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EDWARD S. HOWARD,
& SBwklij amilq Stand, Ufuotrii lo rwboni, irulturft literature, duration, loral I nfelligenrr, nnit tjie of ijre Jtoq.
:S SOLIAB A2T9 TITTT CZVTS
m Aawvm. m aotajtcs. - -
vol. 9, no. 29.
MARCH 14, 1 855.
WHOLE NO. 1007.
WHEN I COME HOME.
BY GERALD MASSEY.
Around me Life's hell of fierce Ardor harm.
When I come home, when I come home ;
Orer me Hearen with her s.arry heart yearns.
When I come home, when I come home.
For the feast of Gone san-isM, the namce of niht
At a thonaand fair windows is throwing with h.lu
London make mirth ! lnt I know Gon hears
The sob i' the dark, and the dropping of tear ;
For I feel that he listens down night's great dome,
When I come heme, when I come
Home. home, when I come home, .
Far i" the night when I come home.
I walk under Night's triumphal arch.
WhtM I come heme, when I come home ;
Bruiting with life, like a Conquerer s march.
When I come home, when I come home.
I pass by the rich-chamhered mansions that shine ;
Oreruowing with splendor, like gohlets with wine ;
I hare fought, I have ranquished the dragon or Toll,
And before my golden Hesperides smile !
And oh but lore's flowers make rich the gloom
When I come home, when I come home.
Home, home.when I come home.
Far i' the night when I come home.
Oh the sweet merry mouths wptnrned to be kissed
When I come home, when I come home.
Bow the younglings yearn from the hungry nest.
When I come home, when I come home I
My weary worn hsart into sweetness is rtirred.
And it dances and sings like a singing Bird,
On the branch nighest heaTen a top of my Me
As I clasp thee, my winsome wooing wife '
And thy pale cheek with rich tender passion doth bloom
When I come home, when I come home.
Home, home, when I come home.
Far i' she night when I come home.
Clendsfurl of the shining face of my life.
When I come home, when I come home ;
And mare heaTen bare on thy bosom sweet wife I
When I come home, when I come home.
With her smiling energies Faith warm and bright
With Loee glory-crowned and serenely alight
With her womanly beauty and queenly calm,
She steals to my heart with her blessing of balm ;
And oh, but the wine of kTe sparkles with foam.
When I come home, when I come home I
Home, home, when I come home 1
Far i' the night when I come home.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
I went to seek for Christ,
And Nature seemed so fair.
That first the woods and fields my youth enticed.
And I was sure to find him there :
The temple I forsook.
And to the solitude
Allegiance paid ; but winter came and shook
The crown and purple from my wood ;
Eis snows, like desert sands, with scornful drift,
Beseiced the cokusn'd aisle and palace gate ;
Ky Thebes, cut down with many a solemn rift,
But epitaphed her own sepulchred state :
Then I remembered whom I went to seek.
And bless d blunt winter for his council bleak.
Back to the world I turned.
For Christ, I said, is King ;
So the eramp'd alley and the hut I spurn'd.
As far beneath His sojourning.
'Hid power and wealth I sought.
But found no trace of him.
And all the costly offerings I had brought
With sudden rust and mould grew dim ;
I found his tomb, indeed, where, by their laws.
All must on stated days themselves Unpriow,
ktocking with bread a dead creed's grinning jaws.
Witless how long the life had thence arisen ;
Due sacrifice to this tbey set apart.
Prising it more than Christ's own liring heart.
80 from my feet the dust
Of the proud world I shook ;
Then came dear Love and shared with me his crust,
And half my sorrow's burden took.
After the world's soft bed.
Its rich and dainty fare.
Like down seem'd Lore's coarse pillow to my head.
His cheap food seem'd as manna rare ;
Fresh trodden prints of bare and bleeding feet,
Tum'd to the heedless city whence I came.
Hard by 1 saw ; and springs of worship swett
Gush'd from my cleft heart smitten by the same ;
Lore look'd me in the face and spake n words.
But straight I knew those foot prints were the Lord's.
I followed where they led.
And in s horel rude.
With nought to fence the weather from his head,
The King I sought for meekly stood ;
A naked, hungry child
Clung round his gracious knee.
And a poor hunted slave look'd np and smiled
To bless the smile that set him free ;
New miracles I saw his presence do,-
No more I knew the horel bare and poor ;
The gather .d chips into a woodpile grew.
The broken morsel swell'd to goodly store ;
I knelt and wept ; my Christ no more I seek,
His throne is with the outcast and the weak.
[From Dickens' Christmas Story."The Seven Pool
THE WIDOW'S STORY.
The Sixth Poor Traveler was the little
widow. She had been sitting by herself
in the darkest corner of the room all
this time; her pale face often turned
anxiously towards the door, and her hol
low eyes watching restlessly, as if 6he
expected some one to appear. She was
very quiet, very grateful for any little
kindness, very meek in the midst of her
wildness. There was a strained expres
sion in her eyes, and a certain excited
air about her altogether, that was very
near insanity ; it seemed as if she had
once been terrified by some sudden shock,
to the verge of madness.
When her turn came to speak, she
began in a low voice her eyes still
glancing towards the door and spoke
as if to herself rather than us ; speaking
low but rapidly somewhat like a som
nambule repeating a lesson :
They advised me not to marry him,
(she began.) They told me he was wild
unprincipled bad ; but I did not care
for what they said. I loved him, and I
di-believed them. I never thought about
his goodness I only knew that he was
beautiful and gifted beyond all that I
had ever met with in our narrow society.
I loved him with no passing school girl
fancy, but with my whole heart my
whole souL I had no life, no joy, no
hope without him, and heaven would
have been no heaven to me if he had not
been there. I say all this, simply to
show what a madness of devotion mine
My dear mother was very kind to me
throughout. S le had loved my father,
I believe, almost tj the same extent ; so
that she could sympathize with me even
while discouraging. She told me that
I was wrong and foolish, and that I should
repent : but I kissed away the painful
lines between her eyes, and made her
smile when I tried to prove to her that
love was better than prudence. So we
married : not so much without the con
sent as agaiast the wish of my family ;
and even that wish was withheld in sor
row and in love. I remember all this
now, and see the true proportions of eve
rything ; ihen I was Llinded by my pas
sions and understood nothing.
.We went away to our pretty, bright
home, in one of the neighborhoods of
London, near a park. We lived there
for many months I in a slate of intox
ication rather than of earthly happiness,
and he was happy too, then ; for I am
sure he was innocent, and I know he
loved me. Oh, dreams, dreams !
I did not know my husband's profes.
sion. lie was always busy, and often
absent; but he never told me what he
did. There had been no settlements
either, when I married. He said he
had a conscienti6us scruple against them;
that they were insulting to a man's hon
or, and degrading to any husband. This
was one of the reasons, why, at home,
'hey did not wish me to marry him.
But I was only glad to be able to show
him how I trusted him by meeting his
wishes, and refusing, on my own account,
to accept the legal protection of settle
ments. It was such a pride to me to
sacrifice all to him. Thus I knew noth
ing of his real life his pursuits or his
fortunes. I never asked him any ques
tions, as much from indifference to any
thing but his love, as from a wifely blind
ness of trust. When he came home at
night, sometimes very gay, singing opera
songs and calling me his little Medora,
s he used when he was in good humor;
I was gay, too, and grateful. And when
he caaie home moody and irritable
which he used to do, often, after we had
been married about three months, once
even threatening to strike me, with that
Larful glare in his eyes I remember so
well, and used to see so often afterwards
then I was patient and silent, and nev
er attempted even to take his hand or
kiss his forehead, when he bade me be
still and not interrupt him. He was my
law, and his approbation the sunshine of
my life ; so that my very obedience was
selfishness ; for my only joy was to see
him happy, and my only duty to obey
My sister came to visit us. My hus
band had seen very little of her before
our marriage ; for she had often been
from home when he was with us, down
at Hurst Farm that was the name of
my dear mother's place and I had al
ways fancied they had not liked even
the itttle they had seen of each other.
Ellen was never loud or importunate in
her opposition. I knew that she did not
like the marriage, but she did not inter
fere. I remember quite well the only
time she spoke openly to me on the sub
ject, how she flung herself at my knees.
with a passion very rare in her, beseech
ing me to pause and reflect, as if I had
sold mypelf to my ruin, when I prom-.
ised to be Harry's wife. How she prayed
Poor Ellen ! I can see her now, with her
heavy, uncurled hair falling on her neck
as she knelt, half undressed, her large
eyes full of agony and supplication, like
a martyred saint, praying. Poor Ellen !
I thought her prejudiced then; and this
unspoken injustice has lain like a heavy
crime on my heart ever since : for I
know that I judged her wrongrully,
and that I was ungrateful for her love.
She came to see us. This was about
a year and a half after I married. She
was more beautiful than ever, but some
what sterner, as well as sadder. She
was tall and strong in person, and dig
nified in manner. There was a certain
manly character in her beauty, as well
as in her mind, that made one respect
and fear her, too, a little. I do not mean
thatshe was masculine, or hard, or coarse:
she was a true woman in grace and gen
tleness ; but she was braver than women
in general. She had more self reli nce,
was more resolute and steadfast, and in
finitely less impulsive, and was rrore ac
tive and powerful in body.
My husband was very kind to her.
He paid her great attention ; and some
times I half perceived that he liked her
almost better than he liked me he used
to look at her so ofien: but with such a
strange expression in her eyes! I never
could quite make it cut, whether it was
love or hate. Certainly, after she came,
his manner was changed towards me. I
was not jealous. I d d not suspect th's
change from any small feeling of wound
ed self-love, or from any envy of my
sister ; but I saw it I felt it in my heart
yet without connecting it with Ellen in
any way. I knew that he no longer
loved me as he used to do, but I did not
think he loved her; at least, not with the
same kind of love. I used to be sur
prised at Ellon's conduct to him. She
was more than cold; she was passion
ately rude and unkind ; not so mueli
when I was there as when I was away.
For I used to hear her voice, speaking in
those deep indignant tones that are worse
to bear than the harshest scream of pas
sion ; and sometimes I used to hear hard
words he sp?aking at the first soft and
pleadingly, often to end in a teniblo
bur of anger and imprecation. I could
not understand why they quarreled. Tbere
was a mystery between them I did not
know of; and I did not like to ask them,
for I was afraid of them both as much
afraid of Ellen as my husband and I
felt like a reed between them as if I
should have been crushed beneath any
storm I might chance to wake up. So I
was silent, suffering alone, and bearing
a cheerful face so far as I could.
Ellen wanted me to r turn home with
her. Soon after she came, and soon af
ter I heard the first di-pute between 'hem,
she urged me to go back to Hurst Farm;
at once, and for a long time. Weak as I
am by nature, it has always been a mar
vel to me since, how strong I was where
my love for my husband was concerned.
It seemed impossible for me to yield to
any pres-ure aga nst him. I believe now,
that a very angel could not have turned
me from him !
At last she said to me, in a low voice :
"Mary, this is madness ! it is almost
sinful ! Can you not see Can you not
hear?" And then she stoDDed. and
1 1 '
would say no more, though I urged her
to tell me what she meant. For this
tenible mystery began to weigh on me
painfully, and, for all that I trembled so
much to fathom it, I had begun to feel
that any truth would be better than such
a life of dread. I seemed to be living
among shadows; my very husband and
sister not real, for their real lives were
hidden from me. But I was too timid to
insist on an explanation ; and so things
went on in their old way.
In one respect only changing still more
painfully, still more markedly ; in my
husband s conduct towards me. He was
like another creature altogether to me
now, he was so altered. He seldom
spoke to me at all, and he never spoke
kindly. All that I did annoyed him, all
that I said irritated him ; and once ( the
little widow covered her face with her
hands and shuddered,) he spurned me
with his foot and cursed me, one nif ht in
our own room, when I knelt weeping be
fore him, supplicating him for pity's sake
to tell me how I had offended him. But
I said to myself that he was tired, an
noyed, and that it was irritating to see a
loving woman's tears ; and so I excused
him, as often times before, and went on
loving him all the same God forgive me
for my idolatry !
Things had been very bad of late be
tween Ellen and my husband. But the
character of their discord was changed.
Instead of reproaching, they watched
each other incessantly. They put me
in mind of fencers my husband on the
"Mary," said my sister to me sudden-
lyt coming to the sofa wher I was sit
ting embroidering my poor baby's cap.
"What does your Harry do in life?
What is his profession?"
She fixed her eyes on me earnestly.
"I do not know, darling," I answered
vaguely. "He has no profession that I
"But what fortune has he, then ? Did
he not tell you what his income was and
how obtained, when he married ? To
us, he sad only, that he had so much a
year a thousand a year ; and he would
say no more. But has he not been more
explicit with you?"
"No," I answered, considering; for
indeed, I had never thought of this. I
had trusted so blindly to him in every
thing, that it would have seemed to me a
profound insult to have even asked of
his affairs. "No, he never told me any
thing about his fortune, Ellen. He gives
me money when I want it, and is always
generous. He seems to have plenty J
whenever it is asked for, he has it by
him, and gives mc even more than I re
quire." Still her eyes kept looking at me in
that strange manner. "And this is all
"Yes, all. What more should I wish
to know? Is he not the husband, and
has he not absolute right over eveiy
thing? I have no business to interfere."
The words sound harsher now than they
did then, for I spoke lovingly.
Ellen touched the little cap I held.
"Does not this make you anxious?" she
said. "Can you not fear as a mother,
even while you love as a wife?"
"Fear, darling? Why? What should
I fear, or whom? What is therr, Ellen,
on your heart?' I then added passion
tely ; "Tell me at once ; for I know that
you have some terrible secret concealed
from me ; and I would rather know any
thing, whatever it may be, than live on
longer in this kind of suspense and an.
guish ! It is too much for me to bear,
She took my hands. "Have you
strength?" she said earnestly. "Could
you really bear the truth?" Then see
ing my distress, for I had fallen into, a
kind of hysterical fit I was rery deli
cate then she shook her head in despair.
and letting my han Is fall heavily on my
lap, said in an undertone, "No, no ! she
s too weak, too childish!" Then she
went up stairs abruptly ; and I heard
her walking about her own loom for near
ly an hour after, in long, steady steps.
I have often thought, that, had she
told mc then, and taken me to her heart
her strong, brave, noble heart I could
have derived courage from it, and could
have borne the dreadful truth I was
forced to know afterward. But the strong
are so impatient with us ! They leave
us too soon their own strength revolts
at our weakness ; so we are often left
broken in this weakness, for want of a
little patience and sympathy.
Harry came in a short time after Ellen
had left me. "What has she be. n say
ing?" he cried passionately. His eyes
were wild and bloodshot ; his beautiful
black hair flung all in disorder about his
"Dear Harry, she has said nothing
about you," I answered, trembling.
"She only asked what was your profes
sion, and how much we had a year. That
"Why did she ask this? What busi
ness was it of hers!" cried Hairy, fierce
ly. "Tell me!" and he shook me rough
ly ; "what did you answer her, little
'Oh, nothing;" and I began to cry :
it was because he frightened me.' "I
said what is true, that I knew nothing of
your affa'rs ; as, indeed, what concern
is that of mine? I could say nothing
more, Harry." '
'-Better that than too much," he mut- j
tered ; and then he flung n.e harshly
back on the sofa, saying, "Tears and
folly and weakness ! The same round,
always the same ! Why did I marry a
mere pretty doll a plaything no wife!"
And then he seemed to think he had
said too much ; for he came to me and
kissed me, and said that he loved me.
But for the first time in our married life,
his kisses did not soothe me, nor did I be
lieve hi assurances.
All that night I heard Ellen walk
steadily and unrestingly through her
room. She never slackened her pace,
she never stopped, she never hurried,
but the same slow measured tread went
on ; the firm foot, yet light, falling as if
to music, her very step the same mixture
of manliness and womanhood as her
After this burst of passion, Harry's
tenderness to me became unbounded ; as
if he wished to make up lo me for some
wrong. I need not say how soon I for
gave him, nor how much I loved him
again. All my love came back in one
full, boundless tide; and the current of
my heirg set towards him again as be
fore. If he had asked me for my life
then, as his mere fancy, to destroy, 1
would have given it to hirn. I would
have lain down and died, if he had wish
ed to see the flowers grow over my
My husband and Ellen grew more es
tranged as his affection seemed to return
for me. His manner to her was defying;
hers to him contemptuous. I heard her
call him villain once, in the garden be
low the windows ; at which he laughed
his wicked laugh, and sai l " tell her and
see if she will believe you !"
I was sitting in the window working.
It was a cold, damp day in the late au
nt n, when those chill fogs of November
are just beginning; those fogs with the
frost in them, that steal into one's very
heart. It was a day when a visible blight
is in the air, when death is abroad every
where, and suffering and crime. I was
alone in the drawing-room. Ellen was
up stairs, and my husband, as I believed,
in the City. But I remembered since.
that I heard the hall dojr softly opened,
and a footstep steal quietly by the drawing-room
up the stairs. The evening was
just beginning to close in Jull, gray and
ghostlike ; the dying daylight melting in
to the long shadows that stalked like wan
dering ghosts about the fresh grave of na
ture. 1 sat working still, at some of
those small garments about which 1
dreamed such fond dreams, and wove
large hopes of happiness; and as I sat,
while the evening fell heavily about me,
a mysterious shadow of evil passed over
me, a dread presentiment, a consciousness
of ill, that made mc tremble as if in ague
angry at myself though for my folly.
But it was reality. It was no hysterical
sinking of the spirits that I felt ; nor mere
nervousness or cowardice; it was some
thing I had never known before ; a knowl
edge, a presence, a power, a warning
word, a spirit's cry, that had swept by me
as the fearful evil marched on to its con.
I heard a faint scream up stairs. Ii
was so faint that I could scarcely distin
guish it from a sudden rush of wind
through an opening door, or the chirp of
a mouse behind a wainscot. Presently I
heard the same sound again, and then a
dull muffled noise overhead, ac of some
one walking heavily.or dragging a heavy
weight across the floor. I sat petrified
by fear. A nameless agony was upon
me that deprived me of all power of ac
tion. I thought of Harry and I thought
of Ellen, in an inextricable cypher of
misery and agony; but I coulJ not have
defined a line in my own mind ; I
could not have explained what it was I
feared. I only knew that it was sorrow
that was to come, and sin. I listened,
but all was still again ; once only 1
thought I heard a low moan and once a
muttering voice which I know now to
have been my husband's speaking pass
ionately to himself.
And then his voice swept stormily
through the house crying wildly, "Mary,
Mary! Quick here ! Your sister, Ellen !"
I ran up stairs. It seems to me now
that I almost flew. 1 found Ellen lying
on the floor of her own room, just inside
the door ; her feet towards the door of
my husband's study, which was immedi
ately opposite Ler room. She was faint
ing ; at least I thought so then. We
raised her up between us ; my hu-tbnnd
trembling more than 1 ; and 1 unfastened
her gown, and threw water on her face,
and pushed b ick hr hair ; but she did
not revive. I told Harry to go fir a doc
tor. A horrid thought was stealing over
me; but he lingered as I fancied, unac
countably and cruell), though I twice
a.sked him to go. Then I thought that
perhaps he was too much overcome ; so
I went to him and kissed him, and said,
" She will soon be better, Harry," cheer
fully, to cheer him. But I felt in my
heart that she was no more.
At last, after many urgent entreaties,
and afier the servants had come up, clus
tering in a frightened way ronnd the bed
but he sent them away again immedi
ately he put on his hat and went out,
sojn returning with a strange man ; not
our own doctor. This man was rude and
coarse, and ordered me aside, as I stood
bathing my sister's face, and pulled her
arm and hand roughly, to see how dead
they fell, and stooped down close to her
lips I thought he touched them even
all in a violent and insolent way, that
shocked me and bewildered me. My
husband stood in the shadow, ghastly pale,
but not interfering.
It was too true, what that strange man
had said so coarsely. She was dead.
Yes ; the creature that had an hour ago
been so full of life, so beautiful, so reso
lute, and young, was now a stiffening
corpse, inanimate and dead, without life
and wiihout hope. Oh ! that word had
set my brain on fire. Dead ! here in my
house, under my roof dead so mysteri
ously, so strangely why? How ? It
was a fearful dream, it was no truth that
lay there. I was in a nightmare ; I was
not sane ; and thinking how ghastly it ail
was, I fainted softly on the bed, no one
knowing, till some time after that I had
fallen, and was not praying. When I
recovered I was in my own room, alone.
Crawling feebly to my sister's door, I
found that she had been washed and
dressed. It struck me that all had been
done in strange haste ; Harry telling me
the servants had done it while I fainted.
I knew afterwards that he had told them
it was I, and that I would have no help.
The mystery of it was soon to be unrav
elled. One thing I decided on to watch bv
my sister this night. It was in vain that
my husband opposed me ; in vain that he
coaxed me by his caresses, or tried to
terrify me with angry threats. Something
of my sister's nature seemed to have
passed into me; and unless he had posi
tivtly prevented me by force, no other
means would have had any effect. He
gave way to me at last angrily and
the night came on and found me tilting
by the bedside watching rny dear sister.
How beautiful she looked ! Her face,
still with the gentle mark of sorrow on it
that it had in life, looked so grand ! S'.ie
was so great, so pure; she was like a god
dess sleeping; she was not like a mere
woman of this earth. She did not seem
to be dead; there was life about her yet,
for there was still the look of power and
of human sympathy that she used to have
when alive. The soul was there still,
and love and knowledge.
By degrees a strange feeling of her
living presence in the room came over
me. Alone in the still midn'ght, with no
person near me, it seemed as if I had
leisure and power to pass into the world
beyond the grave. I felt my sister near
me ; I felt the passing of her life about
me, as when one sleeps, but is still con
scious that another life is weaving in with
ours. It seemed a if her breath fell
warm on my face; as if her shadowy
arms held me in their clasp ; as if her
eyes were looking through the daikness
at me ; as if I held her bands in mine,
and her long hair floated round my fore
heaJ. And then to shake off these fan
cies, and convince myself that she was
really dead, I looked again and again ut
her lying there ; a marbU eorpso, ice
cold, with the lips set and rigid, and the
death band beneath ber chin. There she
was, stiff in her white shroud, the snowy
linen pressing so lightly on her ; no life
within, and no warmth about her, and all
my fancies were vain dreams. Then I
buried my face in my hands, and wept
as if my heart was breaking. And when
I turned away my eyes from her, the
presence came around me again. S
long as I watched her it was not there ; I
saw the corpse only; but when 1 shut
this out from me, then it seemed as if a
barrier had been removed, and that my
sister floated near me again.
I had been praying, sitting thus in these
alternate feelings of her spiritual pres
ence and her bodily death, when raising
my head and looking towards the farther
corner of the room, I saw, standing at
some little distance, my sister Ellen. I
aw her distinctly, as distinctly as you
may see that red fire blaze. Sadly and
lovingly her daik eyes looked at me, sad
ly her gentle lips smiled, and by look and
gesture too she showed me that she wish
ed to speak to me. Strange, I was not
frightened. It was soatutal to see her
there, that for the moment I forgot that
she was dead.
" Ellen," I said, " what is it V
The figure smiled. It came nearer.
Oh! do not say it was fancy! I saw it
advance ; it came glidingly; I remem
bered afterwards that it did not walk, but
it came forward to the light, and stood
not ten paces from me. It looked at me
still, in the same sad gentle way, and
somehow, I do not know whether with the
hand or by the turning of the head, it
showed me its throat, where were the
distinct marks of two powerful hands.
And then it pointed to its heart; and
looking, I saw the broad stain of blood
above it. And then I heard her voice I
swear I was not madI heard it say, I
say to you distinctly, whisper softly,
" Mary!" and then it said still more audi
bly, " Murdered!"
And then the figure vanished, and sud
denly the whole room was vacant. That
one dread word sounded as if forced out
by the pressure of some strong agony;
like a man revealing his life's secret when
dying. And wheu it had been spoken,
or rather wailed forth, there was a sud
den sweep and chilly rush through the
air; and the life, the soul, the presence,
fled. I was alone again with Death.
The mission had been fulfilled ; the warn
ing had been given ; and then my sister
passed away, for her work with earth was
Brave and calm as the strongest man
that ever fought on a battle field, I stood
up beside my sister's body. I unfastened
her last dress, and threw it back from her
chest and shoulders; I raised her head
and took off the bandage from round her
face ; and then I saw deep black bruises
on her throat, the mark of hands that had
grappled her from behind, and that had
strangled her. And then I looked further
and I saw a small wound below the left
breast, about which hung two or three
clots of bloo l, that had oozed, up, despite
all care and knowledge in the manner
of her murder. I knew then she had
been first suffocated to pievent her
screams, and then stabbed where the
wound would bleed inwardly, and show
no sign to the mere bysiander.
I covered her up carefully again. I
laid the p How smooth and straight, and
laid the heavy head gently down. I
drew the shroul close above the dreadful
mark of murder. And then, still as calm
anil resolute as I had ever been since the
revelation had come to me, I left the
room and passed into my husband's study.
It was on me to discover all the truth.
His writing table was locked. Where
my strength came from I know not ; but
with a chizel that was lying on the table,
I prized the drawer and broke the lock.
I opened it. There was a long and slen
der dagger lying there, red with blood ;
a handful of woman's hair rudely severed
fiom the head, lay near it. It was my
sister's hair! that wavy, silken, uncurled
auburn hair that I had always loved and
admired so much! And near to these
again were stamps, and dies, and moulds,
and plates, and hand writings with fac
similes beneath, and bankers' cheques,
and a heap of leaden coin, and piles of
incomplete bank notes; and all the evi
dences of a coiner's and forger's trade,
the suspicion of which had caused those
bitter quarrels between poor Ellen and
my husband the knowledge of which
had caused her death.
With these things I sw also a letter
addressed to Ellen in my husband's hand
writing. It was an unfinished letter, as
if it had displeased him, and he had
made another copy. It begin with these
words no fear that I shoul 1 forget them,
they are burnt into my brfin "I never
really loved her, Ellen ; she pleased me
only as a doll would please a child ; and
I married her from pity, not from love.
You, Ellen, you alone could fill my heart;
yrjK alona are my fit helpmate. Fly with
me Ellen Here the letter was left
unfinished, but it gave me enough to ex
plain all the meaning of the first weeks
of my sister's stay here, and why she had
called him villain, and why be had told
her that she might tell me and that I
would not believe.
I saw it all now. I turned my head
to see my husband standing a few paces
behind me.' Good Heaven ! I have often
thought was that the same man I had
loved so long and fondly?
The strength of horror, not of courage,
upheld .me. I knew he meant to kill
me, but that did not alarm me. I only
dreaded lest his hand should touch me.
It was not death, it was he I shrank
from. I believe if he had touched me
then, I should have fallen dead at his
feet. I stretched out my hands in horror
to thrust him back, uttering a piercing
shriek ; and while he mad an effort to
seize me, overreaching himself in the
madness of his fury, I rushed by him,
shrieking still, and so fled away into the
darkness, whrre I lived, oh ! for many,
many months !
When I awoke again, I found that my
poor baby had died, and that my husband
had gone none knew where. But the
fear of his return haunted me. I could
get no rest day or night for dread of
him ; and felt going mad with the one
hard thought forever pitilessly pursuing
me that I should again fall into his
hands. I put on wilowjs weeds for in
deed am I too truly widowed ! and then
I began wandei ing about ; wandering in
poverty-and privation, expecting every
moment to meet him face to face ; wan
dering about so that I may escape the
more easily when the time does come.
THE WIDOW'S STORY. Educational.
[For the Chronicle.]
THE MORAL TRAINING OF CHILDREN.
That parent who does not care for his
own children is wanting in one of the es
sential elements of humanity. Almost
the entire brute creation are his superiors
in. natural affection. The providence of
very many races of animals in laying up
a store for the future wants of their off
spring is somewhat remarkable. The
worm and the bee provides in the crysa
lis the food for the unfledged insect; the
fowls of the air, the fishes of the seas, the
eptiles of the marshes, the forest kings in
their lairs, the whole teeming population
of the fields and forests, show their affec
tion for their young by their constant ex
ertions to protect, to nourish and mature
those of their kind which they have
brought into existence.
It is not wonderful that man, the crown
ing work of all terrestrial life, should pos
sess this affection in a higher degree than
all other animals. A higher incentive
than the mere instinct of his nature ought
to actuate him. It rests upon the idea of
duty moral obligation, inseparable from
Parents are anxiout for their children,
and this anxiety shows itself in the sacri
fices they are always ready to make for
them. The father toils early and late to
store a fortune for them ; the mother with
nightly vigils and daily cares grows pre
maturely old in her anxiety for them.
And how frequently are their gray hairs
multiplied by the unkind returns of those
for whom they have thus lab-red and
watched ! An undutiful child, how un
natural ! Parents should not deceive
themselves ; such erratic characters, un
true to all the nobler sentiments and af
fections that bind parent to child and
child to parent, are not without their le
gitimate parentage. Habitual disobedi
ence is the natural result of over indul
gence. The child at three years old
who has not learned to obey will be res
tive under parental authority at nine, and
master at home at twelve, and ready to
eject his parents from home at twenty.
All this may take place exactly in con
formity with the development of mind
and body. The pampered child grows to
be a human animal. Those moral sus
ceptibilities, mighty regulators to human
force, have been left dwarfs in their very
infancy, and the intellect reels under the
crushing weight of unbridled will. This
will becomes the tyrant lo execute all the
mandates of the baser passions, and places
its crushing heel upon every struggling
aspiration of the nobler manhood. Thus
in the pride of his heart, the young man
of parental fortune, but without a soul, be
comes ashamed of a father's wrinkled
face, calls his sober counsels puerile
deems his mother " a foolish old woman
who knows nothing of the world," and
himself as the embodiment of all the sa
gacity and availible wisdom that has
come down from generations of ancestors.
This wisdom is all concentrated upon the
point of personal gratification, his sagaci
ty in eluding every restraint.
Parents seldom imagine that they are
bestowing tb.dr labors, upon tons to de
spise them, and' daughters tosa their af
fectionate yearnings back to their own'
hearts, arrows dipped in the poisoned
juices of filial contempt. "'.
Parents who covet such children a
these can always have them, by indulg-
ing them in infancy, excusing their diao- :
bedience in early childhood, neglecting
their proper moral culture in the nursery '
and by giving them over to their asso
ciates in the streets as soon , as they
are large enough to keep out of th '
way of physical dangers. Then it
will be useless in a short time to warn
them against "late hours," "low houses,,.l
"degrading vices," "criminal tempta
tions," for they are already among tim
initiated. The very seeds of moral death
are sown in these young hearts and their
characters formed in vice while their pa
rents are struggling most anxiously to
provide for their future comforts. Mother, '
refrain from teaching obedience to your
infant sons and daughters and prepare' '
your heart for the bitter anguish of aneg- :
lected mother. Father, leave your ch3-
dren to take care of themselves, while"'
you build fortunes for your old sge and'1
their majority, and expect to see that '
fortune wasted ia prodigality or swal-'
lowed up in the very lazarettoes of moral "
D j you coet children who shall be to
you in your old age "like apples of gold
in pictures of silver V Study their in-
fant natures; leach them obedience, not
from fear but as a duty; kn w and select'
their early associates even though it may
cost you some time and much care ; be
your own judge of the fitness or unfitness
of their recreations and the times of taking
those recreations ; in short, be parent
with all the affedton of parents, more
zealous in giving the sure foundation of
an unsullied virtuous character to your
children than in increasing their inher
ited patrimony, and you may hope with
assurance to enjoy the objects of your
desire. ' M. '
For the Farmer.
WHY SHOULD ANIMALS BE SHELTERED?
The readers of the Farmer know or
ought to know, for we have told them of
ten enough, that animals housed or kept un
der good shelter, and warm, require less ;
food than those exposed to cold, but alls
perhaps, do not know the reason why.
Animal heat is produced by the decom
position, or, chemically speaking, eombut
Hon of the food in the stomach, by oxygen '
drawn into the lungs by breathing. Oxygeii"
is a simple element, which combines with ''
every thing animate or inanimate.' It is'
always positively charged with electricity
and by some is considered a form of elec
tricity. Its action in the decomposition
of food in the stomach, is the source of ani
mal heat, and combustion as properly
takes place in the stomach, by the action
of oxygen on the carbon, or food, as if th"
same were burnt in an ordinary fire; and
gives out exactly as much heat. Thai ;
combustion in the stomach, however, is " -slower,
and the heat longer in developing"
itself. . '
Oxygen will consume all things wit ;
which it comes in contact. It constitutes .
a portion of the atmosphere, and is' coo.- .
tinually inhaled by breathing. An adult '
person inales about thirty-two ounces of it
daily, which, unless there be a constaal .
s jpply of carbon kept on hand, in the .
form uf food, for it to act upon, will con
sume the body itself, and thus the soure '
of life becomes the cause of death.
The food is the part to supply animal
warmth. Io winter, when we exercise .
in the cold air, and the amout of oxygen
in consequence of the contraction of the air .
by cohl, that we inhale is increased the
necessity of food to supply the carbon con
sumed increases in the same ratio, and .
by gratifying the appetite we furnish
fuel, that insures protection from cold.
A tsarv ing man freezes withhalf the cold
that would freeze a well fed person, be
cause he has not fuel to keep up the in ,
Our clothing is an equivalent for a por
tion of food, as this external protection from
cold, renders necessary a less internal fire
to keep up the natural temperature of the
body. So with animals, the natural tem
perature of their bodies has to be kept up,
and if exposed to cold, more fuel, in the
form of food, is required than if they were
On this same principle, a mac requires
one eighth more food in winter than in
summer, to keep up the internal fire that
preserves the temperature of his body, in
cold weather, the same as it is ia sum
mer. Ohio Farmer.
SQUASH Pies wrrHorrr Eces. To make
the best of squash pies (when eggs are
37 to 50 cents per dozen,) use none, but
put in the place of them soft crackers
powdered fine. Just advertise that for
he benefit of the ret cf the poir folks