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Marshall County Democrat. (Plymouth, Ind.) 1855-1859, April 10, 1856, Image 1

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THE BLESSINGS OF GOVERNMENT, LIKE THE DEWS OF HEAVEN, SHOULD FALL ALIKE UPON THE RICH AND THE POOR JACKSON.
VOL. 1,
PLYMOUTH, IND:, APRIL 10, 1856.
NO. 22.
1
t
4
i
business iiircttorii.
-
Bushics? Cards not exceeding three lines, inser
ted under i "s head, at 1 per annuni.-
Persons advertising in the "Democrat" by the
vear, will be entitled to a Card ia the Business Di
rectory, without additional charge.
UTarsball (lounti) Democrat
JOB PRINTING OFFICE.
We have on hand an extensive assortment of
JOB "5T iE 33 ,
And are prepared to execute
JOB l.D F.l.WT PBIXTIXG!
Of every description and qunhty, sucli as
CIRCULARS,
HANDBILLS,
LABELS,
CATALOGUES,
PAMPHLETS,
BUSINESS CARDS,
BLANK DEEDS 4
mortgages;
And in short, Blank of every variety an 1 descrip
tion, on the shortest notice, & on reasonable term.-
-pLY.MOUTII
BANNER, BY W. J. BURNS.
Plvmouth, Ind.
BROWNLKE k SHIRLEY, DEALERS IN
Drv (woixls and Groceries, itrst door e.st of
Michigan street, Plymouth, Ind.
BROOK i EVANS DEALERS IX DRY
Goods and Croc lies, corner Michigan and
La Porte streets, Plymouth, lad.
rl PALMER, DEALER IN" DRY GOODS &
. fJrofffics. south comer La Porte and Mich
igan streets,.
. .Plymouth, Ind.
7VT IL OGLES HER k Co.. DEALERS IN
1 l - Drv Good: &. Groceries, Brick Store Mich-
igan street,. ,
I iv mom n, inu
TOIIX COUGLE, DEALER IN DRY GOODS
and Groceries.corner of Michigan and Gano
Hre
, l mnouiii, in I.
WESTERVELT HEW IT, DEALERS
in Dry Goods & Groceries, Plymouth, Ind.
Ci s.
X.
S. CLEAVELAND, DEALER IN DRY
ools, Hardware, etc... . Plymouth, Ind.
M
RS. DUNHAM, MILLINER & MANTUA
Miker, Plymouth, Ind.
R O W N & I) A X T E R, DEALERS IN
Stove, Tinware, &c, Plymouth, Ind.
" R7PERSniNG "k Co., DEALERS IN
H
Drugs and Medicines,. . Plymouth, Ind.
A DAM VI
Retail G
V I NN E DG E. WHOLESALE
rocer,
Plymouth, In 1. j
R
RUSK, DEALER
Provisions,
IN GROCERIES &
Plvmouth, lud.
TW. DAVIS, SADDLE AND HARNE?
. Maker, Plymouth, Ind.
RES BU.DWIN,
MANUEACTUR ER
.Plvmouth, Ind.
of Boots & Shoes,. . .
W
M. I.. PIA TT, MANUFACTURER Ol
Cabinet Ware, ...Plymouth, Ind.
S
LUYTER .V FRANCIS, HOUSE CAR PEN
tPTik Joiners Plymouth, Ind.
ir. SMITH. JUSTICE OF THE PEACE,
Wt-st side Miehigan M., Plymouth. Ind.
"HTILLIOTT k Co., MANEEACTERERS OF!
jjjj Wagon, Carriages- & Plows, PI mouth, Ind.
c
10LLINS & NICHOLS M A NU I' A ('TUR -
ersof Sash &e Plvmouth. Ind.
B
A
ENJ. BENTS, BLACKSMITH,
Ph mouth, Ind.
K. BRIGGS, B LA C KS M IT 1 1,
Plvmouth. Iivl,
jT" AGUERREo'i'YPES, BY J. E. ARM-
j STRONG, Plymouth, Ind
LOON, BY M. ILTIBIUTS,
Plvni'utli, Inl.
A
M ERIC AN HOUSE,
BY G. P. CHERRY
Plvni'Mitli, Iiul.
)
ITiDWARDS' HOTEL, BY W.U. EDWARDS,
2i Plymouth, Ind.
A C. CAPRON, ATTORNEY & COUN
Felor at Liw, Plymouth, Ind.
HASH."reTwe7 ATT()RNE.Y AT LAW I
Notary Public Plymouth. In.l. j
GRACE CORBIN, ATTORNEY AT LAW
P! i:i i:l'i, lud.
riODGES & PORTER, ATTORNEYS AT '
g J LAW, Plvni'iuth, In 1.
" . " i
SAMU C,"!,iA,-KY SKf!'
D.
IjliU .M, li..N J.W.I, ;Oli. 1
Plymouth, Ind.
'SIC I AN, SU
rTIHEO. A. LEMON, PHYSICIAN, SUR-
X fl EON k Druggist,.
.Plymouth, Ind.
UFUS BROWN, PHYSICIAN & SUR-
GLON, Plvmouth, Ind.
i If IGG IN ROTH AM, PHYSICIAN & SUR-
o. ;e"n
.Plymouth, Ind.
TT W. BENNET, PHYSI CIA N & SUU-
GEON, Plymouth, Ind.
TT D. GRAY, Eclectic Physician,
Plvmouth, Ind.
LINT. EIL & BRO. DEALERS IN LUMBER
etc, Plymouth, Ind.
IT PATTERSON, DHALKIl IN VA-
rious kinds of Meat, Plymouth, Ind.
T I VERY STABLE BY WM. M PATTER-
S'jn, Plymouth, Iiul.
AUSTIN FUMJ
And dealer in Fl
FELLER, MANUFACTURER
our Plymouth. Ind.
HENRY M. LOGAN & Co., DEALERS IN
Lumber, kc. . . Plymouth, Inl.
TT OS EPH POTTER, SADDLE k HARNESS
CV MaUr Plymouth, ln!.
AMERICAN
Son, Proprie
HOUSE, G. P. CHERRY k
netors, Plymouth, Inr.
BAR BERING AND HAIR DRESSING, BY
Alfred Billows, Plymouth, lud.
MITCHELL k WILCOX, MANUFACTU
rera of Plows, kc, Plymouth, Iul
BLANK DEEDS AMD MORTGAGES!
We now have a good supply of Blank Deeds und
Mortgage?, of an approved form printed in the
Irst ftyle of the art, on tine white folio tost, and
Tor sale atone dollar per quire, or five cents single
ALSO, BLANK NOTES Oil HAND,
an 1 printed to order on short notice. Justices
MnVn printed toord(r,and on reasonable terms at j
TmsOrncc
SHANGHAI HEN LINDEN.
A serio-tragic poem relatin g to IIo lien Linden.
Sacred to the memory of its Hero, whom may the
fates speedily transfer to immortality:
DEDICATED TO MRS I. GROCER.
And generally supposed to be written by
THE AUTHOR.
"Ddenda est Carthago"
In Sing Sing when the sun was low,
Not many hundred years ago,
A mighty Shanghai's awful crow.
Broke oa the deep tranquillity.'
But Sing Sing saw another sight,
When the rooster rose at dt a 1 of night,
To exterminate in deadly fight,
His long leg'd Shanghai majesty.
Then rushed the battle's dreadful title
Then flew the feathers far and wide
But louder than all else beside
The Shanghai crowed triumphantly.
la gown and night cap all arrayed,
The neighborhood awoke dismayed,
Cursed the unusual serenade.
In terms of great severity.
Each sleeper started from his bed,
An 1 wished the noisy rascal dead,
And muttered vengeance on his head
With deep heartfelt sincerity.
The combat deepens! On ye brave!
Devote that Shanghai to the grave!
Wave, roosters, all thy feathers wave!
And crow with all thy deviltry!
The battle's ended. Now once more
'Ilie neighbors slumber as before,
And thanks arise to heaven o'er
The downfall of the cnemv.
'Tis morn but scarce the lark's high note
O'er hill anl dale begins to float.
Ere that infernal Shanghai's throat
Pours forth its dread artillery.
But longer yet those legs will prow,
If fate lays 'not the monster low,
And louder yet the wretch will crow,
Uu'ess death seals his destiny.
Ah! few would mourn, nr many weep,
If some dark hole's si-cure retreat,
About two hundred fathom deep,
Would be that Shanghai's supulcher.
THE OLD P4ST0R.
II was an old man. A verv old man. i
Not ,hat lC ;a:i iud up so manv years.
x- ..1 . l
Not that 110 manv winters and summers
had passed over him not that he seen so
, , - . , n history of Doctor Philip inslow. The
manv changing suns, and winter constella-1 1
t. i , r i 4m ..old man, I think, never knew that I had
tions. l or it has been often said, until it;
i i . . .i . ,i i heard it; and after I had become acquaint-
has become a tnie saying, that tune in the j . . . 1
iv f A . 'i l l .i ed with it, I could appreciate a great many
life of man is not to be measured by the j . . jl. v
! i i . . e i i quiet things that he said, and many more
dial, or by events out of his own immedi- , 3
ate experience. Prom very childhood hej
counts on days as the dates of jys and sor-1
rows, and eagerl v hastens forward or shrinks i
back from a coming hour.
Doctor Winslow had been an old man
i ever since I had known him, and that is
; more vears than I will here acknowledge.
; Older men than I have said the same thing;
; and I have sometimes puzzled myself with
; the effort to add up the years of Iiis life
i and give the sum of them. That he was
vci eighty, there can be no doubt; and yet
his voice was clear, his eyes were not in
any manner dimmed his whole aspect, ex
cept at particular times, was that of a stout,
strong man.
He was of medium heighth for a man
not tall, nor yet shoit, not thin nor yet
very heavy, not quick in his movements,
ii'.'-r was he feeble or slow. He was very
deliberate in all that he said ar.d did, with
only one exception, which was this:
Whe:: in the pulpit, on Sunday he was a
different man from anv other day. Then
all was activity, eloquence, fervor. His
1
whole soul was m the work of the dav, and
- '- Kko a client U.iS. He r,d
j the morning chapter with a full, sonorous
j voice. He gave out the psalms, and lie
j.sang them too, wkh fervor. But when he
opened his Bible and lifted his eyes for a
moment for help from Heaven, and then
proceeded to expound the passage he had
selected, he wanned up, ard his words
glowed, and his hearers were carried away
with his simple, fervid, and yet grand ut
terance. His parsonage, (it was I113 own; the
church built him one, but he used his own
house) was the perfection of simple com
fort. His library, it was a luxury to enter.
All the fathers looked out from oak shelves,
and all the learning of all ages was there
with him. Many a rare old volume that it
would please an antiquary or a book collect
or to pay a small fortune for, was there,
in the quiet and unpretending collection of
the village pastor. He had no mania for
old books, but he loved them, and he loved
to take one in hand that ho had never saw
lefore, and sit down for an hour and talk
wilh the author, long sinco dead and for
gotten. But the social qualities of tho Doctor
were Iiis most w inning. Where ho receiv
ed his doctorate I did not for a long time
know, as there was no manifest inducement
to any college to confer it; for there was
no money, and there were no students like
ly to come from our village, and we all know
that one or the other of these expectations
is ordinarily necessary to lead a college
board to confer a degree. But I learned,
at length, that it was one of the oldest in
stitutions in the country, which, for once,
et 1. ,1 1 t . V a m
"u lo nonor talent and learning, and
,na astonished the pa-itor in hi quiet vI-
läge home with the official letter that an
nounced to him that they had seen fit to
recommend him to the -world as fitted to
teach the mysteries of sacred theology.
But in the library every person in his con
gregation loved" to pass an hour with the
clergyman; old and young alike found him
their companion and friend. I think he
best liked the presence of the young; and
! he would sit for hours among them, tell
ing quaint old stories, or personal recollect
ions, or curious things he had picked up in
his reading, and thev never tired of listen
in" to him.
He was a widower, but no one knew his
wife. He had been the pastor of that
church for forty year-1, but no one had ev
er heard him name her. He came there a
man of middle age. They asked him if he
were married, and he replied that he was a
widower. That was the only time it was ever
spoken of. He had ministered to them for
I a leng time; he had baptized their children
and buried their fathers; lie had married
their young maidens, had counseled their
j erring sons, had been father, brother, friend,
in joy and and sorrow; had been the con-
stant, steadfast visitor in days of affliction;
had watched with them many nights of ag-; jp when he was at home, and seeing only
ony; had pointed them often to the far off! so much company as formality required,
heaven, where alone there was rest and j She was one who, while living in a busy,
peace for even the dwellers of that peace-j active world, was actually a denizen of an
ful village, and yet no one had penetrated ! uther life, and was no more one of us than
the old man's soul or knew from what
fountain in his own breast he drew those
consolations which experience alone can
supply.
Men laugh at love. Men sneer at human
affection. Well, let them laugh, let them
sneer. Theie are hours in the experience
of every man, when he longs for the in
folding of a woman's arms, for the kisses
of a woman's lips, for the soothing of a
woman's voice, with unutterable longings,
Wait for that hour. Do not attempt to ar-
gue with the poor fool of the world, who,
v -ot-
.
A 13 ne':eft5ar 10 relate me manner
t. .
! m Avll,ch 1 lime acquainted with the early
that he did.
i could understand his long evenings in
the still moonlight, his lonesome walks
along the banks of the river, his smiles
while he sat thinking, his pauses in pray
ci when h3 spoke ofteunions of the other
world. Doubtless the starlight of Iiis youno
love had been steadfastly shining through
all the twilight years of his life.
The first passage in his early life that I J
shall refer to is a letter.
'Never again, Philip, never again. My
hand does not tremble as I write it, my
heart does not beat one pulsation faster for
this last letter. Although this is the end
of many pleasant hopes, many brilliant an
ticipations, et I am very calm in saying
that it must bo the end. I do not love you.
That is all the story. Do not seek to
I change my resolution. You will fail, and
but increase tho pain of this final separa
tion. So good-bye, now forever, Philip
Winslow, think no more of Mary Pierson."
He read it over a second time, but it was
the same cool, deliberate, final answer.
He studil to extract, if it were possible,
some other meaning out of the brief sen
tences. But he failed in that. He exam
ined the writing to see if there might not
be some hesitation in the penmanship, some
indication of vacillating thought, uncertain
decision, but he found nothing of the sort;
every letter was the familiar, firm hand
that he knew of old every curve was reg
ular, every dot and cross was in its proper
place.
There was one word on which he paus
ed long. It was the word 'pain What
did she mean by that? Was it of herself
she spoke or of him? Was it painful to her
thus to dimiss him, because she thought
he would suffer, and she did not wish to
give pain even to a worm; or was there no
such feeling whatever, but only the convic
tion that ho would suffer, and no care on her
part whether he did or not?
Whatever it was, it was vain for him to
seek any evidence of a willingness on the
part of Mary Pierson to be sued for anv
change of purpose. He knew her heart
the inheritance from a stern old father of
revolutionary times, which was as firm as
a rock in its determinations and he yield
ed, though it was like yielding life-blood
to the knife, for she was of noble nature,
and one from w hom it was terrible to part.
For fifteen years ho had loved her with
abounding love. They wero children to
gether, had gi own up together, had he
believed it in his heart of hearts loved
each other all that time. Not all her assev
erations could convince him that she. had
not loved him for those years; and on calm
reflection ho was satisfied even now, that
siicdid not know herself, and that she lov
ed him now. Ho even smi'cd now when
he read her letter again, and taw how cool;
ly she said she did not love him. His
smile became bitter when he reflected that
she was just as determined, and that even
a knowledge of her own heart would never
serve to effect a change of resolution in that
stern woman. I have used the expression
'stern woman,' for though exceedingly beau
tiful, and young almost to girlhood, yet
she had all the dignity and severity of a full
grown and experienced womanhood. It was
the peculiarity of her nature which distin
guished her from all others and none knew
it better than he.
She was the daughter of an old soldier,
and was educated to old ideas and old ways.
Born of a wealthy and honored family, she
was the admiration of the country, but she
was not-the admiration o"f the young men
in the country. She was too cold, too far
above them, too distant, and unapproacha
bb. She never mingled in their merry
makings, never danced at their balls, seldom
, joined their winter assemblies. She lived
j constantly with her father, surrounded by
i books and music, in the old house among
the pities, taking lie- daily ride on horse
back, accompanied by an old servant when
! Philip Winslow was at college, or by Phil-
the inhabitant of a star might be supposed
to be.
She was a strange. person altogether, and
yet very lovely. Her soul was full of fresh
outgushing feelings that she did not seek to
o o o
restrain. Had you seen her in company,
in her own drawing-room receiving her
guests at the hour of morning calls, or in
, the evening among the gay, most splendidly
j attired, sweeping through the crowd with
all the majesty of a queen, you would have
said she was a cold, haughty beauty, the
creature of fashion and society, the automa-
( lou OI iae sunesi ruies ot social me. um
j a seen lier by the lire ot the library
in the o hi nriee when l'bi in Wins oav sat
m mt um j.mu, hiru i miiji uimou fc.u
j by her side and her father dozed in his large
chair, with his claret bottle close to his hand,
you would have called her tire impersona
tion of mirth and loveliness, of ease and
gentle beauty.
But she dismissed Philip Winslow. And
why?
She said it was because she did not love
him.
He said it was because she did not
know herself. It happened on this wise:
There was a dinnerparty at the old place,
known to the country, from the grove in
which the house stood, as 'The Pines.'
The Colonel's dinner invitations were bv no
means to be declined. He did, it is true,
invito a large majority of bachelors, and
there was danger of a seiious headache the
I next morning to any one who did not follow
Mary very early from the dining room; but
the Colonel's aiisinc was perfect and his
cellar had warm spots to ripen the Lalitte,
and cool spots to make the Chambertin de
licious, and withal there was always wit,
intelligence and humor at his table; and,
above all, there was a beauty at its head,
that men might go across oceans but once to
look at, and be satisfied.
After one of these dinnerparties, when
Mary had left very early, and the gentlemen
were at the table still, Philip Winslow fol
lowed her up the staircase, and when she
was in the drawing room, and before she
had rung for lights, ho was at her side and
led her to a window, in tho deep seat of
which he placed her and took Iiis place at
her side.
Mary, I wished to see you to-nightbefore
that crowd of fools comes up.'
You are complimentary to cur guests.'
'I hav 'nt time to talk of that. I am go
ing away to-morrow, or tho next day, to be
gone one, two or three years. I know not
how long. I cannot go without without
without
Without what, Philip?'
Wc have been friends very long, Mary.'
Many years.'
Can wc ever be moro than friends?'
She looked into his face. It was very
dark; but Iiis eyes were fixed on hers. She
knew that. He was close by her. She felt
his 1 load bend down to 1 lOrS. IIlü rdn"ol.-
tfOlolwwl lmr flwi'L' Hit hid 4vii.linl il
.-.üi. .u.V. V . I 1 V '. 1 ,, tl
thousand times before just so, but she nev
er before- trembled as she did now. She
was silent; his arm stole slowly around
her, and yet (she was silent; h drew her to
his side, he kissed her forehead, her cheek,
her lips, but she did not kiss him or notice
it all.
She was thinking a flood of thought was
pouring through her soul. It might have
boon one, two, threo minutes, or not so
many seconds, while they sat thus, and
then a servant's step on tho stair aroused
them, and so they separated.
Neither was satisfied. He knew her too
well to suppose she was conscious of his
caresses, and she, though she remember
ed them, was unable to satisfy herself that
bho loved him or should longer permit
the Iii,
He did not go the next day. They
rode together as usual, and he renew
ed the conversation. She was prepared for
it.
In vain did he argue, and beseech, and
implore. Her mind was fixed, she did
not love him except as the dear friend of
many years. She would be kind to him
and would love him, just the same al
ways, but he must not ask for anything
more.
That evening he wrote to her a long,
mad letter, full of all his love, and ended
all with saying that he could not be her
friend; he must be her husband, or never
see her again on this earth. There was no
other future for him, and he left her to
pronounce the decree of their eternal sep
aration. And it came in the letter from which I
have given the extract.
lie was the son of the village clergvman
a poor man, but one of the excellent of
the earth, and the fast friend of Colonel
Pierson from youth. Some said they were
natives of the same village on Long Is
land, and they certainly had been boys to
gether at school. Philip had no prospects
but his intellect, and no future except such
as he was to carve out for himself.
The Colonel had never viewed his inti
macy with Mary with any dislike, and it
would have been the pleasantest day of his
life, that on which he should give his
daughter to the son of his friend.
But be it said without reproaching her,
and let no one form an evil opinion of her
for it there was in the heart of Mary Pier
son a great ambition, which she had never
confessed to herself, and none else ever
dreamed of. In her silent hours of thought
she was given to building castles in the air,
such as fe;v maidens build. It was not of
beauty and its power, or of the homage it
could command, that she dreamed. It was
not of wealth and magnificence, nor of any
of the ordinary limits of female desire.
j But she looked to the power of a queen.
She was not content with the life of a lov-
ing woman, reigning in one heart and one j voice, and yet she could not place it. She
circle, nor yet with the realm of beauty and; had heard one like it. The service pro
wealth, which were all her own. But se- ceeded, and she sat in the corner of the
cretly, unknown even to herself, she was
filling her brain with pictures of the most
unsubstantial sort, and wasting the present
and its joys in fancies about what could
never be realized.
I do not wish to be understood as saying
that she indulged herself in any fixed plans
or thoughts of such a future. I wish dis
tinctly to explain that all these thoughts
were but unbidden fancies, which had their
day and vanished, to be succeeded by others
,1 It 1 II I .11111 11 11 I IM I .11111 I ll.l I N I II I IIIUII
.
came. Her error was in not forbidding
them. Many who read this will understand
what I mean, and how with all these strange
fancies forming the under-current of her
thoughts and life, she was nevertheless a
very gentle, very lovely woman.
But she rejected Philip Winslow, and it
was because she thought she did not love
him. She would not have believed any
one who told her that she had looked on
her love for him calmly and steadily, and
weighed it in her ecret soul against those
wild lancies and ambitious views; and vet
'
she did just so, and she could not strive as
she would, she could not believe that she
loved him well enough to be his humble!
wife.
For to-day, for to-morrow, for this little
while just before her it would be delicious.
She almost sprang into his arms as she
thought of it. But after that, and for a long
life just the calm, steadfast life of hisjst0od, and he bowed politely. The elder
wife and nothing more she could not be
lieve that was her destiny.
But enough with motives and let uspro
ceed with our story.
The week after that letter was written
Philip Winslow was on the sea. Here are
extracts irom iwo letters, written a year
later:
Has a year produced any change? It
is vain to conceal the simple truth from
you, Mary, that I am miserable lonesome
without the hope of your love, and I do not
see before me one spot so bright as the light
that shines through my grave. I have be
lieved that you loved me. I have convinced
myself that I cannot be mistaken. 1 have
hoped against all your calm assurances.
And now, once more, and for the last time,
I come and ask for love. Give! give! or I
perish!'
Her reply:
I said forever Philip, and it must bo so.
You are right in believing that I love you.
I was wrong in saying that I did not love
you. But I do not love you as jou wish.
We can never be more than friends. For
give me, Philip, if I sadden you again.
You would not let it rest as it was. It
must ever be so. Seek no further to change
me; look for no change in me. I have
searched my heart through for you, care
fully, faithfully. I have removed myself
out of myself for the sake of looking at my
soul, and Philip, it must be; it must be! I
do not even weep on this page in writing
it, so cold m I in all this. And when I!
know that pain is wringing your heart, my
own beats steadily as before. God keep
you, Philip. Good bye.'
Let us pass over a spaco of six years
that followed the date of the last letter.
It h the afternoon of an August Sun
day in one of the most quiet, and retired
portions, of Count y, among the
Highlands. The day had been oppress
ively warm, and th3 air is sultry, giv
ing indications of the coming of thunder
storms. The little church of stood at the
very entrance of the mountain glen, where
the brook, after dashing down rocks for half
a -mile, flows peacefully out into the mead
ow lands.
The church stands among trees, which
shade the peaceful groves that aic around
it, and which darken the windows even at
mid-day, so thick and heavy is their foliage.
The building itself U old. The oak tim- i
bers that were never covered nor painted, j
are sowewhat worm-eaten, but very curious J
and ancient in appearance, and the entire:
aspectof the interior of the church is that of
old times.
In one of tho large square pews, around
which arc curtains that exclude the vision
of neighbors and even of the clergvman
himself.two ladies, strangers in the village-
sitting with bowed heads, waiting the com-
mencement of the afternoon service. The
village has been not unfrequently the re-
sort of invalids from tho citv, and one
of j
these ladies is of this class. The other her
niece, a young and very beautiful woman,
in the perfection of health, has accompan
ied her for the sake of companionship.
There was a srtange fascination to the
younger lady in the voice of the clergyman.
It was singularly musical in the ears of the
stranger, but to her there was something
more than she could describe in its power.
At the first sound of his voice she sprang
from her seat and looked toward him. But
he obscurity of the coming storm darken-
e-a me cnurcn, nnu sne sou gin in vain to i
recognise his features. It was a familiar i
pew and buried her face in her hands, and
seemed to be sleeping.
But she was not sleeping. There was a
tempest in the mind of the proud and ele
gant lady sitting in the little up-country
church, her face hidden from her compan
ion. xnesermon was on tne pomp ana vanity
of the world. It was strange to hear the
TM . ,1 , .
j y ung clergyman preaching on such a sub-
ject to his little congregation in that retir-
'II ' 1
cavilIagCi im lcmptatwll3 nad thcjhapsitwasswliiah. Perhaps he felt that
.i i. .. i i .1 ' .
world to such villagers and livers among
the hills. If they ascended the highest
peak of the mountains, they could but dim-
ly discern the smoke of a large town. But
few of their young people had ever seen it.
And yet the temptations of tho vorld had
entered that hamlet, and the clergyman was j Whatever it was, ir grew on him, and ho
as eloquent to them in simple, strong lan- j looked fondly on her face and forgot all tho
guage, as was the great Augustine- in his j past in her presence, that became more 1 o
denunciationsof sin. ly as she approached the hour when she
After the service was out, the ladies left ! should be an angel. And he did not know
: their pew, and stood for a few moments with
! tu :i i,.,,. e i m i
i their veils drawn over their faces, wliile tho
' j
congregation passed out. j
And then the clergyman came down thej
aisle, and as lie passed the first pew he
opened it, and a young, slender, but very
beautiful lady took his arm and walked
slowly with him, leaning heavily on him
for support.
They passed the door where the ladies
lady returned the bow. The younger lad v
looked steadfastly in the face of the lady on
his arm, and when she had passed, turned
rapidly to her aunt and said: 'Ask some
one who that lady is.
The question was put to a parishoncr,
who replied, wondering that any body
could be so ignorant, 'It is Mrs. Winslow;
the minister's wifo.'
She is ill.'
Yes, ma'am yes she is dying, poor
lady!'
Dying! and wit'i what?
Consumption, ma'am. They have on
ly been married a few weeks. She is the
daughter of Mr. (Jrecn, the richest man
in the country.'
So Mary Pierson learned that Thillip
Winslow was married. But she did not
learn all that day. The landlady of the
village inn was communicative at the table
on Monday morning and what with her
storj', and Mary's knowledge of his char
acter, she learned the true history well
enough to satisfy herself. We who know
more of it can relate it briefly.
He had ben the constant visitor at the
house of Mr. Green, ever welcome, and es
pecially to Susan, the only child of the
house, a flower of rare grace, beauty and
delicacy. I shall not pause to relate the
growth of her love for Mr. Winslow or its
purity and strength. He did not dream of
it till it was too late. Then ho awoke to
the startling fact that his long evenings at
the hall, his brilliant wit, hh lev cf nil
the beautiful, hisadmiration of certain books
and certain, kinds of thought, his walks and
talks, had won the love of this fragile child
whose days on earth were manifestly al
most numbered.
And now came a fierc3 struggle in his
mind as to what was the coarse of duty un
thesc circumstances. She was beautiful
and very lovely, but did he love her? No,
he did not. Could he love her? Doubt
less yes. Her father had evidently seen ali
and was willing that it should be so. H?r
brief life might have this one bright dav
of sunshine; this ono hour of gladness; and
then all would be over. He would give all
he had to buy her life; but since that might
not be, he would buy her happiness while
she lived at any price. And the young
clergyman saw all this, and then camo
across his memory the splendid beauty of
Mary Pierson, the magnificent dream of
his younger days, and it fought with him,
ut he conquered it.
None but ho who haa once experienced
li knows tiie tremendous power of a mem-
i orv it; takes entire possesion of tho soul
like a storm, sweeping over all that hai
grown there and taken dt:ep root all
the flowers that have been cherished,
all the great trees that have grwn up
in strength, all the webs of fancy that
hanS hcre lhere covered with dewdrops.
-ln(1 to oppose and overcome such a
Powcr is a victory that a strong man may
be proud of. Such he achieved, ami there
was a calm after the storm.
Dead peace was in the house and heart
of the clergyman after he had married his
young wife, and peace, like a river, flowed
through her soul.
She was fainting, falling out of a beauti
ful world, in which she had ftund nothing
but joy till now. All her life long she had
been the child of ease, pleasure and luxu
ry. No wish had been denied. All that
j she wanted, she had, and when it becamo
I evident to her unwilling reason that the end
I was com?, it was hard, very hard. But
i love was now m ile perfect in enjoyment.
and she lay calmly on her husband's breast
for the faw weeks that were to intervene
between the blessed moment when she cal
led him h:-r own; and that moment when
she must give away everything, even his
hand, his arm, his love; no, not his love,
she would take that to heaven with her;
to make it oven more glad and hopeful there.
And he was happy, perfectly happy.
There was no shadow on his heart. Mure-
and more each day he grew to her. and as
hc so increased in his love for her, there
di 1 begin, to come over him a dark cloud.
n,; 0, ,kcj to jK.r death with more and moro
j frar, and s irowf and apprehension. Per-
j he should again be delivered over to tho
terrible power cf that meuiorv that he hal
once so well conquered. Pe'rhaps he dil
not love his wife with a single love, arid
therefore he shrank moro and more Lorn
I the moment of parting.
! th.it. Sumlnv fifi.-.m.u-.n tW 1... Kt.u i u
i , ,
1 eoiitnineil i: n:i it fill il ..f i.:
" .... Uli. l'-JJVO VI
life, all his moans, all that he had valued
in boyhood or in the maturor affections of
manhood
A year after Phillip Winslow stood by
the bedside of his dying wife. Her black
eyes, overflowing with lovo o" him and
hope of heaven, were fixed with unuttera
ble joy on his calm countenance. Her
white hand, white and thin as the hand that
the phantom of a dream waves at us, lay
in his calmly, confidingly.
Phillip, my husband, say once more that
we shall meet again.'
Wc shall, dear wife, we shall! thank
God that he has promised us that.
Oh, Phillip! I wi!l wait for you in tho
happiest valley of that happy country. D
you love me; Phillip?'
Dear wife'
'May God reward you for your love. I
have not been worth it, but oh, how von
have blessed me with it! It has been the
breath of heaven over me even here.
A letter for you, sir.
It waj a servant entering the room with
a lijht step, who handed it to him. Ho
glanced at diiveiion, and a sharp pang shot
through his frame, and a viable pallor was
on his face, He turned from the bedside,
grasping it convulsively in his hand, and
staggered rather than walked towards the
window where the l ast rays of the sunshine
were streaming in through the Inlf-oloiJ,
shutters. He !ked at it again, and sa,t
down feebly, as if in pain.
Again the tempest was up. Again thft
wild floods were over his souk
Stein and teriible was the resistance he
offered, but it would have betMi all in vain,
had not the voice of his wifa come to hi$
aii.
Phillip, FhilFp. come to me'
He knew not outof whrt lemote d'.!sne
what far offwandtihvr he wa oVdin; Vun,
-1
.1 rr.
o

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