7 1 I Irk 7-------- p i-Hvi, - . -- :_ f.,-s . --- - . i I - ; ---- - -.... . . .... .. -, ~.,,. 4 B.9,ldU—L WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor. VOLUME XXXIII, NUMBER 13.] PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING. Office in Carpet 11211, Yorth-westcorner of Front and Locust streets. Terms of Subscription. eye Copyp erannum,i f paidin advance, 4 , 111 0 if not paid within three ainonthgromcornmencementofthe year, 200 Cantle oc>i=r3r. No; übqcnimo... CeclVeel for a lee. tiine than SIX Months; and no paper will De di.scontinued until all s ntessage Fare patil,unlest•ut the optiottof the pub .ishe r. 11:7Alonernayl,e•cmitteebymailn it hepublisl. er s risk. Rates of Advertising. quart[o inesjone weeL. three weeks. _ eon h•un.rqu en ti asertion, 10 [.l.2.irten]oneweel. 50 Three week?. I On 11 rnch+uh+cquentimterllon. 25 Largertdvertice-tncnl•nt proportion Aldieralliaeou ntwtll be made to nu net erly early!. r'earlyt lvertiaers,wno arc ntrieti)confined °their lia.4iness. DR. HOFFER, DENTIST. --OFFICE, Front Street 4th door tram Loeugt, over rn.ylor MeDottuld'g ,took store Colombo.. Pa 111792:t.truoce, game og Jolley , - Pito. ogruph (iullrry. (August Yl, 1859 TlionAs weLsti. - - JQSTICE OF TIIE PEACE, Columbia, Pa. OFFICT. in Wliipper's New Building, below Black's Bonet, From street. cg• Prompt attention given to all business entrusted o November 29, 1957. li. M. NORTH, A TTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR AT LAPS Li Colemma .Pit C.dleetioaE I.romptly made .i 11 Lancaster and Varl Joutatek. Columbia, May 4,1850. J. W. FISHER., Attorney and Counsellor at Law, 411003:12.22:13=114511 , , Columbia. z•epirmlarr 1., it,ilip S. Atlee B ckius, D. a S. PRACTICES the Operative. Surgieul and Meehan teal Departments of Dentist Iy. OVF/C6 Locust street, heiweea he Franklin llou-e awl Po. .t °Mee, Columbia, L'a May 7 11159. Harrison's Coumbian Ink 'WHICH is a ~u perior article. permrua•atlt• black. TT mid nut corroding tile pen. can he hod 111 nits “antiiy.ai the rannly Mediri•ie Store, and blacker yet Is Hiatt Gugli>h lutist Coluintiiit.J.w. 9. 1 59 We Have Just Received R. CUTTER'S Improved enest Expanding Sti,priader nod oulder Hume- for turiv 'eaten. mud Patent Skirl Supporter nod Itruee fur L. 1,11,, Joel the article that is tv•inied of tone. Conte and bee them an Fatuity Medicine Store, Odd Feilosit, , [April 9.1530 Prof. Gardner's Soap IXTETinve the New Englund Seep for those who du' not obtain% it from the soap Alan; ti r idea-mu to the .Lin. and will take greane spoil from Woolen Goodn, it in therefore no humbug. for you get the worth of your money ill ens FennJs• itletheitte Store Cr:domino, June It, 1 aso. or, Bond's Boston Crackers, far tool Arrow Hoot Critelwi,ln, valid. , nod •luldten—new articles in Columbia, at the Family Medictue Store, April 16, 1850. RPILDINIPS PREPARED GLUE.--The want of ornile is telt in terry f mnly. mid now it can lie vupphed; for unending Ws inure, chum wary, oinairteunal work, toy, &c., there to oupertor. We have found n u-oful w rep.uiring 111 . 1s1) athlete. whirl, have been fur 11101116. VOL. Jilll.,:nill It at the to.oulirt FAIILY MEDICINE STORE. IRON AND STEEL ! TIME Sol000b,•r. have Tyre:Wed urd Large Sloek of oil knrh nod 417Y4 BAR IRON AND STEEL! They are coa-taotly Rupp ied -I.,ek in tint br.im•ls of his buAiaes.. had c it ostler- iu lurge CI *mull quunlltneS, at the to At:4i gate• - .1 itliA11.11.111& SON. Locu.t chreet below t.et•mal. Columlau, rd. A pril FITTER'S Compound syrup of 1 r and Wld l'herry. ;or t;otd- L' t +ale o he Goidca Alorlar Drugstore. I'rot;l St. I u 132 AYR'S Compound Conveutraled tract Stir-apronill• or uie rurr of Serolola t tialte- Ewe. mid 41.1 .CripAilml.+llreelioll%, Ire...* ut. iu,t received and for .air by tt WILLIAMS. Prom st $ Columbia, tept. 24. ISO. FOR SA LE. 0 GROSS Friction Moines, very low for coon. '2O Jnele 25. It. %%11.1.1 % %In Dutch Herring! A Npollelollll of u good Ilei ring . F EISEII.I,EI Nov. 19,1859. Grocery (gore., No. 71 Loittat st 'LYON'S PURE 01110 CATAWBA BRANDY WINKS r•prriatty for Airdicutc. lid earramental purpose•. 2.1 ill.. IV:A.111X MEDICI] NK:zlOliE NICE RAISINS for 8 cts. per pound, arc to be had o n ly tit EBERLEIN'S Grocery Store, No. 7t I.ovu.i .treet. March 10, IE6O GARDEN SEEDS: -Fresh Carden Seeds, war ruziled pule, 01 . 1111 k.opirl, Ju t torelvrd til El3EltLElN'Sl•roeery Store, No 71 Losu-t +treet March 10.1960. POCKET BOOKS AND PURSES. ALA Rt. lot of For nod COinuton Poekel Boot, nod Purses, nt from 15 cow. 10 two dollar- curb lit 4,l(point:rt. nod Aewt Depot. Columbia, April 14.1 ibu. A EEW more of those beautiful Prints ILA.. Jett, Which will hr %old SAYLoIt di Ale IN A 1.M 4 eib101,11.1.1. 113 Just Received and For Sale. 1500 SACKS Ground Alum Salt, in large or swat; quamiti %ie.., 11l A PPOLD'S Mirelinu.e . Dotav3 60 /lOW CREAM OF GLYCERINE.--For the cure mid prevennou mouniird b..nd•. At. tor .air at oho LiOLDEN MORTAR Dlt Front .tree!. Columbia. Turkish Prunes! TOR a first rate arid: of Prot. s you must Eo to I'. N'S *Now. :9, 1969. Grocery Store. No 71 I .ocugt GOLD PENS, GOLD PENS. TUST received a large aid fine re , ,ortinetit of Cold it/ Pens. of Newton and 4:remold'. main:fur tore, at SA YLOR t MeLION A LIU'S nook :.iore. Arril 14 Front *trett above Locu.t. FRESH GROCERIES - - - WE contliaue to eel/ therlits.t..t.evy" S) rep. White and Brown Ptugart,good Cntiee_ a lid chou•e Teas. to be Sad in ColumuLt at the New Corner More. Op palate Cld 1 Fellows' Ilan, and at the old .Inml n•Lout hg the Ilk, 11. C. FON VERSIIIITti. Segars, Tobacco, &c, ALOT of first-tate Senors, Tobacco and FotitT will he foood at the store of the rub-c He &reir only a Lit-rate article gall ii. S. F. EBEILLEINki Grocery Stare. Locust at, Colunatita, l'a. OcuVe CRANBERRIES, ER Crop Prunes, :Sew Caron. at Oet XV. 1 selo. A. M. RAM (10'6, SARDINES, VlTorrester.bire Sauce. itehned Cocoa, just re TV ecared nod for rule by EBV.it t.I;IN. Oct. SO, No 71 CRANBERRIES 1 UST recetred a.fro4t kn. of Crlimirtrrics :an iNewtr Cuomolo,ot No 71 LUCLIA SLICeL Oct, 2l 1,00. r. LOCIILL/IN Irittry. The 0!d Days and the New. El 50 =I A poet came surging along the vale,— "All, well a day for the dear old days! They romp• uo more us dm of yote, By the flowing neer Maize?' lit piped through the meudove, Inc piped through the grove, "Ah welha-day for the good ohl dap! They hove all gone by, and I Fit and sigh By the flowing river of Ai-e. Eliii Knight.. nod Indies, and shield.; and swords,— ! h, wrll-n•dnt for the grand old dor: Ca•tics and moot-, and the bright tit:el coats, Hy the (tumor, ricer of Aise. The laaret nre shivered. ihe helmet; rust,— Oh, well-lode:: for the alert, old day , : And the el.o1011'• it 4 last, thy the flowing river oh Stine. And the warrior , * that •wept to glory and death, well a•day for the hr./ ve old dap.: Ti.ey have foughl nod grille. and I Sri litre alone, 13) the flowing river of Al-e. The strength of limb and the mettle of heart, Al,, well-a-day for the .tiong old day , : They have, vs leered away, mere buttetil es' play, Ily the flawing river of Aise. The queens of beauty. whose smile wen life,— Al,, well-ird iy for the rare old days! With lave nod despair in their golden By the flowing river of Al-e. They l finted away from hall and bower,— Ali, Well.o.4lay for the lach old day.: Lit e die <an they vhone. like the sun !hey have gone, fly the 11.nvalg river of Ai•e. And buried benewh the pal of the past,— Alt. well-a dny, for the prowl old d•tyn! Lie valor and worth and the beauty °Ceara], Ely the (lowing liver of At-e. And I •if rind gull by the idle kfrram,— Alt, well-a-day for the brOlt old day'! l'or oothiog remains far the port's •trains But the flowing river of Mee.' Then a voice rang out from rho oak overhead,— .etVley wrll•u•day for the old, old day-? The woe Id i= the -ame, if the bard hat-net aim, By the flawing river of There's beauty nod love nod truth and power,— Ceicim wel!m-d iy for the old. old dupe The humble•l home is worth Greece nod Rome, By the flowing river of &i-e. There are theme 4 enough for the pnet'4 strums.— Leave well•a•dny for the quaint old days! Take thi n • eye- front the ground, look up and around From the flowing rtver of !Use. rr o .d n y j4 . tiat graogi n+ the eeniurle• post, Lewse well-a-d.ty for the fanged old en:"... There are battles to fizle, there are troths to plight, By the flowing river of Al-c. There are hearts ns true to love. to strive,— No welt-u-d•ty 'or the dark old &yet Go put into type the age that i. ripe By the ibwi.tit liver of Ake.' Then th• merry poet piped doa•u the vale.— ` , urem.ll farewell in the dead old dupe: By d.ty and by night there...no-lc and Isghl Uy the flawing nver of gtitttillLs. From Chanu'rra• Journal, Van Slingelandt's Wooiug. Peter Can Slingelandt set up his art tent in the place of his birth, the quaint old city of Leyden, a sort of dull, dirty, Dutch Ven ice, minced up by incessant canals into fifty dark islets, all tied loosely together by stone hundred and forty old bridges. Peter was a calm, quiet, coutente I man, with no locu motive longings, no very fervid aspirations. Lie was not the bird that beat itself to death against the bars of its cage, in agooizing efforts of liberty; he preferred to make his cage as cozy as he could, and to adapt him self to its limitations. Besides, it was a voluntary confinement; be needed nut to have had the Leyden ramparts for ever bounding his horizon and framing his life. Others had wandered away to the sheeny south, and looked on eyes of love and amaze ment, yet with o feeling of immense removal from the glories of Italian art flume had crossed to England and found welcome, and patronage, and wealth; but Peter held on to his quiet studio in the old gable-topped house just turning out of the handsome high street of the city. Ile was not rich—a steady in dustrious, enthusiastic worker, but one who loved his work, and loved to linger over it; a conscientious, scrupulous, indefatigable. microscopic limn, how could he produce rapidly? True, facile slovenliness would have brought the gold more quickly in; but Petes respected his art, respected himself— he could not condescend to let the "scamp work" go out of Iris studio. I doubt even if it ever occurred to the dear, good, plodding sober soul to do such a thing; he had no notion of art apart from s olid, highly wrought, intensely finished pictures. So he he sat one day in his small quiet studio, before a panel of the easel. Not a flaunting, flaring studio of more recent date, remember, but a Dutch painter's studio of the sear IGO, or so. No garish draperies, no glittering weapons, no polished fragments of armor, no dusty torsos blocking up the corners, no cast of muscular limbo, no nose broken antiques—a neatly furnished, nicely garnished, well-kept room, with polished floor, polished table, chairs, and even pol ished easel. All windows firmly closed, all (blurs tightly fitting; fur Peter has proclaimed unremitting war with the dust; he will suf fer it under no pretence; he will du all man can to exclude and suppress dust. Ile changes his shoes outside his studio door; be puts on another well brushed, dusky green doublet, with ivory buttons; be hangs up Lis cluak; he enters the room cautiously as a cat luuking fur a mouse; lie regards with jeal,m3 eyes the sunbeam that will somehow slant in at the upper half of the window, and angrily the little motes that will somehow dance and float about in that shaft of golden light. There is no incitation, no provocation to the dust at all. The color box is polished and its lid closes with an extreme exactness; the pencil handles are polished, and there is a silk rail protecting the face of the panel. The"properties" of the painting room are not remarkable; a mirror, framed by five-and. twts ty smaller Mirrors, reflecting altogether sixmnd•twenty miniature portraits of the tsudio with the broad back of Peter Van Sin gelautd well visible,—a prominent object as he bends over his panel; a brown, uncouth looking jug, which has often sat fur its pic ture, and to which good Peter sometimes applies his lips; glasses long in the stem, with much cutting and engraving about them driukitig horns, flasks, cups, pipes. For the rest, there is little in the room beyond the ordinary fittings of a burgher's house of that day, and not a very rich burgher either. Peter sits at his work, a portly good-look ing fellow, with long, blonde, dry hair, and still more blonde and dry eyebrows, eye• lashes, moustaches, and peaked beard. Ms plump cheeks are closely shaven, and he has very cal.n, steady blue eyes. To him, sitting centemplatively, enters his good friend Mai Keppen, a student of the Ley den University; very like Peter, only young er and thinner—not a bit more demonstra tive. lie lifts up the brown jug, and regales himself with its contents. lle understands the usages of Peter's studio; he moves about slowly, cautiously; he has shaken himself well outside—he brings in no dust. Few words of salutation pass between them—they are top intimate, they under stand each other too well fur that. Peter removes the silk shroud front the panel; they both pore over it speechless for about half at hour. "It grows," says Max, at last, in a low whisper. Peter nods his head; he points with the small, keen pencil in his hand. "I have been bringing 'amt.' out since Wedneidny. Do you mark, Max, that little finger nail?— ! could not sleep fir thinking of it. Say, is it right toy Max? That far corner, where the tinge of purple subsides into blueish red; then the light, catching it, breaks into a fine line of warm pearl whi:e. Light is always warm, Max. How men cheat themselves. Many would have there struck in cold, dead color. Simmer "It is very good, Peter." "Don't stamp my Max. In places there is still wet paint. Think of the dust, god friend. Ah, if any should alight." And he let fall the silk shroud. Max looked penitent, concerned. The inurement of his foot had been involuntary; he bud been stirred thereto by his sober, settled enthusiasm f r Peter's genius. lie Iv,v; the painter's chief intimate, his .varmeit friend and admirer—the unavoi table ap pendage of the studio. Every painting room is haunted by such men datory, attached, devoted, they would do an:; thing to aid the artist, ignorant of much art theta selves, they worship and marvel the more en that account, and they bee•tme the can. fidants of the painter; he can open hi. heart to the humble follower and friend who is nut, who can never be a rival. [Atlantic Monthly "it has beets two years about," quoth Pe ter. lie saw pour Max's pain and sorrow, and hastened to raise the silk curtin again "two years to-day." "And it will be finished?" asked Max. Peter shook his head mournfully. It seemed quite hopeless to name any date.— tle took up it microscope uud scrutinized the picture severely. It was the portrait of a lady, very fair in complexion, very flaxen as to ringlets—a close crowd of them filling in delicate vine tendrils over her exquisite forehead and neck —rather full hi 6gure, large round blue eyes pretty red mouth, and round plump chin, with just a hint of another little chin be yond, us a rainbow is dogged by a redee- Lion. Site were a full spreading D.Jteil lace collar, which, - ut the shoulder, met her puffed sleeves, also decked with ample lace falls. tier black velvet dress opene I in front over o petticoat of superb maize colored satin. upon which the light fell, and dickered and sparkled wonderfully. Upon her round white arms were pearl bracelets, and in one hand she held a fan of peacock feathers. A bright-eyed lap dug, curled up compactly, bat on a green velvet cushion at her feet, with a red ribbon round his neck, and every hair of his coat acurately accounted fir in the picture.' Russet hanginzs formed the back ground, relieved on the right hand by a crimson curtain, falling over a half open door, through which, in a dusky twilight, other figures were'dinily seen, though trace able much more distinctly the more you ex amine the work. "It growm," Maz said again. It was the only form of consolation for Peter that he could think of. "It grows—rapidly." It was bold to say that Otie who had seen the work a year bael, would have though it then, perhaps, as far advanced as it seemed now. Its growth could hardly be called rapid, anyhow. But rapid painting was hardly known in Hol land. Men worked steadily, but very slow ly. They studied intensely; meditating each touch. as a poet might over a verse. pausing on it, weighing it, counting it.— Goodaert of Middleburg spout thirty years studying the economy of the insects he paint ed. Wilhelm Kali est for whole days bc• "NO ENTERTAYNAIENTIS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 0• fore on orange, a melon, and an agate - bandied knife, contemplating their wondrous assemblage and variety of color, before be oven commenced to paint them. Gerard Dow spent five days in the close painting of a hand, and three in representing a broom handle. John Vander Ileyden worked with such delicate minuteness, that, in one pic ture, an open Bible is seen no larger than a man's palm, in which every line is legible through a magnifying glass. In another performance, Peter, himself, had occupied a whole month on the frill and ruffles of a gen tleman whose portrait ho was painting.— They were man elously microscopic, these Dutch painters. Nu wonder that many of them had so teasel ana worried their eyes, that they were reduced to wearing specta cles at thirty. Peter was not consoled; he would not ac cept of Max's ilittery, he shook his head mournfully. and sighed. Max looked rath er crest-Wien; but he plucked up heart, and tried again. "She is very beautiful, my Peter." But Peter only sighed the more. Max was at his wit's end. lie was nearly stamping on the flour again; but he contrived to stop hitusell in time. 'You love,' then, still, my Peter?" he asked, in a low, awful tone. "With all my soul," answered Peter, simply; and ho seemed relieved, and plied the microscope again. They knew every line, every tint, every touch of that picture. Even Max's need(' cated eye could follow it all, and knew it all. They bad watched and seen in advance un der their gaze, as a mother sees her child's growth; as the poor girl in the garret pores over the tiny geranium under the cracked tumbler in the one flower pot, and sees its dim, green leaves one by one, unfold. They could quite appreciate the never-tiring labor hostowtti upon the picture. Peter took up the brown jug, refreshed himself, and pass ed it on to Max. "And she?" Max held up the jug, lie he could not drink until he heard the answer. "I know not, my Max." Max sorrowfully drained the jug. "Sometimes, I think—l almost think; but it is my vanity, my Max, it is that, d uht less." Max denied it stoutly by violently shaking his head. "She dropped her 'kerchicryesterdity, and let me restore it to her." Peter went on, blushing. "And, oh, Max, how bright came the light into her eyes. Kindly, too, Mas; and she smiled. Alt, her smile is heaven, Max. Is the jog empty? Never mind." "She love, brother—it is that," whisper ed 3/ AS artfully. know nut, my: Mar. Ah, it nut end. And she : ore the her hall I, M is; her dear. soft, scented hand—white satin, with Pink lining;'l took it in mine, Mas; I raised it, but—bah! I dared not kii,l it." Max ah-tractedly proffered the empty jug. Peter tried to drink from it, found it empty. and simply put it on one side. — Oh, if I :night only hope; but, my Max it is fully—it is m vlnet.s; tt pun nrti+t wed the rich burgitnaster's widow! Why, all Leyden would hoot me in the streets. It is a dream, my brother—a dream. The pic ture mustend —1 could paint on it fur ever and ever. Is that the blue ,te her eye? Is that the caranation that fl tats on her cheek, now below the surface? Is that the crimson of her dear moist lip, my Max? Bahl—No. But, two years—two years; the end must come. She grows impatient—she will go, my Mix—the picture will go, my Max; and then—then—what will become of ant? S.ty." And he rose from his chair, and fell sob bing upon the neck of Max. That worthy follower was cut to the heart. "It is nut so, my Peter. look up." he said; "she loves you; I say so—Mot: be lieve me. You will be happy, my Peter; you shall be happy. Hush, silo is coaling now; I hear her on the stairs. Hush! take courage. Tell her you love her with all your soul, my Peter; tell her as you would tell me—think it is I to whom you speak. I go." "This way—the back staircase. Gently, my Max—think of the dust. Do not bang the door! Farewell, tug Max. Ah! be is here." Then entered the room the lady, tall, large. calm. Peter had been successful— the portrait was very like. She came in slowly and stately, and soon accupied her well known seat and accustomed position. Peter, bowing and blushing, went on with his work. Huedly a word was spoken. The portrait hal been in hand tor MO years, and all ordinary topics of conversation between painter and sitter had been long ago ex hausted. On the other hand, habit had completely mattered all the irksomeness of the business. The lady seemed hardly less tired of sitting than Peter of painting. She knew to a nicety when she was correctly posed; detected, to half an inch, when her fingers strayed from their position in the picture; perceived directly when any of the amber tendril ringlets lie.t.tate stragglers from the main body; and then the large blue eyes, how well aware they were of the exact knot in the oak wainscot, upon which two years ago, they had been directed to fix themselves! True, they wandered now and then—took circling liiyeita like alighting at one time upon the blonde head or Peter—now upon' the mirror with the twenty-five eatellite mirrors—now upon Peter's pipe— now upon the leather-covered knob of Pe ter's matt) stick—now upon the tiny little sable pencils with which Peter seemed to be working on the panel as though with needles upon copper--and now, with a twinkling smile dancing aLout the corners of the rosy lips, upon Peter's empty brown jug in the corner; but they always turned back again, and settled on the knot in the wainscot, as though th'tt were their proper nest and home, and all other alighting places were temporary oaravanseras, useful enough, but not to be mistaken fur a mo ment fur permanent residences. At last the lady refreshed her,eyes by two or three of these visual voyages, and found that there was nothing more to be done-- no more entertainment to be derived in that way—and ever so little n sigh started up and escaped from her heart, through the half open easement of her her lips. Peter was not slow to near it; he blushed—his hand trembled a little, be was nearly making a mistake, going just the thousandth part of an inch or so out of his course. "I tire you, madame." "No," said the lady, and het eyos settled on his moustache. She had a sweet, low, lan guid sort of voice. "But will it soon be done?" It seemed as though some words were abut' t to issue from under the moustache, but Pe- ' ter checked himself, bowed his head, and gave a touch or two to the delicate gray half tints on the lady's forehead. lhen came an other little sigh. Peter stopped as though he had been wounded; quite a change came over him. Ah, ho loved the fair widow! In his microscopic, Dutch painter way he had gone on loving her for two years; it had be gun in a miniature sort of fashion, had gone niggling on , but it was now a complete and finished buisness. You might look at it in all lights, examine it how you would, pore into it with a magnifying glass, you could find no flaw in it; it was very whole, web and woof, a highly wrought, exquisite, deli cate, pertect piece of passion. Peter was wounded by the sighs. He rose up. "I tire you, malamo," ho said again, so boldly that the widow seemed alarmed.— She deprecated his anger; would have given the world to have had the sighs back again sale and sound, tight prisoners in her bosom. "1 will paint no more then. Let us say the portrait is finished. It has been two years; nye, more than that--" The la ly shrunk back at this. Peter went on in a low voice, glancing alternately at the lady and the picture: "No; it would take a life, and then it would nut be completed." The lady quite clasped her hand in her distress at this. A whole life sitting fur one's portrait! Was Peter mad? He under stood her ustonishtnent, and gave his ex planation slowly and rather confusedly, and with his cheeks decidedly red. There are some graces that cannot be portrayed, some traits that cannot be imita ted, soles charms which it is wholy impos sible to render. I might try nll my life; I might spend all my (Joys before that panel, and still the portrait might never he com pleted to my thinking. Madam it could never be you; it could never be more than the feeblest shadow of you. The lady was decidedly pleased, yet amaz ed, perhaps frightened. You see the lute burgomaster bad not made love thus. "Then I may send for the picture?" she said, nt last, softly. Poor Peter bowed his head, sadly in the affirmative. "And the price?" It was cruel in the widow; but she did it si:nply, without malice—at least I think so—or it might be intentionally, to be firm, and end the thing, as people strike hard blows to get the sooner at the termination of the fight. There were quite tears in Peter's eyes. ''S•) money can repay me madam;'—But the p for fellow stopped short; there was something in his throat that would not let the words pass out. "Foryour labor—l know it bas been great, neeAgant, but"— '•Not that;" and Peter's pride conquered his sobs. Nothing can compensate the for the loss of the picture; it has been my whole solo thought and occupation for two years: it has been the ceaseless joy and light of my studio. That gone, and this room is a dark dungeon; my life as a blind man's, who can never hope to see the sun again. I love it! Pray don't take it from me; it is pricelessl" and be sank on his knees before the panel. It was a delicate way of making lave to the widow; a little complicated, perhaps, but still very effective. She could not possibly be offended by it, and it might touch her very nearly, and it did. It was realy an artful man of the simple Peter's. The widow came quite close to him, and she was trembling and fluttering a good deal, and quite a tempest of emotion was surging in her white neck. She bent over Peter who was hiding his face in his hands, till her gold ringlets mingled with Peter's blonde locks. "Will nothing repny you?" and her soft warm breath stirred the dry, blonde locks as a beeze a cornfield. "Nothing. nothing!" moaned Peter pito- 1252 •'Sot even this?" And her litde plump hand stole down and crept into his. To giro money? A ring,per hap.? No; it was empty! Dull Peter! he was an humble, plodding, miniature min ded twin —did not quite under,tand even yet. lbw pretty the widow looked blushing and confused! $1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE 6, 1861. "Will you take the original as payment for the copy?" What a silvery, bird's whisper as that explanation! Peter comprehended then. How he kissed her little plump hand; you woud have Riought the creature was going to cat it! What a delightful little laugh the widow gave as she stooped down her head. Really L'eter was, after all, a dull fellow; but he did make out at last, and gave her lips a kiss that made them even more rosy than ever. I think, certainly, that it was the widow who made love to Peter, and nor Peter to the widow. "0 hew 1 love you! 110‘v happy I tun! I never hoped k•r thi. Bertha, dear Ber tha, may I call you Bertha?" "Of course you may." The door leading. on to the back staircase opened very slowly and quietly,and the face of Mai Keppen appeared there. The dog had been listening! He was very pale,with very bright eyes, plentifully decorated with tears. He was beset by two emotions; he rejoiced at Peter's happiness,and he sorrow (;,l because he began to fear that Peter's whole love would now be given to Bertha, that none would be left for Max. Ile saw Peter's wife stepping in, and severing h;nt from Peter. But he was au unselfish, good fellow. He had a great heart; there was room in it for all, he thlught. I will hive then, both; then they will both love me." So he gave himself up reservedly to sympa thy with Peter's happiness, and triumphed in his triumph. Discreetly be closed the door without disturbing the lovers, and dis appeared, itmnensly comfortable. Such was the uLtnneruf Van Sling,,clanat's woulug The Old-fashioned Grandmother Blessed be the children who have an old fashioned grandmother. As they hope for length of days, let them love and honor her fur we can tell them they will never find another. There is a large old kitchen somewhere in the past, and an, old-fashioned fireplace therein, with its smooth old jambs of stone —smooth with thatmanyknives sharpened there—smooth with many little fingers that have clung there. There are andirons, too—the old andirons with rings in the top, wherein many temples of fame have been builded, with spires and turrets of crimson. There is a broad worn hearth, by feet that have been torn and bleeding by the way, or been made ••beautiful," and walked upon floors of tesselated gold. There are tongs in the corner, wherewith we grasped a coal, and 4•bhwing for a little life," lighted our first candle; there is n shovel, wherewith were drawn forth the glowing embers in which we saw our first fancies and dreamed our first dreams—the shovel with which we stirred the sleepy logs till the sparks rushed up the chimney as if a forge were in blast below, and wished we had so many lambs, so many marbles, or so many somethings that we coveted; and so it was we wished our first wishes. There is a chair—a low, rush-bottom chair; there is a little wheel in the corner, a big wheel in the garret, a loom in the chamber. There are chests full of linen and yarn, and quilts of rare patterns, and samplers in frames. And everywhere and always the dear old wrinkled face of her whose firm, elastic step mocks the feeble saunter of her children's children—the old-f. grandmother of twenty years ago. She, the very Providence of the old homestead—she who loved us all, and said she wished there was more of us to love, and took all the school in the Hol low for grand children beside. A great ex pansive heart was here, beneath that woolen gown, or that more stately bombazine. or that sole heir-loom of silken texture. We can see her to day, those mild blue eyes, with more of beauty in them than time could touch or death do more than hi !e— -thos(' eyes that held both smiles and tears within the faintest call of every one of us, and soft reproof, that seemed not pas-ion but regret. A white tress has escaped from be Death her snowy cap; she has just restore! a wandering lamb to its mother; she length ened the tether of t vino that was straying over a window, as she came in, and plucked a four-leafed clover for Ellen. She sits down by the little wheel—a tress is running through her fingers from the distaffs dis hevelled head, when a small voice cries, "Grandma" from the old red cradle, and "Grandma!" Tommy shouts from the t)p of the stairs. Gently she lets go the thread, fur her patience is almost as beautiful as her charity, and she touches the little red bark in a moment, till the young voyager is in a dream again, and then directs Tommy's un availing attempts to harness the cat. The tick of the clock runs faint and low, and she opens the mysterious door, and proceeds to wind it up. We are all on tip-too, and we beg in a breath to be lifted up ono by one and look in the hundredth time upon the tin cases of the weights, 'and the poor lonely pendulum, which goes to and fro by its little dim window, and our petitions are all gran ted, and wo aro lifted up. and we all touch with a finger the wonderful weights, and the music of the little wheel is rc , oined. - Was Mary to Le married, or Jane to be wrapped in a shroud? So meekly did she fold the white hands of the one upon her still bosom, that there seemed to be a pray er in them there, and SJ sweetly did she wretrao the white rose in the hair of the other, that ono would not have wondered had more Teats budded for company. [WHOLE NUMBER 1,627. How she stood between us and apprehen ded harm! how the rudest of us softened beneath the gentle pressure of her faded and tremulous baud! From her capacious pocket that hand was ever withdrawn closed, only to Le opened, in our own; with the nuts she had gathered, the cher: ies she had plucked, the little egg she had found, the "turn-over" she had baked, the trinket she ; had stored for us—the offering of her heart. ! What treasure of story fell from those old lips—of good fairies and evil, of old times when she was a girl; and we wondered if ever—but then she couldn't be handsomer cr dearer—but then if she ever was •'little." And then when we begged her to sing! Swig us one of the old songs you used to sing mother, grandma." "Children, I can't sing," she always said; and mother used to lay her knitting softly down, and the kitten stopped playing with the yarn upon the flmr, and the clock ticked lower in the corner, and the fire died down to a glow, like an old heart that is neither chille 1, nor dead, and grandmother sang. To he sure, it wouldn't do for the parlor and concert room now-a-days; but then it wa , the old kitchen and the old-fashioned ,randmother, and the old ballad, in the dear old times, and we can hardly see to write for the memory of them though it is a hand's breadth to the sunset. I's'oll, she sang. Her voice was feeble and wavering, like a fountain just ready to fall, but then, how sweet-toned it was; and it became deeper and stronger; but it couldn't grow sweeter. What ''joy of grief" it was to sit there around the fire, all of us, except Jane that ehaned a prayer to her bosom, and her thoughts we saw, the hall-door was opened a moment by the wind; but then we :core for wasn't it her old smile she wore?—to sit there around the. fire, and weep over the woes of the "Babes in the Woods;" who lay down side by side in great solemn shadows; and how strangely glad we felt when the robin-redbreast, covered them with leave<; and lazt of all, when the angels took them out of the night into day everlasting, We may think what we will of it now, but the sung and the story heard around the kitchen fire have colored the thoughts and lives of must of us; have g yen us ihe germs of whatever poetry blesses our hearts, what over memory blooms in out yesterdays. Attribute whatever we may to the school and the school-master, the rays which make that little day we call life, radiate from the Gud-swept circle of the hearth-stone. Then she sings an old lullaby she sang to mother—her m.ither sang to her; but she dues nut sing it through, and falters ere 'cis done. She rests her head upon her hands, and it is silent in the old kitchen. S. me• thing glitters down between her fingers and the firelight, and it looks like rain in the soft sunshine. The old grandmother is thio",:o.; when she first heard the song, and of the voice thAt sang it; when n light haired and light-hearted girl she bung around that mother's chair, nor saw the shadows of the years to come. 0! the days that are no more: What spell can we weare to bring them back again? What words can we unsay, what deeds undo, to set back • just this once, the ancient dock of time? How she used to welcome us when we were grown, and came back once more to the homestead. We thought we were men and women, but were children there. The old-fashioned grandmother was blind in the eyes, but she saw with her heart ns she always did. We threw our ldng shadows through the open dlor, and she felt them as they fell over her form, and she looked dimly up and saw tall shapes in the door-way, and she says, "Ed ward, I know, and Lucy's voice I can bear. but whose is that other? It must be Jane's" —for she had almost forgotten the folded hands. "Oh, no, not Jane, for she—let me see—she is waiting for me, isn't she?" and tho "Id grandmother wandered and wept. •'lt is another daughter grandmother, that E lyrar I has brought," says some ono, "fur your blcs9ing." •'llas she blue eyes, my son? Put her hank' in mine, fur she is my latest born, the child of my old age. Shall I sing you a mg, ohildren?" tier hand is in her pocket as of old; she is idly fumbling fur a toy, a rrelelme gift to the children that have come ME One of UR, men as we thought we were, is weeping; she hears the half-suppressed sob; she sacs, as she extends her feeble hand, "here my poor child, rest upon your grand mother's shoulder; she will protect you from all harm. Come, children, sit around the fire again. Shall I sing you a song, or tell you a story? Stir the lire, for it is cold; the nights aro growing colder." The clock in the corner struck nine, the bed-time of those old days. The song of life was indeed sung. the story told. it was bed time at last. Good night, to thee, grand mother. The old-fashioned grandmother was no more, and we miss her forever. But we will set up a tablet in the midst of the memory, in rho midst of the heart. 60 write on it only this: Sacred to the memory MEM OLD•FASIIIO\ED GRANDMOTHER; G. BLESS lIER FOREI'ER. WrSocioty is like a glass of ale7-tha dregs go to the bottom, the froth and sewn to the surface, and the substance. or the bet ter pation remains about the centre. .
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