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p <§> h Invariably in Advance INDEPENDENT IN EV ERYTHIN G; NEUTRAL IN NOTHING. CLAYTON, DEL., SATUijDjLY MORNING, MAY 29, 1869. VI TERMS: Two Dollars a Year, NO. 5. a YOL. III. clfdcb J) irrig. ^OODLAND I ;usic. What saith tho hum of woodlands, The undertone of tlic air? Can fancy understand It, Or human words declare? Mine cun ; at least, I dream so, As I listen and compare. The trees, from loaves and branches, All seem to whisper and sigh, As lovers might to lovers, Under the moonlit sky, As passion Ate ard foolish— Inciting tl\e world go by. The grass to the gross makes music, And' the wind in its current rolls, The sedges sigh to the willows, The flower with the flower condoles, Koch in Its little circle. As if they were human souls. The tiniest life in the sunbeam. In tho pebble's cavern dark, In the ripple of the shallows, Where a straw may be au ark— ^—III the shelter of tho mosses, In the crinkles of tho bark. in every pulse and movement Of Nature's mighty breath, Enacts forever and ever The tale of Life and Death— Of Hope, and Struggle, and Effort, Of Llit, and Love, and Death. There's war among tho myriads, That flutter, and float, and crawl !— There's cruelty, and bloodshed, And ugouy 'mid them all— The strong consuming the feeble, The large oppressing the small. In their little world they suffer. In his larger sphere; Yet not, in God's great bounty Without some blessings clear, And tho kindly compensations That balance a fate severe. As Their voices, though we hear not, Keep time to the tune of Spring; The bee In the rose is happy, And the moth upon the wing; And the worm has as much enjoyment As the birds that soar and slug. Ay, here in this breezy woodland. Under the bright blue sky, all nature whispers, And the gross und flowers reply, horns— . W' ire . Wit love, w»> dtaé^ . To a g&HEÀMLÀN D. BY CHARLES KENDAL. Out of the sweet old legeud« Beckons a fair, white hand. And silvery, bell-like voices Tell of an unknown land; Where magic roses blossom In the evening's golden light, And the air is laden with fragnuice From the lilies silver-white. The trees, with tlicir waving branches, Murmur a fairy sous. And the brooklet merrily dances As It ripples anil gurgles along. Anil tender, enchanting love-songs the balmy breeze. And the heart's unspeakable longing By their music Is set at case. Klont Would that my steps could reach it, That happy, flowery strand 1 For all of my earthly aflilctions Would cease In that flowery land. OfWIn my dreams I see It, In its glamour bright and fair, But with daylight's earliest glimmer It vanishes Into air. It vanishes Into air. 'clcctcb dory. One Hi® on the Battle-Field H ARRY, is that you? God be thanked. I've found you at lost. I've been bunting for three or four hours. Ilarry, boy, speak to me." 44 John," faltered the low, faint voice, that fluttered and ended in a weary sigh. 44 Come, come ; you've got more life in you than that. Swallow this," and he held his canteen to the parched lips of the wounded man. The slight draught seemed to revive the suffering soldier. He opened his eyes again; they were brighter and clearer. "Thank you, John," ho murmured, 44 1 should have died of thirst. You are not hurt—eh?" 44 Thank you, too, but I am," respon ded the young man leaniug over him. 44 Not badlj r , then ?" 44 O, no!" only so bad that I can't stand, and can hardly crawl. But see here, I'm not a man to givo up, you know; so I hunted for you on my hands und knees—not exactly that either, but by jerks, sideways. How do you feel, Harry?" "Pretty bad, John—It hurts me some times when I breathe." 44 You dou't say so ; why, whero are you struck, old fellow ?" 44 In the breast, I beliove. John, do you think it is through tho lungs ? be cause I'm gone if it is." 44 You're not gone yet, at all events," said the sturdy soldier, arranging his position so that ho could attend to his friend with the least pain to himself.— 44 See here, Ilarry, whatever comes it is always best to keep up your Bpirits. How do I know but I'm to lose my leg, foot, or something? But I shan't worry, let me tell you." " In the leg?" articulated the wound ed man with a contortion of pain. 44 Yes, I believe so—haven't looked yet —but it aches ugly now and then. Thank Heaven, it wasn't a shot, but a shell. I think it's partly a fracture." 44 You should have kept still, then." "Yes, I should perhaps, if it hadn't been for you ; but did you think I was such a selfish fellow as not to search for you? Do you know what my mother said wtyb tho last kiss she gave me? Heaven bless her!" And ho wiped a starting tear away. 44 John, let me hear that you did your duty, and took good care of your men. A good many of them are gone, poor fellows 1 where they won't want any care taken of them by us. But auch are the chances of war 1 Whew I it's coming up cold—I must find something to put over you, Harry," "And yourself, Hurry?" "Oh! no matter for me; I can stand everything, cold included. Perhaps we shall betaken off before night; I hope —you at any rute. How do you fell now, Harry?" "God only knows the pain I suffer.— Is this death?" 44 Death—no, my boy, not unless you want it so ; you'll live to see the old place again—never fear." 44 1 don't want to die, John. The last thing I said before I was shot was an oath. I'm not fit to die, John." "Well, we soldiers do swear without reason—there's no mistake about that; though I don't, think we're really in right down earnest, of course not. But maybe it's as wicked all the same. Let mo see the wound, Harry, you know I'm a bit of a doctor." 44 It's hero right undor tho left side ; softly, comrade." 44 I'll be as tender as 3* said the brave-hearted fellow, bending down and carefully uncovering the wound. After working over it for some time, he covered it with a piece of cloth made into rude lint, and sat up with a lioavy heart, for he felt, he knew not why, that his friend and favorite was doomed to die. With no little difficulty extra blanket, which he wrapped about the body of the su tiering soldier." 44 John, isn't it strange? I can think of nothing but tho time when I was a boy, and '.earned the little Bible lessons at my mother's knee. 4 Jh! I wish I were as Innocent »'■ I tP!»l mother," he procured : wrJnSfef T - * Hi de less cheerftilly, as lie looked in vain for the hoped-for assistance. *• We shall have to stay here all night, I'm thinking," said Harry, as the sun went gradually down, and the wind, with a cruel chill in his voice, came whistling from the northeast. "If there was only something to buHd fire with, to make one comfortable!" muttered John, under liisbreatli. "How do you you feel now, Harry ? Lively as ever?" Wi m 44 O, John ! I never had your good spirits; and tho pain is hard to bear.— And you must be in pain, too!" "Oh ! only a trifle—I Harry, my good follow, I toll you j r must keep up heart. I've wrapped j'ou round the best I cun, but you'll suffer with the cold, I'm afraid." 44 Onlj r my feet, John, John, if I could get them warm." stand it; but get them warm." 44 Walt a minute," said his companion, and edging himself around, he took the poor fellow's feet in his lap, and wrapp ed his own coat around them. Cold and dark came that awful night. No moon lighted up the horrible placo cov ered with the dead and dying. Some times a piercing groan told whero life still lingered—a low moan spoke of the fast, falling breuth. Ob! what thoughts, what agonies did that sad and blood stained fiold witness that night! 44 John," said Hurry, after a long pause, " did you ever pray?" 44 Pray, Ilarry, why—no—j'os—when I've been mighty hard pressed, I sup pose I havo. My mother prays," ho added, choking a little. "Ah! John, so does mine; but that won't save us." 44 That's true, Harry, I've often wish ed I was a praying man ; but I nev was. Praying, I take it, is just asking God for what we want." 44 Then God havo mercy on my soul," cried poor Harry, in anguish boih of body and mind. "And mine, too," John was constrain ed to add. 44 O John ! if I do live I'll bo a differ ent man. I never felt boforo wbat it was to have no Saviour. Christ, have mercy on me. Oh ! if he would only save my soul." 44 He will, Harry, he will. Christians say he always answers praj'er if it be sincere." Thero was a long silence. Poor John was crying and praying to himself, os he sat there shivering, and in more pain than he liked to acknowledge. It was long after midnight when Hurry spoke again. He seemed to havo been sleep ing. "John," he cried out, dream ?" "Aye, and a good one, I hope." 44 A blessed dream. I thought I stdbd directly before tho Saviour, and he stretched out his hand, nnd said: "Har ry, I have heard your prayer. Your soul is saved." 44 Well, and I don't doubt it is." 44 And then, John, while I stood there so happy, 1 felt something touch my knee, and looking down, there was m3' sweet, little motherless bube, that I left at homo. O, John ! such an angel's face, —the man's voice choked. was it a "It is an angel face, at any rate," said John, stoutly, swallowing his tears. « Oh 1 how I have longed to see her face this twelcmonth!" said Harry, re gaining his composure with an effort.— "She's sleeping sweetly to-night In her little ted In mother's room. Oh Î if I could only fold her in my arms once more !" "You will, Harry; you will. Don't get down-spirited, my boy. Nothing uses up a man so quick." " But, John, I'm not so sure. God's will be done, though. I feel strangely calm. If I shouldn't go home, John,— None of tln*t now, Harry," cried John, almost fiercely, you'll live to see them all. Aro you warm? that's the question." " All but my feet, John, and a little way up the legs. Put them down, John, you're tirod out. I'm not the man to give up for a trifle. They'll be here be fore daylight with the ambulances, Har ry, and you shall go in first, if I have to fight for it." "Thank you, John—but mind, I'm in and happy. What night is this?" Why, don't you know ?—the 13th and Tnu rsday." m •» So it is ; I had forgotten. I wrote a letter home this morning. They will get it before they hear the news. Well, it's all right." "You talk stronger, Harry; how do you feel about the wound?" "The pain is almost gone," replied the soldier. "John, I tell you, like tills tries a man's soul." "Yes, one likes to be housed in the dark and sheltered in the cold." "I don't mean that, John.. If I had my life to live over again, I wouldn't be the fcol I havo been. Wliat s the reason don't see this sooner? If God has me it won't bo becausé I've I toll you cal hour men mercy upon deserved it. I feel as if I'A been fight all my life; rfn^l yet I ing against hi do believo lie loves me." 44 Of course he does," said John. 44 Not of course, John—it's grace, all I ean only hope for his loye and grace. pardon through Jesus Christ." *• Wlty, you talk likfe a regular Chris tian, Harry." 41 1 ought to have been a Christian, John. I've been a SabbQtb-school scho lar. My mother is a Christian. My £ v $jin^ I feel that I ^\« yin'» ns, m 4 viv t obif accept, J •liuthP/K mother I died hoping for salvation. She will mourn for me, unworthy though I have been, for I was her only son." a 44 Harry, I won't hear you talk that way." 44 I say if j'ou should go home alone, John, and my little blue-eyed Mary— my little lamb—my little comfort ! It seems as if I saw her right before me« and felt her innocent lips upon my fore head. Oh ! my sweet baby !" and a sob ended the exclamation. 44 Now, Harry, you are making j r our self uneasy for nothing. Everything shall bo done for the child, I promise you that, whether you live or die." 44 1 am not afraid, John, take care of my baby ; but that strange feeling that she was so near me—it un manned me. Don't you tliiuk it's most morning, John?" Goil will 44 1 hope so, Harry. Are your feet any warmer?" No, but they will be, perhaps ; try aud go to sleep, John." Poor John tigue and watching, and in spite of the pain in his wounded log, in spite of his great anxiety, he fell asleep in the cold and darkness. No eye could see tho awful carnage of that solitary place, but the sleepless eye of Jehovah ; no ear but his heard the hollow groans, the calls for mother and wife—the beloved name gasped out as the lost breath failed. John was wakened rudely by a grasp Upon his shoulder. With a cry of pain, he attempted to move, but his wound was inflamed and his log stiff. The sun was just breaking upon the sceno of hor ror. He shivered as the full conscious ness of his situation came upon him. 44 Are you wounded, my man?" ask ed the kindly voice of a volunteer who had come to render what assistance he could. nearly overcome by fo 44 Yes, have you brought an ambu lance?" "Tho ambulances are on the way; they will be here soon." " Weil, attend to poor Harry, here Don't disturb him now, he's first. asleep. Poor fellow 1 he was awake all night." Here is some wine; you aro cold." "Oh! thank you," said John; but stop—if would bo the right thing for Harry. I'll venture to wake him, he noods some stimulant." The man went forward, gazed in the cold, white face, and turned to the soldier. 44 Wake him, never mind," said John. 44 My friend, I cannot wake him. Ho will never wake again." With a wild cry, John dragged him self forward, forgetful of his wound, and fell on the body of his friend, weeping piteously as ho exclaimed : 44 O Harry ! I had rather lost every man than you !" 41 1 never saw so sweet and happy a face," murmured tho stranger, and left the dead for the living. 44 He died a Christian," John wrote homo to the old mother. 44 His little child anil yon shall be cared for." "On the 13th," sobbed the bereaved mother, ns she read the sad particulars of that eventful night. "No wonder ho thought his baby was with him, for on that night she dloJ, sweet angel, and bero sbo laid in he£ Utile bed, cold and beautiful, while her poor father was dy ing. But O God bo thanked ! My pray ers were heard—my Harry died a Chris tian." I to a [Written for the "Clayton Herald''] CASADER CHAFIELD ; OR, THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. BY VIOLA. CHAPTER XII. A NKW ACQUAINTANCE. One year murptessed since tho parting of Casader and Canfield. Nearly a year since, Casader ftrose from a sick bod to a new life. Everything had undergone a change in those months; people were different; everyone's chief thought was self; cold, haughty, Indifferent person ages, it seemed to be her lot to meet.— Some were laefcjjDg in principle, many in honesty, but few in self esteem. She distrusted each one of them until they proved worthy 7o occupy a place of con fidence. A Vf î le c ted from gî|plrowd, but she was care ful not to over-tax them, for she fuit they would tall by ^the wayside, or in other words, prove untrue. She formed opinions tb&tfio person could eradicate for experience pronounced thorn just. It wns tho full oflS . The proceeding spring tho family, oof^isting of Mrs. Chafield, her two sonsdfcnd Casader moved to Da to«. There Mrs. Chafield re-established a school fox: yeung ladies, and welcomed as her pupils, some excellent students. Not any partiyularly brilliant ones in an educational jffcint, but some that were naturally very bright. Casader formed a short attachment for one of them, und though in education her inferior, in tural worth, purity of heart, strength of mind, her equal. Aloof from the others, they böcf their quiet conversations, ar d Eu ta Strafiftil, lost her heart to one of her own sox. Was it strango? per haps so, bat she never found it so her fcotnpanibh «inst havo disposed of it. Stronger still, that though the maidens professed to f care for each other, they never spoke of meeting in tho future with &ny degree of certainty. Even in its formation* (friendship) there seemed 1 mngiug ov§r both to take^ email number she se I 1 to .J i, When speaking of tho future they wore sad, for they seemed to feel that the kind Providence who permitted them to meet, would bring them togeth er in love. Casader did not forget to love Flora; no, the weaker love seemed to strengthen the stronger. Sho loved Eata's soul , for thero was some things about her she could never love. Flora, in Casader's estimation, wns perfect; not a word did sho utlor that was not listen ed to with interest. Not an act perform ed that was not considered lady-liko and wonderful ; everything undertaken was accomplished. Tho world did not con tain unothcr creature so near perfection as Flora, or one that was loved more dearly. What a difference betw een the two lovers. 44 Eata, I want to go to Europe with go Europe uncle McLaid and my cousins." "Oh, Casader, I cannot tiiink of your going, for my heart says we shall be parted for years—yes, forever in this world, if you do. Our love will be sac rificed, and you are the only one I ever loved. Must I givo you up?" The tears Verc in hef eyes, but she hastily brushed them away and turned towards the window in order to hide all truant ones from Casader. She tried to make people believe she was hard-heart ed, never manifesting any feeling in so ciety, or ever expressing by a look, her sympathy. Weep before people? No indeed ; to do that sho wos ashamed. "Eata, do you love me? Am I the only one you ever cared particularly f or? Would you really care, if our part ing was for all time?" She walked towards the window, placed her hand upon Eata's arm, let it rest there a second, then allowed it to steal around her waist. 44 Eata, you novor tell me that you love me, and my heart asks continually for the knowledge in words. I want you to say so very often, for I fcol so unwor thy I fear you will cease to love mo." "Cease to love you? Oh, Casader, how can j t ou speak those words so calm ly? / forget fAeonly one I ever loved? No, no, not while time lasts to me, will I ceoso to remember one in whoso socio ty I have «pent so many happy hours? Does the child forget its mother? Does the lover forgot his betrothed ? Does the Christian forget his God? As dear to any of their loves." you " Dear Eata, I thank you ; I ask God to bless you for your bestowal of love upon so unworthy an object. I do not deserve it, but I accept, for my heart craves your devotion." 44 Casader, will you promise mo one thing?" "Certainly, if it is possiblo for mo to keep the promise." "If tho time ever comes when you naed my love as a protection, you will come to me and accept it? Answer os though your lifo was at stake, and know 4 Our Father' hears your every word." me "I answer tlmt though I loro Flora more than 3*011, I would sooner go to you in trouble than lier. I will come to you if I ever need a friend, feeling 3*011 will love me whatever betides." She lookeJ at her companion trustful ly, as though she had pussed the ordeal and stood the test. "Yes, darling, no matter how tem pestuous the waves, I will remember my first love and ever be a friend to you.— Casader, if tbo sacrifice of life could bring you genuine ' appiness, or free you from uny trouble, I would willingly of fer it. I can do no more; earthly mon arch could ask no truer subject" 44 1 believe every word you utter, and I should bo inhuman did I not love you for your devotion to me. My true friend I know you to be ; one on whom I can rely. I do not want you to die, but I want you to have an object in life, and then live in part for me." "Come, girls, the bell Is ringing for prayers. Dear me, why don't you havo alight? You are the greatest mopes I evor saw, always together, and that in the dark. Why don't you join us in our sports and appear kind of civilized, in stead of talking about the past and fu ture so much? If I was you I would have something to do with the present, for it is the only time that belongs to me. I do declare, if you are not standing at the window. I suppose you are looking at some bright constellations, it is such a pitchy dark night they must be very brilliant—when the ruin stops for a mo ment." "Oh, Lottie, what a perfect string; do keep still, and run right down stairs," said Casader. 44 Still in such a dark room as this?— grand father grlévous! I am afraid of ghosts and hobgoblins in such a place, and if I I don't believe I can over find the door— oh dear," said she as she stum bled against a chair, " why don't j'ou put the bed in the middle of the room and place all the chairs around it. I believe you two were moon-struck tho other night for j'ou have appeared luna ever since." "A mistake, Lottie, I should say it was j'ou, tor 3*011 are very loquacious." 44 Well, I'm gone when I get away, so fare-theo-well sweet love-sick lovers." And away bounded Lottie McLaid, Casnder'8 Own cousin, tho jolly girl of the Seminarj". Perhaps some may think Casader's one great love was being divided into portions; that she was giving one a Ut ile, and then another a smaller amount; that these respective shares would bo re d on an a a It of d it. in called ip the faut 8t'il they'll surely seize me. jJjfT 3 I nut rein« men m «n /t» nrrengia, controlling her thoughts and actions.— These minor loves might have been branches from tho old trunk, receiving their nourishment partially from it; but the root was fresh and extended its ten drils so far into her life, that it was im possible to destroy them. One month passed and then another, until the hour of Eata's departure had ar rived. A few parting words, and they wore separated for years ; they parted almost indifferently. Why? did tbo presence of a third party make any difference. We can only shake our heads and won der. in a pet If Casader missed ber friend during tho succeeding months, no person knew it, for she hardly spoke of her. We feci that sho did miss her, though she resolv ed in spite of her love to forget. As for needing her love in the future, that could not be, and why occasion herself un necessary sorrow on her account. They so different, so unlike in nearly every particular, that it was atoll ly foolish to care for her. So thought Casn der. Oh ! woman, pause, consider, think what you are doing and desist. The resolve was made before Eata's departure, though she was innocent as to the cause of Casader's changed deport ment. She noticed it only to mourn in secret, vowing she would never love an other, for the world was false; a true heart she could not find. It took away tho little faith, the little confidence she thought to place in humanity. It almost made her a misanthropist; it taught her to study before trusting. She forgot to bo charitable, and in a great many ways changod tho never too confiding girl in to a cold-hearted being. Poor girl Î one sho thought would prove untrue, and she condemned every other human be ing. One was false, so all the rest would be. 'Twas a false rule, and she knew it after many years—yet the benefit deriv ed from that winter's association far ex coeded tho injurious effect. It gave am bition and a desire to bo Casader's equal in ovorjrthing, or never to meet her again. Sorrowful hours were hers, for she loved her schoolmate dearer than lift) itself, but her pride would not bear humilia tion. Tho first letter Eata received after her return home, informed her that Casader was going to Europe, and in two mouths. Sho was not surprised, for she expected it; j r et tho certainty sent a thrill to her heart, and the exclamation, "our friendship is broken," to her lips, the tears to her eyes. Why should she ».are, for did she not have an object in life? Yes, but these words sounded in her ears, " I want you to have an object in life, nnd then live in part for me." The letter was answered in love and brought but a cold return. As Euta sat by tbo window reading it bitter thoughts took possession of hor mind. Sho con sured ono who professed to be her friend, because policy was taking away her goodness of heart ; pride and selfish am bition leading her to resign a friend. 44 1 pray «be may never rue it," said the desponded girl. The letter was cold and distant, intended for the last one, yet no fond word told of pnst love or spoke of future remembrance. wl "I cannot write yon after I reach Eu rope, much as I would like to, circum stances will not permit." Again and again were those words read by Eata, but they brought no tears to her eyes, only acorn to her heart. Why did Casader come to that decision? Why did Esta refuse to answer her letter? "If she can give me up so easily, with such seeming indifference then will I try to do the same. My futher, I love her I can I— can I give her up ? Oh held me In the mastery of self, that even as she lias cast her love for me aside, I may do the same by mine." A few efforts and thsn followed those words ; 44 1 am weak, I cannot cannot do it ! I loved her too woll, I love litr now, I shall always love her." A paroxism of grief and she cold self aguiu. Ever passing around the house with a song upon her lips repeating a picco of poetry, which was but the echo of a lonely heart. Her "sweetest songs were those which told of saddest thoughts, her sincerest laugh ter with a secret pain was fraught." When she wus was certain no one would hear lier she talked aloud in doleful language ; the tears which sprang to her eyes she would rudely brush away and then laugh in derision. Alone she liked to be rather than in societj'.— But society urged its c'ainis and she must give up solitude and don a mask o f smiles. A woman mourn for a woman ; she must have beeu very different from most women, for according to a popular idea she has very littie time that is not devoted to dress. I say such love is seldom found, seldom formed. Some one whispers 44 'tis very common," but I don't believo them. Threo months pussed, then fonr and the fifth had near ly gone before Eata thought of writing to Casader. Her lonely moments had not decreased and her prayers for the loved one ascended not less often during those months. But how could she di rect? Casader sailed for Europe months before (seeming more like years) wheth er sho arrived ou a foreign shore, she did not know. 44 Oh ! is her body food for fishes, 1ms my darling gone up high er ? A little light, if but a ruy, to dispel this dreadful darkness." [TO BK CONTINUED.] her fFor the 'Tflj»XlQn_Herald."l ÏT ) mh I±j, BY JACK PERKINS. When woman from fair Eden's "hlglit," Found use for calico, Bhc gave this world an endless blight, And fill'd man's heart with woe. 44 Who'll sigh with us?" That's the question—that's a first class problem, and gives me no little amount of study in my earnest efforts to solve its deep mysteries. Lncretia's seen a verj* inter esting letter, kindly addressed to me, in a newspaper, in which ure numerous pet expessions, which, to my great an noyance, has caused her to feel highly honored—(on my account,) in conse quence of which my talented anil lovely Lucretia throws oil her plainness, gets herself up in tho genuine "grecian bend " stylo, and writes me the follow ing heart-splitting proclamation, in which sho proclaims a stream of rlo quence unparalellod in the golden uunals of love« 14 SqüASHViLLE, Ma 24, 18G9. Wonct LouviD But Now IIaited Jack: —Theasunn iz seattin' <fc soe iz mi louv fur u. Eye scad then letter inn thea noozepaiper, frum a meddlin woo man, A it wuz chuck ful nv treoshun.— Oh ! Jack, hon kood u goe back on me« in sich a onkauld-fur stile? Eye louvid u moar then mi penn kin right. Rea venge, eye'll git it. Eye'll sew u fur a breash uv prowmus. Falrwel forever, u back-slydur. Mu u A Sallie simmer iz mi mane hoape. Noa mower yourn, Lucretia Castalinf. Canteen. P. S.— Fairwell meen Jack, mi louv iz dun, Fur eye am spilt &. u air wun. L. C. C." My poor heart—how can I ever for give myself? Sallie, thou art tho very source of all my modern afflictions— thou hust a colossal genius, and it has done much to remind me of the brilliant strategy of old-maid hood. Behold above and read my dreadful fate, from the pen of her who was once my own Lu cretia—shame, shame! Sallie, behold thy cruel work, and mourn, mourn.— It wns thy pen that wrought thodeed. youthful heart to bleed ; 1er from the cloud, It rumbles long, and wild nnd loud, It shakes the earth from polo to pole, jW-born soul. Don't talk to me about " metaphor und hj'porbôle," it is first-class shanghai talk—entirely too sublime nnd lofty for me, how that Lucretia writes so affec tionately, and tolls me of her now' plans. I feel I can't toll how—but very funny— just as "phunriy" as though I had just finisho reading the " Phunny Pbellow". By the way, I'm reminded just hereof something that nearly slipped my memo ry: It's something I wish to recom mend to those in search of wisdom nnd nd is j worthy a place in every family Whore there are young ladios who doairc the ; studios of tho polished side of life. Lu- ! cretia was, snd is jrot, ono of its con stunt readers, And made my For like the tn And gives man-kind a all kinds of useful knowledge. It's the ( "Phunny Phellow," a very highly en- | tertaining and instructive paper, jftpco her majestic writ «JrSimple of lier ahiliy. I ing*. For a fi point 3'2U to the above, nnd if any one could *«*e me, they would Le satisfied h» to its powerful, blighting effect'*. Oh 1 that she had seen it not. But yet [ad vocate it as a first class study. ' Sal lie, I'm not in the liuraor to an swer all your searching questions and witty thrusts—to tell the truth, they arw so numerous and pointed, I must honest ly confess my inability to come near the mark you have drawn for me to shoot at. But [ beg you Sallie, not to sigh for Lucretie, as she's mine a little While longer. By reading her letter to mo, you will readily percelvo the damage you so unjustly done me, through innocence, too. Of course, yon will understand ihe above—how I dedro it to be construed. It is my iutention to renew my suit again—to tell Lucretia how sorry I am, and beg her not to dis like you because of your friendly notice of me. She'll see where the innocence conies in, and get down her "greci««» bend," and "heave" all her anger out of her once genial heart. I say heante, because I think it more re/lned than any other expression in that connection. doubt, «U Handwriting Peculiarities. It is a remarkable fact thst no man can ever get rid of the style of hand writing peculiar to his country. If he bo English, lie alwaj*s writes in English stjdo; if French, in French style; if German, Italian, or Spanish, In the style peculiar to his nation. Professor B states: " I am acquainted with a French man who has passed all his life in Eng land, who speaks English like one of our own countrymen, and writes it with ten times the correctness of ninety-nine in a hundred of us; but yet who cannot, for the life of him, imitate our mode of writing. I knew a Scotch yonth, who was educated entirely in France, and re sided eighteen years in that country, mixed exclusively with French people, but who, although he had a French writing-master, and perhaps never saw any tiling but French writing in his life, yet wrote exactly in the English style; it was really national instinct. In Paris, all the writing masters profess to teach the English style of writ.ng, bat with all their professions, and all their exertions, they can never get their pupils to adopt any but the cramped lnmd of the French. The difference between tho American cr English and the French hand-writing is immense —h schoolboy would distinr I, CUL " 'I * TT | f Bf« »wi*.ju 4. nri&T T Ui* tt mir î î — hundred written by Englishmen or Americans, and tlnguisli every one of thorn, though all should be written in the same language, and with the same pens and paper. Tbo difference between Italian, Spanish and German hand-writings is equally decid ed. In fact, there is aboutas great a dif ference between the hand-writing« of different nations as in their languages. And it is a singular truth, that though a man may become identified with anoth er nation, and speak itslarguageas well, perhaps better, tiian his own, yet never can lie succeed in changing his band writing to a foreign style. 1W U ÏMiffTi one could foil to die Broueht to Terms. A good story is told of a conplo of far mers who lived a few miles apart, of one of them having called upon the other Just at dinner time, ono day, wlio f by the way, was a rather penurious old fellow, and who seemed to be enjoying the fru gal repast very pleasantlj'. Tho visitor drew up to the stove, looking very wish fully towards the tabl»*, expecting the old farmer to invite him to dine, but he kept on eating, when presently ho broke out with— "What's the nows npyonrway, neigh bor," said the old fellow, still eating, 44 no news, oh?" "No, I believo not," replied tho visit or; presently thinking of some news, he replied, 44 Well, yes, friend, I did hear of an item of news that's worth mention ing." 44 IJa, what is tlmt?" "Neighbor John has a cow that lias five calves." 44 Is that so ? Good gracious ! What in the thunder does the fifth calf do when the others aro sucking?" asked the old farmer not turning his head from his dinner. " Why he stands and looks on Just as I do, like a dumb fool !" said the visitor. "Mary, put on another plate!'* ejacu lated the furnier. Heaving the Lead. Anj' one who lias travelled on the Mis sissippi during Ihe course of tide, has witnessed the process of 44 heaving the lead," and where the laugh comes in, without much difficulty: The si earner Ocean D• lie was coming down tho river, with h deck load of pig lead. As she wns coining near a shallow place, the pilot gave the signal for the man for ward to "throw tho lead !" It happened that tho only man forward was a green Irishman. "Why don't you throw the lead ;'' throw, vor honor? And faith, whero will I be throwing it?' "Ovcr?M»ard, you Pat took up a pig of load nd threw it overboard ; the mato endoa vor ing to prevent him. lo t his balance, and foil into the l iner. The captain ran forward on the hurricane dock,and «sk e l Pat why lie did not * 4 throw tbo lend nnd sing out how much water thc*e " Is it the lend you want to scoundrel ! ' wa*?" "Oeli.'pon inv s oil. Cgplnta, I thro wed tho I« a I. nnd ill mate has gone down to see how ok Wi*t«r there !"