ciIUMUU
SAIERTEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor.
VOLUME XXVII, NUMBER 42.1
PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY MOOING.
Office in Northern Central Railroad Com
pany's Bailding,north-westcorner Front and
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st each subsequent insertion, 20
Larger advertisements in proportion.
A liberal discount will be made to quarterly, half
yearly or yearly advertisers,who are strictly confined
to their business.
Drs. John & Rohrer,
YE associated in the Practice of Medi-
Col wilds, April 1.5t,1856-tt
DR. G. W. MIFFLIN,
DENTIST, Locust street, near the Post Of
ace. Columbia, Pa.
Columbia. May 3, 1856.
H. M. NORTH,
ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR AT LAW.
Columbiu, Pa.
Collections, promptly made, in Lancaster and York
Counties.
Columbia, May 4,1950.
.L W. FISHER,
Attorney and Counsellor at Law,
Maim.
Col umb September 6, 1e5641
GEORGE J. SMITH,
WHOLESALE and Retail Bread and Cake
Baker.—Constantly on hand a variety of Cakes,
too numerous to mention; Crackers; Soda, Wine, Scroll,
and Sugar Biscuit; Co nfectionery, of every description,
Be., tue. LOCUST wriumr,
Feb. 2,' G. Between the Bank and Franklin }louse.
Z. F. APPOLD & CO.,
4. -
GENERAL FORWARDING AND COMMIS
SION MERCHANTS, m la
RECEIVERS OF
COA LAND PRODUCE,
And Deliverers on any point on the Columbia and
Philadelphia Railroad. lo York and
Baltimore and to Pittsburg;
DEALERS IN COAL. FLOUR AND CRAIN,
WHISKY AND BACON, have just received a
large lot of Monongahela Rectified Whiskey, from
Pittsburg, of which they will keep a supply constantly
on hand. at low prices, Nos. I, 2 and 6 Canal Basin.
Columbia, January 27. 1854.
0 ATS FOR SALE
PY THE BUSHEL, or in larger quantities,
J_J at sus. 1, 2 & 6 Canal Darin.
D. F. APPOLD & CO.
Columbia, January 20, 1956
Just Received,
5 n BUS. PRINZ GROUND NUTS, at I. F.
ki SMITH'S Wholesale and Retail Confectionery
e.tablishment. Front street, two doom below tho
Washington House, Columbia: [October 25,1856.
Just Received,
20 lIHDS. SHOULDERS. 15 TIERCES 11AMS.
For sale by B. F. APPOLD & CO..
Nos. 1, 2 and 6, Canal 13todn.
Columbia, October 18, 1536.
Rapp's Gold Pens,
CONSTANTLY on hand, an assortment of
these celebrated PENS. Persons in want of a
good article are invited to call and examine them.
Columbia, June 31.1, 1855. JOAN FELIX.
Just Received,
LARCH LOT of Children's Carriages,
Gigs., Rocking Horses, Wheelbarrows, Prime:-
err, Nursery Swings, &c. GEORGE. J. SMITH.
April 1.9, 1556. Locust street.
CHINA and other Fancy Articles, too numerous to
mention, (or sale by G. J. SSiITH, Locust street,
between the Bank and Franklin House.
Columbia, April 19, 1856.
ATEE undersigned have been appointed
agents (orate stile o(Cook &Co's GOTTA M
t PENS, warranted not to corrode; in e laslicity
they almost equal the quill.
SAYLOR & McDONALD.
Columbia Jan. 17,1857
Just Received,
ABEAUTIFUL lot of Lamp Shades, viz: Tie
twine, Volcano. Dram. Butter Fly. Red Roses,
end the new French Fruit Shade, which can be seen
io the window of the Golden Mortar Drug Store.
November 29, lEdia.
AMO lot of Shaker Corn, from the
Shaker settlement in New Ymk,3uat received,
ut ii. SUYDAM & SON'S
Columbia, Dec. 20,18:4
T_TAIR DYE'S. Jones' Batchelor's, Peter's and
Egyptian hair dyes, warranted to color the hair
any desired shade, without injury to the skin. For sale
by It. WILLIAMS.
May 10; Front st., Columbia, Pa.
F - PARR & THOMPSON'S justly celebrated
xCom
mercial and other Gold rear—the best in the
market—just received. P. SHREINER.
Columbia,April 28,1855.
VXTRI FAMILY MIA by the barrel, for
sale by B. F. APPOLD & CO,
Columbia,June 7. Nos. 1,2 and Canal Basin.
WHY Would anyperson do without a Clock,
when they eau be had forsl.so and upwards.
at SHREINER'S?
Columbia, April 49,1855
SAPONEFIER, or Concentrated Lye, for ma
king Soap. 11b. is sufficient for one barrel of
Soft Soap, or 11b.for 9 Iha. Hard Soup. Full direc
tions Will be given at the Counter for making Soft,
Hard and Fancy Soaps. For sale by
R. WILLIAMS.
Columbia, March 31,1855.
SOLITION OF CITRATE OF MAGNESIA,or Par
gative Mineral Water.—This pleasant medicine
which is highly recommended as a substitute for
armom Salts, Seidlitz Powders, fee.. ran be obtained
fresh every day at SAAPL. FILBERT'S Drug Store,
Front st. (t 2
nEOZEN BROOMS, 10 BOXIV. CHEESE. For
Z V sale cheap, by B. F. APPOLD /r. CO.
Colunabia, October 25, 1250.
a ll SUPERIOR article of PAINT OIL. for sole by
IL. WILLIAMS.
•
111ay 10, 1E56. Front Street, Columbia, Pa
JUST RECEIVED, a large and well selected variety
ofALL.shes, eonsistina in part of Shoe, Hair, Cloth,
"Crumb. Pistil, Hat and Teeth Brushes, and for sale by
R. WILLIAMS.
Marehlt Front street Colombia. Pa.
ASUPERIOR article ofTONIC SPICE BITTER — S,
auitali}eAsr Motel Keepers, far sale by
R. WILLIAMS.
Front street, Columbia.
Nley 10,180
IRESPI ETHEXELL OIL, always on hand. and fo
IX
' kale by R. WILLIAMS.
May . 1 . 0,111.56. Front Street, Columbia, Pa.
A ju b ST y rceived,.FTESH CAMPlpE i tatr i tt i liA tale
May 10,180. Front &mei. Cnlumbia.Va.
A a SRAILES of Stook in the Odd Folf. owe' Hall Also-
Ci
u kcidFl; offered.for sale by the egbetriber.
.J. C. Pr.AHLER-
ColumF-
E7=M
I Aim and 34"Iders '
Yeb. 21, 1897. IL zuiDAM 4.130 N.
Ivrtry.
THE LOVE-QUAREE.L.
Does he fancy—this lover benighted—
That, because in a putulent fit,
He has chosen my corner to quit,
I feel terribly punished and slighted!
81 50
Does he think that sit here and sigh,
In penitent misery, hoping
That he'll melt when he sees me thus moping,
And pardon my thoughtless reply?
No! no! it was wrong I confess,
And had he but told me so kindly,
Not ran on so madly and blindly,
I'd have wept out my shame and distress
CII
But now I will show him that woman
Isn't mute like the spaniel he spurns,
Which to fawn on his angry hand, turns—
That she's sometimes intractably human!
Though he seeks oat the artful coquette,
Who, if rumor speaks truth, once so nearly—
And that she's well skilled, I ace clearly!
Wove ronnd him her dangerous net;
Though he draws her, upon his arm leaning,
To a seat, from all others remote,
Where purple hued draperies float
Around them, their figures half screening,—
And whispers, while she listens, smiling .
Through her loose-toning, gold tinted curls
-01 a sungleam on rubies and pearls—
Her smile is as Circe's beguiling!
Though in seeming confusion, down•glaneing,
She veils, nenth their dark fringes, her eyes,
Then uplifts them in sudden surprise,
In fulness of splendor entrancing;
Though her bracelet perversely refuse■
To be clasped, and, with petty tirade,
She strives on, rejecting his aid,
Then at last, with sweet, flattered excuses,
Accepts it—for what is the harm?—
Though with dexterous bungle, be lingers,
And touches with quivering fingers,
That satin-smooth, lily-white arm ;
I care not!—l know he's but trying
To make me repent that I crossed him—
To fear that forever I've lost him—
For is he not furtively eyeing
My face all the time 7---Ah! he'll rue it!
Yes!—since such false game Ike has started,
I'll follow it up till, sick-hearted,
lie thinks I, in earnest, pursue it !
I'll smile on the wile•hunting squire,
Who has lands, houses, gold-brimming coffers,
Who has made me—he knows it—six offers,
Whom lie rails at with jealousy's ire.
Straight past him I'll waltz with the gay
And galls= lieutenant. whose sash,
Gold lace, and beWitching moustache,
Have stolen each soft heart away.
talk, in the other embrasure,
To the poet, whose eloquent eyes
Ever look such devotion, whose sigh■
Are as plaintively sweet as his measure!
Then if, when the beauty deserting,
With lip thatessays to be scornful,
But with glances so meltingly mournful,
He stands aloof watching me, flirting—
I should go to him softly, and say.
.IVe were both of us foolish—lig o'er—
Let us never do so any more!"
Do you think that he'd frown me away'
THE FIRST FLOWER
lIT JOHN 0. WIIITTIZIL.
For ages on cornice!. borders,
These tassels in their tawny bloom,
And willowy studs of downy silver
Have prophesied of Spring to come.
For ages have the unbound waters
Smiled on them, frdni their pebbly hem,
And the clear carol of the robin,
And song of blue-bird welcomed them.
But never yet from stniling river,
Or song of early bird, have they
Been greeted with a gladder welcome
Than whispers from my heart to-day
They break the spell of cold and darkness,
The weary watch of sleepless pain;
And from my heart, as from the river,
The ice of winter melts again.
Thanks, 11Iaryt for this wild-wood token
Of Freya's foot-steps drawing near,
Almost as in the rune of Asgdad,
The growing of the grass I hear.
It is as if the pine trees called me
Front celled room and silent books,
To see the dance of woodland shadows,
And hear the song of April brooks!
As in the old Teutonic ballad
Of Odenwald, live bird and tree,
Forever live in song and beauty,
So link my thought these flowers and thee
The small bird's track, the tiny rain-drop,
Forever mark the primal rock;
Who knows but that these idle verses
May leave some trace by Artichoke?
And maidens, in the far 'off twilights,
Repeat my words to breeze and stream,
And wonder if the old-time, Mary,
Were real or the singer's dream.
[National Era
gstrrtigno.
THE ONE BLACK SPOT.
On the evening of a cold, bleak March day,
in an early year of this century, a woman
scantily clad, led a boy about eight years
old along the high-road towards the old city
of Exeter. They crept close to the hedge
side to shelter themselves from the clouds of
dust which the sudden gusts of east wind
blew in their faces.
They had walked many miles, and the
boy limped painfully. He of ten
. looked up
anxiously into his mother's face, and asked
if they bad much farther to go 1' She scarce
ly appeared to notice his inquiries; her
fixed eyes and sunken cheek gave evidence
that sorrow absorbed all her thoughts. When
he spoke, sho drew him closer to her side,
but made no reply, until, at length, the child,
wondering at her silence; began to sob. She
stopped and looked at her child for a mo
ment, her eyes filled with tears. They had
gained the top of a hill, from which was
vigible is the distance the dark massive tow
ers of the catbredral, and the church spires
of the city ; she pointed them out, and said,
"We shall soon be there, Ned." Then, sit
ting down on a tree that was felled by the
roadside, she took " Ned " on her lap, and,
bending over him, wept aloud.
"NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, APRIL 25, 1857.
"Are you very tired, mother ?" said the
boy, trying to comfort her. "'Tie a long
way—don't cry—we shall see father when
we come there."
" Yes you will see your father once
more."
She checked herself; and striving to dry
her tears, sat looking wistfully towards
the place of their destination.
The tramp of horses, coming up the hill
they had just ascended, drew the boy's At
tention in that direction. In a momentWe
had sprung from his mother, and was shout
ing with child-liko delight, at the appear
ance of a gay cavalcade that approached.
About thirty men on horseback, in crimson,
liveries, surrounded two carriages, ono of
which contained two of His Majesty's
Judges, accompanied by the high sheriff of
the county ; who, with his javelin men, was
conducting them to the city, in which the
Lent Assizes were about to be held.
The woman knelt until the carriages and
the gaudy javelin men had turned the cor
ner at the foot of the hill, and were no long
er visible; with hands clasped together she
prayed God to temper with mercy the heart
of the Judge, before whom her unfortunate
husband now in jail, would have to stand
his trial. Then, taking the boy again by
the hand—unable to explain to him what he
had seen—she pursued her way with him,
silently, along the dusty road.
As they drew nearer to the city, they
overtook various groups of stragglers ; who
had deemed it their duty in spite of the in
clement weather, to wander some miles out
of the city to catch an early glimpse of "My
Lord Judge," and the gay sheriff's officer's.
Troops, also, of itinerant ballad-singers,
rope•dancers, mountebanks, and caravans of
wild beasts, still followed the judges through
out the circuit. " Walk more slowly Ned,"
said the mother, checking the boy's desire to
follow the "shows." "I am very tired let
us rest a little here." They lingered until
the crowd was far ahead of them—and were
left alone on the road.
Late in the evening, as the last stragglers
were returning home, the wayfarers found
themselves in the suburbs of the city, and
the ibrlorn woman looked around anxiously
for a lodging. She feared the noisy people
in the streets; and, turning timidly towards
an old citizen who stood by his garden-gate
chatting to his housekeeper, and watching
the passers-by—there was a kindness in his
look which gave her confidence—so, with a
homely courtesy, she ventured to inquire of
him where she might find a decent resting
place..
" Ifave you never been here before?" he
asked.
"Never, but once air, when I was a child,
many years ago."
"What part of the country do you come
from ?"
" Uffculme."
" Uffculme? how did you get hero?"
" We have walked."
" You don't say that you have trudged
all the way with that youngster?"
The housekeeper drowned the reply by
loudly announcing to the old gentleman that
his supper was waiting; "We have no
lodgings, my good woman," she said, turn
ing away from the gate.
" Stop, Martha, stop," said the citizen ;
can't we direct them somewhere? you see
they are strangers. I wonder where they
could get a lodging?"
" lam sure I don't know," replied Mar
tha peevishly.;" your supper will be cold—
come in !"
" We've had no supper," said the boy.
"Poor little fellow !" said the old gentle
man; "then I. am sure you shall not go
without. Martha, the bread and cheese !"
And, opening the garden gate, he made the
travellers enter and sit down in the summer
house,whilst he went to fetch them a draught
of cider.
In spite of Martha's grumbling, ho man
aged to get a substantial repast; but it
grieved him that the woman, though she
thanked him very gratefully and kindly, ap
peared unable to eat.
" Your boy eats heartily," said he, " but
I am afraid you dont enjoy it."
With a choking utterance she thanked
him, but could not eat.
The good old man was striving,. as well
as he could, to explain to them their way to
a part of the city, where they might find a
lodging, when the garden gate opened, and
a young man gave to the host a hearty
greeting.
At the sound of his voice, the cup the wo
man held in her hand fell to the ground.
This drew the youth's attention to her ; he
looked earnestly at her for a moment, and
with an exclamation of surprise, said,
"Why, this is Susan Harvey I"
The woman hid her face in her hands,
and moaned.
" Do you know her, then, Alfred ?" said
the uncle.
"She nursed me when I was a little sickly
boy," replied the youth ; she lived many
years in my father's house.
" Then I am sure you Will take her to
some lodging to-night, for she is quite a
stranger here. There is Marth calling to me
again ; she is not in the best temper to
night, so I had better go in, and I leave them
to your care."
"Oh 1 tell me, Mr. Gray, have you seen
him ?" cried the woman eagerly.
" I have been with him to-day, Susan,"
said Gray, kindly taking her hand ; "do
not be cast down ; all that can be done for
Martin, shall be done. Let me take you
where you can rest to-night, and to-morrow
you can be with him."
The weary little boy had fallen asleep on
the seat ; the mother strove to arouse him
but Alfred Gray prevented her by taking the
little fellow in his arms. He carried him
by her side through the streets ; she could
utter no words of gratitude, but her tears
flowed fast, and told her the young man's
sympathy had fallen like balm upon her
wounded heart. " God has taken pity on
me," she said, when they parted.
With a quick step Alfred regained his
uncle's cottage; he had a difficult task to
accomplish. Martin Harvey, now awaiting
his trial for poaching, and for being concern
ed in an affray with Sir George Roberts'
game-keepers, had once been his father's
apprentice. Young Gray bad been endeav
oring to procure him all the legal help
which the laws then allowed; but his own
means were limited, and when he met Su
san and her boy in the garden, he had come
to visit his uncle to ask his asststance. Ho
had now returned on the same errand. He
pleaded earnestly, and with caution, but
was repulsed. It was in vain he urged the
poverty of agricultural laborers at that sea
son, and the temptation which an abundance
of game afforded to half-starved men and
their wretched families.
"Nonsense, Alfred!" said old Mr. Gray,
"I would not grudge you the money if you
did not want it for a bad purpose. You
must not excuse men who go out with guns
and fire at their fellow-creatures in the
dark."
"Martin did not fire, uncle—that is what
I want to prove, and save him, if I can, from
transportation. He has a wife and child."
"Wife and child," repeated the old man
thoughtfully. "You did not tell me he had
a wife and child; that poor woman came
from Uffeulme."
"Providence must have guided her," said
the younger Gray. "It was indeed Har
vey's wife and son whom you so lately re
lieved."
"You shall have the money. I have all
through life prayed that my heart may not
be hardened; and I find, old as I am, that
every day I have fresh lessons to learn."
The next morning, while Alfred held
anxious consultation with the lawyers, the
wife and husband met within the prison
walls. They sat together in silence, for
neither could speak a word of hope. The
boy never forgot that long and dreary day,
during which he watched with wandering
thoughts, the sad faces of his ruined pa
rents.
The Crown Court at the Castle was next
morning crowded to overflowing. Among
the struggling crowd that vainly sought to
gain admission, was Martin Harvey's wife.
She was rudely repulsed by the door-keep
ers, who "wondered what women wanted in
such places." She still strove to keep her
ground, and watched with piteous looks the
doors of the court. She braved the heat and
pressure for some time; but a sickly faint
ness at length came over her. She was en
deavoring to retreat into the open air, when
she felt some one touch her shoulder, and
turning, saw Alfred Gray making his way
toward her. After a moment's pause in the
cool air, he led her round to a side door,
through which there was a private entrance
into the court. lie whispered a word to an
officer, who admitted them, and pointed to
a seat behind the dock, where they were
screened from observation, and. where the
woman could see her husband standing be
tween his two fellow-prisoners.
The prisoners were listening anxiously to
the evidence which the principal game
keeper was offering against them. The first,
a man about sixty, excited greater interest
than the others. He earnestly attended to
what was going on, but gave no sign of fear
as to the result. Brushing back his grey
locks, he gazed around the court, with some
thing like a smile. This man's life had been
a strange one. Early in his career he had
been ejected from a farm which he had held
under the father of the prosecutor, Sir
George Roberts; he soon after lost what lit
tle property had been left him, and, in des
pair, enlisted—was sent abroad with his
regiment—and for many years shared in
the toil and achievements of our East In
dian warfare. Returng home on a small
pension, he fixed his abode in his native
village, and sought to indulge his enmity
against the family that had injured him by
every kind of annoyance in his power.—
The present baronet, a narrow-minded and
tyrannical man, afforded by his unpopularity
good opportunity to old Ralph Somers to in
duce others to join him in his schemes of mis
chief and revenge. "The game," which was
plentiful on the estate, and the preservation
of which was Sir George's chief delight,
formed the principal object of attack; the
poverty of the laborers tempted them to fol
low the old soldier, who managed affairs so
warily, that for nine years he had been an
object of the utmost terror and hatred to
Sir George and his keepers, whilst all their
efforts to detect and capture him had, until
now, been fruitless.
Martin Harvey, who stood by his side
with his shattered arm in a sling, bore marks
of acute mental suffering and remorse ; but
his countenance was stamped with its ori
ginal, open, manly expression—a face often
to be seen among a group of English farm
laborers, expressive of a warns heart, full
of both courage and kindness.
The evidence was soon given. The game
keepers, on the night of the _4th of Febru-
ary, were apprised that poachers were in the
plantations. Taking with them a stronger
force than usual, all well armed, they dis
covered the objects of their search, in a lane
leading out into the fields, and shouted to
them to surrender. They distinctly saw
their figures flying before them, and when
they approached them, one of the fugitives
turned round and fired, wounding one of
the keeper's legs with a quantity of small
shot. The keeper immediately fired in re
turn, and brought down a poacher; old
Ralph's voice was heard shouting to them
to desist, and upon coming up they found
him standing by the side of Martin Harvey,
who had fallen severely wounded. Three
guns lay by them, one of which had been I
discharged, but no one could swear who had
fired it; search was made all night for the
other man, but without success.
When the prisoners were called upon for
their defence, they looked at one another
for a moment as if neither wished to speak
first. Ralph, however, began. He had lit-.
tle to say. Casting a look of defiance at
Sir George and his lady, who sat in a side
gallery above the court, he freely confessed
that hatred to the man who had injured
him in his youth, and who had treated him
with harshness on his return from abroad,
had been the motive of his encouraging and
aiding in these midnight depredations ; he
expressed sorrow for having occasioned trou
ble to his neighbor Harvey.
"What I can say will be of little use to
me," said Martin Harvey, in a hollow voice;
" I am ruined beyond redress ; but I was a
very poor man when I first joined, with oth
ers, in snaring game ; I often wanted bread,
and saw my wife and child pinched for food
also. The rich people say game belongs to
them ; but—well--all I can say more is,
that I take God to witness I never lifted a
murderous gun against my fellow-man ; he
who did it has escaped ; and I have suffered
this broken limb—but that I don't mind—
I have worse than that to bear—l have bro
ken my wife's heart, and my child will be
left an orphan."
His voice failed. There was an uneasy
movement among the audience ; and a lady,
who had been leaning over the rails of the
side-gallery, listening with deep attention,
fainted, and was carried out of court. The
prisoner's pale wife, who had bowed her
head behind him in silent endurance, heard
a whisper among the bystanders that it was
Lady Roberts, and a hope entered her mind
that the lady's tender heart might feel for
them.
"Have you any witnesses to call 7" asked
the Judge.
Martin looked around with a vacant gaze;
the attorney whispered to him, and beckon
ed to Alfred Gray.
Alfred went into the witness-box, and told
of the honesty, sobriety and good conduct
of Martin Harvey, during all the years he
was in his father's house—"He was there
before I was born," said the young man,
"and only left when I was obliged to leave
also, sixteen years after. A better man
never broke bread—he was beloved by every
body who knew him. Till now his character
was never tainted. It's the one black spot."
The Judge commenced summing up ; it
was evident to all who had paid attention
to the evidence, that the conviction of two
of the prisoners was certain. Alfred Gray
knew this, and strove to induce the wife to
leave with him before the fatal close of the
proceedings; but she shook her head and
would not go. " I shall have strength to
bear it," she said.
He sat down by her side, and heard the
fearful verdict of "guilty" pronounced a
gainst her husband and Ralph Seniors; and
then the dreaded doom of transportation for
life awarded them. As they turned to leave
the dock, Martin looked down upon the
crushed and broken-hearted being whom he
had sworn to protect and cherish through
life, and in spite of every effort to repress
it, a cry of agony burst from his lips ; it
was answered by a fainter sound, and Al
fred Gray lifted the helpless, lifeless woman
from the ground, and carried her into the
open air.
Months passed ; and on the day when
the convict ship, with its freight of heavy
hearts, began its silent course over the great
waters, the widowed wife took her father
less child by the hand, and again traversed
the weary road that led them to their deso
late home.
The kindness of the Grays had furnished
a few immediate necessaries. Some one
had told her of women having, by aid of
friends, managed to meet their husbands
once more in those distant parts of the earth;
and this knowledge, once in her agitated
mind, raised a hope which inspired her to
pursue her daily task without fainting, and
to watch an opportunity of making an at
tempt which she had meditated, even during
that dreadful day of Martin's trial. She
resolved to seek admission into Sir George
Roberts' mansion, and appeal to the pity of
his wife. It was told in the village that
Lady Roberts had implored her husband to
interpose in behalf of the men ; that his
angry and passionate refusal had caused a
breach between them ; that they had lived
unhappily ever since; that he had strictly
forbidden any one to mention the subject,
or to convey to Lady Roberts any remarks
that were made in the neighborhood.
Susan Harvey trembled when she entered
the mansion, and timidly asked leave to
speak to Lady Roberts.
The servant she addressed had known her
husband, and pitied her distress ; and, fear-
$1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE
ing lest Sir George might pass, he led her
into his pantry, watching an opportunity to
lot the lady know of her being there.
After a time, Lady Roberts' maid came,
and beckoned her to follow up stairs. In a
few moments the soft voice of the lady of
the mansion was cheering her with kind
words, and encouraging her to disclose her
wishes.
Before she had concluded, a step was
heard without, at which the lady started
and turned pale. Before there was time for
retreat, Sir George hastily entered the apart
ment.
" Who have you here, Lady Roberts ?"
"One who has a regnest to make, I be
lieve," said the lady mildly. "I wish a few
moments with her."
" Have the goodness to walk At of this
house," said the baronet to Susan. " Lady
Roberts, I know this woman, and I will nut
allow you to harbor such people here."
Although the convict's wife never again
ventured into the house, her wants, and
those of her child, were, during three years,
ministered to by the secret agency of the
Good Heart that lived so sadly there; and
when, at the expirat:on of that period, Lady
Roberts died, a trusty messenger brought
to the cottage a little legacy ; sufficient, if
ever news came of Martin, to enable the
wife and child, from whom he was separa
ted, to make their way across the ocean, and
to meet him again.
But, during these weary years, no tidings
of his fate had reached either his wife or
Alfred Gray—to whom he had promised to
write when he reached his destination.—
Another year dragged its slow course over
the home of affliction, and poor Susan's
hopes grew fainter day by day. Her sink
ing frame gave evidence of the sickness
that cometh from the heart.
One summer evening, however, in the
next year, Alfred Gray entered his uncle's
garden with a letter, and was soon seated
in the summer-house reading it aloud to his
uncle and Martha. Tears stood in the old
man's eyes, as some touching detail of suf
fering or privation was related. And, in
deed, the letter told of little beside. It was
from Martin. Soon after his arrival in the
settlement, Martin had written to Alfred,
but the letter had never reached England—
not an unusual occurrence in those times.
After waiting long, and getting no reply,
he was driven by harsh treatment, and the
degradation attending the life he led, to at
tempt, with old Ralph, an escape from the
settlement. In simple language be record
ed the dreary life they led in the woods;
how, after a time, old Ralph sickened and
died ; and how, in a desolate place, where
the footsteps of man had, perhaps, never
trod before, Martin Harvey had dug a grave,
and buried his old companion. After that,
unable to endure the terrible solitude, he
had sought his way back to his former mas
ter, and had been treated more harshly than
before. Fever and disease had wasted his
frame, until he bad prayed that be might
die and be at rest; but God had been merci
ful to him, and had inclined the heart of
one for whom he labored, who listened to
his story, took him under his roof, and re
stored him to health. And now, Martin
had obtained a ticket of leave, and served
this kind master for wages, which be was
carefully hoarding to send to Alfred Gray,
as soon as he should hear from him that
those he loved were still preserved, and
would come and embrace hint once more in
that distant land.
"They shall go at once Alfred," said old
Mr. Gray, the moment the last sentence was
read; "they shall not wait; we will provide
the means,—hey, Martha?"
He did not now fear to appeal to his com
panion. Martha had grown kinder of late,
and she confessed she had learned of her
cousin what gives most comfort to those
who are drawing near their journey's cud.
"I can help them a little," she said.
"We will all help a little," Alfred replied.
"I shall be off at break of day to-morrow,
on neighbor Collins' pony, and shall give
him no rest until be has set one down at
Uffculme."
Accordingly, early next morning, Alfred
Gray was riding briskly along through the
pleasant green lanes that led to his native
village. It was the middle of June, bright,
warm, sunny weather; and the young man's
spirits were unusually gay, everything
around him tending to heighten the delight
which the good news lie carried had in
spired him -with. The pony stepped out
bravely, and was only checked when Al
fred came in sight of the dear old home of
his childhood, and heard the well-known
chimes calling the villagers to their morn
ing services for it was Sunday. Then for a
few moments the young man proceeded more
slowly, and his countenance wore a more
saddened look, as the blessed recollections
of early loves and affections, with which
the scene was associated in his mind, claim
ed their power over all other thoughts.—
The voice of an old friend from an apple
orchard hard by, recalled him from his rev-
ELM
lie shook hands through the hedge. "I
will come and see you in the evening, Fred.
I must hasten on now. She will go to
church this morning, and I must go with
her."
"Who?" asked the other.
Alfred pointed to the cottage where Susan
Harvey dwelt. "I bring her good news—
I have a letter. Martin is living and well."
The friend shook his head.
[WHOLE NUMBER, 1,376.
I Alfred dismounted, and walked towards
Susan Harvey's cottage. The door was
closed, and when he looked through the
window he could see no one inside. He
lifted the latch softly and entered. There
was no one there; but his entrance had been
heard, and a moment after, a fine stout lad
came out of the inner chamber, took Alfred's
proffered hand, anil in answer to his inqui
ries, burst into tears.
"She says she cannot live long, sir; but
she told me last night, that before she died,
you would come and tell us news of father.
She has been saying all the past week that
we should hear from him soon."
Whilst the boy spoke, Alfred heard a.
weak voice, calling his name from the inner
1213
"Go in," he said, "and tell her I am here.' ,
The boy did so, and then beckoned him
to enter
Susan's submissive features were but lit
tle changed, from the time when her hus
band vas taken from her; but the weak
and wasted form that strove to raise itself
in vain, as Alfred aprpoached the bed-side,
too plainly revealed that the struggle was
drawing to a close—that the time of rest
was at hand.
"Thank God, you are come," she said,
"you have heard from him? Tell me quick
ly for my time is short."
"I come to tell you good news, Susan,
you may yet be restored to him."
"I shall not see Martin in this world
again, Mr. Gray; but I shall close my eyes
in peace. If you know where he is, and
can tell me that my boy can go, and be
with him, and tell him how, through these
long weary years, we loved him, and thought
of him, and prayed for him—" Here she
broke off, and beckoned the boy to her.—
She held his hand within her own, whilst
Alfred Gray read from the letter all that
would comfort her.
When I had done, she said, "God will
bless you: you have been very good to us in
our misery. Now, will you promise me one
thing more? Will you send my boy to his
father, when I am gone?
The promise was made, and the boy knelt
by her bed-side, listening to the words of
love and consolation which, with her latest
breath, she uttered for the sake of him who,
she hoped, would hear them again frum his
child's bps.
:Nearly forty years have passed since they
laid her among the graves of the humble
villagers of Eifel]lme. Few remain now
who remember her story or her name; but,
on the other side of the world, amid scenery
all unlike to that in which she dwelt, there
stands a cheerful settler's home, and under
the shadows of tall acacia trees which sur
round the little garden in which some few
English flowers are blooming, there are sit
ting, in the cool of the summer evening, a
,group. whose faces are all of Anglo-Saxon
mould. A happy looking couple, in the
prime of life, are there, with children play
ing around them; and one little gentle girl,
they call Susan, is sitting on the knee of an
aged white-haired man, looking lovingly
into his face, and wondering why his eye so
watches the setting sun every night, as it
sinks behind the blue water in the distance.
Two tall handsome lads, with guns on their
shoulders, enter the garden and hasten to
show the old man the fruit of their day's
exploits.
"We have been lucky to-day, grandfather,"
says the younger; but Alfred says these
birds are not like the birds in old England."
"Yon should hear the sailors talk about
the game in England, Martin," replies the
brother. "Grandfather has told us all about
England, except the 'birds.' Ire thinks we
should run away if ho were to describo
them."
The old man looked steadily at the boys
for a moment, and his eyes filled with tears.
"It is a glorious land," he says, with a fal
tering voice; "it is our country; but Alfred,
Martin, you will never leave this happy
home to go there. Birds, there, are the
rich man's_ property, and you would not
dare to carry those guns of yours over Eng
lish ground. If ever you go there, your
father will tell you where there is a church
yard,—and among the graves of the poor,
there is one—"
Ile stopped, for Edward Harvey came to
the place where his father sat, and took his
trembling hand within his own; the boys
obeyed their mother's signal. and followed
her into the house; the two remained sitting
together, until the silent stars came out.
Then the aged man, leaning on his son's
arm, rejoined the firnily at the supper tablet
and the peace of God rested on the solitary
home. :Edward Harvey had faithfully kept
vrithin his heart, the memory of his mother's
dying commands.
Martin, his father, had nobly effaced the
one Black Spot.
liar 'Col. M—, of the cavalry, was com
plaining that., from the ignorance and inat
tention of his officers, he was obliged to do
the whole duty of the regiment. "1 am."
said he, "my own captain, my own lieuten
ant, my own cornet—" "And trumpeter,
I presume," said a lady present.
Ufa- The Southern Standard says that
"South Carolina is the very seat of moral
and political chivalry." We can well im
agine that, if moral and political chivalry
were porsonified, South Carolina would be
its scat.—Louisrae Journal.