Lancaster Examiner and Herald

              VOL XLIY.
LANCASTER PA., WEDNESDA.Y, DECEMBER 8. 1869.
NO. 4
PUBLISHia) EVEKY WED5E8DAT. At no. 4 Sorth Bneon Streot, ta nca«t«r, P«
TERIIS-S3.00 A TEAB IN ADTAKCE.
JOHN A. HIESTAND i E. M. KLINE, EdltoM and Proprietors.
THE HAV35T OF LIFE.
I.OW sweens tho breeze o'er sodden lands. Where grasses shiver in the rain;
.\nd baro and brown tho stubble shows, Whero waved the bearded grain.
The birds that trilled the songs I loved Went Hying South, ono chilly morn;
The llowers that spread their bloom for mo Died, love less and folorn
But still I sing in full content.
For other, blessed flelds are mine; And there, beneath unclouded moons,
My golden harvests shine. Througii sun and rain, in lands remote
They ripen all the fervid ye.irs; And now. In latoautumnal dews.
They swell tlielr tasseled ears. Their leaves, liko silken pennons, llout,
Wheu lightly skims a passing breeze. And o'er the slopes bright billows run,
Like waves ou sunlit seas.
Full oft, beneath lho hunter's moon, I lake my sickle blado, and stroll
Through silent lanes, to where their ranks Sland crowning hlU and knoll.
So bravo they look, .so tall thoy rise, So soflly there I hear them grow.
In prido I bless thc rustling land, Aud home, unladen, go.
But lute or soon, tho w orld'sliali como To spare my harvest fields no moro;
To give to winnowing winds the clmlT', Aud heap the shiuiiig slore.
Tlie whlte'Sieevod reapers, all arow.
Shall swing their level seytlics in limo, Tlio grain lo music bend and fall.
But none shall hear liieir chime.
No eye shall walch them bind the sheaves. Nor bear them in, when daylight pales;
No villager, on lonoly roads, afeall hear Ihelr beating linils.
Guard well my.fields, propitous fate, Lestniildow's evil taint inuj' blast;
From hallslones shield thom, that Iliey yield lllpe treosures at tlio last.
MARY GRESLEY.
AN editor's STORY.
We have known many prettier girls thau Mary Gresley, aud m.iny hand¬ somer womeu,—but we uever knew girl or woman gifteil with a face which in supplication was more suasive, in grief more .sail, in mirtli more merry. It was a face that compelled sympathy, and it did so witli the conviclion on the mind of the .sympalhizer that the girl wjvs altogether unconscious of her own power. In her intereourse wilh us there was, alas.' mueh more of sor¬ row than of mirth, nnd we may truly say that in her siilierings wo suffered ; blit still there came to iis from our in¬ tercourse with her much of delight mingled with the sorrow; and that delight arose, partly no doubt, from her woman's charms,—from the bright eye, the beseechiug mouth, the soft little haud, and the feminine grace of her unpretending garments,—but chief¬ ly, we think, from the e.xtreme human¬ ity of the girl. She had little, indeed uone, of that which the world cills society, but yet she was pre-eminently social. Her troubles were very heavy, but she was making ever an uncon¬ scious effort to throw thera aside, and to be jocund in .spite of their weight. She would even laugh at them, and at herself as bearing them. She was a little fair-haired creature, with broad brow and small nose and dimpled chin, with no brightness of complexion, no , luxuriance of hair, no swelling glory of bust and shoulders; but with a pair of eyes whieh, as they looked at you, would be gemmed always either with a tear or with some spark of laughter, and with a mouth iu the corners of which was ever lurking some little spark of humor, unless when some un¬ spoken prayer seemed to be hanging on her lips. Of woman's vanity she had absolutely none. Of her corporeal self, as having charms to rivet man's love, she thought no more thau does a dog. Xt was a fault with her that she lacked that quality of -n-omanhood. To be loved was to herall the world; uncon- Bcious desire for the admiration of men was asfitroug in her as in other women ; and her instinct taught her, as such instincts do teach all women, that such love and admiration were to be the fruit of what feminine gifts she possessed; but the gifts ou which she depended— depending on them without thinking on the matter—were her softness, her trust, her woman's weakuess, and that power of supplicating by her eye with¬ out putting her petition into words which was absoiutelv irresistible. Where is the man of fifty, who in the course ofhis life has not learned to love some womau simply becauseit has come in his way to help her, and to be good to her in her struggles? And if added to thatsoureeof affection there bebright- ness, some spark of humor, social gifts, and a strong flavor of that which we have ventured to call humanity, such love may become almost a passion with¬ out the addition of much real beauty.
But in tbus talkiug of love we must guard ourselves somewhat  from mis¬ comprehension.    In love with Mary Gresley, after the common seuse of the word, we never were, nor would it have become us to be so.   Had such a state of being unfortunately befallen us, we certainly should be silent on tho sub¬ ject.   We were married and old; she was very young, and  enraged  to be married, always talking to us of her engagement as a thing flxed as the stars. She looked  upon us no doubt,—after she had ceased to regard us simply in our editorial capacity,—as a subsidiary old uncle whom Providence had sup¬ plied to her, in order, that if it were possible, the troubles of ber life might be somewhat eased by assistance to her from that special quarter.  We regarded her first almost as a child, and then as a young woman to whom we owed that sort of protecting care which a gray- beard should ever be ready to give to the weakness of feminine adolescence. Nevertheless, we werein love with her and we think sueh a state of love to be a wholesome and natural  condition. We  might,  indeed,  have  loved   her grandmother,—but the love would have been very different.   Had circumstan¬ ces brought us iuto connection with her grandmother, we hope we should have done our duty, and had that old lady been our our friend, we should, we trust, have done it with alacrity.   But in our intercourse with Mary Gresley there was more than that.   Bhe charmed us. We learned to love tbe hueof that dark gray stuff frock which ahe seemed al¬ ways to wear.   When she would sit in the low arm-chair opposite to us, look¬ ing up into our eyes as we spoke to her words whioh must often have stabbed lier little heart, we were wont to caress her with that inward undemonstrative embrace that one spirit is able to confer upon another.   We thought of her eon¬ stantly, perplexing our mind for her succor.   We forgave all her faults.   We exaggerated her virtues.   We exerted ourselves for her with a zeal that was perhaps fatuous. Though we attempted sometimes to look: black at her, telling her that our time was too precious tobe wasted in conversation with her, she soon learued to know how welcomeshe was to us.   Her glove—which, by the by, was never tattered, though she was very poor—was an object of regard to us.   Her  grandmother's  glove would have been unacceptable to ua as any other morsel of old kid or cotton.   Our heart bled for her.   Kow the heart may suffer much for the sorrows of a male friend, but it may hardly for such be said to bleed.   We loved her, in short, as we should not have loved her, but tbat she was youug and  gentle, and could smile—and, above all, but that she looked at us with  those  bright, beseeching, tear-laden eyes.
Sterne, in his latter days, when very near his end, wrote passionate  love- letters to various women, and has been called hard names by Thackeray—not for writing them, but because he thus showed himself to be incapable of that sincerity  whieh should  have  bound him to one love.   We do not ourselves much admire the sentimentalism of Sterne, finding the expression of it to be  mawkish, and thinking that too often he misses the pathos for which he strives from a want of appreciation on his own part of that which is really vigorous in language and touching in sentiment.   But we think that Thack¬ eray  has  been  somewhat  wrong  in throwing that blame on Sterne's heart which should have been attributed to his taste.   The love which he declared when he was old and sick and dying— a worn-out wreck of aman—disgnsta us, not becanse it was felt, or not felt, but because it was told;— and told as though the teller meant to offer more than that warmth of sympathy which woman's strength and woman's weak¬ ness combined will ever produce inthe hearts of certain men.   This is a aym- patbj with vhlch neither age, nor cmtche*, nor matrimony, noi position
of any sort need consider itself to be in compatible. It is unreasoning, and perhaps irrational. It gives to out¬ ward form and grace that which only inward merit oan deserve. Itis very dangerous because, unless watched, it leads to words whioh express that which is not intended. But, though it may be controlled, it cannot he killed. He, who is of hia nature open to such im¬ pression, will fe«l it while breath re¬ mains to him. It was that whleh destroyed the character and happiness of Swift, and which made Sterne con¬ temptible. We do not doubt that sueh unreasoning sympathj, exacted by feminine attractiou, was always strong in Johnsons'a heart; but Johnson was strong over all, and could guard him¬ self equally from misconduct and from ridicule. Such sympathy with women, sneh incapability of withstanding the femine magnet was very stro_ng with Goethe, who could guard hims'elf from ridicule, but not from misconduct. To us the child of whom we are speaking —for she was so then—was ever a child. But she bore iu her baud thc power of- that magnet, aud we admit that the needle within our bosom was swayed by it. Her story—such as we have to tell It—was as follows.
Mary Gresley, at the time when we first knew her, w.ts eigliteen years old, aud was the daughter ofa medical prac- titioner, who had lived and died in a small town in one of thc northern coun¬ ties. For facility in telling our story we will call tbat lown Cornboro. Dr. Gresley, .13 he seemed to have been ciU- eil, though without proper claim to the title, had been adiligentman,and fairly suneessfnl,-except in this, lhat bodied before be had been able to provide for those whom he left behind him. The widow still had her own modest for¬ tune, amounting tosome eighty pounds a year; and that, with the furniture of her house, was her whole wealth, when she fouiul hersolf thus left wilh the weight of the world upon her shoulders. There was ono otlier daughter older than Mary, whom we never saw, but who W.TS always ineiitioiieil as poor Fanny. There had been no sons, aud the family consisted oftho mother and the two girls. Jfary had liecn only fif¬ teen when ber I'albcr died, aud up to lhat time had been regarded quile as a child by all who h.id known her. Mrs. Gresley, in the hour of her need, did .as widows do in such C!i-se.s. Slie sought advice from her clergyman aud neigli¬ bors, and was compelled to lake a lodger intoberhouse. Ko lodger could befound so fitting as tlie curate, and when Jfary was seventeen years old, she and the cnr.Tto were engaged to he married. The curate paid Ihirty pounds a year for his lodgings, and on this, with"their own little income, the widow and her two daughters had managed lo live. The iigement was known to thciu all as
soiuilis it had been knowii to jSIary. The love-making, indeed, had gone on beneath tbe eyes of the mother. There had lieen notonly no deceit, no privacy, no separate interests, but, as far as we knew," no questiou as to prudence in the making of the engagement. The two young people had been brought lo¬ gether, had loved each oiher, as was so nalural, and had become engaged as a matter of course. It w.as an event as easy lo be foretold, or at least as easy to be believed, as the pairing of two birds. From what we heard of this eurale, the Rev. Arthur Donne,—for we never saw him,—we fancy that he was a simple, pious, commonplace young man, im¬ bued with a strong idea that in being made a priest he had been invested with a nobility and with some special capac¬ ity beyond that of other men, slight of body, weak in health, but houest, true, aud warm-hearted. Thou, the eugage¬ meut having beeu coiupleteU, there aroso the questiou of matrimony. The salary of the curate was a hundred a year. The whole income of the vicar, an old man, was, after payment made to his curate, two huudred ayear. Could the curate, in such circumstances, aflbrd to take to himself a penniless wife of seventeen? Jlrs. Gresley was willing that the marriage should lake place, and that they should all do as best they mighton their joint income. Thevioar's wife, who seems to have been a strong- minded, sage, Ihough somewhat hard woman, took Slary aside, aud told her that such a thing must not be. There would come, she said, children, and destitution, and ruiu. She knew per¬ haps more thau Mary knew when Mary told us her story, sitting opposite lo us in the low arm-chair. It was the advice ofthe vicar's wife thnt the engagement should be broken olf; but that, if the breaking of the engagement were im¬ possible, tbere should be au indefinite period of waiting. Such engagements cannot be broken oil'. Young hearts will not consent to be thus loru asunder. The vicar's wife was too strong for them to get themselves married in her teeth, and Iheperiodof indefinite waiting was commenced.
And now for a moinent we will go farther back among Mary's youthful daya. Child as she seemed to be, she had in very early years takeu a pen in her hand. The reader need hardly be told that had not such beeu the case there would not have arisen auy cause for friendship between her and me. We are telling an Editor's tale, and it was in our editorial capacity that Mary first came to us. AVell,—in her earliest at¬ tempts, in her very youug days, she wrote,—Heaven knows wh.at; poetry first no doubt; then, God help her, a tragedy; after that, when the cu¬ rate-influence firat commeuced, tales of the conversion of the ungodly ;—and at last, before her engagement was a fact, having tried her wing at fiction, iu the form of those false litlie dia¬ logues between Tom the Saint and Bob the Sinner, she had completed a novel in oue volume. She was then seven¬ teen, was engaged to be married, and had completed her novel! Passing her in the slreet you would almost have laken her for a child to whom you might give au orange.
Hitherto her work had come from ambition,—or from a feeling of some¬ what restless piety inspired "by the cu¬ rate. Now thero arose in her youug mind the question whether such talent as she possessed might uot be tnrned to account for ways .and means, and used to shorten, perhaps absolutely lo anni- hil.ale, that uncertain period of wailing. The first novel was seen by " a man of letters" in her neighborhood, who pro¬ nounced it lo be very clever;—not in¬ deed flt as yet for publication, faulty in grammar, faulty even in spelling,—iiow I loved the tear that shone in hereye as she confessed this delinquency!—faulty ofcourse in construction, and faulty in character;—bnt still clever. The man of letters had told her that she must begin again.
Unfortunate man of letters in having thrust upon him so terrible a task !   In such circumstances what is the candid, honest,soft-hearted man of letters to do? " Go, giri, and mend your stockiugs. Learn to make a pie. If you work hard, it may be that some day your intellect will suflice you to read a book and un¬ derstand it.   For the writing of a book tbat shall either intereat or instruct a brother human being many gifts are required.   Have you just reason lo be¬ lieve that they have been given lo you ?" That is what the candid, honest man of letters says who is uot soft-hearted ;— aud in ninety-nine cases out of a hun¬ dred it will probably he the truth. Tbe soll-hearled man of letters remembers thatthls case may he the hundredth; and, unleas the blotted manuscript sub¬ mitted tohimisconcluaiveagainsl.such possibility, he reconciles it to his con¬ science to tune his connsel to that hope. Who can say that he is wrong? Unless such evidence be conclusive, who ean veulure to declare that this aspirant may not be the one who shall succeed ? Who in such emergency does not re¬ member the day in which he also was one of the hundred of whom the ninely- and-ninemust fail?—and will uot re¬ member also the many convictions on his own miud that he certainly would not be the one appoinled?   Tbe man of lettera in the neighborhood of Cornboro to whom poor Mary's manuscript was shown was notsufficiently hard-hearted to make any stroug attempt to deter ber. He made no reference to the easy stock¬ ings, or the wholesome pie,—pointed out the manifest faulto which he saw, and added—we do not doubt with mucli more energy than he threw into his wordsof cenaure-his comfortable assur¬ ance  that there -was great proraise in the work.   Mary Gresley that evening bnrned the manuscript, and began an¬ other, with the dictionary close at her elbow.
Then, during her work, thereoccurred two circumstances which bronght upon her—and indeed, upon the household to whichshe belonged—intense sorBow and greaUy increased trouble. The first of these applied more especially to herself. The Be V. Arthur Donne did not approve of novels,—of other novels than those dialogues between Tom and Bob, ofthe
falsehood of which he was unconscious, —and expressed a desire that the writing of them should be abandoned, fiow far the lover went in his attempt to enforce obedience we, ofcourse, con Id not kno w; but he pronounced the edict, and the edict, though not obeyed, created tribu¬ lation.
Then there came forth another edict which had to be obeyed—an edict from tbe probnble successor of the late Br. Gresley,-^rdering the poor curate to seek employment in some clime more congenial to his state of health tban tbat in which he was then iiving. He waa told that his throat and lungs and general apparatus for living and preach¬ ing were not strong enough for those hyperborean springs, and that he must seek a southern climate. He did do so, and before I became acquainted with Mary, had transferred his servioec to a small town in Dorsetahire. The engag- ment, of course, was to be as valid as ever, though matrimony must be postponed, more indeflnitely even than before. But if Mary could write novels and sell them, tben how glorious would it be to follow her lover into Dorsetshire! The Rev. Arthur Donne went, and the curate who came in his place was married, wanting a house, and not lodgings. So XIary Gresley per¬ severed with her second novel, and completed it beforeshe was eighteen.
The literary friend in the neighbor¬ hood—to the chance of whose acquaint¬ ance I was indebted for my subsequent friendship with Mary Gresley—found this work to be a great improvement on the first. He was an elderly man, who had been engaged nearly all his life In the conduct of a scientific and agricul¬ tural periodical, aud was the laat man whom I should have taken as a sound critic on works of fiction; but with spelling, grammatical conatruction, and the composition of sentences he waa acquainted ; and he assured Mary that her progress had been great. Should she burn that second story? she asked Ilim. She would if he so recommended, and begiu another next daj'. Such was not his advice. " I have a friend in London," said he, "who h.is to do with such things, and you sball go to him. I will give you a letter." He gave her the fatal letter, and she came to us.
She came up to town with her novel; but not ouly with her novel, for she brought her mother wilh her. So great W.TS her eloquence, so excellent her sua¬ sive power either with hertongueorby that look of supplication in her face, that she induced her mother to abandon Ifer homo in Cornboro, and truat her¬ self to London lodgiuga. The house waa let furnished to the new curate, and when I first heard of the Gresleysthoy were living on the second floor in a small street near to the Euston Street slation. Poor Fanny, as she was eall¬ eil, was left in some humble home in Cornboro, and Mary travelled up to try her fortune in tho great city. When wo came lo know her well we expressed our doubta as lo the wiadoni of such a step. Ye.s, the vicar's wife had been strong against the move. Mary confess¬ ed as much. The lady had spoken most foreible words, had uttered terrible pre¬ dictions, had told sundry truths. But Mary had prevailed and the journey was made, and the lodgings were tak¬ en.
AVe can now eome to the day when we first saw her. She did not write, but came direct to us with her manu¬ script in her hand. " Ayoung woman, sir, wants to see you," said the clerk, in that tone to which we were so well accustomed, and which indicated the dislike which he had learned from us to the reception of unknown viaitors. " Young woman! AVhat youug wo- m.Tu ?"
" AVell, sir, she is a very young wo¬ man,—quite a girl like."
" I suppose she has got a name. AVho sent her? I cannot see any young woman without knowing why. What does she want?" "Got a manuscript in herhand, sir." " I've no doubt she has and a lon of manuscript in drawers and cupboards. Tell her lo write. I won't see any wo¬ man, young or old, without knowing who she is." The man retired, and soon returned with an envelopehilong- ing to the office, on which was written " Miss Mary Gresley, late of Cornboro." He also brought me a note from " the man of letters" down in Dorsetshire.— " Of what sort is she?" I asked looking at the inlroduction.
".She ain't amiss to looks," said the clerk; "and she's.modest-like." Now certainly itistbe fact that all female literary aspirants are not "modest- like." AVe read our friend's lelter thro' while poor Mary was slanding at the counter below. How eagerly should we have run to greet her, lo save her from the gaze of the public, to welcome her at least wilh a chair aud the warmth of our editorial fire, had we guessed then what were her qualities! It was not long before sho kuew the way up to our sanctum without any clerk to show her, and not long before we knewtbesound of lhat low but not timid knock at onr door, made, always with the handle of the parasol, with which her advent waa heralded. AVe will confess that there was always music to our ears lu tliat light tap from that little round wooden knob. The man of letters in Doraet- shire, whom we had known wel! for many years, had been never known to us with intimacy. AVe had bougiit with him and sold withhim, had talked with hiin, and, perhaps, walked with him; but he was' not one witli whom we had ealen, or drank, or prayed. A dull, well-instructed, honest man he was, fond of his money, and, as we had thought, aa unlikely aa any man to be waked to enthusiasm by ambitious dreams of a young girl. But Mary had been potent even over him, and hehad written to me, saying that Miss Gresley was a young lady of e.icceeding promise, in respect of whom he had a strong presentiment thatshe would rise, if not to eminence, at least to a good position asawriter. "Butshe was very young," he added. Having read this letter, we at laat desired our clerk to show the lady up.
AVe remember her step aa ahe came to tho door timid enough then—hesitating but yot with an assumed lightness, ae Ihough she was delermined lo show us lhat she was not ashamed of what she was doing. .She had on her head a light straw hat such as then waa very unusual in London—and ia not now, we believe, commonly worn in the streets of the metropolis by ladies who believe themselvea lo know what they are about. Butit was a hat worn upon ber head, and not a straw plait done up in ribbons, and reaching down the in¬ cline of the forehead as far as thetopof the nose. And she was dressed in a gray stuff frock, with a little black band arouud her waist. As far as our mem¬ ory goes, we never saw herin any other dress, or with other hat or bonnet on her head. " And what can we do for you—Miss Gresley?" we said, standing up and holding the literary gentlemen's letter in our hand. We had almostsald " my dear," seeing her youth and re¬ membering our own age. AVe were af¬ lerwards glad that we had not so ad- d reased lier; though it came before long that we did call her "my dear"—iu quite another spirit.
She recoiled a little from the tone of our voice, but recovered herself atonce. " Mr. -— thinks that you can do some¬ thing for me. I have written a novel, and I have brought it to you."
" You are very young, are you not, to have written a novel ?"
" I ara young," she said, " but per- h.aps older than you think. I am eight¬ een." Then for the flrst time there came into her ej'e that gleam of a merry humor which never waa allowed to dwell there long, but which was so al¬ luring when it showed itself.
"That is a ripe age," we said, laugh¬ ing, and tben we bade her seat hei-self. At once we began to pour forth that long and dull and ugly lesson whieh is so common to our life, in whioh we tried lo explain to our unwilling i>upil that of all the  respectable professions for young women literature is the moat un¬ certain, the most heart-breaking, and the most dangerous.   " You hear of the few who are remunerated," we said; but you hear nothing of the thousands that fail." " It ia so noble!" she replied. " But ao hopeless." "There are those who Bucceed." "Yes, indeed.   Even in a lottery one must gain the prize; but they who trust to lotteries break their hearts." " But literature ia not a lottery.   If I
am fit, I shall succeed.  Mr. thinks
I may succeed." Many more words of wisdom we spoke to her, and well do we remember her reply when we had run all our line off the reel, and had completed our sermon. " I shall go on allthe same," she said. "I shall try, and try aeain—and again."
Her power over us, to a certain extent; was soon established. Of coarse we promised to read the MS., and tariied
Itover, no doubt with an anxious coun tenance, to see of what nature was the writing, ^^here is a feminine scrawl of a nature so terrible that tbe task of reading becomes worse than the tread¬ mill. "Ikno«vIcanwritewell, though I ana not quitesure about the spelling," said Maty, as ahe observed tho glance of our eyes. . She spoke truly. The writing waa sfood; though the erasures and alterations wete very numerons.- Ahd then the story 'was' intended to fill only one volume. " I will copy It for you if you wish it," said Mary. "Tho' there are so mauy soratchipgs out, it has been copied once." We would not for worlds have given her such labor, and then we promised to read the tale. We forget how it was brought about, but she told us at that interview that her mother had obtained leave from the pastry-cook round the corner to sit there waiting till Mary should rejoin her. "I thought it would be trouble enough foryou to have one of us here," she said, with her little laugh when I asked her why ahe had not brought her moth¬ er on wilh her. I own that I felt that she had been wise; and wheu I told her that If she would call on me again | that day week I would then have read' at any rate so much of her work as would enable me to give her my opin¬ ion, I did not Invite her to bring her mother with her. I knew that I could talk more freely to the girl without the mother's presence. Even when you ' are past fifty, and intend only to preach a sermon; you do not wish to have a mother present.
When she was gone wo took up the roll of paper and examined it. AVe looked at the division into chapters, at the various mottoes the poor child had chosen, pronounced to ourselves the name of the story—it was simply the name of the heroine, an easy-going, un¬ affected, well-chosen ntime—and read the last page of it. On such occasions the reader of the work begins his task almost with a conviction that the labor which he is about to undertake will be utterly thrown away. He feels all but sure that the matter will be bad, that it will he better for all parties, writer, in¬ tended readers, and intended publisher, that the written words should not be conveyed Into type—that it will be his duty after aome fashion to convey that unwelcome opinion to the writer, and and that the writer will go away incred¬ ulous, and accusing mentally the Men¬ tor of the moment of all manner of lit¬ erary sins, among which ignorance, jealousy and falaehood will, in the poor author's imagination, be most promi¬ nent. And yet when the writer was asking for that opinion, declaring his especial desire that the opinion should be candid, protesting that his present wish is to have some guage of his own capability, and that he has come to you, believing you to be above others able to give him that guage—while his peti¬ tion to you was being made, he was in every respect sincere. He iiad come desirous to measure himself, and had believed that you could measure him AVhen coming he did not think that you would declare him to be an Apollo. He had told himaelf, no doubt, how probable it was that you would point out to him that he was a dwarf. You flnd him to be but an ordinary man, measuring perhaps five feet seven, and unable to reach the standard of the par¬ ticular regiment in which be is ambi¬ tions of serving. Y'ou tell him bo in what ci villeat worda you know, and you are at onoe convicted in his mind of jeoionay, ignorance, and falsehood! And yet he ia perhaps a most excellent fellow—and capable of performing the best of service, only iu sorae other regi¬ ment ! As we looked at Miss Gresley's manuscript, tumbling it through our hauda, we expected even from her some such result. She had gained two things from ua already by her outward aud in¬ ward gifts, auch as they were-flrstthat ,we would read her story, aud secondly that we would read it qu iokiy; but she had not aa yet gained from us any be¬ lief that by reading it we could serve it. We did read it—the most of it before we left our editorial chair on that after¬ noon, so that we lost altogether the daily walk so essential to our editorial health, and were put to the expenae of a cab on our return home. And we in¬ curred some minimum of domestic dis¬ comfort from the fact that we did not reach our own door till twenty mlnntes after our appointed dinner hour. "I have this moment come from the ofilce as hard aa a cab could bring me," we said in answer to the mildest of re¬ proaches, explaining nothing as to the nature oflhe cause which had kept us so loug at our work.
We muat not allow our readers to suppose that the intensity of our appli¬ cation had ariaen from the overwhelm¬ ing interest of the story. It was not tbat the story entranced us, but that our feeling for the writer grew as we read the story. It was simple, unaf¬ fected, and almost painfully unaensa- tioual. It contained, as I came to per¬ ceive afterwarda, little more than a recital of whatherimaginatiou told her inight too probably be the result of her owu engagement. It was the story of two young people who become engaged and cannot be married. After a course of years the man, with many true argu¬ menta, asks to be absolved. Thewoman yields with an expressed conviction that iier lover is right, settles herself down for maiden life, then breaks her heart and dies. The character of the man was utterly untrue to Nature. That of the woman was true, but commonplace. Other intereat, or other character there was none. The dialogues between the lovers were many and tedious, and hardly a word was spoken between them which two lovers really would have uttered. It was clearly not a work as to which I could tell my little friend that she might depend upon it for fame or fortune. AVhen I liad finished it I was obliged to tell myaelf that I could not advise her even to publish it. But yet I could not say that she had mis¬ taken her own powers or applied her¬ self to a profession beyond her reach. There was a grace and delicacy in her work which were charming. Occasion¬ ally she escaped from the trammels of grammar, but only so far that it would be a pleasure to point out to her the er¬ rors. There was not a word that a young lady should not have written; and there were throughout the whole evident aigus of honest work. We had six days to think it over between our completion of the task and her second visit.
She came exactly at the hour appoint¬ ed, and seated herself at once in the arm-eh air before ua as soon as theyoung man had cloaed the door behind him. There had been no great occasion for nervousness at her first visit, and she had then, by an evident effort, over¬ come the diffidence incidental to a meeting with a stranger. But now sho did not attempt to conceal her anxiety. " Well," she aaid, leaning forward and looking up into our face, with her two hands folded together.
Even though Truth, stauding full panoplied at our olbow, had positively demanded it, we could not liave told her then to mend her stockings and bake iier pies and desert the calling that she had choaen. She'was simply irresistible, and would, we fear, have constrained us into falsehood had the qnestion been between falsehood and absolute reprobation of her work. To liave spoken Iiard, heart breaking words to her, would have been like striking a child when it comea to kias you. We fear that we were not absolutely true at first, and that by that absence of truth we made subsequent pain more painful. " AVell," she said, looking np into our face, " have you read it?" We told her that we had read every word of it. " And is it no good ?" AVe fear that we began by telling her
ed by us; and before her visit was brought to a close she had told us of her engagement with the curate. Indeed, we'belleve that thegreater part of her little hiatory as hitherto narrated was mado known to us on that occasion.— We asked after her mother early inthe interview, ttnd learned thatshe waa not on this occasion kept waiting at the pastry-cqqfe's hoase. >Marjr %ad come alone, making iise of somefflendly oin- nibns, of which she had learned the route. When she told us that she and her mother had come up to London solely with the view of forwarding her views in her intended profeaaion, we ventured to ask whether it would not be wiser for them to return to Cornboro, seeing how improbable it was that she would have matter fit for the press within any short period. Then she ex¬ plained that they had calculated tbat they would be able to live in London for twelve months, if they spent noth¬ ing except on absolute neoeaaariea. The poor giri seemed to keep nothing from ua. " AVe have clothea that will carry us throngh, and we shall be very care¬ ful. I came in an omnibus; but I will walk if you let me come again." Then she asked me for advice. How was she to set about further work with the best chance of turning it to account?
It had been altogether tho fault of that retired literary gentlemau down in the North, who had obtained what standing he had in the world of let¬ ters by writing about guano and the cattle plague. Divested of all respon¬ sibility, and fearing no further trouble to himself, he had ventured to tell this girl that her work was full of promise. Promise means probability, and in thia case there was nothing beyond a most remote chance. Thatsheand her moth¬ er should have left their little house¬ hold gods, und come up to London on such a chance, was a thiug terrible to the mind. But we felt before these two hours were over that we could not tlirow her off now. AVe had become old friends, and there had been that betweeu us whieh gave her a positive claim upon our time. Bhe had sat in our arm-chair, leaning forward wilh herelbowaon her knees and Jier hands atretched out, till we, caught by the charm of lier unstud¬ ied intimacy, had wheeled around our chair, and had placed ourselvea, as near¬ ly as the circumatancea would admit, in the aame position. The maguetism had already begun to act upon us. AVe soon found ourselvea taking it for grant¬ ed that she was to remain in London and begin another book. It was im¬ possible to resist her. Before the inter¬ view was over, we, who had been con¬ versant with all theae mattera before she was born; we, who latterly cometo regard our own editorial fault as being chiefly that of personal harshness; we, who had repulsed aspirant novelists by the score—we had consented to be a party to the creation, if not lo the ac¬ tual writing, of thia new book!
It was to be done in this way. iShe was to fabricate a plot, and to bring it to us, written on two sides of a sheet of letter paper. On the reverse sides we wero to criticise this plot, and prepare emendations. Theu she was to make out skeletons of the men and womeu who were afterwards to be clothed with flesh and made alive with blood, and covered with cuticlea. After tbat she was to arrange her proportions; and at last, before she began to write the atory she was to describe in detail such part of it as was to be told in eaeh chapter. On every advancing wavelet of the work we were to give our written re¬ marks. All this we promised to do be¬ cause of the quiver in her lip, and the alternate tears and sparkle in her eye. " Now that I have found a friend, I feel sure that I can do it," she said, aa she held our hand tightly before she left us.
In about a mouth, during which she had twice written to us, and twice beeu answered, she came with her plot. It was the sarae old story, with some ad¬ dition and some change. There was matrimony instead of deatii atthe end, and an old auut was brought in for the purpose of relenting and produciug an income. AVe added a fow details, feel¬ ing as we did ao that we were the very worst of botchers. We doubt now whether the old, sad, simple story was not the belter of the two. Then, after another lengthened interview, we sent our pupil back lo create her skeletons. AVhen she carae with the skeletons we were dear frienda, and we had learned to call her Mary. Thon it was lhat she flrst sat at our editorial table, aud wrote a love-letter to the curate. It was then mid-winter, wanting but a few days to Christmas, and Authur, as she called him, did not like the cold weather. " He does uot say so," she said, " but I fear he is ill. Don't you think there are some iieople with whom everything is unfortunate ? " She wrole her letter, and had recovered her spirits before she took her leave.
AVe then proposed to bring her moth¬ er to dine with us on Christmas Day. AVe-had made a clean breast of it at home in regard to our beart-ftutlerings, and had been met with a suggestion that some kindness might with proprie¬ ty be sliowu to theold lady as well as to the young one. AVe had felt grateful to the old lady for not coming to our of¬ fice Willi her daughter, and had atonce assented. AVhen we made thesuggestiou to Mary there came first a blush over all her face, and then there followed the well known smile before the bhish was gone. " You'll all be dressed flne," she said. AVe protested that not a gar¬ ment would be changed by any of the family after the decent church-going iu the morning. "Justas I am?" sbe asked. "Just as you are," we said, looking at the dear gray frock, adding aome mocking assertion that no possi¬ ble combination of miUiuerj' could im¬ prove lier. " And mamma will bejust the same? Theu we will come," she said. AVe had told her an absolute falsehood, as to some necessity which would tako us in a cab to Euston Square on the afternoon of that Christ¬ mas Day, so tiiat we could call and bring them both to our honse without trouble or expense. " You sha'nt do anything of the kind," .she said.— However we swore to our falsehood,— perceiving, as we did so, that she did not believe a word of it; but in the matter of the cab we had our own way. AVe found the mother to be what we had expected,—a weak, ladylike, lach- rymoae old lady, endowed with a per- fijund admiration for her daughter, so bashful that she could not at all enjoy her plum-pudding. AVe think that Mary did enjoy hers thoroughly. Sbe made a little speech to the mistresa of the house, praising ourselvea with warm words and tearful eyes, and immediate¬ ly won the heart of a new friend. She allied herself warmly to our daughters, put up with tne school-boy pleasant¬ ries of onr sons, and before the evening waa over was dreased up as a ghoat for the amusement of some of the neigh¬ boring children who were brought in to play snapdragon. Mrs. Gresley, as she drank her tea and crumbled her bit of cake, seated on a distant sofa, was not so happy, partly because she remem¬ bered her old gown, and partly because our wife was a stranger lo her. Mary had forgotten both circumstances be¬ fore the dinner was half over. She was the sweetest ghost that ever was seen. How pleasant would be onr ideas of de¬ parted spirita if such ghosts would visit ns frequently.
They repeated their visits to us not uu¬ frequently during the twelve csonths; butas the wholeinterest attaching to our intercourse had reference to circumstan¬ ces which took place in that editorial roomof ours, itwill not be necessary to re¬ fer furtherto the hours, very pleasant to ourselves, which she spent with ua in our domestic life. She was ever made welcome  when  ahe  came,  and  was
that it certainly was good—after afash-   known by us as a dear, well-bred, mod- l°°J T^'y SO')d--con3idering her youth   est, clever little giri.   The novel went
and neeessary inexperience, very good indeed. As we said this ahe shook her head, and sent out a spark or two from her eyes, intimating her conviction tllat excuses or quaai praise founded on her youth would avail her nothiug.
"AVould anybody buy it from me?" she asked. No, we did not think that auy publisher would pay her money for it. " AVould they print it for me with¬ out coating me anything ?" Then we told her the truth as nearly as we could. She lacked experience; and if, aa she had declared to me before, sbe was de¬ termined to persevere, she must try again, and must learn more of that les¬ aon of the world's waya which was so necessary to those who attempted to teach that lesaon to others. " But I shall try again at once," she said. We shook onr head, endeavoring to shake it kindly. " Currer Bell was only a young girl when she succeeded," she added. The injury which Currer Bell did after thia fashion waa almost equal to that perpetrated by Jack Sheppard.
Bhe remained with us then for above anhonr—for more than two probably, though the time was not gpecially mark-
alt silent, repressing the tears, and searching for argnments with which to support her cause.
''Working hard is apprenticeahip," ahe said to as once.
"Yea, Mary;- bnt the work will be more useful, and the apprenticeship more wholesome. If yoa will take them for what they are worth.",       . ,
" I shall be dead in ten .years,.".,she said.
"If you thonght so you would not Intend to marry Mr. Donne. But even, were it certain that sneh would be your fate, how can that alter the state of things ? The world will know noth¬ ing of that; and if it did, would the world buy your booka out of pity?"
"I want nobody to pity me," she said; "but I want you to help me." So we went on helping her. At the end of four months she had not put pen to paper on the absolute body of her pro¬ jected novel; and yet ahe had work¬ ed daily at it, arranging ita future con¬ struction.
During the uext month, when we were in the middle of March, a gleam of real suecess came to her. We had told her frankly that we would puhlish nothing of liers in the periodical whioh we wereourselves conducting. Shehad become too dear to us for ua not to feel that were we to do so, we sliould be doing it ratber for her sake tbau for that of our readers. But we did pro¬ cure for her the publication of two short stories elsewhere. For these she received twelve guineas, and it seemed to her that she had found an EI Dora¬ do of literary wealth. I shall never forget her ecstacy when she knew that her work would be printed, or her re¬ newed triumph when the firat humble check was given into her bonda. There are those who will think that such a triumph, as connected with literature, muat be sordid. For ourselvea, we are ready to acknowledge tbat money pay¬ ment for work done is the beat and most honcattest of success. AVe are sure that it is ao felt by young barristers audyouug doctors, and we do not aee why rejoic¬ ing on auch realization of long-eheriah- ed liope should be more vile with the literary aspirant tban with them.— " AVhat do you think I'll do flrst with it?" she aaid. AVe thought she meant to aend aomething to her lover, and we told her so, " I'll buy mamma a bon¬ net to go to church in. I didn't tell you before, but ahe hasn't been there these three Sundays because she hasn't one fit to be seen." I changed the check for har, and .she went oil" and bought the bonnet.
Though I waa successful for her in regard to the two stories, I could not go beyond that. AVe could have fllled p.ages of periodicals witli her writing had we been willing that she ahould work without remuneration. She heraelf was anxious for such work, thinking that it would lead to something better. But we opposed it, and, indeed, would not premit it, believing that work so done can be serviceable to none but those who accept it that pagea may be fllled without coat.
During the whole winter, wliile she waa thus working, ahe was In a state of alarm about her lover. Her hope was ever that when warm weather came he would again be well and strong. AVe know notbing sadder than such hope founded on aucb source. For doea not the winter follow the summer, aud then again comea thekillingspring? At thia time she used to read us passages from his letters, in which beseemed to speak of iittle but his own health. In her lite¬ rary ambition he never seemed to have taken part siuce she had declared her intention of writing profane novels. As regarded him, Iiis sole merit to us seemed to be in liis trulh to her. He told her that in his opiniou they two were as much joined together as though the ser¬ vice of tho Church had bound them; but even in saying that he spoke ever of himself and not of her. Well,—May came, dangeroua, doubtful, deceitful May, aud he waa worse. Thon, for the first lime, the dread word. Consumption, passed her lips. It had already paaaed oura mentally a score of times. AVe asked her what she heraelf would wish to do. AVould she desire to go down to Dorsetshire and see him? Shethought awhile, and said that she would wait a little longer.
The novel went on, and at length, in Juue, sbe waa writing the actual -words on which, as she thought, so much de¬ pended. She had really brought the story into some shape in tbe arrange¬ ment of her chapters ; and aometimea even I began lo hope. There were mo¬ menta in which with her hope was almost certainty. Towards the end of Juue Mr. Donne declared himself to be better. He was to have a holiday in August, and then he intended to run np lo London and seo his betrothed. He slill gave details, which were distress¬ ing to us, of his own symptoms ; but it was manifest that ho himself was not desponding, and she was governed in her trustor in ber despair altogether by him. But when August came the period of his visit was postponed. The heat had made him weak, and he waa to come in September.
Early in August we ourselvea went away for our anuual recreation,-not that we shot grouse, or that we have any strong opinion that August and September are the best montha in the year for holiday making,—but that everybody doea go iu Auguat. AVe our¬ selves are uot specially fond of August. In many places to which one goes a touring mosquitoes bite in that month. The heat, too, prevents one from walk¬ ing. The inns are all full, aud tbe railways crowded. April aud May are twice pleasanter months in which to see the world and the country. But fashion is everthing, and no man or woman will stay in town in Angust for whom there exists any practicability of leaving it. AVe went on the 10th,—just as though we had a moor, and one ol the last things wo did before our de¬ parture was to read and revise the laat written chapter of Mary's story.
About the end of September we re¬ turned, and np to that time the lover had not come lo London. Immediately on our return we wrote to Mary, and the next morning ahe was with ua. She had seated herself ou her usual chair before she spoke, and we had taken her hand and asked after herself and her mother. Then, withsoinethingof mirtli in our tone, we demanded the work which she h.id done since our departure. " He is dying," she replied.
She did not weep as sbe spoke. Itwas not on such occasions oa this that the leara filled her eyea. But thero was in hor face a look oi fixed and settled misery, which convinced us thatshe at least did nol doubt the truth of herown assertion. We muttered aomething as lo our hope that aho was mistaken.— " The doctor there has written to tell mamma that it isao. Here is his letter." The doctor's letter was a good letter, written with more of assurance than doctors cau generally allow themselves to express. " I fear that I am justified in telling you," said the doctor, " that it can ouly be a question of weeks." AVe got up and took her hand. There was not a word to be uttered.
" I mnst go to him," she said after a pause. " Well,—yes. It will be better." " But we have no money." It must be explained now that offers of slight, very slight, pecuniary aid had been made by us both to Mary and her raoth¬ er on more than one occasion. These had been refused with adamantine firm¬ ness, but always with something of mirth, or at least of humor, attached to the refusal. The mother would simply refer lo the daughter, and Mary would declare that they could manage to see the twelvemonth throngh and go baek to Cornboro, without becoming absolute beggars. She would allude to their joint wardrobe, and would confess that there would not have been a pair of boots be¬ tween them but for tbat twelve guineas; and indeed she seemed to have stretched that modest incoming so as to cover a legion of purchases. Andof these Ihings sho waa never ashamed to speak. AVe think there must have been at least two gray frocks, because the frock was al- woysclean,audneverab30lutelyshabby. Ourgirla at home declared that they had aeen three. Ofher frock, as it happened, she never spoke to us, but tbe new boots and the new gloves, "and ever so many thiugs that I can't tell you about, whicii
though their poverty was a joke. Now,' when the demand upon her was for that which did aot concern her perso¬ nal comfort, which referred to a matter felt by her to be vitally Important, she declared, wlthoat a minilte's hesitation, that she had notmoney forthe journey. "Of course you can have money," we said. " I suppose you will go at once?"
" Oyes—at onoe; that is, in a day or two—after he shall bave received my letter. Why should I wait?" We aat down to write a check, and she, seeing what we were doing, asked how much,' it was to be. " No—half that will do," shesaid. " Mamma will not go. AVe have talked it over and decided it. Yes, I know all abont that. I am going to see my lover—roy dying lover; and I have to beg for the money to take me to him. Of coarse I am a young girl • but in such a condiiion am I to stand upon the ceremony of being taken care of? A housemaid wouldn't want to be taken care of at eighteen." AVe did exactly as she bade us, and then at¬ tempted to comfort her while the young man went to get money for the check. What consolation was posaible? It was aimply necessary to admit with frankness that sorrow had come from which there could bono present release. " Yes," she said. " Time will cure it¬ in a way. One dies in time, and tben of conrse it is all cured." "One hears of thla kiud of thing often," she said afterwards, still leaning forward in her chair, still with something of the old expression in her eyea—something al¬ most of humor in spite of her grief; " but it is the giri who dies. AVhen it is tbe girl there isn't, after all, ao mnch harm done. A man goes about the | world and can shake it off; and then, there are plenty of girls." Wecould not tell her how infinitely more im¬ portant, to our thinking, -was her life than that of hira whom she was going to aee now for the laat time; but there did spring up within our mind a feel¬ ing, greatly opposed to that conviction whicii formerly we had endeavored to impress upon herself—tbat she was des¬ tined to make for herself a successful career.
She went, and remained by her lov¬ er's bedside for three weeks. She wrote constantly to her mother, and once or twice to ourselves. She never again allowed herself to entertain a gleam of hope, and sbe spoke of her sorrow as a thing accomplished. In her laat inter¬ view with naahe had hardly alluded to her novel, and in her letters she never meutioned It. But she did say one word which made us guess wliat was coming. " You will fiud me greatly changed," she said; "so much chang¬ ed that I need never have troubled you." The day of her return to Lon don was twice postponed, but at last ahe waa brought to leave hira. Stern necessity was too strong for her. Let her pinch herself as she might, she must live down in Dorsetshire—and could not live on his means, whioh were as narrow as her own. She lefl him ; and on the day after her arrival in London she walked across from Euston Square to our office.
" Yes," she said, "it is all over. I shall never see him again on this side of heaven's gates." I do not know that we ever saw a tear in her eyes pro¬ duced by her own sorrow. Sho was possesseil of some wonderful strength which aeemed to suflice for the bearing of any burden. Then slie paused, aud we could only sit silent, with our eyes flxed upon the rug. " I have made him a promise," ahe said at laat.   Of course
promiae," ahe said at laat. we aaked her what was the promiae, though at that moment we thought that we finew.   " I will make no more at¬ tempt at novel writing."
"Such a promise should not ffaye been asked—or given," we aaid veme- meutly.
" It should have boen asked—because he thought it right," she answered.— " And of course it was given. Must he not know betler than I do? Ia he not one of God's ordained priests ? In all the world Is there one so bound to obey him aal?" There was nothing to bo said for it at such a moment as that.—* There is uo enthusiasm like that pro¬ duced by a death-bed parting. " I grieve greatly," she said, " that you should have had so much vain labor with a poor girl who can uever profit by it."
"I don't believe it will have been vain," we answered, having altogether changed thoae viewa of ours as to the futility of the pursuit which she had adopted.
" I have deslroyed it all," she said.
"AVhat! burned the novel?"
" Every scrap of it. I told him that I would do so, andthatheshould know that I had done it. Every page was burned after I got home laat night, and then I wrote lo liim before I went to bed."
" Do you mean that j-ou think it wick¬ ed that people write iiovela?" we asked.
" He thinks it to be a misapplication of God's gifts, and that has been enough for me. He shall judgo for me, but I will not judge for othera. And what does it matter? I do not waut to write a novel now."
They reniained in London till the end of the year for which the married curate had taken their house, and then they reiurned to Cornboro. AVe saw them frequently while they were still in town, and despatched thera by the train to the north just when the winler was beginning. At that tirae the young clergyman was slill living down in Dorsetshire, but he was lying in liis grave when Christmas came. Mary never saw him again, nor did she at¬ tend his funeral. She wrote to us fre¬ quently then, as she did for years after¬ wards. "I should have liked lohave stood at his grave," she said ; " but it was a luxury of sorrow that I wiabed to enjoy, and they who cauuot earn lux¬ uries should not have them. They were going to manage it for me liere, out I knew I was right to refuse it"
Right, indeed! As far as we knew her, she never inoved a single point from what was right.
All these ihings happened many years ago. Mary Gresley, on her return to Cornboro, apprenticed herself, as it were, lo the married curate there, and called herself, I think, a female Scrip¬ ture reader. I know that ahe spent her days In working hard for the religieus aid of the poor around her.
From tirae to time we endeavored to instigate her to literary work; and she answered our letters by sending us wonderful little dialogues between Tora the Saint and Bob the Sinner. AVe are in no humor to criticise them now ; but we cau assert, that though thai mode of religious teaching is most distasteful to us, the literary merit shown eveu in such works as theae was very manifest. And there came to bo apparent in thera a gleam ofhunior which would sometimes make us think that sho was silling op¬ posite to ua and looking at ua, and that she was Tom the Saint, and that we were Bob the Sinner. AVe said what we could to turn her from her cliosen path, throwing into our lelters all the elo¬ quence andali the thoughtof which we were masters; but our eloquence and our thought were equally in vain.
At lasl, wheu eight years had passed over her head after the death of Mr. Donne, sho married a missionary who was goiug out to some forlorn country on the confines of African colonization; and there she died. AVe saw her on board tbe ship iu which she sailed, and before we parted there had come that tear into her eyes, the old look of sup¬ plication on her lipa, and the gleam of mirth across her face. AVe kissed her once—for the first aud onlj- tirae—as we bade God bless her !
ADVENTTmES OF A FAST TOTJITQ MAU. "Thank you, I don't care if I do," said a fast young man, with a large pressed brick In his hat, as he surged up, the other night, to the Indian that stands in front of a tobacco store on Biver atreet with a bunch of cast iron cigars in his band.
.^'I'll take one; I smoke sometimes;" and he reached out to take the preferred weed, but the Indian would not give it up—he hung on to the cigars like grim death."
"Look here, old copperhead," said the fast young .'Jan, " none of that; no tricks upon travelers, or there'll be a muss; you and I'll fall out; somebody '11 get a punch in the head."
The Indian said never a word, but still hungou to the cast iron cigars.— He waa calm, dignified, unmoved, as an Indian should be, looking his as¬ sailant straight in the face, and no muaele moving a aingle hair.
" Yes, yea. Look at me, old feather- head; I'm one of 'em; I'm around; I'm full weight, potato measure heaped up," and;he placed himselfin a position, threw back his coat, and squared oft" for a fight.
All the time the Indian never said a word, ana looked, without the least alarm, straight into tbe face of the fast young man, still holding out a cigar in a mighty friendly sort of way. The young man -tvas plucky and just in a condition lo resent any insult, or no iusult at all. He was ready to "go in," but the calmness and imperturbability of the Indian rather cowed him, aod he waa diaposed to renson the matter.
"I'll lako one," said ho "certainly, I aaid so before; I freeze toa good ci¬ gar; I'm one of the smokers, I am. Oue of tbe old sort; and I'm edition number two, revised and corrected, with notes, author's writing on the title page, and copyright secured. Yes I'll take one. All right, old red akin, I'll take one."
But the Indian said not aword, look¬ ing all the time straight in tho face of the fast young man, and holding on to the cigars.
" Look here, old gimlet eye, I'm get¬ ting riled, my back's coming up, and you and I will have a turn; smell of that, old copperhead," and ho thrust his fist uuder the nose of tho cast-iron Indian, who said not a word, moved not a muscle, but kept righton looking straight into the face of the fast young man, as if not caringaHgforhis threats or taking in at all the odor of his fist. " Very well," said the fast young man, "I'm agreeable; I'm around; look out for your ugly mug, old pump¬ kin head," and heletgoa right-hander square against the nose ofthe cast-iron Indian, who never moved an iucii nor stirred a muscle, looking wilh a calm unchanged dignity, as before, in the face ofhis enemy.
"Hallo!" cried the fast young man, in utler bewilderment, as he reeled back half way across the sidewalk, -with the blood dripping from his skinned knuck¬ les. " Hallo, here's a go, here's an eye- opener, here's a thing to liunt for round the corner. I'm satisfied, old, iron-face, I am. Enough said between geutie¬ men."
Just then he caught sight of the toma¬ hawk, and his hair begaii to rise, lhe Indian seemed to be makiug up his mind to use it.
" Hold on!" cried the fast youngman, as he dodged around the awuing post. "Hold on! noneof th.it; I'll apologize; I squat; I knock under. Hold on, I say," he conlinued, as the Indian seem¬ ed lo scowl with peculiar fierceness. "Hold ou! A'ery well, I am oil'. I've business down atreet, people at home waiting for me, cau't stay," and he bolted like a quarter horse down the street, and hia cry, " Hold on," died away as he vanished beyoud the lamp lishta.—Troy Times.
LE6AL NOTICES.
ADniNISTRATOB'S NOTICE.
Estate of John W. Bupp, late of AVeat Earl twp., deceaaed.
LETTERa of administration on said estate having been granted to the undersigned, all persons Indebted thereto arerequesled to mako immediate settlement,andthoseliavins claims or demands against the samo,-will pre¬ sent them withont delay for settlemen t to th e underslRned, residing In said township. novl9 Ctn ABRAHAM ftUPP.
ABMimStTBATOR'S WOTICE.
Estate of Henry Nissley, late of Clay township, deceaseil.
LCTTERSOfadmlnlstatlon on said estato hav¬ ing been {^ranted to tho undersigned, all persons Indebted tlieretoare reciuestetlto mako Immediate payment, and thoso haviuKeiaimH or demands against tliesame will present tliem witliout delay for settlement to thc undersign¬ ed, residin.; in said township. novlT O'l 11 SA.MUF.L NI!j.SLEY.
A«.wixisrn,v«'OR.s' xoriCE.
Estalo of Jacob Eby, late of Paradise twp., Lancastercounty, deceased.
LK-rrERSof administration on said estato having iieen ^rau4.ca to the undcrsigned.'ull perGonsindehted tlieretoare requested tomako humediatu payment, and those having cliilnis ordemands against tliesame will present them without delay for settieinent to tlieunderslgn¬ ed residing in said townsliip.
M.VGDAI.EKA KBY, C. ULEME.ST EBY.
Administrators. X. E. SLAYMAKER, JR., Attorney,
No. 4'£ Norlh Uuke street, Lancaster, ocia) llt-50
ASSinXEE.S' XOTICE.
Assigned Estate of .fohn Weaver  an wife, of East Earl township, Lan¬ caster eounly. THE abovo nained iiarlies liavin*;, by deed ol voluntary u.ssigiiiiiunt of October :i:*nil. I.SIW, assigned tho property and estalo of .said John Weaver to the undersigned for beneilt of cred¬ itors, they therefore givif notice 10 all persons iiulobted to said ji.ssignors, lo mako payment u, tho undersigned without delay, and llioso having claims to present tliein f.ir settlement
to tjHKisriAN we.\vi-;e.
re.viililig in East Earl lownshlp. CUKISTIA-X ZI.MJIEll.MAX,
resldiiiic in Earl township, -MABTIX K. .STAUl'KER. residing iu East Earl township, octSOGtoO Assignees.
Jf.\UY J. .Simmons, bv iier next friend.T N. Suow,
v.s.
Wil. n. aiMsroNs.
Ali V
Alias .Subpoena for 1)1-
orce to X'ovcmbirr
Term, Ism.
No. 21.
-\T<       -
XI hereby notliled and commanded to be ami appear In your proper person, hefore onr Jud¬ ges at Lancaster, at our Court o. Common Pleas, to be held on MONDAY, theaith day of DEOEMBEB, A. D. 18(111. at 10 o'clock, a. m.. to show cause, if any vou liave. wuy the said Mary J. Simmons shonld not bu divorced from the Ijonds ufmutriniouy conlnieled wilh yon. .1. K. KBKY. Siieriir. ShorllT's OlHco, Lancaster, Xov. 15, ism.
THE DEFENDANT. Wm. II. Simmons, will take notiee tliat depositions to be read in evi¬ dence .it the hearing of the above cau.se. will be taken before the uudersigneil, at his ollice. No. 41 East King si reet. Laneasler. Penn'a. on SATURDAY.the ISth day of DECEMBER, laill. between the hours of 11 a.m., and 5 p.m.. of .said day. when ami where you mff.y attend If you think proper.
Dlt. W.M. R. GROVE.
novl" 41*1 Commissioner.
Joux A. St.vuffeu, "I AltasSnb. for Divorce vs. -  to Xov. Term, Isuii.
AStASD.V F. STAUFFEU,) Xo. 2.'.
NOTICE.-AMAXDA F. .STAUKI'EK: Vou are liereby notltlcd aud comiiiunileil Io be and appear in your jiroper person, befoie ,,iir - Judges at Lancaster, nt onr i'onrt of Common Pleas, to be lield on .MON DAY tlie -Jltii day uf DECEMBER. A.D. ISlii). at 10 o'clock, a. ni., Io showcause. ifany you have, why thesaid .I,,liii A. Staulfer should not be divorced fi-oni the bonds of matrimony whicii ho iialh coiilrael- ed with yon. J. K. FREY. Sherin-.
Sherilf's olllco, Lancaster, Xov. J.% liilili.
THE DEFEXDAXT, Amanda F. Slaull'i-r. win take uotice that depositions lo be read in evidence al the hearing of the abovo cau.'^e. will be taken before the undersigned, at his olllce. In South Duke street, Lancaster. Pa., on FKIDAY. the nth day of DECE.M ilElt. ISto. between tho hours of 10 a. m.. and .i p. in., of said day, when and wliere yon may attend if you think proper.        JOHX .M. A.MWEU,
novl"-It* 1 Coniniisslon.-r
Tobacco.—Tobacco possesses only to a very limited extent the narcotic pow¬ er so conspicuously displayed by opium. Its food-action, however, is correspondingly prominent. It retards, as is supposed, tbe retrograde change which is constantly going on in our tisauea. ' The nutritive forces of the econmoy thus gain an ascendency, wbich resullsin an increase ofthe bulk of the body. AVhetlier or not this be the correct explanaliou, tobacco aud its congeners undoubtedly do promote nu¬ trition wheu used properly; and this, indeed, is one of the beuefits attending their judicious use.
The habitual consumption of this drug, however, ia incompatible with full mental energy. The noblest func¬ tion ofthe body—that of ministering to spiritual and mental growth—can be performed only by the brain; and it is on this organ, as we liave seen, that the eirecls of tobacco are first aod most pow¬ erfully felt.
By ita sedative, benumbing influence activo work ia retarded, aud afler a time a condition of hyper-nutrilioii is induced by its use, in wiiicb the brain iaas slow to respond to ita stimuli as was Dickens' fat hoy, Joe, to the calls of hia maater, AVardle.—J^Vont an arti¬ cle on Tobacco, iu the December num¬ ber of LipxiincotVs Magazine.
on. That catalogue of the akeletona gave us more trouble than all the rest, and many -were the tears which she shed over it, and sad were the misgiv¬ ings by whieh she was afflicted, though never vanquished! How was it to be ex¬ pected that a girl of eighteen should portray characters auch as was never known ? In her Intercourse with the curate all the intellect had been on her side. Sbe had loved him because it was requisite lo her to love some one; and now, as she had loved him, ahe was as true as steel to him.   But there I we really couldn't hav'egone without,''
had been almost nothing for her to learn from him. The plan of the novel went on, and as it did so we became more and more despondent aa to ita suc¬ ceaa. And through It all we knew how contrary it was to our judgment to expect, even to dream of, anything but failure. Though we went on work¬ ing with her, finding it to be quite im¬ possible to resist her entreaties, we did tell her from day to day that, even pre- Buming she were entitled to bope for ultimate success, she must go throngh an apprenticeship of ten years before she could reach it.  Then nhe would
all came out of the twelve guineas. That sbe had taken, not only with de¬ light, but with triumph. But pecuniary assistance from ourselves she had al¬ ways refused. " It would be a gift," she would say.
" Have it as yon like."
" But people don't give other people money."
"Dou'tthey? That's all you know abont the world."
"Ye9;tobeggar8. A^ehopeweneedn't come to that." It was thus that she always answered us—but always with something of laughter In her eye, as
Would you have continued cheerful¬ ness and happiness on your wife's coun¬ tenance ? Would you have your home irradiated with those bearas of joy which can- only corae the well gotten up smile of a lovely woraau in her best es¬ tate?—?—?—?
Then you must be considerable ofthe good woman's comfort. And you mustn't depend on her for the making ofall the little boys' cltohes. AVheu you buy clothes for the little fellows, «s good, as beautiful, and as cheap, aa BoCKHiLL & AVilson make Ihem, it ia a sin to infiict lhat much toil on your wife.
Our readers will do well to take their juveniles with them when they go to Philadelphia to buy their clothea,(a3 we know all the best looking of them do,) at Rockhill & Wilson's,   [s 22 sm
Quilp intimates that he believes In the womai's movement—on washing day.
Our old maida are a little doubtful about the truth of the popular proverb that—Man proposes.
Why is the bridegroom worth more than the bride? Because she ia given away, and he is often sold.
The ties that connect busineas meu— adver-tise.
The JIarhiage Question.-" I am not afraid to live alone," said a uoble woman, "but I dare not marry un¬ worthily."
Is thore no fine heroism here? I think that to submit cheerfully to a life where circumstances have been unkind, to choose it from a liigh seuse of duly, or to accept it for the sake of loyalty to a high ideal, is as bravo a thing as a woman can do. But, after all, tbe wo¬ man who does this simply deinands to be let alone. She begs that you will not suppose her iuseusible to astab because slie does not cry out. »She has her pride and her delicacy. She urges no claims upon admiration, but ahe has no con¬ sciousness of disgrace. One would nat¬ ur.al ly prefer a swift death by a sharp blade loa continuous hacking by a dull weapon. She therefore declines lo serve any longer as a target for all the dull¬ ards of the community lo test their feeble wits npoix.—From tlie Seventy Thousand, in thc Deccmber number of Lip2nncott's Magazine.
LEGAL NOTICES.
A»MI\-I.STR,V'l'On'.S.lI«>TIt'E.
Estate  of Grabill B.   Forney,   late of
West  Earl   twp.,   Lancaster
County, Pa., dcce.nsed.
I ETTERS of administratlou ousaid eslalo J liaving been granted to llio undersigned, all persons indebted thereto nro requested to moke liiiiuedlato payment, and those having calms or demands against tile samo will pre¬ sent them for .settieniont to tlio undersigned residiug tu said towushlp.
ABRAHAM FORNEY. oc3Q Ct 50 Admliiistralor.
REUISTEIf.S XOTICE.
THE accounts of lhe foilowinK persons nro tiled in the Register's ollite of Laneasler
couniv forconllrination and allowance nl an
Orpliauii' Court to be iicld in the Conn House.
In the elty of Lancaster, on the .lun JIOND.W
IX DECEMBERCiOlh), at iOo'cioclc. a. hi.:
Jacob StelTy. guardian of ^lary, Charles and Annie Rogers.
George Eby. guardian of Abrah.am Brubaker.
Stephen Grisslnger, aiiniiiilstralor of Charles Clark.
George Menlzer, Ciiristian L. Hunsecker. Wil¬ liam Weidman. executors orsaniue! Johns.
Sullivan a. Child,admliiistralor of William H. Child.
Samuel Humes Porter and Louis Slli.sslcr, e.v- ecutors of Sarah H. Porter.
'Susan Moore, adniiuistralrlx of Rach'l Moore.
David Mock, guardian of Martha A. R.aub and
I IMary A. Raub.
Charles llonry ShulUcbottum, oxccutor of Mar.v Sliulllrbotloni.
.Tohn .Miller, execulor ofCaiharlne Shreinor.
John A. Gross, excculor of Adam V. Gro-=.s.
Jacob Kohr and Joim Koiir, adiuinistralors of Jaeob Kohr.
Joscpii Hershey, exeenlor of Henry Hortmau.
Diivid Hariman,e.xeculorof Wiiliam Hill.
Jacob Eckman. adminlslralor of MarySIiulIz.
AVilliam Weidnuin, executor of Henry Weid¬ man.
Beujamin Brandt and Henry B. Becker, ad¬ ministrators of Annie Brandt.
Michael Swartz, exeenlor of Magdalena Giu-
wllllam Steacy.'admlnlfilralor of George M. Steaey.
John M. Stehman, guardian of Ellis L. Siiick- ler.
Danlol R. Ehler, administrator of Si-il>liia Ehler.
John Buckwalter and Ileni-y Buckwaller. ad¬ ministrators ol David Stoner.
John Seidomridgo and Nalliaiiicl E. Slayma¬ ker. executors and trnslees for Julia .-Vnn Scldoiiiriilge, formerly. Brislu-n.
JacobC.Pflialer,guardian of JiyraG.Shniiian.
Andrew .Vrmstroug, administrator of l-'itnny Breuneiiiaii.
Hi-nry G. Li>ng and Jacob M. Long, exeirnlors of I'eler I."i,g. who was exeenlor of Valen- Cllliuf HolTman.
EdwluKouiguiackeraiidCurllsFry,execiiloi-s of Rev. Uaulel llcilz.
Rem Brubaker, guardian of Rt bccca Itrubal^er.
Catharine Rigg. iidministi-.-itrl.x of Geo. llicg.
S. L. Oregg, guardiau of Morris .1. I'yio and Howard J. Pyle.
B.^ujainin B. Kauirman, adiuinisirator of Ji.liu C. Uerr.
S. P. A. Woidman guardian of Susan I'.. R. Weidman.
George V\'eiler. Honry M. Weller and .lo-jcph ti. Weiler .administrators of Georgo Weiler.
Levi K. Brown executor i>f Sarah Collins.
Levi IC. lirown adiiiinislralor of Irwin Ci'iiig.
Levi K. Browu adm inisl l-alorof.losiiiii ilrowii.
Reuben R. Bltzer execulor of Lydia Bilzt-r.
Wm. Kenncily adininisli-ator of Sarali Weid¬ man.
Henry Frcymoyer ailminisirator of .\Iari;:-.n't Freymoyor.
Alhsulont Hartman execulor of John iCIaiii'.
David Landis e.xecnlor of chrisiian l\',Iiri;r.
Jolm Rohrer admiulstraior of Mai-y Rolin-r,
Manila S. Sha'.'Il'er and Wm. L. i'oiiier admin, islrators of Bartram A. Sliaell'er.
Henry Wissler adminlslralor of Eltzab'^lii Hlnkle.
Samuel Truseott guardian of Lilly .McKlssick and Jolin JIcKlssick.
W. W. Hoitliius adnilnistrator of James IC. Alexander.
Tiiomas A. Scott execulor of .\iin Mullison.
Thomas A. Scott adniinisi lalur d. b. ii.. c. 1.1\. of Reuben Muliisoll.
Jacob G. Peters excculor of .Mai;d:ileiia iviiiiet- fer.
David L. MUlerand Samnel L.IIIlikievexecn¬ tors of Ileury Binkley.
David L. Miller executorof I-'eiix llinklrv.
Jacob F. Gable surviving execulor of William Gable.
Uriaii Bitzer executor of Elizabetli Bitzer.
Josepli Gehman and l.saac G. Bowman execu¬ tors of Daniel Geiinnin.
J. Aug. Elller anil C. .-Vuiandns Klilcr. acling execulors of .lolin liii Ier.
Rudoiiih Ressler and Jlarlha Rcs-iler, adiulii- istralors of John Ressler.
Esalas Billingfelt admiulstraior of Jeremlali Harling. D.iVlD .M lLt>i.
novil-lt;! ItcgUler.
An.1IIXISTR.VTOR.S' KOrlCE.
Estato of Christian Burckhart, late of       Earl twp., deceased.
LETTERS of administration ou said estalo havingbeen granted to thounderslgned, all persons indobtod tiiereto aro reqnested to make Inimediatopayineiit. aud thoso liavlngclaims or demands iilfalnst tho s.atnc will presont them for settlement to the undersigned.
JOHN BURCKHART. Leacock twp., MABTIX SAUDER, Earl twp. nnv gl fi*t:! Administrators.
EXECUTORS* NOTICE.
Eshite OfDr. Andrew B. KautTman, do- ceased, late of East Hempfield twp. LETTERS testamentary on said estato hav¬ ing been granted to the undorsignod, ail fersons Indebted theretoaro requested to make mmediato settlemont, and thoso liaving claims or demands Against the same, will pre¬ sent them without delay for settlement to the undersigned.
CHRISTIAN KAUFFMAN, JOHX STAUFFER, Residing in E. Hempllold twp.; HENRY SNAVELY, Residing 111 Penn township, decl 0*1 3 Execulois.
EXECCTOR-S' JiOTIC'E.
Estate of John Eby, late of  Peqnea towuship, deceased.
LETTERS testamentary on said estato hav¬ ing been granted to tho undci-signed.all persons Indebted thereloare requested tomako Immedlalesetllemcnt.and tiiose h.-ivingcialms or demandsagainst the sarae will present them forsettlement to either of lho underslgued, residing in said townsliip.
JACOB liARXISH. (mll.ier).
novlOBl'Ml
SIICHAELG; HARNISH,
Execulors,
EXECUTOR'.S NoriCE.
Estate of John Rutter, lale of Leacock township, deceased.
[ETTER.^ testamentary on lho estateof said J dccGiLsed having been granted lo tho un¬ dersigned, all persons Indebted thereto aro requested to make immediato payment and thoso having claims or demands agaiust tho samo will present them for settlement lo tho undersigned, residing in said lownshin
¦      JOXATHAN B. RV-L-FkR, povl.'i 6't 52 Eiecutir.
ACDITOR'S XOTICE.     ¦ ¦
Estate of Samuel J. Hoffman, of Earl townshi0, deceaaed
THE undersigned auditor, appointed hv the Orphans Court OfLancaster county Pa to ;^ ^^''o r ro',? '¦^^""1'=! remaining in tlU haids of t. a. Groll, administrator of Said deceased to and among tlioso legally entitled to the f??^'.T"o,'".''?'' forth"' porposo on TUES- ^•i'^i^\^^''i,'^V ?i DEB6MfiER,18«!l,at 10 o clock, A. M., In the Librarv Room of thn Conrt House, In the City of Ya™So?  Pa
h?tt^n™'«rj?,™'.,''""'=«'"' '¦» said- dlBW- oauou may attend.
T,«,-w ^t o ^' S- HOFFMAN,
liOV274t2 AttOltor;
TNTHEMATTKltOFUK HIVI.'^It^N'OPTHK I 3L*SD ELKCnOX DISTItlCr CiKI^ANCAS- TERCOUNTV,iUMlfnriiitiip:ineu-.;I.L-ti.MMli>- trlct out ofWfSt llvinplieUl Imvnship. which now vnte.s al the plnce oiholdinj; thu t-Iectum.s lu the^t'Jiid Election Oistrlet.
The Committsioners ('Ahniham X. Cnssel. Jo.seiiti M. Wiilts, .I.e. IJiicherj appoint, il hv tlio Court of QuiirU'r He.--si(>ns of Liiiicas:^!' County, to report upon tho cxppiilfin-y oi" forming a new Elpclhm Plstriclortliu .South- erripartof siihl lown.ship, will meet for Hi.*
fiirpoae of their appointment iit Jolin YohnS lotel, in the villnne of .Monnlvillt:, uX MON¬ DAY, DECEMBER Iffth, ItiU!), !tt i) oVlorU. A. M..anil tlieiiahi Cotnmi^stuiicrs appofnit'd 1>v said Court to report upou the expediency of forming; a new Election Di.slricl out, or tin; Western part ofsaid West Hcmpllfld lown- shlp.nnd also a new Election DislrtcL out, of the North Western part of sahl West Hemp¬ fleld lowuship will meet for the purposeof theirappoiulmentat the publii! liouse of .I.is. W.Beruthelsel (lale Fred. IJard) In said West Hemptleld township on TUKSOAV. DECEM¬ BER 2Slh, 1S&), at y o'ehjck. A. M. IU" order of theCourt.   Attest .M. M. UREinKU.
Dept. Clerk of tiuarler .SessioMs. dec t 'M'^i
XOTICE.
IX  THR  MATTEi: OF "THE CAEUXAU- VOX CEMETEItY ASSOCI.^TIOX."  Caer¬ narvon township, Uinea-stcr eounty.
In the Court of Common Pleas of Lancaster county.Xovemberii^d. l&ili. Application madi; by J. li. Llvl UIIS ton, esq., for a charter to Incor¬ porate The Caeruarvou Cemetery Associaihui, in Caerniirvon lownshlp, in said eounlv.
The proposed charter is tiled iu the Prothon¬ otary's OUice, at LumcaMer, and notice Is here¬ by {; iven that if sufllcient, cause to the contrary t)e not showu, said Charier will be granted by tho Court ou the THIRD MONDAY OE Dl*:- CEMBER. A. D. ISO'J, at IU o'cloclc, a. m.
Attest: W. 1,. BEAi;,
X'ovember 20,1S69—.It :t Prothonoiar>".
ACCOUNTS or TltrST KSTA'IKN, AC.
THE accounts of thc foilowinK named e.staleK will be prcKenteil for conflrmation on MOX¬ DAY, DECEMBER 20, IStiiJ: Mnpdalcna Herchelrolh's estate, Daniel Dan¬ ner anil Peter Arnold, committee, E.«ther Taylor's esUte. Amos Lonseuccker a ml Lewis C. J..ytlc. adufrs of Wesley Taylor, d.:- ceased. lale committee. Martin V, Elmer's Ksslgncd estate. WlUhiut Kennedy, asslKnco,
W. L, BEAK, Prothonotary. Prothonotary's Otnce, Novemiier:i2, l»tw.—Itl!
XOTICE IX BAXKUrPTCY.
In the District Court of the)
United .States, for the Eust- }¦   Ixx BanUruptey,
eru District ofPenn'a. )
In the inatter of ROBERT EVAXS, bankrupt,
NOTICE is hereby f^iven that thero will lie a Hecond general meeting of lhe creditors of said bankrupt held nt LiuicaKter, In said (Hs- trlct, ou SATURDAY, the llth day of DEUK-M- BEK, A. D. ISyy, at 11 o'clock, rt.m.,al iheoilK-e of A mos Slaymaker, esc]., oae of lhe Registers In Bankruptcy In said Uistric-i, for the purpo¬ ses named In the riband 28th sections ofthe Act of Congress, entitled " An Act to establisli a uniform sysiem of Bankruptcy thronehout tho United atates," approved March 2, im. DAXIEL G, BAfCER, nov24 312 Assignee.