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^ GECarroll ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^^ lewis m. grist, p. >pri?t?ii-. \\,Vv * . /or iiir |)ro:;toiton of f{;t ^tfllitical, ^ociti. ^arifuftura! and CmnnmM Jntmsts of % SoslJj. ^ jTERMS-?$3.00 A YEAB, IN ADVANCE. r . VOL. IT. t? "pBKYILLE, S. C.,*THUESBAY, ATJGTJ8T lO, 1871. NQ.3Q. 1 - . - . ., . , , | ^ .?e nf Orancre should be ~ Written rorci?yir^vlUe.EiwjiUM^i" * ^ brok^ cistern^ t < BY MARY F. WATERBURY. CHAPTER IX. We tremble by the harmless bed ? Of one loved and departed, ^ 9nT?ears drop on the lips that said Last night, (Be stronger-hearted !' O, God?to clasp those rmjjers close, And yet to feel so lonely! To see a light upon such brows, Which is the day-light only! Be pitiful, O, God!" With infinite love and pity, God upheld i and strengthened his children. ^ The saintly face, though 30 still and white, had no terror even for the timid little Lawrie. t* mliA 1 o tliftrfl Thfiv knew that JH? TTOQ H?V*ffWI niiV 1HJ OMW. J in all the wide world {here v^s not a heart to ? love them as had that heart which was stilled forever; that no lips could be so tender, yet so true;, no hand so strong to labor, so gentle; n**"", and* ^^^^Sugh it see toed as if the only blessing the j world contained had been taken from them, | there was given to them the sweet assurance,; which Helen repeated over and over in the midst of her grief and desolation, and which even the children could understand: "Dear mother is happy." There were friends around them through the hush of the days of preparation?kind neighbors to take up those common cares that grate so harshly on the quivering, wounded hearts, and friends to perform the last sacred offices for the dead. Frederic Lee kept the father aroused from his apathy, and comforted the little boys; and it was Lizzie who so smoothly arranged the soft grey hair about the peaceful brow, and placed a pure white lilly in the sleeper's hand. Dr. McLeod, too, was there, his grave face i softened by the honest sympathy shining out.] of his eyes. Wolon stolen into the room to take a i last look at the dear form, before the strangers should come. Her tears fell fast 4pon the up-turned face. She recalled the years of toil and anxiety and privation; the patient self-sacrifice and unfailing cheerfulness, and the uncomplaining endurance of Jong weeks of pain and weariness; and her tears fell faster as she thought how little she had done to lighten that burden, and how often she had grieved that loving heart. There was a step in the room and a hand laid gently on her arm. Looking up, she met Dr. McLeod's pitying eyes. "My friend!" he said, earnestly ; and then looking reverently at the coffined form, he added in his old, protecting manner: "Dear child, remember you have still a mother. Death means only perfect peace and joy. "Not a tear must o'er her fall, He giveth His beloved sleep.' " Then he led her away, and the people gathered. There was the reading of God's promises, the singing of the funeral hymn, the burial rites; and through it all Helen went.me~ cbatrically, as one tin a dream. She hnadly ? knew what strong arm sustained her as/she stood by the open grave, nor what firm hand held her back, when she would have thrown herself upon the coffin. It was all over. The sun still shone. The neighbors worked and laughed and gossiped as before. Nothing was changed; yet everything was changed. Helen and Mary had no time for quiet days of mourning. Too heavy a burden rested upon them. Mr. Weston retired at his usual hour the night after the funeral, and, calling Helen to him. said: "I shall never leave this bed until they carry me out and bury me by your mother." Helen tried to cheer him, but he said noth- j ing more, and turned his face toward the wall, j He lay day after day, never speaking except i to reply, in monosyllables, to questions ; never j asking for food or drink, and partaking so i sparingly of what was set before him that life was barely sustained. Drawn together by their common sorrow, the two girls worked, not knowing what the j future had in store for them, nor what plans i to devise for the support of the helpless : family. Tired and disheartened, Helen was sitting j in her little room one evening awkwardly j trying to patch the ragged little jackets and pants that had seen such long service. Juhnny and Lawrie were in bed; she had just come from the "good-night talk" for which they pleaded every night. At first, when they asked her to stay and talk to them, Helen ; yielded to her weariness and said, "No, she | was too tired ;" but when Lawrie urged piti-! fully, "Won't you please stay, sis ? It's so lone-1 some, and mamma always used to," she could i not refuse. While she sat patiently plying her needle, j r.nd thinking in a hopeless, listless way of the | work that was crowding on her hands; of her j father lying alone and dead in lifeof her j little brothers, with their tattered clothes, that caused them so much shame among their ' playmates ; of Mary toiling at her needle from morning until night?as she thought of j all these daily discouragements and trials, j some of her mother's parting words were re- j called. "It will be a hard way, but God will help you." It came with the force of a revelation. "God will help me" she said, lingering on each word, as if to gather all its precious meaning. She let her work fall listlessly iuto her lap, and looked out of the window, the words still in her mind and on her lips. It had been a stormy March day, but now : the moon was glinting through silvery clouds,; and toward the west was a large blue field. For the first time Helen rightly understood 1 the message which the heavens declare each night. She felt the infinite power and glory of God, "and yet," she thought, in deep hu.... ?TT -nui L_1 mility, "?ie win neip vie?ueip mc tu ucai little trials, ray daily burdens, and, Oh ! how I have gone on blindly all ray life?stumbling and falling in the darkness, while his strong hand was ready to help me !" She kneeled by the window. The clouds dispersed, and the pure, white light filled the room. Of that sacred hour we need not speak, but to Helen it was the most precious hour of ^ her life. She had found a Friend whose love A was eternal, whose compassion, infinite, and T >lV. With her natural . enthusiasm, 4feobght the joy of that hour would never be dimmed, that the bitrdens of life would never, again pre^s heavily. How strong she felt! How eagarjto do her quiet, home-work faiths, folly and earnestly !" How tender and patient with the boys fc How sympathetic and helpMytoward Mary! and how cheerful and gentt^ith her father. In her zeal, she redoubled her efforts to make, the poor home pleasant ai^doMpibrtable, aiid^o assist Mary about the.sa^uj^whieh was their aotesupport, aside froaa,w^^oceeds of varnus household article which had been sold afWr her mother's death. But $ier phys- j ical stfdhgth did not keep pace with her zeal. The days, though too short for the much she had to do, dragged slowly along; the burden grew heavier and heavier; and the willing hanila and feet grew listless and weary in the servicer One evening, early in April, Mary had gone to take home some work, and Helen sat JL17?IT rgfVHTiVr+"1tirr *Wq i*-1-;*-? ????? ' tnhtoi^ru in wnrk nr tn think, i aauiiig OUUOVd) UW Ml v?* ? ? She heard the alickxif IKe large gate-latch, and, looking down, saw "Miss Nancy" gravely walking in, drawing the well-known buggy after her, pausing for Dr. McLeod to get in, and refusing to go on until he should do so, though he chirruped repeatedly, and insisted that he could walk so short a distance. Helen's heart bounded with joy, and she ran down to open the door with a little of her old impetuosity. "0, Dr. McLeod!" she exclaimed, taking his great hand in both of hers. "I am so glad you have come." "Came to see a patient., or in consultation, rather. Thought I must drop in a minute and see how you were getting along." This, the doctor said, but "Miss Nancy" knew very well, for he had told her on the way, that he was "troubled about the poor little girl, who was working herself to death, and grieving j herself to death about her mother; and that some way must be devised to make it easier for her." What that way was, the good doctor very soon unfolded to Helen, watching her face steadily with his grave eyes, and thinking "how much like her mother she had grown, and that many such months would give her rest from all her troubles." "Lawrie!" said Helen, looking as though she hardly comprehended what had been proposed. "But, doctor, Lawrie was mother's pet, and she told me I was to watch over him and see that he had a liberal education." "I will take good care of him," answered .r 1 - - - J _V_11 t. tne uocior, "aiiu nt; snail uuvc an cuummuu. If he doesn't want to be a doctor, why, he can be something else; but I guess he will? I guess he will." And he spoke as if he had no doubt whatever, for he had talked it over so many times with himself and "Miss Nancy" that both thought it "couldn't be otherwise, to be sure." "But you are a man," Helen said, still hesitating. * f This was incontrovertible, so the doctor Wde no reply, but looked as if it "must be a j great pity, and he was sorry he could not help j it "He needs a mother or sister," Helen contiuued. " ?^ "Oh! but Mrs. Kramer is there. She is a regular mother to every chick and child that comes along." "Perhaps it would be better for Lawrie," Helen said, as though thinking aloud, "but it seems almost like giving up my trust" "It is fulfilling your trust," urged the doctor ; "but I shall call in the morning?must go to that patient now?and then we will talk it over." "Can I see your father this evening or shall I wait until morning ?" "I will see," Helen answered, going into the small bed-room that opened from the living room. The doctor heard her low tones, but no reply. She came out looking rather more anxious than before, and, taking the light, silently led the way to the bed-side. The sick man lay with closed eyes, and his face turned toward the wall ; evidently awake, but desirous of being thought asleep. The few weeks of confinement had wrought in him such a change that even Dr. McLeod was startled. "Does your father have a physician ?" he asked, as they went out. "If not I will pre-! pare him a tonic. It is partly physical weak ness, and partly, a constitutional tendency to j morbid melancholy. It would help his mental depression to a certain extent, if we could give more tone to his physical system." "He always refuses the most simple medi- j cines, but I will try to persuade him," Helen replied. "This care is too much for you, Miss Helen," said the doctor abruptly. "You need a tonic. You are out of spirits." "I am only tired and?" "And what, little girl ? No, you need not tell me. I know;" and the good doctor, with his warm, honest heart, grew so earnest that he placed Helen in the arm-chair as if she had ibeen a child, andtthen stood nervously brush-. ing his old white hat the wrong way. "I know. I have "known it all along, but didn't see any way to help it. Now I know of one way. Give me half the burden." He paused, stopped brushing his hat, and gravely awaited a reply. Helen was startled, confused, and perplexed. She attempted to speak, but it resulted only in a hysterical sob, and covaa V* a?? Vton/lo oV* a n on oIaa Cillig nci muc una uui uauuo, oug uiwuo ottv had not done for weeks. The doctor looked troubled, but, resuming his role as physician, he took a bottle from his medicine case, and after a patient search, succeeded in finding a spoon and cup. "Take this," he said, handing Helen the mixture. "Tonic and nervine." Then, just touching the bowed head with his great hand he said, "Good night. I will see you in the morning. Think of what I said." Helen's first thought was not very consola- j j tory. I "Oh! dear," she exclaimed, wiping her | j eyes and trying to be composed. "What a i I great baby I am ? What will he think of j me ? It was rude and silly and everything j j else !" On the impulse of the moment, she \ ! ran down stairs, and reached the front door | I just as "Miss Nancy" was going out of the j gate. Half repenting of her haste, Helen j was about to shut the door when the doctor j looked around. Telling "Miss Nancy" to i I stand still, he sprang out of the buggy and i walked back to the house. "What it it, Miss Helen ? Did you want me ?" he asked, as quietly as though the small! figure standing before moonlight! ;were not trembling wflh'fiervousness. ;; h"Yes; t wanted^,^H6t^yoa that Lawrie j may go, and'tjijiti^hafc je&are very kind," '|Selen ;>'8aid,; tr$uv? i.t o.. e m ul a to the doctor's J go, to$*nd y&ar father, and eoixteho^for the rest. I am j older than you?old enough to.be your father, but I can the better cardftff yon for that You need Someone to keep'watch of you, and?" "Don't say any more, doctor. Please don't," Helen interrupted, nncertaiti whether the choking in her thrQat would terminate in a sob or a laugh. "I can't tell you ho\y much j I appreciate your kindness, but?" "But what, Miss Helen f' the doctor asked, j "It can't be. It isn't best. Lawrie is i enough. That is more than you ought to do. I We shall get along?father and the rest of | us. I was only afraid you wouldn't under stand?that you would think I didn't realize how kind you've always been ; but I do, doc- j eyes, and noted the tremulous raqmh and thifi^ white hand, that held the sh&Tw together about her throat. All the chivalry of his strong manhood was aroused. It seemed to be his duty to help the frail girl who was bearing her burden alone, but he must"', respect I her own decision, and not annoy with argu-; ments and persuasions. "I understand," he said, "but I am sorry 11 cannot help you. Some other way may be j provided?a better way for you. As for me, | it doesn't matter. If I can make a good doctor of Lawrie, we three will jog on quietly, and, at the end, it will be as well as if we had had a little brighter, pleasanter way." "And for me," added Helen. "And for you, dear child," said the doctor, j "After all our planning and hoping and fear- j ing, our lives are in God's hands. 'Though we make false reckonings, Out of His deeps of love, we cannot be.' " "Yes; and I have been very happy since 1 believed that," Helen said, earnestly. "I am happy, doctor, only sometimes I am so tired I forget everything but the troubles." "Just take the troubles to God. Tell him you are grieved and burdened. Remember ' ' A ' A ~ ?* " ' WAtl rinn/l inat come UJULU llie. mai UJUI jruu. uvuu | night. God bless you!" and the doctor was ! gone. Helen watched him until "Miss Nancy" had trotted out of sight, but he did not turn his head. He must forget the pale, earnest face in the moonlight, and bring his thoughts to the duty before him. Helen went to Lawrie and Johnny who were lying close together in their trundle-bed. Their little faces, so prone to tan and freckle and get soiled, and their chubby brown hands, and tangled hair, never had seemed so dear to her before. She kissed them and cried over them, until Lawrie awoke. "Why, sis, is it you ?" he said, sleepily rubbing his eyes. "I thought at first, for just a minute, that it was mother. She used to do just so." I J . "No, Lawrie jdear mother ia happy noqy1 Slle will never <*y agpjn. Poqarffulhcr V' Tj "Then what makes you say, 'poor mother,1 sis ? Seems to Ae it's badder for us. It's so lonesone," and Lawrie's lip began to quiver. "I ought not to say 'poor mother,' dear. She is happy and we must try to be happy too. We'll do just as she would wish us to do if she were here, and that will make it easier for us to be without her." "Yes, sis," Lawrie said, crying quietly; "and I'm so sorry I didn't always mind ; and j Johnny and me run away sometimes, and made mother feel bad, and now we can never see her again." "Don't cry," Helen said, soothingly. "Dear mother did not remember it. I will tell you, Lawrie, what she said the day she died. She wanted you to study, and if ever there was an opportunity for you to get a liberal education I promised that you should do it." Lawrie listened wonderingly, having but a vague idea of what a "liberal education' might be. "Dr. McLeod wants you to come and live with him and learn to be a doctor," Helen continued. "Wouldn't you like to go ?" "Go and leave you and Johnny 1" Lawrie exclaimed, quite sure that a "liberal education," at such a price, was not at all desirable. "You will not be very far from us; then it will be doing what mother would wish. Think of that, Lawrie." "Yes," Lawrie said slowly ; and summoning all his childish courage, he threw his arms around his sister's neck, and said, "I will go, j sis, because it would please mother; but don't let Johnny get lonesome. He wont have no body to play with him. Oh! dear, I wish he could go, too, and you, and father, and cousin Mary!" "You are a dear, brave boy," Helen said, kissing the quivering mouth and tearful eyes. \ "Now go to sleep." When Helen returned to the sitting-room, i she found Mary there sewing. They discus- j sed Dr. McLeod's proposal, and mended and j brushed Lawrie's one suit of 'clothes, and retired at a late bour. Helen was all excitement. Sleep was impossible. She tried to pray ; but her thoughts, instead of rising to j the upper calm of faith, whirled and eddied about the thickly strewn trials that lay in her path. While she lay restlessly thinking, hoping, and planning, 'Tossod about with many a conflict, many a doubt,' she heard a low, tremulous voice singing. It was her father's. She was filled with surprise and awe. It was as though one had risen from the grave. Mary slept calmly by her side, and the house was hushed in breathless silence, save as this faint, quavering voice stole out into the silence and darkness. Scarcely daring to move for fear of losing one word, Helen lay listening silently until the last tri-; umphant stanza had been sung : "There will I bathe my weary soul In seas of heavenly rest, And not a wave of trouble roll Across my peaceful breast." Trembling with excitement and fear, she i arose and went softly into her father's room, j In the dim light she could see that his eyes j were open and his hands folded as if in pray-; er. "Father," she said, in a low tone, and kneel- ] ing by the bed. "Father, pray for me." The old man laid his trembling hand on the bowed head, and said : "May the Lord bless ray child ! May she have strength to do all of her appointed work, and not lay down the cross until she takes up j the crown." i "0, father!" Helen said, eag^ly: "God J has blessed me in malfogvyou better." "I am only waiting," he haid, wearily. "But you will get iwttser now; you seem j so natural?soli ke oar xywn dear fathor." "The Lord has' talightme to be patieutJHe has lifted me out of despair, and now I w am just resting in his arms till the change shall come." He turned over and closed his eyes. ?: "Can't I do something for.you?" Helen asked, anxiously. 1 ' * "Sing'Rock of Ages'?mother's hymn"?he i< answered, without unclosing His eyes. j Helen began to sing her mother's favorite hymn, with aching heart and faltering voice, but at the lasfbeautiful prayer, a strength not her own, swelled her tones to a triumphs ant clearness, and she made the petition her j own: "While I draw this fleeting breath, L When mine eyelids close in death; When I rise to worlds unknown, *\ g And behold.tliee on thy throne, . i * Rock or Agea, clert ror me, v Let me hide myself in thee." ' ^ 7?f ^She leaned ovfcr the HpTeTwas aileepT Geift^toucmngtn^vnrte nair and kissing the sunken*,fctieek, she went quietly out of the room. It was nearly morning, but she lay down and soon fell into a quiet slumber, repeating: "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in thee." In the morning Helen's palefaceand heavy { eyes bore testimony to the night's agitations, and she was so nervous that the lightest duty was a burden. "I must be careful to-day," she thought, "or I shall be irritable." She explained to Johnny that he was to lose* his little brother, and answered his thousand and one questions patiently, and assured both boys again and again, that they should see each other once in a while, all the time busy about her household cares. Her father met the proposal withT indifference, but with none of the stolidity he ! had previously shown. "Just as you think," he said ; "I am only j waiting." Lawrie, though sorry to go, was excited by the novelty, and wearied Helen with questions about Newtown, and if he should drive the horse, and ride every day, and if there were any little boys there, with sundry other important items. Helen had carried in her father's breakfast, and was vainly trying to persuade the boys that buckwheat cakes were just as good with}* molasses as with butter, when Dr. McLeod came. "My boy ready?" he asked, cheerily, but taking in at a glance the confused state of things, and Helen's pale, tired face. "All but his breakfast, I suppose. Hungry, little man ?" "We want butter," said Johnny, frankly, and looking at his plate with a dissatisfied air. "No, you don't, my boy. Butter isn't healthy. Sister knows," and the doctor looked so positive that Johnny thought he must benight, and attacked his breakfast with new ^ Interest. ' *4 Helen took the doctor into the sitting-room. I She felt that Hie must give him%>me furthe3f charges about Lawrie. The doctor listened attentively. "I will be just as careful of him as if he were ray child," he said, with grave earnestness. "And now," he continued, "will you promise me that you will take better care of your health ? You are too excitable. Try to take things calmly. Don't worry. That's the friction that wears out the human machine." "But, doctor, everything worries me. I'm either very happy or very miserable, and the more I try to be happy, the farther I am from it." "Don't try to be happy. My dear Miss Helen, if you could only understand that your. place is to do whatever your hands find to do, and that among the most imperative of your duties is the care of your health ; and trust God to bring everything out right in the end?why you would be- happy without trying to be." - ? ? 11 r 1 J) TT.l _ "?Hlt 1 (10 ail 1 can, doctor, xitjieu saiu a little reproachfully. "I know. You do more than you ought to. But you do it excitedly, and you worry about everything, and wonder you are not happy. My dear child," and the voice grew gentle, "there is nothing I would not do to make your life happy, but no one can do it for you. The Lord does not send one burden too many. Bear them quietly and look to Him for strength. The cross that looks so heavy, He * can make lighter than air. You cannot make your happiness. It's source is God, and it flows all around you in a thousand little rills of daily duties." Helen said nothing. Just then happiness seemed as far away as Heaven. The room was chilly. She could not see the morning: sun. Lawrie was going, and one by one they must be scattered. Life seemed like one long, cold, rainy day at a wayside inn, where one must wait alone and friendless to be taken another stage of the journey. . "Rejoice alway," said the doctor. .'(MlJj ^oor'little girl! I know it is hard, btBFfrb*^ our duty. 'Rejoice alway.' " Bravely keeping back her tears, Helen said : "I will try. God is good to me." Then she told him of her father's improved symptoms, and they went in to see him. "I am only waiting," was still the old man's patient answer to the doctor's questions. "Will father get well now ?" Helen asked, eagerly, after they had left the room. "I cannot tell you," the doctor answered, gravely. He is better in mind. We will hope for the best, but he must have that tonic nP T onnlra A nrl if tip VijLQ Tint, lnnpf U1 I1UJUI JL OJJUttU Q , to wait, should you mourn for that? He j looks forward to a release from wearisome days and nights, from pain and all anxiety." "I know," Helen said, faintly, "but it seems as if I couldn't bear another such trial. 0, doctor, what a terrible thing life is! "What a glorious thing is life ! It takes root in the darkness of earth but blossoms forever in the glory of Heayen ! "But I must go. God bless you, my child, and help you to bear your heavy burdens." j The doctor went out, and soon Lawrie came { in to kiss her "good-bye." She held him in a close embrace and kissed ? him, trying to look cheerful, and saying all the hopeful, cheery words she could think, I and keeping back her tears until she saw | them driving away and Lawrie looking wist-1 fully back to Johnny, who sat on the gate-' post, disconsolate. [conclusion next week.] miscellaneous Reading.: Prom the Miner*' Magazine. ^TJIE GUNPOWDER PLOT. r The stories of history make long strides in theij-onward movement. Often the opening cWSpters introduce you to characters, not one offcho m will figure in the grand denouement j fcfcn hhitory men are often nothing but puppets, ; the power that moves them first is transferred, , ia its coupe of growth, from generation to i Operation, and perhaps, works out its trage- ] dies in their children. , ~LA full'exhibit of the events which led to that most extraordinary crime known as the , gunpowder plot, would involve a long history , the religious wars which raged in the six- , ieenth and seventeenth centuries. In the j gliTod and on the scene of the gunpowder l fydt, the oppressors wore the colors of Protest- , We will go back no further, in giv- < Kg the 8tort of the gunpowder plot, than to | Lhe year 1587i which beneld the execution of j tfoecveniu^ of the 7th of February, , tie, mEn^r-a'beautil'ul woman "of forty- i five, whose face bore traces of careend suffer- f 1 tig,"for herlife had been no holiday journey ( through the years. Her solitude was broken | by the entrance of two noblemen, who saluted ( the captive queen with the respect belonging ( to her exalted rank, though they were the ] bearers of cruel tidings. They were the earls < of Kent and Shrewsbury. Without unneces- , sary delay they informed Mary that they had { been commissioned to inform her that her life ^ would end on the scaffold on the following ( morning at eight o'clock. The intelligence came most unexpectedly, and the poor lady ] showed her surprise in her countenance; but j she did not turn pale, nor exhibit terror. On ( the contrary, she said to her visitors, with a t sweet, but plaintive smile, that she was pre- ( pared to die. "I could not believe," she said, ? ''that my sister Elizabeth, Queen of England, { had consented to my death, or would execute . sentence upon one who is not subject to the j laws and iurisdiction of England. Neverthe- j less, since this is her will, I am content. Death j will put an end to all my miseries, and I wel- ^ come its coming. That soul would be un- . worthy the felicities of Heaven, which could f not support the body under the horrors of the ( last passage to those realms of bliss. I have { onfyihis request to make now : that you will { permit toy last moments to be consoled by the j presence of my confessor." ^ To her great distress, the queen was told j that this request could notiie complied with; , that no Catholic priest could be permitted to affefoach her; but that she should be attended by a Protestant divine, Dr. Fletcher, the Dean of Peterborough. She refused to listen to this proposal, for she knew the character of this minister, and considered the proposal an insult to her faith. The Earl of Kent, with a brutality worthy of severe condemnation, upbraided the defenceless woman, pronouncing her a child of Satan, and declaring that he was glad she was doomed to death. "Your life would have been the death of our religion," said he, with the coarseness of a thorough bigot; "your death will be its life." The two earls took their leave; and, from that hour till the hour of her departure for the scaffold, the next morning, Mary occu-f Lied hejself in the preparations for death, fijamaajber continued cheerful to the ^HHner servants\about her, she pledgecN H^Hggprity in a'-tlass of -twine, and Hheyi aL^^Kd^wn and pledged h*r in return. A tejHpind tearful leave-taking was undergone;and the servants left her to her lonely vigils. When morning came, she dressed herself in a rich robe of silk and velvet, remarking that she must not forget the respect due to her station. The sheriff, entering her room, bade her follow him, which she did, with a guard at each arm. A scene of the most affecting description took place in the hall through which she passed, where her servants and adherents were gathered to bid her farewell. She addressed language of comfort and cheer to them, herself calm and composed, thotigh sobs and lamentations filed the hall. , Wishing to have some of her servants attend her to the scaffold, she was shocked by the further brutality of the Earl of Kent, who gxnressed a fear that they would perform somBflS&perstitious rite above her body, and dijMheir handkerchiefs in her bloo^. Mary's indignation was awakened, and she turned a withering glance upon the earl. "I am cousin to your queen," she cried, "and descended from the blood royal of Henry VII. and a married queen of Scotland." This outburst of royal pride secured her wish, and four of liar man and turn nf liar maids ananmnaniad I ? her into another hall, where a black scaffold had been erected and the grim executioners confronted her. The hall was crowded with spectators. Here at the moment when the executioners were preparing to take hold of her, the bigoted Dean of Peterborough insultedjjer by coming forward and reading her a lecture on her heresy, in spite of her prostestations, saying, in substance, unless she abjured the Catholic faith, then and there, she would in a few moments fall into hell. Mary frequently interrupted his harangue, saying, "I was born in this religion, I have lived in this religion, and in this religion I am resolved to die." The Earl of Kent also put in his wo$d, on observing her clasping a crucifix lovingly in her hands. At last this disgraceful scene was ended. Mary disrobed herself, smiling gently, and remarking that she was unaccustomed to undress before so large a company. Her servants burst into tears and lamentations, but she placed her finger on her lips, and enjoined them to be silent; gave them her blessing and asked their prayers, omf-riien laid quietly down and placed her h^d^n the block. A handkerchief was jMMtffer her face, and the executioner stnHRier on the skull, inflicting a ghastly ^>5na, but without shaking her brave spirit. Two fierce blows of the ax severed her head from her body; and the executioner, seizing the head by the hair, held it aloft, dripping blond, the face still in agonizing convulsions. xhus did the oppressive spirit of the bigotry of that day make its victim of a beautiful, accomplished, and singularly amiable woman. The question of her guilt or innocence of complicity in certain crimes charged against her, is to this day a theme of discussion ; but there is no question of the fact that she really was executed because she was a Catholic. The memory of her sufferings was not likely to allay the fever of the Catholic's hatred toward the tyranny that oppressed them in England, aOtTThe rankling of this bitter wound added strength to the fury of the hour and the bad passion of the period. .Seventeen years passed. The Protestant queen who occupied the throne of England i when Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded, \ was now dead, and she had been succeeded by c James I. son of the Catholic queen whose ex- s ecution we have briefly described. The r Catholics still were chafing under the grind- t ing .laws enacted during Elizabeth's reign, 1 and they hoped that James, the son of Mary \ Stuart, would exert his influence to soften the 1 fiains under which they travailed. By these t aws any person over sixteen years of age, j who refused for four successive weeks to at- i tend a Protestant place of worship, was com- c raitted to prison. If, thereafter, he persisted t in "this evil course" for three months, he was t banished from the country. If he refused to ? depart, or if he returned after banishment, he ^ was put to death. Under these laws, and t others of like severity, great numbers of Catholics were murdered, and others driven from their native land, while those who remained were compelled to practice an unwilling hypocrisy to save themselves from these dreadful punishments. The infamous Star-Chamber Court was also under full sway in the realm?a body of men appointed by the reigning monarch, and possessing the unlimited powers of punishment by fines, imprisonment and the whipping poet Another court, still more monstrous in its character, was known as the Court of High Commission. It had jurisdiction of the crime of heresy?a crime so indefinable in character that scarcely any one was safe. And in that day, he who came under the suspicion of treason, as hundreds did on the slightest pretext was executed in cold blood without even the barest formalities of trial, while hundreds of others languished in prison. In one period of Elisabeth's reign, martiallaw even hung numerous men in London who were not so much as suspected of treason, but were guilty of no greater offence than that disorderly conduct in the streets which we in our day should call "rowdyism." Besides these three cojxrts, there was still imothenurbitraxy .body/which laid no claim ^ tm mn^. if "hltiWl T^+pft1*! nnr*i inflictedno penalties, nut which seized mem wherever it chose, and threw them into jail on suspicion?in many cases loading them with chains and confining them in dungeons, where they suffered greatly. Sometimes the jails? cf which there were many?were literally crowded with "prisoners of state." The horrible rack very commonly was employed to extort confessions. In short, the life of an jnorthodox person was full of terrors, and the irbitrary executions of the French Revolution itself hardly more frightful in their license. James I. having ascended the throne of England, therefore, at the death of Elizabeth, the Catholics entertained hopes that their liberties would be in some measure restored to them, and Elizabeth's iniquitous laws annulled. The memory of Mary's execution was itill fresh in their minds, and they hoped that the son, remembering his motfier, might escouse the cause of that religion which had ceen assaulted through her. They knew that the son was-a Protestant, as his father had ceen, but they believed him tolerant toward l>a PofVinlin foitli Tn til in t.llAV WPTfl difi&t> pointed; and it may be imagined with what iespair they heard the new King express his ietermination to rigidly enforce all the laws bat had been enacted against them. Their mger turned fiercely against James; for some listorians declare that he had encouraged bese hopes in the Catholics, before coming nto possession of his crown. Be this as it nay, the proiect of assassinating him was now mtertained by certain Catholics, and there vas little about his character to turn away ;he dagger. He possessed none of those amiajilities and excellences which we have por;rayed as belonging to the good Prince of Drange, which ought to have disarmed all lersonal hatred. He was a very learned nan, but a swaggering pedant, that most offentive of characters in literature. In his habits le was grossly intemperate, and with all his latred of Catholic superstition, he was himlelf degradingly superstitious, and stood in nortal terror of witches. His appearance >vas burly and unprepossessing, and he was a yrant and a coward to the depths of his na;ure. The gunpowder plot was the diabolical indention of a CathoKyiobleman named Obtes^ jy. One day in tbflniring of 160%, he was iQnversing with of his kiml, named Percy, a des^endantfl an illustrious house, jn the persecutions toflphich those of their reigion were still subjected, and Percy boldly proposed that they should at once set about effecting the assassination of King James. But Catesby informed him that he had a grander scheme in his mind. "What good effect would result from hjs aslassination ?" Catesbv inquired. "Do you lot know that one of bis children would ironediatelv assume his place, and perpetuate bese evils ? Even if the whole royal family vere swept away, it would not serve us. The lobility and the parliament are linked in one )ond; they would raise another family to the krone who would persecute us still, and seek evenge besides for the death of these. Percy, ve must destroy not only the royal family, )ut the lords and the commons at one blow." "But how is this possible?" asked Percy, ?ger]y- nwr a . "Listen! The first meeting of pan .amen t vill soon occur. There the whole number of >ur foes will be met together. We must take nto our confidence some few staunch Catholic gentlemen like ourselves, and run a mine beleath the hall in which our enemies are as iembled. Seizing upon the moment when the cing is addressing the two branches of parlianent, we will explode the mine and blow them ill into a thousand fragments at the same intant?even while they may be meditating resh persecutions against the followers of the rue religion. Thus we shall make our triimph complete." *'It is a noble plan of vengeance, Cateeby," eplied Percy, delighted. "I am wjth you leart and hand." They immediately set about the selection >i their fellow-conspirators, each of whom hey bound to secrey by solemn oaths, superidding thereto that most sacred of their rites, he communion service. The first whom they idmitted to their confidence was Thomas tVinter. Him they despatched to Flanders, o secure the service of one Guy Fawkes, an Englishman by birth, but so devout a Cathoic that he could not live in England. Fawkes vas at that time serving in the Spanish army, vhich the Catholic tyrant Phillip still main- J ained in that province of the Netherlands vhich had of late given him so much trouble n his efforts to do precisely what the Protestints in England were now dping?namely, to lo away 'with religious freedom. , Fawkes enered eagerly into ihe plot, when Winter iroached it to him, and the two made haste to eturn to England. The conspirators knew heir man before-hand. Fawkes was a pernn r\f mnaffnrhiddlTlcr ftRnflfit--Jean andSCOwl ng?but one who had proved the quality of lis courage in previous adventures, and whose , ;eal was beyond all question. The spring and summer went by, and late n the autumn the conspirators began to put heir plans into action. Percy hired a house, idjoining the Parliament House, and caused i> larged quantity of provisions to be put into t. About Christmas,, one by one tne conpirators gathered, and then the house was hut up, the shutters closed and the doors fasened, to give the passers-by the impression hat there was nobody within. Spades, pickixes, etc., had also been provide, together vith arms with which to defendthemselves in :aseof a surprse. They were ready for death, f need be; animated by a belief that they vere serving the cause of religion, were full >f the highest enthusiasm. Guy Fawkes done remained on the watch, in the upper >art of the house; the others, seven in num>er, descended to the cellar to commence their abors. The wall which they had to pierce vas nine feet thick, and of a mason-work so lard and old that it was almost as impregnate as solid stone. They divided into two jangs, And while one gang worked the other ested, to eat or to sleep. They had in the :ellar an ample store of baked meats and wine, ind their enthusiasm continued unabated hrough the six weeks in which they picked iway at the flinty wall. Gentlemen as they vere, and all unusued to work of _this sort, hey toiled like common laborers, though the A sweat poured from their faces, and tneir nana were blistered with the unwonted exertion yet, though they scarcely rested day or night they made no greater progress than a foot j week. The rubbish they putin bags and car ried carefully out of a back-door in the dark ness of midnight, and digging deep holes u the soil of the garden, buned the contents o the bags where no eye could see. Candlemas came?time of the thurch-feas so dear to the Catholics, but whose oelebra tionwasat that period prohibited in Eng land. But five days now before the time a which parliament was to meet, and the wal scarcely more than half pierced! Despai began to creep upon the inspirators. I seemed impossible that they should ge through the wall in time; but tney labored on "Hark!" whispered Percy, breaking tne si lence in which they were pursuing their toil He bent forward m a listening attitude, hi hand raised to enjoin silence upon his com nnninnfl. "What is that noise ? r?? ? All listened intently. It seemed to com from the opposite side of the wall on whicl they were at work,, but what it meant ther were at a lose to khoW. In some trepidation they ceased their labors, and one of* their nutn vault underneath the Souse ^^ords was be ins emptied of its stores, the/owner having re solved to sell off, and rent the vault to th highest bidder. Returning to his compan ions, he laid this fact before them, and the; immediately resolved to rent the vault fo their own purpose. But, unexpectedly, pax liament was prorogued to the following Octo ber. This news was received with great jo; by the conspirators, for now they would hav< ample time in which to perfect their arrange ment. They hired the vault, and with great cau tion and at intervals, conveyed thither thirty six barrels of gunpowder?enough to tear th< building to its very foundation, and leav< "no stone upon another." This formidabh magazine was then covered with fagots anc billets of wood, in such manner as to conve) the impression that the vault contained noth ing else. Guy Fawkes was placed to watcl over the vault, under the pretense of beinf the servant of Percy, who was supposed U own all this wood. The doors were throwi open boldly, and people allowed to enter free ly if they chose, no one suspecting the fearfu secret of that great honest-looking pile. The long-waited time at last arew near The conspirators, secure in their preparations gave themselves no concern as to the fata cellar; they knew it was in the hands of i zealous dare-devil, who would not fail to fin the mine when the proper moment came But they learned that there would be one o the royal family absent, at the opening o parliament, namely, the young duke, whos tender years kept him away. Therefore, j teas nrrancwvl t.Hftf. Pernv should murder him or kidnap liim, simultaneously with the burst ing of the mine. But this plot, which embraced so wide i sweep of revenge involved also the lives o some good Catholics, who, ignorant of the ap proacning catastrophe, would be present a spectators, or attendants on the king, or a peers of the realm occupying seats in th< house. This prospect, appalling as it was had been softened by the specious assurance of Jesuit priests who had been admitted int< the secret, and who showed the conspirator that the interests of religion demanded th< 'sacrifice fit a few innocent lives, in order tha the guilty should be'punished. The conspir ators," who now nnmbcrad twenty deterraincdTto keep) their secref inviolable and calmly*behold the destruction of their co religionists. Among these seemingly doomed Catholic was Lord Monteagle, a gentleman much be loved. Ten days before the expected meeting of parliament, a person in disguise put int( the hand of a servant of this lord a letter which the servant delivered to his master "My lord," this letter said, "out of the love 1 bear to some of your friends, I have a care o: your preservation. Therefore, I would ad vise you, as you tender your life, to devis< some excuse to shift off your attendance al this parliament For God and man have con curred to punish the wickedness of this time And think not slightly of this advertisement but retire yourself into your country, when you may expect the event in safety. Foi though there be no appearance of any stir, yet, I say, they will receive a terrible blow this parliament and yet they shall not see who hurts them. This counsel is not to be contemned, because it may do you good, and can do you no barm; for the danger is past a* soon as you have burned the letter. And 1 hope God will give you the grace to make good use of it, into whose holy protection ] commend you." Monteagle perused this singular epistle more than once, in his inability to comprehend its hidden meaning. Had he been al once a coward and a rogue, he would have taken fright at its dreadful insinuations, leaving the scheme to be carried out m all ita original horror. But fortunately for those who were to have been the victims, and fortunatelv for that nacre of historv which would have been blackened by the record of thu monstrous crime, he was not frightened; he half believed the writer to be some knave who sought to hold him up to ridicule. At all events, he took the letter at once to Lord Salisbury, Secretary of State, who, in his turn, took it to the king. The result was, that it was resolved to inspect all the vaults beneath the houses of parliament On the day preceding that on which parliament was to meet the Earl of Suffolk, then lord chamberlain, commenced the search, with little serious thought that he should discover anything. Nevertheless, he did his duty thoroughly. Pausing before the vault in which the barrels of gunpowder were conjcealed, he ran his. eye over the pile of wood and fagots. Guy Fawkes, with his hat slouched over his eyes, stood ill a dark corner and the chamberlain accosted him: "Who are you, sirrah?" he asked. "I am the servant of Master Percy, nry lord," said Fawkes. "I like not your countenance, I promise you," said the chamberlain. "What name do you bear?" "My name is Johnsen, my lord," answered Fawkes. "What doth Percy with suoh a quantity oi fuel as this ?" pursued the chamberlain. "He lives little in town. Nay, keep your answer," and he turned away with his suspicions fully confirmed. That night, as the hour of twelve sounded, Sir Thomas Knevet, a justice of the peace, with several stalwart attendants, suddenly made his appearance, and seized Fawkes at the I door of the vault. He made a fierce resist' ance, but to no purpose; he was bound and taken to prison. The wood was torn aside, ' ? 1 i . * - J-- J*-- J J it ana ine oarreis 01 powaer louna unuerueuiu. In Fawkes' pocket were found the matches and torch-wood with which he was to have fired the train leading to the mine. Finding that all was discovered, Fawkes made no effort to shield himself from punishment, but loudly lamented that he had not had a moment's warning, so that he could have fired the powder and perished with his enemies. When brought before the council, his manner was firm, and even scornfuL He had only words of regret for his failure to carry out the plot, and made no appeals for mercy. He stubbornly refused to disclose the names of the conspirators. He was told that unless he yielded, a death more horrible than that oi 8 tne aststuiiuu ui tt uuou v.* ?v~,?, ; his fete. # $ , "I can bear it as well as he," said Fawkes. i He was threatened with the most frightful - tortures. "I will suffer a thousand deaths before I i will betray my companions," was his response, f He was put in prison, loaded with chains, and left in darkness and solitude for three t days and nights, at the end of which time he was brought out for torture! His fierce spirit ?. had been broken by his confinement, and t when the dreadful rack was shown to him, he 1 yielded, and made a full confession. His felr low-conspirators had taken flight, but were t pursued, and those who were taken alive were it executed. Thomas Winter was one of these; i. but Percy and CSateeby were shot and killed i- while fighting, they having, together with L several adherents, banded themselves together s in arms, and made a desperate resistance to - ttoeir pursuers. From ao old and extremely rare pdmphlet B of thirteen leaves?"London, imprinted for Ij Jeffrey Charlton; and to be sold at hir shop y ?t the meat north dore of Powle'a, HMto?? if we make the following extract, descriptive of the execution of Guy Fawkee : "Last of all Ok ?uae thereat I^crril^of- Jtlh...clia*y Vohrmn, fobo should have put fire to the powi. der; his body being weak with torture and sickness, he was scarcely able to go up the e ladder, bat yet, with much ado, by the help of the hangman, went hie enough to break y his neak with the fall, who made no long r speecHjmut after a short seeming to be sorrie i. for his offense, asked a kind of forgiveness of the King and the State for his bloodie intent, y with his crosses and his idle ceremonies made e his end upon the gallows and the block to h the great joy of the beholders." Thus perished the man who, had he been . successful, would have lived in history as the . most stupendous assassin in the world ever 3 knew. It by no means/ appears that be was 3 of a specially blood-thirsty nature. Ifyra 3 among the qniet scenes of a Yorkshire rumi I neighborhood, he was a Catholic of the devoutest sort, and it was through his great de. votion to his religion that he became a soldier , under the banner of Phillip of Spain, who in P his day was looked upon as the firmest ally of ^ the Pope. Like nearly all the assassins of I history, Fawkes was a fanatic in the service . of a faction; and it by no means follows that I he was indeed "the great Devill of all," merely on account of his Ming the head.of the body of men whom he worked with. The burning in effigy of Fawkes, on the 5th of November IAMM A vA/Mllai* I UJ COVU JCAi) WOO lUiig tUClQOil^i a x practice in England, and was formerly a^egal 3 holiday in that country, though it is no longer L such. In our own New England, the custom f was also for some years common; and there f are few whose ears are not familiar with B the verses commencing a song that the boys I were in the habit of singing as they bore the effigy through the street: ' "Remember, remember, the fifth of November, The gunpowder treason and plot." As is almost invariably the case where as* sassination steps in to work out certain purpo* ses, the gunpowder-plot reacted upon its projectors; ana, so far from the penal laws 3 against Catholics being ameliorated, their rig3 or was increased. Even had the plot been 3 successful, there is no reason whatever to be? lieve that it would have served the purposes 3 of the Catholics. The Protestant people } would almost inevitably have arisen in a 3 vengeful fury, and a general massacre of Cath3 olics throughout the Kingdom would have enV sued? \ 1 ?Justice will not permit us to ?aa by the 3 other adfegt'ill lUh?flUi?'IUia UWWIf llHTgtlf '> of aasassiSon Fawkes alone of all^the con* " spiratora Certainly to Catesby, Percy and ^ Winter, if not to Rookwood, Digby, and oth- ; 3 era, we must in equity apply the same infa- ( mousname. They were no less fanatics, also, > than Fawkes, and there had been nothing in } the previous tenor of their lives to lead us to > expect that such men would plunge themselves : into the hideous gulf of crime. They were men of fortune, and much respected by those ' who knew them. Catesby, it seems, was a man of such general excellence of character 1 as to have attached Rookwood and Digby to k him so strongly that they declared they would lay down their lives for him in any ; cause. Their trust in the integrity of his pur: poses and the soundness of his judgment was [ so complete that they needed no persuasion to enter into any project that he recommen; ded to them. Uf the other conspirators, similar good word* could be said; and Digby, ' nothwithstanding his Catholic belief, was high ! in favor with the Protestant Queen- Elizabeth, ' so recently dead. % ! The lesson which is borne home to us with ; stronger force, the more thoroughly we fomii: iarize ourselves with these dark passages in history, is clear and emphatic. We learn that freedom, the basis of our republican 'ia> stitutions, is but an infernal delusion when it ~ ' is not sanctified by religion. We learn that ; religion, the safeguard of our social system, - becomes robbed of its purity and beauty, ' when it is no longer wedded to freedom. Free' dom, with no religious principles as its base, ' was the monster that raged and slaughtered " its gory path through the French people in ' that revolution which the breath of a Murat 1 helped to kindle; and such freedom was 1 worse than any mere individual tyranny > could ever be. Religion, without the grand > principle of freedom for the rock of its foun' aation, was the fiend that wreaked its fury > upon its opponents in the sixteenth century; ; and, now rrotestant, now Catholic, perpetra1 ted the most frightful murders, and counted its victims at the stake, on the scaffold and the ' gallows, by thousands. i , t , > Negro Suffrage.?The South gains in ' political weight in Congress by colored suf1 frage, and some of these days the Radicals ; will wish they had let it alone. Under the ' Constitution as it was before slavery was ' abolished* three-fifths of the negroes in the : slave States were reckoned in the basis of i representation. Now all of them are counted in. There are about 4,200,000 blacks in the old slave States, and, of course, two-fifths of these, or 1,680,000, must be taken as the clear gain of the South in the number of its Con! gressional basis. If the House of Represen1 tatives consists of 280 members, the ratio of population would be 136,000, and at this rate ' the South would gain twelve members. The result of this will be, that whereas, by the : eensus and apportionment of 1860 the South ) had then more than one-third of the whole number of Representatives, she will now have ten and perhaps twelve more than a third. This is an important gain, particularly as it ' is, in many of the reconstructed States, likely to enure to the benefit of the Democratic . > party. i ? 1?^ What can be more foolish than to think that all this rare fabric of heaven and earth could come bv chance, when all the skill of art is. not able to make an oyster! To see 1 rare effects, and no cause; a motion, without a mover; a circle, without a center; a time without an eternity; a second, without a first ; these are things so against philosophy and natural reason, that he must be a beast in his > understanding who can believe in them. The thing formed, says that nothing formed it, and that which is made, is, while that which made it, is not. This folly is infinite.?Jeremy Taylor. JWTThe conduct of the husband who beats i his wife beats anything; but that of a man i who slams the door in the face of his wife's ; relations bangs all,