Marshall County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 22, Plymouth, Marshall County, 10 April 1856 — Page 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.

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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 Directory, 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 description, 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 Michigan 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 PENtPTik 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. ARMj 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 & COUNFelor 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, SURX fl EON k Druggist,. .Plymouth, Ind. UFUS BROWN, PHYSICIAN & SURGLON, Plvmouth, Ind. i If IGG IN ROTH AM, PHYSICIAN & SURo. ;e"n .Plymouth, Ind. TT W. BENNET, PHYSI CIA N & SUUGEON, Plymouth, Ind. TT D. GRAY, Eclectic Physician, Plvmouth, Ind. LINT. EIL & BRO. DEALERS IN LUMBER etc, Plymouth, Ind. IT PATTERSON, DHALKIl IN VArious kinds of Meat, Plymouth, Ind. T I VERY STABLE BY WM. M PATTERS'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, MANUFACTUrera 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 acquainthas 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, except 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 utterance. His parsonage, (it was I113 own; the church built him one, but he used his own house) was the perfection of simple comfort. 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 collector 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 forgotten. But the social qualities of tho Doctor were Iiis most w inning. Where ho received 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 likely 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 institutions 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 announced 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 congregation 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 recollections, or curious things he had picked up in his reading, and thev never tired of listenin" 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 constant, 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 anful 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 argue 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 prayci when h3 spoke ofteunions of the other world. Doubtless the starlight of Iiis younolove 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 anticipations, 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 separation. 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 sentences. But he failed in that. He examined 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 regular, every dot and cross was in its proper place. There was one word on which he paused 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 yielded, 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 together, 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 loved 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 beautiful, 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 distinguished 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 unapproachabb. She never mingled in their merrymakings, 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 Philthe 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 impersonation 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 delicious, 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 followed 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 going 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 never 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 remembered 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 renewed 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 always, 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 separation. 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 Island, and they certainly had been boys together 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 intimacy 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 Pierson 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 prowealth, 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 distinctly 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 usproceed 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 believed 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. Forgive 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, carefully, 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 Sunday in one of the most quiet, and retired portions, of Count y, among the Highlands. The day had been oppressively warm, and th3 air is sultry, giving indications of the coming of thunderstorms. 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 meadow 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 villagesitting with bowed heads, waiting the commencement of the afternoon service. The village has been not unfrequently the resort 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 accompanied 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 elegant lady sitting in the little up-country church, her face hidden from her companion. 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 subject 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 dimly 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 odenunciationsof 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 only 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 especially 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 almost numbered. And now came a fierc3 struggle in his mind as to what was the coarse of duty unthesc circumstances. She was beautiful and very lovely, but did he love her? No, he did not. Could he love her? Doubtless 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 memi 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 beautiful world, in which she had ftund nothing but joy till now. All her life long she had been the child of ease, pleasure and luxury. 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 called 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. Mureand 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. Perj 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 unutterable 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,

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