Raftsman's journal. [volume] (Clearfield, Pa.) 1854-1948, 1857-07-15
THE TORY PREACHER, AND THE
YOUNG MAJOR:

on CHURCH DISCIPLINE IN oLDES TINE.
1t was warm, sultry day in August-one OF
those quiet, happy days, when even the grass
hopper and butterfly seem weary of play, and
take an afternoon nap under some green leaf,
or enjoy their golden dreams in the fragant
cup of some summer flower.
The high road of travel is worn and dusty
and every shrub and bush by the wayside
seems weary of the heat, and dropping be-
meath the weight of dust. Naught looks COOL
save the dark woods in the distance, and the
weary pedestrian longs to turn aside, across
the little rustic bridge which spans the brook,
and rest awhile under those wide spread elms
which stand like sentinels at the entrance of
the wood. But the cares of life call him away
and he must plod on amid the toll and dust
and fever thirst of this world, until evening
brings its darkness and rest.
Not far from those trees, at the end of
green lane, stands Father Morris's Cottage.
II is plastered and whitewashed upon the out
side. The fragrant hop, with its luxriant foli-
age, and light green blossoms, has covered the
gable end of the house, and ambitiously
climbed to the very roof, while the little door
yard in front is filed with flowers and vines.
They look as if tended by some more tasteful
hand than that Of Father II orris, who has spent
q great part of his time in the tent and battle
field. All, there is the little fairy who pre-
sides over the garden. She has just wheeled
her grandfather's arm chair under the shade of
the grapery, and is now sitting herself a
stool by his side. How carelessly she brushes
those rich brown curls from her forehead, and
how coaxingly she looks up into the old gen.
fleman's face.
Snow, grandpa, I'vo done spinning. and put
all things in order; grandma is asleep in the
bedroom, a.d lAunt Sally has gone to the sew
old times ?''
Father Norris sat leaning upon his ivory
headed cane, his white hair so long that it al
most touched his shoulders, and his mild, blue
eye full Of quiet enjoyment, as he gazed upon
the pet OF his old age-his favorite grand
daughter. lie patted her gently on the head,
and was about to comply with her request,
when the sound of the village bell was heard,
and its slow and monotonous tones told of
death. Alice stopped, the smile passed from
her counteEance-and turning her head in the
direction whence the sounds came, she raised
her fore-fnger towards her grandfather, as if
to say, "don't speak, and commenced count
ing the strokes of the bell. It was long
time she thus stood, while the old gentleman,
who was deaf, sat watching her counteDance
aftentively. Turning towards him at length,
she said-sninety-eight! Itmust be old Major
Stafford"
aGrandpa- Grandpa!' she repeated, in a
louder tone, ssit must be old Major-for there
is no one else in town so DID,
But the old gentleman had fallen into rev.
erie. From the length Of time which the bell
folled, he knew for whom it rung those sad
notes, and his mind was now busy with the
past. Memories of other days, of days when
the blood circulated swiftly through his youth
zful limbs, and he could boast of health
strength and vigor-scenes of strife and tu-
mutt, of battle fields and council chambers, oi
tyranny resisted, and independence achieved
All these we're connected with thoughts of his
friend, who had just passed from earth. What
depository OF relics must an old mans heart
be! Not buried Pompeii or Herculaneum
present more subjects of thought than one hu-
man heart, could we look beneath the lava,