The Union and journal. [volume], April 20, 1860, Image 1

About The Union and journal. [volume] (Biddeford, Me.) 1858-1882

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M Journal
LOUIS 0. COWAN,]
VOLUME XVI.
"ETERNAL HOSTILITY TO EVERY FORM OF OPPRESSION OVER THE MIND OR BODY OF MAN."—Jefferson.
[EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
BIDDEFORD, ME., FRIDAY MORNING, APRIL 20. 1860.
NUMBER 17.
Cj\t Hnion # $ournal
MUSHED ETERY FRIDAY IOK.1l.1G,
Ofllce— Ilooper'i Drlck Block* ap Stain,
Liberty Street, Blddefbrd, Mo.
TERMS:
Two Dollar* Pi* Ajiicm—or Om Dolla* aj»d
Firrr Cisrrt, If paid within 3 month* from Una of
nbttrlbtag. ttlagla ooptoa, 4 Mat*.
AtvortUlag Rum.
One aqaarw or leaa, (3 Insertions) .... $100
Each subsequent Insertion. ........&
A square U IS llaaa Noaparrll tvpe.
Special Notice* oa* week—el* line* or lea*, 80
aentei eirewding *U tin**. S wnti a llo*.
The word ■ AdIMMMl* will bo placed over
all not ooa, la tho nature of aa advertisement. la
•artcd ta the reading oolumn*.
Yearly advertiser* will bo charged flJOO, (paper
Included; and limited to are rare one MI«|>Uv,»l)
square. wwoklj*; eieeae hi ba paid for la proportion.
IT No notice Uku of aaoojiaouj couimuuica
wBi
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JAMES T. CLEAVES. Printer.
foctrj.
THE LAMP AT SEA.
by loxartixow.
"Hie nizht wm umle fur cooling sbaJe,
For (Hence. and for sleep;
And when I wm a child, I laid
My hands upon ray breast and prayed,
And suik to slumbers deep.
Childlike as then, I lie to-night.
And watch my lonely cabin light.
Each morewent of the twinging lamp
Show* how the ve«el reels.
And o'er her deck the billows tramp.
And all her timbers strain and cramp.
With every shock she fteU:
It starts and shudder* as it burns.
And ia it* hinged socket turns.
Now swinging slow, and slanting low.
It almost level lie*.
And yet I know, while to and fro
I watch the seeming pendule go,
With restless tall and rise.
The stea ty shaft is still upright.
Poising its little globe of light.
0, hand of Ood ! 0, lamp of peace!
O, promise of my soul !
Thongh weak and tossed, and ill at ease.
Amid the roar of smiting seas—
The ship's convulsive roll—
I own, with love and tender awe.
Yon perfect type of faith and law!
A heavenly trust my spirit calms !
My soul is filled with light!
The ocean sings his solemn pslams ;
The wild win Is chant; I cross my palms,
Happy as if to-uiglit,
Cn ler ihe cottage n«of again,
I heard the soothing summer rain.
Agricultural.
Working Ox on.
Spring it a critirul period in the manage
ment of stock. Working oxen should bo fed
well, and kept in good condition, if they are
expected to rater heartily into the laliors of
the opening season. bo kept, they will be
in good trim for work—lively, active, and
full of energy. Too often catUe enter upon
the Spring's work uttcrW unfit for the exer
tion required, from the sheer carelessness of
their owners. They hare been neglectcd (
both in feed and care, and no present atten
tion can supply the lack ol proper Winter
management. When oxen begin to work.
•Iter resting through the W inter, thej should
commence gradually, a half a day at a time,
and light work at that, for the first few days
They should have grain and roots, as well its
bay, while buaily employed upon tho farm,
even after the gram has got up to be a 'good
bite;' as they will invariably 'scour' and
weaken when first fed upon it.
Manac«mont of Boos.
——
If beM have been wintered in the house. |
they should be set out on the first still am!
sunny day in March, or even earlier if the
weather will adiuit, unlesa there should be a
light snow on the ground. Set but few out
at a time; and these at a distance from each
other, aiy ten feet or more, to prevent their
mixing together. After the bees of th« fimt
have exercised themselves, as they will on
being removed from a dark room to the bright
sunlight, others may bo placed between
them, and so on until all are in their pla
ces. One of the greatest troubles with bees
in the Spring, is rubbing ; and there is noth
ing in anv part of l«ee management requir-!
ing more else attention and good judgment,
than to decide when this is going on.—
Fighting is not unusually mistaken for it;
but nothing is to feared so long as bees de
fend themselves. The danger is when a
weak stock unresistingly yields. Any un- I
usual activity about such a hive is suspicious '
though not conclusive unless long contin
ued.
8oapsuds.
A tatAU Of M.p.ud. J
member, is worth as much u * wS^is^rruw
of good manure. Evcrr Stickct of
should be thrown where it will nut
The garden is a good and conrenirut in
which to dispose of it; but the roots of grip*,
ines, Young trees, or anything of the sort
ill do is well.
n_
will
Potato Puttwo.—Next to having good
•sed, it Is important to know bow to plant
them. The following is Prof. Mat**'
method:—"Plow the fidd deep. Next har
row. Then make furrows six Inches deep,
and about three feet apart. Drop whole
potato* • ones ia two feet and ootrr then with
a plow with about three inches of earth. If
asosmery to bne them after this, do it; but J
keep ths ground level. Six inches is about]
the right depth to plant potatoes, but half
of the earth at a time is better than the whole
at once. New potatoes grow from thesprouts
ahove the h«I potato, hut never under it —
Frequent hilling make small potatoes. A
potato vine will tield potatoes to iu very
top if hilled higli, but tho greater number,
the smaller the average site.'
How to koop Purs.
A few days more, and furs will bo super
fluous, and then come* the process of put*
I ting them uwtty, so that moths shall not in
rade them. It is stated thnt the hgpt way
i to insure immunity from destruction is to
pack all in a trunk or box lined with brown
holLind, first sprinkling them liberally with
black pepper. This is better even than carn
Ehor. tor dealers in furs are often victimized
y entomological pest*, though their good*
1 be saturutcd with this powerful odor. Bo
j fore packing away furs, they should he well
beaten, to dislodge any larva) that, despite
I the most scrupulous care, may bo deposited
in them. The sup riority of pepper to cam
fthor an a preservative to furs consists in the
act that, while larva; will incubate among
camphor, thero is something in the aroma of
pepper which destroys them in embryo.
OuiTtxa and Trimming Frcit Trxes.—
Grafting and pruning urv among the most
important labors of the horticulturist. As
the s.*asun is ut hand when grafting should
bo done, some hint* on their right perform
ance will not be amiss. Scions for grafting
should Im) cut the last of February or the first
of March, which is tho best season to insure
their living and doing well: but it is not yet
too lato for |*am and apples ; they should
then he housed in a cellar until tho time for ,
inserting them arrive*, which, with us,'
might be in the course of April and May, j
t they nhould he put only into healthy .vigorous |
branch**, such us you would not cure to re
move from the trees, und thus you will have
an artificial tree that will bo ready for bear
ing in about three years.
By removing too many bmnehe* Irom ft tn«e
injury nmr l>e done. Careful attention
shoufd ho given to this point in lopping the
brunch** preparatory to grilling, in order
that the sap may piif* into tho remaining
branches and keep tho tree health v nnd grow
ing Fruit tro"« are often injur-d by those
who go alwut tho country making it their
business to act gralta in April and May,
vtting as many scions as they can, nnd get
ting |>ay for those that live, thus doing great'
(lanugo to the trees.
IHiscrllaitfous.
MOSS-SIDE.
nr PRor. wiuox.
Gilbert Ainslie was a poor man, and he
had boon a poor man all tho days of his life,
which wen.* not few, for his thin hair war>
now waxing grer. He had boon born and
bred on the small moorland farm which he
now occupied ; and he hoped to die there,
as his father and grandfather had dono bo
fore him, leaving a family just above the
uioro bitter wants of this world. Labor,
hard and unremitting, hud been his lot in
life ; but although sometimes severely tried,
he had never repined ; and through all the
mist and gloom, and even the storms that
had nmailcd him, ho had lived on from year
to year in that calm and resigned content
ment which unconsciously cheers the hearth
stone of tho blameless poor. With his own
hands ho had ploughed, sowed, und reaped
his often scanty harvest, assisted, as tney
grow up, by throe sons, who, even in boy
hood. were happy to work with their father
in the holds. Out of doom or in, Gilbert
Ainslie was never idle. Tho spade, the
shears, tho plough-shall, the sicklo, and the
flail, all cauio readily to hands that grasped
them well; and not a morsel of food was
eaten under his roof, or n garment worn
there, that was not honestly, severely, nobly
earned. Gilbert Ainslie was a slave, but it
wus for them ho loved with a sober and deep
allcction. Tho thraldom under which he
lived God had imposod, and it only served to
givo his character a shade of silent gravity,
hut not austere ; to make his smiles fewer,
but more heurtfelt; to calm his soul at grace
before and after meals; and to kindle it in
morning and evening prayer.
Thorn is no need to toll tbo character or
tho wife of such a man. Meek and thought*
Jul. vet gladsome ami say, withal, her heaven
was In her hou»i; and her gentler and weak
er hands helped to har tbo door against want.
Of ten children that had been born to theui,
they had lost threo; and as thsy had fed,
clothed, and educated them respectably, bo
did they give those who died a respectable
funeral. The living did not grudge to give
up, tor a while, some of their daily comforts,
fur the sako of tho dead ; and bought, with
the little sums which their industry had sav
ed, decent mourning*, worn on SahUith, and
then carefully laid by. Of tho seven that
survive*!, two sons were farm servunts in tho
neighboring, while three daughters and
two sons remained at home, growing or
grown up, a suiall, happy, hard-working
boo**-hold.
Many cottages are there in Scotland like
Moss-si'd \ ami many such humble and vir
tuous cottajrTs as were now beneath its roof
of straw. The eye of the passim; traveller
may mark them, or mark them not, but they
stand peacefully in thousaiuls over ull the
land ; and uumt beautiful do they make it,;
through all its wide vullevs and narrow
glens ; its low holiun, encircled by the rocky
walla of some bonny hum,—its green mounts,
elated with their littlo crowning groves ot
plane-trees,—its jellow corn fields—its boro
pastoral hill-*i«l«*, and nil its healthy tnoors,
on whose black bosom lie shining or conceal
ed glades of exi-essive verdure, inhabited by
flow en, and Tisited only by the far-flying
hers. Moss-side was not heautiful t j a care
less or hasty eye, but when looked on and
sun-eyed, it seemed a pleasant dwelling. Its
roof, overgrown with gnu* and mow, was
almost as green as the ground out of which
its weather-stained walls appeared to grow.
The n»m behind it was separated from » lit
tie garden by a narrow slip oi arable land,
the color of which showed that it had been
won from the wild bylpatient industry, and
*7 patient industry retained. It required a
bright sunny day to make Muss-side iair, but
then it wm fair indeed; and when the little
brown moorland birds were singing their
shjrt songs mmoog the rushes and the heather,
or a lark, perhaps lured thither by some
p^en barley-field tor lu undisturbed nest,
rom^ng all over the enlivened solitude,
the little bleak farm smiled like the paradise
of poverty, sad and afeeting in its lone and
extreme simplicity. The boys and "girls had
made some plots of flowers among the vege
tables that the littk garden supplied for
their homely meal*; pinks and carnation*,
brought from the walled gardens or rich men
farther down in tho cultivated strath, grew
here with somewhat diminished lustra; a
bright show of tulips had a strange beauty
in the midst of that moorland; ana the smell
of rust* mixed well with that of tho clover,
the beautiful fair clover that loves tho soil
and tho air of Scotland, and give* the rich
and bulinjr milk to the poor man's lips.
In this cottage, Gilbert's youngest child,
a girl about nine years of age, had boen ly
ing for a week in a fever. It was now Sat*
unlay evening, and tho ninth day of tho dis
ease. Was she to live or dio? It seemed
as if a very few hours were between tho in
nocent creature and Heaven. All tho symp
toms were thoso of approaching death. The
parents knew well the change that ctmcs
over tho human faco, whether it bo in infan
cy, youth, or prime, just before tho depart
ure of tho spirit; and as they stood together
by Margaret's bed, it seemed to them that
the fatal shadow had fallen ujxm her features.
The surgeon of tho parish lived somo miles
distant, out they cxpected him now everr
moment, and many a wishful look was di
rected by tearful eves along tho moor. Tho
daughter, who was out at scrvico, cumo
anxiously homo on this night, tho only ono
that could be ullowed her, ior the poor must
work in their grief, und their servants must
do their duty to those whoso bread they eat,
even when nature is sick—sick at heart.—
Another of tho daughters came in from the
potatoe-tHd beyond tho brae, with what was
to be their frugal supper. Tho calm, noise
less spirit of life was in and around the house,
while death seemed dealing with ono who, a
few days ago, was liko light upon tho tloor,
and the sound of music, that alwavs breath
ed up when most wanted; glad ami joyous
in common talk—sweet, silvery, and mourn
ful, when it joined in hymn or psalm, Ono
ait *r tho other, they all continued going up
to the bed-tido, unil then coming nwnv, sol>
bing or silent, to see their merry little sister,
who used to keep duneing nil day like u but
terfly in a meadow field, or like a butterfly
with shut wings on u flower, trifling for a
while in tho silence of her joy, now turning
restlessly on her bod, nnd snircely sensible
t > the words of endearment whispered around
h r, or the ki^-s dropt with tears, in spite
of themselves, on her burning forehead.
Utter poverty often kills tho affections;
but a deep, constant, and common feeling
of this world's hardship, and an equal par
ticipation in all those struggles hy which
they may bj softened, unito husltand and
wife, parents and children, brothers and Bis
ters, in thoughtlul and sultdued tenderness,
making them happy indeed while tho circle
round the fire is unbroken, and yet prepar
ing them every day to l>e®r tho separation,
when some ono or other is taken slowly or
suddenly away. Their souls are not nioyed
by tits and starts, although, indeed, nature
sometimes will wrestle with necessity ; nnd
there is a wise moderation both in tho joy
and tho griel of the intelligent poor, whicn
keeps lasting trouble away from their earth
ly lot, and prepares them sileutly and un
consciously for Heaven.
" Do you think the child in dying?" mid
Gillxrt, with » cnhn voico, to tho surgeon,
who, on hin wmried hone had just nrrived
from another sick hod, over tho misty range
of hill*; and hud Itcen looking steadfastly
for some minutes on tho little patient. Tho
humane man knew tho family well, in tho
midst of whom ho wo* standing, and replied,
•• while there is life there is hopo ; hut my
pretty little Margaret is, I fear, in tho lost
extremity." There was no loud lamentation
at tlicM words—all had before known, tho'
they would not confeaa it to themselves, what
they now wero told—and though the cer
tainty that was in tho words of tho skilful
man tnado their hearts heat fur a little with
sicker throbbings, made their palo faces
paler, and brought out from soino eyes a
greater gush of tours, yet death had been he
fore in this house, and in this cuso ho came,
on he alwuys does, in awe, but not in terror.
Thero were wandering and wavering and
dreamy delirious phantasies in tho brain of
tho innocent child, but tho few words sho
indistinctly uttered were affecting, not rend
ing to tho heart, for it was pluin that sho
thought herself herding her sheep in tho
green silent (wuiturctt, and sitting wrapped in
her plaid upon tho lawn and sunny side of
tho Uirk-knowo. Sho was too much ex
hausted—there was too littlo life—too littlo
breath in her heart, to framo a tune; hut
some of her words seemed to bo from faTorite
old songs; and at last her mother wept, and
turned aside her fico, when the child, whom
blue eyes wero shut, and her lips almost still,
breathed out them lines of tho beautiful
twenty-third psalm:
The Lord's my Shepherd, I *11 not want,
He makes roe down to lis
In pastures green; He leodeth me
The quiet waters by.
The child was now loft with none hut her
mother by the hed-side, for it wnti said to bo
best so ; and C«ilbert and his family sat down
round the kitchen fire, for a while in silence.
In about a quarter of an hour they began to
rise calmly, and to go each to his allotted
work. One of the daughters went forth with
the pail to milk the cow. and nnother begun
to set out the uhlo in the middle of the lloor
for supper, covering it with a white cloth.
Gilbert viewed the usual household arrange
ments with a solemn and untroubled cvo;
and there was almost the faint light oi a
grateful smile on his cheek, as he said to tho
worthy surgeon, " You will partake of our
fan- after your dav's travel and toil of hu
inanity." In a short silent half hour the
potatoes and oat-cakes, butter and milk,
were on the board ; and llilbert, lifting up
his toil-hardened, but inanly hand, with a
slow uiotiun, at which the room was as hush
ed ns if it had Keen empty, closed his eyes in
reverence, andaskod a blowing There was
a little stool, on which.no ono sat, by the old
man's side. It had been put there unwitting
ly, w hen the other seats were all placed in
tlbeir usual order; but the golden head that
was wont to rise at that port of tho table
was now wanting. There was silence—not
a word was said—their meal wus before them
—God had becu thanked, and they began to
cat.
While they were at their silent meal a
horseman carno galloning to tho door, nnd,
with a loud voice, called out that he had
been sent exnrvss with a letter to Gilbert
Ainslie; at tne same time rudely, and with
an oath, demanding a dram for his trouble.
The eldest son. a lad or eighteen, fiercely
seised tho bridle of his horse and turned his
head away fr»m the door. The rider, some
what alarmed at the flushed face of the pow
erful stripling, threw down the letter and
rodo off. Gilbert took the letter from his
too'• hand, casting, at th« same time, a half
upbraiding look o« hia (ace, that was return
ing to its former Qolor. 441 feared said
the youth, with a tear in his ejra—I feared
that the brute's voice, and the trampling of <
the horse's feet, would bare disturbed her."
Gilbert held the letter heaitatingly in his <
hand, a* if afraid, at thnt'monentto read it;
at lenght, he aaiJ aloud to th« surgeon:
" You know that I um a poor man, and
debt, if justly incurred, and punctually paid
when due, is no dishonor." Both bis band
and his voice shook slightly as he spoke;
but he opened the letter from the lawyer,
and read it in silence. .At this moment his
wife came from her child's bedside,and look
ing anxiously at her hushand told biiu " not
to mind about the money, that no man who
knew him would arrest nil goods or put him
into prison. Though, desr me, it is cruel to
be put to it thus, when our bairn is dying,
ana when, if so it be thu Lord's will, she
should hare a decent burial, poor innocent,
like them that went bohrt tier." Gilbert
continued reading the letter with a face on
which no emotion could Ik> discovered; and
then, folding it up, bo gnro it to his wife,
told her she might mid it it ibe chose, and
then put it into his desk in tha room, beside
tho poor dcur bairn. Slu> took it from bim,
without reading it, and crashed it into her
bosom ; for sbo turned her Mr towards her
child, and thinking she heard it stir, run
out hastily to its bed-ffido.
Another hour of triul past, and tho child
was still swimming for its Iifo. Tho very
dogs know there was grief in tho house, and
lav without stirring, us if hiding themselves,
Iwlow the long table at tho window. One
sister sat with an unfinishcdi gown on her
knees, that slio had been suwitg tor the dcur
child, and still continued at tho hopeless
work, shoscarcely know why; and often,
often, putting up her hnnd to wipo away a
tear. " What is that?" said the old man to
hiseldest daughter : " Whutis that you are
laying on the shelf?" Sho could scarcely
reply that it was n ribbon and nr. ivory comb
that she had brought for lltlo Murgaret,
against tho night of thu danciig school ball.
And at these words tho father could not re
strain n long, deep, und hitler groan : at
which the boy, nearest in ago to his dying
sister, looked up weeping in his face, and let
ting tho tattered boor, of old ballads, which
he had l>ecn poring on, hut not reading, (all
out of his hands, ho rose from his scut, nnd,
going into his father's bosom, kissed him,
and usked God to bless ; for tho boly heart
of the Ik)V was moved within him ; and thu
old man, as he embraced him, felt that, in
his innocence and simplicity, ho was indeed
a comforter. •• The l/nd givcth, and the
Lord taketli away," «aid tho old uiun;
" blessed bo tlio iminoof the Loru.
The outor-door gently opened, and ho
whoso presenco Imd in ft.rtner yearn brought
Ecuco und resignation hither, when th»-ir
oi«rts had been tried, eicu as they now were
trial.stood before them. On tho night bo
fore thoSuhhuth, tho minister of Auehindown
never left his Manse, except, an now, to visit
the sick or dying. Scarcely could Gilbert
reply to bin iiret question about his child,
when tho Hurgoon eutno from tho bod-room,
and said,44 >Iurgnret seems lifted up by God's
hand above death and tlio gravo : I think
she will recover. She Ims fullcn asleep ; and
when she awakes, I hope—I believe— that
the danger will he past und that your child
will live."
They weroull prej«ared for death, but now
they were found unprepared for lifo. One
wopt that bud till then locked up all her
tear* within her hoart: another guvo a short,
palpitating shriek ; and tho tender-hearted
Isabel, who had nursed tho child when it
was a baby, fainted uwuv. Tho youngest
brother guvo way to gluasomo smiles, und
culling out his dog Hector, who used to sport
with him and his little sisteron tho moor, he
told tho tidiugs to tho dumb irrational crea
turo, whoso eyes, it is certain, sparkled with
a sort of joy. Tho clock, for souio dajrs, had
been prevented from striking tho hours, but"
the silent fingers pointed to tho hour of nine;
and that, in tho cottage of Gilbert Alnslio,
was tho statod hour of family worslup. His
own honored minister took tho book.
He waled a portion with judicious ctro:
And let us worship God, he aaid, with sol
emn air. A chapter was read—a prayer said;
—and so, too, was sung a paulm ; but it was
sung low, and with suppressed voices, lest
tho child's saving sleep might b« broken ;
and now and then the Icinalo voices trembled,
or soino of them ceased altogether ; for thcro
had btcn tribulation and anguish, and now
Impound faith wcru tried in the joy of thanks
giving.
The child still slept, and its sl<*p socmeil
more sound and deep. It appeared almost
certain that the crisis was over, and that the
flower was not to fado.
" Children," said Gilbert," oar happinoss
is in the love wo bear to ono another, and
our duty is in submitting to and serving God.
Gracious, indeed, has he been unto us. Is
not tho recovery of our little darling, danc
ing, singing Margaret, worth all the gold
tlmt ever was mined? If wo had thousands
of thousands, would wo not till up her grave
with the worthier* dross of gold, rather than
that she should have gone down there with
her sweet fact and all her rosy smiles? There
was no reply, but u joyful sobbing all over
tho room.
" Never mind tho letter nor the debt,
father, mud tho oldest daughter. We have
all some littlo thing of our own—a fow
pounds—and wo shall bo uhlo to raiso as
much as will keep arrest and prison at a dis
tance. Or ii they do tuko our furnituro out
of tho house, all except Murgaret's bed, who
earcs? We will sleep on tho floor; and
there are potatoes in the field, and clear
water in tho spring. We need fear nothing,
want nothing: blessed bo God for all his
mercies."
Gilbert wont into tho sick-room, nnd got
the letter from his wife, who was sitting .it
the head of tho bod, watching, with a heart
bleswd beyond all bliss, tho calm and regulur
breathings of her child. "This letter," said
ho, mildly, " Is not from a hard creditor.
Come with me while I read it aloud to our
children." The letter was read aloud, and
it was well fitted to diffuse pleasure and sat
isfaction through the dwelling of poverty.
It wu Irum ao executor ui mi win ui a uib
tiint relative, who bad led Gilbert Ainalio
1500/.
" The aum," aaid Gilbert, 11 is a large one
to follca like ua,but not, I hope, large enough
to turn our hcada,or niako ua thinkoureclvt-a
all lords and ladiea. It will do mora, far
more, than nut me fairly above the world at
liut. I believe that with it I may buy thia
rery farm on which my forefathers have toil
ed. But God, whoae Providence haa aent
thia tcmnoral bleaaing, may he aend wiadom
ind prudence bow to uae it, and humble and
gratelul hearta to ua all/'
" You will be able to aend me to school all
the year round, now, father," aiid tho young
tit boy. " And you may leave the flail to
four mm now, lather, ' the eldest.—
" You may hold the plough still, for you
iraw aatraighterfurrow than any of ui;
but hard work for young sinews; and you
nay ait now oftener in your arm-chair by the
ingle. You will not need to rise now in the
lark, cold and auowy winter mornings, and
keep thrashing eoro In the barn for hoars by
andle light, before the late dawning."
There was silence, gladness, and sorrow,
nnd but little sleep in Moss-side, between the
rising nnd setting of the stars, that were now
out in thousands, clear, bright and sparkling,
over the unclouded sky.. Those who had lain
down for an hour or two in bed could scarce
ly beftiid to hare slept; and when about
wonting little Margaret awoke, an altered
creature, pule, languid, and unable to turn
herself on her lowly bed, but with meaning
in her eyes, memory In her mind, affection
in her heart, and coolncM in all her veins, a
happy group were watching the first faint
smile tiiat broke over her features; and nov
er did one whe^stood there forget that Sub
bath morning, on which sho seemed to look
round upon them all with a gaze of fair and
sweet bewilderment, liko ono half conscious
of having been rescued from tho power the
grave.
Gambling and its Results.
Lo Marquis Angelo Foscarinl was the last
of his name ana title—on* aC tho .oldest
families in Naples. He had been travelling
lor his health for three years, when his
physicians recommended Deippe to him, ns
all other places had failed in restoring his
strength. This occurred in tho uiontn of
Jdy, somo fow years sinoo.
His daughter accompanied him ; the most
beautiful of Italy's daughters, where there
are so many competitors for tho prixo of
loveliness.
Olvmnia was an only child: yet the mar
quis had bocn married four times.
Devoured by ambition and pride, he could
not even from her conceal liis annoyance
about her sex; for now his name, which had
been handed down in tho direct lino for four
centuries, would perish with himself. IIo
would freely Imve given his immense fortuno
twice over,'his life, his child's life, ull, to
have popscsscd a son who would hand down
his namo to posterity.
At sixtv ho was tho widower of two Roman
ladies of high dcsccnt, and of a German prin
cess, nnd all three died without his wish
being accomplished. He was old now, nnd
worn by the intrigues of place and ambition,
lie felt himself going ; death stood before
him every moment more visibly, and to try
and conceal tho painful net from his view,
this last of tho Foscarinl en
gaieties and pleasures to crown
thesemblaneo of youth.
no raised around him a rampart 01 ae
bauchericfl, orgies, and gambling; lie flung
millions away, and when, by aceidcnt, a
thought of his child cauio across him, it won
in of Hpirifc.
'A woman! a woman!' ho cxclaimcd,
Clicro will always remain a sufficient for
tune for her, a child of eighteen? What
would sho do with all my palaces? Sho
would l»o frightened by. tho henj* of gold
which I had aecumuhited for u sun! On,
on, let us amueo ourselves while wo may. I
shall, perhaps, die to-morrow !'
Olvmpia knew why her father lired thus.
Ilo did not spare her tho knowlcdgo of why
ho was so reckless. Without pity towards
her, not caring for how much he pained her
heart, ho was constantly reproaching her as
tho rauso of all. Cursing her and her dead
mother, ho cured not how much sho, who so
tenderly loved him, beheld the unsightly
wounds of his ambitious heart; and when ho
caw her in team, his only resource was to
leavo her alone, to weep In tho bitterest ror
row a child might know, arising from a
father's cruelty. And yet Foscurini lovod
his daughter, not us a father should have
done,but as something belonging to himself—
as something Iwautiful, tho most exquisite
of his poMk-sbions, a handsamo pieco of furni
ture—nis own. This was tho reason why
he always kept her with him, made her
travel everywhere ho went, and refused her
hand in marriage to the wealthiest nobles of
Austria and Italy.
•Stay with me,' he said. 'I want to have
▼on near mo. You con marry when I'm
dead.'
When his feverish nights of excitement
had passed,hrokcn down and trembling from
a debauch of wino and gumbling, ho was in
tho habit of going to tho baths, or scoking
in tho wave a renewal of vigor to purauo an
cxistance capable of killing u strong man of
twenty, and yet ho was too unhappy to
relinquish tho excitement.
Ono day ho endeavored to Iwtho alone,
without his attendant, when tho tido wus
coming in ; but weaker than usual, ho was
carried away, and then flung in a fainting
fit upon tho beach. Tho next wave waa
taking him away to ccrtain destruction,
whon a young roan, who waa bathing, swain
to his senseless form, and bora him to land
in safety.
When Foscarini opened his eyes, ho turned
to thank tho ono who had saved him, and,
to his annoyance, recognized an officer from
Trabana whom ho had met at the haths of
Pyrmont and Vionna, and whoso assriduties
towards Olytupia had given him much un
earned*.
A few words of cold thanka and politeness
wcro exchanged, and the young German
aaked permiision to call sometimes at the
marquis' hotel.
Ho waa (rigidly told that ho might do
so.
At Iho end of a month the Marquis and
Stephen hud hcconio inseperoble.
Still madly in lovo with Olyuipia.tlie hitter,
won, however, to elevcr thin tluie to mani
fest it to openly on he had dono at Pyrmont.
llo allowed Fownrini to think that ho vriut
cared of his panion. lie upoko to Olvmpia
without trembling or turning ]<*le, an d with
perfect euito of manner, atldrwod h few com
monplaco compliments to her, to which she
replied in the same indifferent tone.
Quito blinded, thoold man, unsuspiciously
yielded himself into tho other's hand. He
made him hiicoaipanion and confident, and
raised the curtain neforo him which had con
cealed all his past life, and reveulcd tho hor
rors which had been hidden beneath the
splendor and garlands of hit fetes. Stephen,
however, know it already; Olympia had
concealed nothing from hire. For two whole
yean he had followed in tho track of Fos
curini and hut daughter. Thus Stephen
paned almost every night at tho marquis's,
and to meet his tastes, and,at the same time,
if possiblo, keep him from going among
strnngcrs, he became a seeming gambler, to
restrain the real one.
During a month he played away all the
money he possessed about him and all he
could borrow,and the more be lost, tho better
Foecarini loved him, for the marquis knew
no happiness bat in dice, no pleasure but in
winning.
But look changed.
The marquis bad a passion for a sort of loo i
called boulotte, which Stephen a fleeted to
like equally well. It bad already eoat him
ten thousand louis: when one evening he '
arrived at the marquis's half an hour earlier i
than usual, with the laat fifty loots be oould
command in the world, and firmly resolved I
that if be lost tbwa, bs would no longer oarry i
on the fearful gams be had been playing, but ]
at once throw off the muk of hypocrisy, and
demand Ojyinpia again in narmge from her
father, *ndeavor by other meant to win him
from hia love of gamblidg. If »he were
to refuse him, he felt all the deajjeration
would aeiso upon him which «u natural to
a young man like himaelf, who had vainly
•ought the one he loved ao long.
Foacarini and Stephen were mated opposite
to Mich other. At their loo table thore wan
a Parisian banker, an Engliah naval officer,
and two plan ten from the Havana. Strikes
wcro immense, Stephen commenced by len
louit, then ten more, again the samo and then
the samo. All were lost. He trembled.—
Foacarini laughed at the anallneaa of hia
•takes. With a hand which appeared in*
atinctively to draw hock, Stephen placed hia
hut ten louia before him; ho held three
dcucca in his hand, and gained a hundred
louis from the Pariaan banker.
At five in tbo morning ha bad won two
hundred thouaand piastrea.Uw banker eighty
four thousand, the nuval oftar twenty thou
sand, and the other two -jhore than thirty
thousand.
It was Foscarini who hud lost all that.
Tho gamblers drnuk u glass of punch, and
amicubly gavo each other rendevoua for the
evening.
Evening camc,and the play of tho ono pre
ceding had bocn that of a child in comparison
with it. Angelo Marnuis of Foacarini lost
all that ho posaesm.il—all his palaces at
Naples and Florence ; ull his villas at the
foot of Mount Vesuvius, and his property in
tho Campagna at Home; his gold, diamonds,
homw—ull.
Tho duy hroke through tho creviccs of tho
shutters; through tho doublo curtains the
daylight cast ita pale light, tho red glare of
which wo fancy an cmuuution from tho in
fernal roe ions.
Of tho six intrepid players, four of them
looked like statues. Tlie immense Iumcn of
their host, tho piles of money and I 0 L"h
placed beforo tlicm had petrified them. Only
two men therofound word* or movements.—
These were Foscarini and Stephen. Tho for
wns searching in nil his pockets for some
thing mora wherewith to gamble, und ho
found nothing. Never beforo had u man in
this world such a physiognomy as that ono
At hist ho advanced two flaming eyes closo
to tho other's fueo,and in a low voieo sccium!
to roll in hisltosom like distant aud threaten*
ing thunder, ho said—
'Monsieur,all that I possess is yours; what
those other gentlemen won is is u trifle, but
you—at thia present moment, you might say
to mo, 'Old man, learo my house!' '
'Marquis!' exclaimed Stephen.
•I/jt mo continuo ' tho other cried, inter
rupting him. 'Wo met at Pyruiont; at the
casino of Naples, also. Young man, do you
recollect that twice I told you that your at
tentions to my daughter wero displeasing to
mo?'
•But marquis '
'You loved my daughter then, and I had
tho right of showing you tho door. But you
loved her, did you not V
•Yes.'
'Do you lovo her still? Say, do you T
•I do. with my whole heart and soul!'
•Well, then, I'll stake her!'
At thoso horrible worJs all the other gam
blers started up, electrified and speechless ;
but with clasped hands raised to want Stephen,
and hy tho expression of their faces, implor
ing him to refuso. But ho? A flash of
heavenly joy lit up his countenanco. lie
endeavored to clasp the hand of tho marquis,
but ho wss coldly pushed Iwck ; and seeing
that play had made a mortal enemy of that
man, ho drow himself up with a nobility of
feeling, to which his antagoniit was a stran
ger, and said in a solemn tone:
•Marquis, if you will accept mo for your
son-in-law hers* beforo these gentlemen, on
my knees I implore you to tako Iwck all you
havo lost. But I fear it will bo useless hop
ing—'
•Perfectly !' replied the Marquis, in a ton®
of n»c«.
•Well, then,* answered Stephen, coldly;
'I accept your proposal;'tis fur you to 6x
what I shall lose if you win.'
Tho s|»ectutors uttered a cry of horror.
Foscarini looked at them, from ono to
tho other with a suiilo of contempt, and re
plied to Stephen's last words with—
•Whatever you please.'
There was a terrible pans".
•I play your daughter,' said the young
officer of Trebane, 'against all that I possess,
both hero and at home, against my paternal
inheritance, my name, my position, honor—
all!'
* Tit well,' replied tho marquu, and he
flung three card* on tho table.
They were three neot.
Stephen, without looking at hi* own, turn*
ed thorn up.
They were three Jten*, and tho fourth of
that number oIho.
•Four tens!' cxclaitned the naval officer,
in terror.
•Four tens!' reepondod the two planters
and tho Pariaian bunker. And a« all (ore
ftiw some fearful catastrophe, they picked up
their liata, collected their winning*, aud
prepared to depart; hut a* they were raying
good*hye to the marquU, tho ruthlcM gam
blew even were affected by tho countenance
of tho father who had loat hia child, whoae
fiioe waa bathed in taara; that millionaire,
who waa reduced to beggary, aeemed to uak
mcrcy of tho young uiuu who had wun
all.
•Marquis Foscarini,' exclaimed Stephen,
ndvancingHowards him, and speaking in a
trembling voice, 'thin in a horrible dreuui;
jrou Iiuto lout nothing, I have gained noth
mg!'
'I have lost nothing?' cried the old man,
with hitternem; 'auk thoso who have gone
away laden with gold if I havo lost nothing!
If iiiv countenance and my tears say tlmt,
inv fiico and tears lie!'
Thus saying, he disappeared before anyone
could stop him. Shortly afterwardsStephen
found himself alone in the apartment.
It was eloven in the morning.
The young officer picked untho papers,
th«> engagements,and the I 0 U's scattered
about, and flung them into the# fire. lie
wrote to tell Olympia what hod passed, and
th«:n he quitted the hotel.
Fifty stent from it be saw a crowd of
people advancing. On a litter the? were
carrying a who had juft been taken out
of tbe water.
It was Foeoarini. He bad been aaved in
time to preserve life.
Eight days aft-rwards Stephen, at mid*
ntght, entered his own apartment, and was
informed that two persons were then awaiting
fits return op stain. They wen Foeoarini
ind bis daugn er.
•My visit at tbia hour surprises you^loabt
ess, monsieur,' Mid tbe marquis alowly;
nevertheless, sooo or late, it «u neceaary
.hat I should oome. I all here to redeem
ny engagement. Yon have woo my daugb
er. bersebe is. I bring ber to you. I have]
ised no force to accomplish it; she has fol-l
amd me willingly. Is it not so Olympia?
lie aakod thU with a bitter imile, and
then continued—
*1 have now no daughter; but jou have
not a wife jet,Monsieur Stephen. 1 will never
acknowledeo you aa my aon-in-law. You
aro not noble enough lor that. Olymj ia
can never be your wife until after my death;
never theloae, she ia youra. You eeo Ui<m,
monaieur, whether there remaina anything
to play for!'
Ana while thoae gloomy worda led the
two lovm petrified, with the feeling of lm«
pending evil, in the midat of the room, be
quietly abut the door, and placed the key ia
hia pocket.
•My revenge, then,' he cried, in a low
voice, taking two piatoia from hia boeom.—
•See, they are both unloaded, and pain. I
will charge ono. and you ahall have the firet
choico. If I kill you, my daughter will be
mine; if you kill me, Olympia will be free,
and then ahe can baal judge whether her
father'a aaaaaain can become her huaband !'
•If you take one atep forward—if you
utter a cry,' exclaimed the oxaaparatad old
man, 'I will diecharge the nlatol at her!'
And oa be apoke, no pointed tho weapon
he had charged, while apeaking, at ner
head.
Stephen, in terror and agony for one he
loved, dropped into a neat. Foimirini,with
out ixtying tho alighteat attention to hia
chllu, who fell aenHelewt on tho floor, pro
aented the two piatoia to Stephen, which he
had placed toother for an inatant, chang
ing them behind hia lack.
•Firo, or ahe ahall (all the victim!' cried
Foecarini, holding a corner of a handkerchief
to hiaantagoniat.
Ignorant of whoee weapon contained the
ball, Stephen groaped hia. The two went off
at tho Kline moment. It waa Stephen again
who waa vfctorioua!
A Domocrat at tbo Confossional.
The Cleveland Plain Dealrr tin a two Edi
torn Grays—ono of them in u 'Deacon,' the
other—isn't. Tho 'Dcacon' attended the
meclingof tho sympathisers with the Harper'*
Ferry TicUmi,—down at Jefferson tho other
day,—a« a reporter for the Plain Dialer.—
Knowing the Deacon's weakness wan to make
himself agreeable to tlio comjiany ho wiu in,
an Ashtabula 'Son of Liberty,' of tho 'peeled
stick brigade,' called Gray out (or a specch.
This was after speeches had been tnude by
Kedpath, John Brown, Jr., Owen Drown and
Coppic. The Jefferson Sentinel reports tho
specch of tho 'Deacon' Editor of tho Demo
emtio, Fugitive Law, Drcd Scot paper, m
follows:
Ho (the 'Deacon,') could not believe, aflcr
the courtesy ho had met in Jefferson, that
this audicnco had called him out for tho pur
they would know that ho wan not so far in
feeling from any of them, oh they might
think. Ho had nothing to object to in tho
remarks of John Drown, or in tho quaint,
odd speech of Owen, and although ha could
not endorse the position of Mr. Kedpath, ho
had no quarrel with him. He would not
make a speech, but asked to bo let off by
telling a story. They might know that thero
were two Grays—J. W. Gray of tho Plain
Dealer, and himself, or Deacon Gray, as
prople called hitu. [laughter.] Ho (tbo
speaker, was onco a deacon of tho Pn-shyte
rian Churrh at Pittsburg. Ono day ho saw
a negro limping along, und a white man fol
lowing with a drawn revolver in his hand.
Now, said tho sneaker, mind you, I'm not
talking of my theories but Practice. [Laugh
ter.] This negro was a fugitive, who had
onco before csuapod into Pennsylvania, but
had been followed, shot down and taken
Itaek. This was tho second time bo had been
captured. These two men—black and whito
—were crossing a covered bridgo at tho end
of which was tbo Presbyterian Church. As
the negro was somewhat ahead, ho (the dea
con) managed to push him into the chnrch
door, at which tho Sexton happened to be
standing. They then locked the door and
ran tho negro up the steeple, and there they
looked down upon the slaveholder, who was
Sawing about in «U directions, in trying to
ind whero tho nrgro had gone to.
The Sentinel says three cheers wrru given
for Gray's Democratic practice.
Tliis speech was wonderfully well received.
Tho Deacon's humorous style of telling th«
story and his cool confession of practical hy
pocrisy were inimitable in their way.
John Drown, Jr., ruse and usked Mr.
Gray it he would be willing to answer a
question.
The whole audienoc l*oan>o still, and ilia
Deacon roso with rnther uneasj and decidcd*
Ijr serious face, and mid—certainlr.
John llruwn, Jr.—'Well, sir, let me ask
ton if you did not feel nearer Heaven when
vou wero up in that steeple with the. negro
than whilo standing on the Cincinnati plat*
fonu V
Tho Den con dropped ai if lie had been
shot through the heart, and the whole
uudienco rose nfM cheered.
From lb« DauUl lUfttUr.
The Human Tooth.
[This uliort paper has been prepared in fur
therance of the tlews expressed by the editor
of the Register in a previous issue, and il ex.
prcsaly designed for poblieation in the newspa
|>er press, and therefore, for non-professional
readers ouly.]
" OA that I had ailtndtd to my tttth btfort it
teat loolalt."
How many time* him Uiia, or aimilar ex
pmauona, bo?u uttered, and with what cam
Mtncm? You, young fanner or farmer'*
daughter, how often when in young compa
ny, luivo you avoided a hearty laugh for ftwr
of eipoaing your decayed teeth or toothleaa
gunia; how your pride haa been touched,
and your pleaaurca marred from thia cauao?
Now you begin to appreciate the cflucta of
the dc«ay or loai of your teeth, bat only in
odo particular—that of rour peraonal'ap
pearance. But let ua look farther, and aeo
what eyila follow, aa decay progrteaee, the ut
terance ia cliangod; you ioee the eipnaaion
and emphaaia, aud the full tone of the natu
ral voice; and atill more, aa you advance in
lifo, your digeation become* impaired, in
cooaequence of your inability to properly
maaticate the food for the atomach, and then
followa tho train of evib attendant on "dya
praaia."
To epitomiee,—the decay aad aubeequeat
loaa of Um teeth involve*,
lit.—A foal mouth—diaagraeable inap
pearanoe, and a coneUnt eource of aanoj
ance to ourielvea and tboaa around ua.
2d.—An impaired utterance—the loaa of
that peouliar quality, the full roond ringing
tone which iaeo attractive and the chief
beauty and diatinguiahiog trait of tba hu
man yolea. . ^ ...
8d.—The labor nod pain ia attempta to
maatK" the food<—ito imperfect prepara
tion for the atomach the dlgeetlve orgaoa
overtaxed, reeulting ia todigwtioo with a
foul etomaoh aad braath, and a boat of evfla.