cloth and spotted tha white surface. I dressed, as 1 rcmeuibored, looked from spottei him, Ur« IS THE H e v o u ' tion .— In all the time of the Revolution, jven newspapers and e devoted to the in- iiment. These pinion, N ew .S1’APER3 the colonies, at were only thirty-s !se only seven we terests of the British gov were soon stifled by public opinion, wh rev the Whigs, as the patriots were called, re rule, while five of the remaining thirty were seduced by gold, or frightened by inii- endoes into the support of the crown. Riv- ington’s Royal Gazette, published in New York, took ground boldly against the Revo lutionary movement': and, at noonday, late in the autumn of 1775, it was “ surprised” by one hundred light horsemen from (’on- necticut, led by Captain Fears, a distinguish ed “ Son of Liberty” in New York. They laratus.ratus, putt destroyed the pres: the type into bags, iS and 0 other appa pu type into bags, and without one word of complaint from the people, returned to Con necticut, carrying with them a Tory clergy man named Feabury, who had j against the Whigs and the Coutineiatal fl'he tvpe they east into bulb tiie peoi diiv, sail r s preached r Con- lets. All and the type they east into lie, except the peace party” o f that 1 Amen ! After that the newspaper ceased to be troublesome to the and pampleteers wrote anonymously. A Geiravaii siho“inalvi’i', in the little village which is shut from sight by the vivid screen of “ Cedar Hill.’’ wiu arrested I>y one of on inelropolitun oliiceis. and tukeu* I cqtifroir tion in liis w.as^ now ) town to bis first wife, who was after hiiii sharp stick.\ to secure a participa earniiigs which it was allegeil he sluir-iig with ‘second’ life eorn- panioti. “ Which wife,\ asked a voluble aud unretlectiiig bystaudw, “ rvill he be obliged to take ?” “ lie is a shoemaker.'* said our ready divine.“ and must, of comse. stick to his -last.’ ” Blushes are “ flying colors.\ wbieii maid ens carry becomingly. Gas Retort—The reply of one merabnr i congress to the speech of another. The Gurio'os History of a Soldier. A t the bead of a file of men on their w.iy from New York to Washington, through tiiis city, WG recently encountered a man who has probably seen as much of real life as any person living. Louis Napoleon alone except ed. Capt'ahi B, ten years ago, was a log cutter or ^wood chopper in the Clearfield ii'ics, working in the employ of ex-tfov- ir Bigler. lie lived in a cabin entirely alone, miles away from any settler, and where the silence of the forest wa.s broken Ly no other soun-.ls tlinn the strokes of his axe or the baying of his dog when upon the track of a deer. He was bitten one day in inidsnm mer by a uionstruus rattlesnake, but never fusing hi.s presence of mind he dug out the wound with his hunting knife, and jiminded into powder his blackened tobacco pipe, moistened it with saliva and bound it upon the wound. The poison was drawn to the surface by the application, and, excepting rigidity oflimb which stiff remains, he f perieiicecl no further ill efi'ects from the dead ly bite. On one of his few visits to the town of Clearfield for a supply ol tobacco and whis key, he chanced to save from drowning the child of a wealthy citizen, who rewarded liira by a present of three hundred dollars, ’i'bo mail never returned to Itia cabin, but receiv ing the wages due to hi.ra he set out for Philadeliihia, where he engaged a teacher, and in a brief period taught himself to read, was preaching shotly after this, but find- himselfimself pursuinguing a mistaken vocatio.’i. he ing h purs blossomed out a canci capacity he travelled ov and doui ith, returning to New York ?and doll.nrs. He doctor, in which the entire West ' York with about three thousi wealthy widow in New York, who died a month after her marriage, leaving him heir to her every dollar. lie made a second venture six months afterwards, his -wife eloping at the end of the honeymoon, wfith a native of Hamburg, returning with a pile to his own city. Disgusted with the sex. eschewed woman’s society, and ,ing in pati of success that in the last dollar. He £ force oi woman’s society, and went to leculaling in patentt rights,ts, and wi.thi.th a sort righ and w a a year cleared him out of 3 secured a position npon the pnfice oi’ New York, and in the course of his came npon a discharged convict. 'J'he convict gave him certain inforniatien, the truth of which he could not doubt. Ahtavy robbery had been committed on the continent. The convict had been engaged in M. and knew where the plunder was still secreted. The rover purchased the secret from the fellow, w'ent to Earope. disclosed it to the authorities, and was made the po3SC.«sor of a re’v.ird amounting t > about ;?.3,000. Witb this money he leturneii to New Ymk. and then to PlnladeipbiR. At rb'rnul Hoire one li ght he met a 'i’exaii. who won from him four thousan-l d.iiLu-a at a s'ngle s'ttirg-. The society of l.hc gambler ( bniuifd liir,i and he wont with bin! to rialvreion. takoia ths ivmaindrT of his capital with brai. He WtGit upon a I'atifhe. and was enge.ifed in siioop graz-ng. with Hon. G. W. Kem'a’l as a near Height or. Sece?fSuii broke oul at laat, am} our 'viver was 0 m.j,oiled to fly by night to C.ti-.., t..o. wheie he got upon u vessel bound fi r Cnhr. without a ly oth« r ; o -session than the doth upon his person. He was twice wrecked in returni*g to New York, where he arrived a mere bundle of skin and bones. Altei alternate wealth and poverty, starvation and luxuriousness, nakedness and dandyism, he at length turns up as an officer in t'militarv comp iny. asking only to give his liib fur tlm cause of li'oerty. Hercaves in Te.t-is a tii.f iTuidie. His ^Iiecp, he snppr;-es, have lone since been coiifiscateil to feed the Rebel army. For his real \eistate he has no tears. Its cunfi.scatioii, when United Ftates la'A'S return in (‘orce, will be a mere form, ami tiiat United States laws will again be enforced in Texas, as well as in Fecessia in .general, he firmly believes. Such men as he are the best possible soldiers. 'I’liey not only avenge the wrongs of the North, hiit aie fi,giiting for their own property, 'i'he m o rs w e ha v e o f them the heWev.—Phikakljihia Isorlh .-iuier- I roHi Iht' JiHirtin] <Ji Cninuh'i' The Administralioii and filaveiy. W e are gratified, ill ('oinmon with a va.’^t portion of the jieople of the North, at the coiir.iG tilkon by the ITeshlent in tin- l)'c:;i- nient ot General Fremoiii'.s jiroclfimaiii.n. When we wrote jasUucek that we iren- cnu- vineed fioiii the former di-cloration.'i of ibe President, that ihe Admiuistnilion mn.-l I'egret the ciinrse of tlie Wcfftein Ucm-iaJ. our view trust, am dbssent In ;1 w ith cc-n.-iideruble di-.- w a s rocfived w ith ci il even this slight expi the practice adopted li 'i’nr. Fow n : of S ji . e . mie .— A good woman in -Jersey was sadly annoyed ’uy a tei'iiiageut nei.ghber, who often vigitefi her and provr a quarrel. She at last soaglitjtlie counsel of her pastor, wl o added seme common his other good qualities. Ha'vlng’ story of her wrongs, lie advised 1 t herself quietly in tin ■' heard le chimney the tonga lever a hard word cniT lips, gently snap the tongs, •ord. A day or tv/o af- leii next visited* take the tonga* in her ,nd. and whenever a hard word cnm< -her neighbor’s wUkuut mtn-iiKj tei’wa)’fi.$ the woman came again to her pas tor rvith a bright ami laughing fitce, to com- inieate the effects of this new antidote for )lding. Her troubler had visited her, and, V tirade. Sna])! went ton.ffs. Another volley. Snap! An other still. Snap! “ Why don’t you speak?’’ said the termagant, more enraged. Snap ! “ Do speak ; I shall die if you don't speak !” and away she went, cured of her nialadv bv the magic of silence. It is poor work Moldir the\^ the magic of silence. It is poor work scolc ing a deaf man, it is profitless beating th air. One-sided controveroversies do not las Ions;, and g lent party. it last and generally end in victory for the si lk o f Prussia showed unmi: more courageous soldier 'hen he nerer irs and Fred- '.itakably that bis whole being was shaken to the centre with fear in his first batth a t t le ; 3ver di 'F me C ap of LiBEnTv.—The explanation of the cap of liberty is this ; *• After the death of Ctesar, the eonspira- tors, who had secured his death, marched out with- a cap, as the ensign of liberty, carried before them on a spear—the cap without a head indicating that the tyrant bad lost his power. From that fact and for this reason it has ever since been an emblem of Liberty.” A Dutehnian tlie other day, reading an account of a meeting, came to the words — “ 'i'he meeting, then dissolved.”— He could not define tlie meaning of the latter word, so he referred to his dictionary aud felt satisfied. In a few niiuutes a friend came in, when Honty-•'-.lid. ‘’Dev must have werry hot wedder dere in New Voik. i red an agoant of a m e e d n u where ail de liteples had rnelteu «v.y 'I’he tunes are so h-ard th a t th e y have to be bi'uken with a gJt-iJge-hamnier. The B'orcester Tfansciifit kiuiug a nmn .that he won’t draw his breath lor e will louse won t drii the in tore An editor observes that “ it is a solemn thing to get uiarrietl.” Another repUeg that “it 19 a great deal more solemn not the army officers, w a s !,y aonie ze-aluus j..-..- pie I't-garded as jui inlerfeieiice wifh the prosecution oftb.- w.u by i!ie Adminisirstiun it iqipeius jihiiiily now. and we iveunl u with .satisruciion. timt -a hemllong ajijiroval uf wliiilever political jilaas :ire adojiii-d by .Major Geuerais, IS'quite as likely to be an imcrfcreiice with the designs ui' the I’roi- dent and his cabinet, us a judicious ex pression of opiniou against them, 'i huse rd' our cotemporaries who in their baste fi]ipi.aud- ed tlie proclamation of Gen. Fremont a.-; “ the way to carry on the war” fiinJ that tiial, ■way is not the Administration way, ami timt by approving it tlmy luve added to the em- barraisiiiont it has can.-iiHl tlie Government lo-duv Upon this slavery (jnesticn. we arecimvinc. d as we have before said. t!mt the Rivsiueiil. has maintained one constant and consistent intajnei idea, and that out the views which he lias always G.xprej.si-d. The question has been magnifiad into one of Treat imporUnce by the constant effort to inveigle the Government into the toils of the emancipationists, and enlist the armv in a crusade against slavery. There is ready 0 practical difficulty w'natever in the tiea''- lent of slaves by the army, according to tho irinciples of law or the common iples of law or the ir. A s to making our soldier.s ers, we apprehend that no one expects it, North or South ; and as to afford ing shelter to fugitives, we are unable io perceive on wh-at principle they are to ba treated difierently from poor persons of any Other color or position in the places where they may be found. A n advancing arniv wiii necessarily make what use it can of all property ol rebels in arms, and in doing go will, without waiting the slow processes of lurts, seize and consume previsions, transfer their own uses all arins and cvxnitiotis nf war.g,boi'ses, wagons, an.i av.uiiabio a.iod.--, aud wiii ol cum sc make trie slave.s of-,i'rebel u.icful if they tan. and it they eaiinct, wiii let them luok out fur tiismselvos. T h is W'juid eflect the virtual freedom of many ai-av. s, i;rM'do we fee how a peopfo i-. n e.xpi;ijt a'.-;' ofh.'r result meitist-- iocaiiiies wiicrc the dental efltvt ot rmnt-r fio.n coidisc: B ( rdiiunllv wi.k ii iiitiy riii-< in the war is can illc.l r.n IS a v<-:y diib)i.-ut :a(i»>n of property, as lliui hieie i' i rdiiutiHy tud piepc-iiy nndfr.noruj, t . the p.-i‘.f-ctiun ut wJi.eh a legal proceei!!r.<r is !.e..-bs,#aiy, involving a convictiuii t-w treu- in vols ing a coir. ■ee of ('i,i!ifi-:f3ti.i!i on uccornt ■nt court. la ei,u]] b;* the Condi • ■ ' ‘■'.ill becotiie. as hefu f treason, by a competont co V\ hen the iwo i'l t’in-'-ima le Condition o f slaves tiiea >a in that State, hfihje. a sist?/»r ot' til&to );;w and regulation, while thoi’e who have bG.'’ii forcibly conveyed, or who have esc.'ipc-d into other States, will snbi-act to the prori^i.-.n.i oftlie iagit.ve sls’e act. Tlie confiscation and I'leedoni. nndei the act of Comn'ess, n.' any who lur, o been .-leLnailj employed bv rebels for treasonabie purposes, may tluni in behalf «f sneh r-.s have tin s lie jiiemif-d in behalf sneh r-.s hi obiaiudil fiefeduiii, and Colli ts will recogniio all dfci'cc;i of other cotuts which glmll hav, ef-n ma>ie«,n tiiut subject. N o poscibie coiiise c o i l ] be devised nn u e war pernianont ’ d tilt- fore.sight e lion of t)ie principle con liat al! slitvi's of rebels engage, shall fur that esnse and at* onci fi-fio. 'J'his decliiration. to a period beyoii'. than the introduc. tended for. that al! slitvcs of rebel tes, while il coilkl do no pussi’ole good, would make th,? rebellionebellion, cnialeil oVt-r the Soatliern States, while il in r be anO beec UIJU O j JUlUlkl ILt lu e ^cvtuui, ;ce, from which humanity could do no possi’oie good, would make tk,? union of the entire .Sualh sgaiusl the North for war to the end, an absolute necessity. It would hold up befuie every man ami wo man as the result of ]<cace and submispion. an iminediale decLaration of the freedom of all slaves, on demand by NertLern aboliliun- ists that such freedom should be secured by the Govei’niiient, and a future in the ,'Soulli, a.s tho consequeni shrinks with horror. As to any possible it. it ivouhl be suppose! of five month.- past was over any such idea. The apprehended uprising of tie .slar.'.;:. which wild one of the elements in many men s calculations spring, has long been seen without probability. N o proc-iuma! 1 the elai’es will have ; iclamation would unques- lermination never i< ■iflcipl with which actual war ol iiffi liberty to the eiai’es will have any t frighten the Confederates, but, on contrary, such a proclamation would unr tionably add to their determination nevi s ibmit to the Constitution. The principle that the regulation of sla e property is interterred bich procc£ nnanitestly that on which the President in state matter, only to be i by the local exceptions wI creates, and only to be disturb! d by legal confiscation under one process ofJaw, ir tends that the contest shall be conducti d, nor will he be likely to consent to ary proclamations which shall be so general in their operation as to overthrow, in entire States, tl-e confidence of the people that they may lay down their arms, and resume their peaceful occupations, at any,moment when a general amnesty shall be proclaimed. If such a proclamafion could operate as a legal mananiission ofsiaves, it is very plain rliaS no future proclamation could suspend its effect, or deprive slaves of the Ireedom t>> which they had become entitled by its i.^sufi. So that, without discussing its ^illegality, i.it is evident that, if legal and of force, it rvould forever overthrow the foundations of society at the South, a result which would gratify Noithern abolitionists infinitely more than ii, speedy and peaceable gubmisgion to the Government, and close of the war. ernment, ai We sident trust that the firm eours of the Pre- Fremont's siuent m tue case ot General Fremont's proelaination, will be the etui of thi^attempt to coetce the Administration into ai-olitioo- is:n. We camict but regard the octrari’™ a.-! one of tlie most important winch has taken nlac-e aince the outhrenli tif tiie war, and we are ttv )/assured that it w,ff not only srtreujs-ri''-\ AdjniuUtrat’oii ’ti the tioa of the eiit re North, Imt will «ivt icn-uf •>!;- coinagemcal to the Union im - b in the !...i !- .• and SoiUbGiri fitutes. on wh>>?e ITnois sj m ilch of the futaiv now depends. Il it impnrtajjt for yhu to know v! a man will che.at you if he cun. .somid to his williDgijess to hdp yuii clu . body else. !p yull I F A i - U S s Men nf SOW' sized. 'J rir
