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SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor
VOLUME XXVIII, NUMBER 4.]
PUBLISIIED EVERY SITURDAY MORNING.
'Office in Northern Central Railroad Com-
Tang's Building, north-west corner Front and
Walnut streets.
Terms of Subscription.
+Jae Copy per annum, if paid in advance,
if not paid within three
months from commencement of the year,
G 4 CUXL - tEil ta,
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No sulpteription i ecerved for a le.-- time Oulu r-ix
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drrearages are paid, ursle.s at the option of the pain•
usher
jig" oney may be remitted by mail at the publish
rrZrbt rink.
Rates of Advertising.
square (6 lines] one week,
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each -uhsequent insertion, 10
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tt each subsequent insertion, 25
Larger advertiGemenn iii propoi boil•
A liberal tlieicount will be mode to quarterly, half
yearly, or yearly itdvertisers,who are strictly confined
to their busineiii.
DR.S. ARMOR
HOICEOPITIIIC PHYSICIAN. Office and
Residence in Locust Weer, opposite the Post
Office; OFFICE PRIVATE
Columbia. April 25, 1e57-ern
Drs. John & Rohrer,
- UM associated in the Practice of
Cot umbia, April Ist,lSsG4t
DR. G. W. MIFFLIN,
TIENTIST. Locust street, opposite the Post
Oilice, Columbia, Pa.
Colanibta, May 3, ISM.
11. M. NORTH.,
ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR AT LAW.
Columb in, Pit.
Collections, r romptly made, in Lallea‘lCr and York
Columbia, May 4,1950.
J. W. FISHER,
Attorney and Counsellor at Law,
Col uMbilt,Septenther
GEORGE J. sinrrii,
WHOLESALE and Retail Bread and Cake
Baker—Constantly on hand a vurietv of Cakes,
too numerous to mention, Crackers; Soda, Wine, Scroll.
and Sugar Biscuit; Confectionery, of every ile,criptam,
Ike., d..e. I.OcUST
srxla 1,
Feb. 4'56. Between the Bank and Franklin House.
•
B. P. .A.PrOLD Ent CO.,
- 11117
GENERAL FORWARDING AND COMMIS
qxuaL,SIO REC N M ANTS,
*a t
EIVERS 0 I ,
COA LAND PRODUCE,
And Deliverers on any point on the Columbia and
Philadelphia Railroad. to York and
Baltimore and to Pittsburg;
DEALERS IN COAL FLOUR AND GRAIN,
WIIISKV AND BACON, have juvt received a
large lot of Monongahela Rectified Wlnikey, nom
Piliihurg, of which they will keep a apply cow-tautly
on hand, nt low price., Nos. I, 2 and 6 Canal Baain.
Columbia, January 27. 1554.
0 ATS FOR SALE
TIY TIIE BUSHEL, or in larger quantities,
1-1 at :Nos. I,Y & 6 Canal Basin.
. V. APPOLD & CO.
Columbia, January .9.G, 1836
Just Received,
5 n BUS. PRIME GROUND NUTS, at J. F.
v ITI I's Wholeale and Retail Coil reetmeery
e•mbli , lnneet. FrOlll Street, two door,, below the
Wa.lnngton house, Columbia. [October 25.1556.
Just Received,
6) !lUDS. SIIOUL,DIO.S. 15 TIERCE : 4 11-1:515.
xd t.r Fur axle by B. E. A I'POLL) 5,, Co..
Imand 6, Cunal Basin.
Columbia, October Iri, 1c513.
Rapp's Gold Pens.
CONSTANTLY on hand, an assortment of
th eve celebrated PENS. Pe r , iing in Want of a
good article are invited to cull and examine them.
Columbia, June 30,1.835. JOHN FELIX.
Just Received,
ALARCH LOT of Children's Carriages,
Gigs, Rocking Horses, Wheelbarrows. Prepel•
lers, Nursery Swings, be. (SEORGE. .
April 19, 18911. Locust street.
011 INA and other Fancy Artieles. too numerous to
mention, for me by G. J. SN,ITII, Locust street,
between the Bank and Franklin Ilutyte.
Columbia, April ID, 1830.
rirllE undersigned have been appointed
ot•ents for the ,tle of Cook & Co's GU'rrA I'ER
CIIA PENS, warranted not to corrode; in e laniteity
they almost equal the quttl.
SAYLOR & 111cDONALD.
Columbia Jan. 17, 1317.
Just Received,
A BEAUTIFUL lot of Lump Shades, viz: Tic
tOrIIIC, VOiC3IIIO, Drtllll, Buller Fly. Red 1111Qea,
and the new French Fruit Shade, winch can he seen
in the window of the Golden Mortar Drug Store.
November 29, 1°52.
ALARGE lot of Shaker Corm from the
Shaker tieulenteal is New Turk, tut received,
at 11. SUYDAM S. SON'S
Columbia, Dec. 20,1856
HAIL 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 R. WILLIAMS.
➢Lay 10, Front at., Columbia, Pa.
- PARR& TIMMPSOWS justly celebrated Cora-
mercial and other Gold Penn--the hest in the
market—just received. I'. SHREINER.
Columbia, April 29,1855.
FATRA
by FAMILY FLOUR, by thee barrel, for
na le F. A 1.P01.D h CO,
Cniumbia.June 7. No=. 1.2 mid 6 Canal fin.in.
WHY should any person do without a Clock,
when they can be had for $1,50 and upwards.
SHREINER'S?
EMEIMI
,QAPONEFIER, or Concentrated Lye, for
i...,ma
king Soap. I lb. i. iitaTicient for one barrel of
Soap, or Ilb.for 9 lbs. [lard Soap. Full dime
.4..ions will be given at the Counter for making So ft ,
...lard and Fancy Soaps. For sale by
IL WILLIAMS.
,Columbia, March 31,1855.
A LARGE lot of Baskets, Brooms, Buckets
thrushes, &a, for sale by H. titll - 1.)A111 & SON.
AATEIKEL'S Instantaneous Yeast or Baking
Powder, for sale by H. SUYDAM & SON.
nn DOZM TIROONIS . , 10 110\F 44 clintsn. For
sale cheap, by D. APPOLD & CO.
Columbia, October 25, 1956.
A SUPERIOR article of PAINT on.. for .zole by
It. W
C ILIAANIS„
P
r reet, ront Slolumbia, a.
May 10, 1050
TusT RRCEIVIIR. a large and well selected variety
el of Bruthea. eonskting in part ofShoe. noir, Cloth.
Crumb, Nail, Ilut and Teeth Ltru.hes. and for sale by
R. WILLIAMS.
Front street ColumLia, Pa.
March 22, '56
ASUPERIOR article of TONIC SPICE BITTERS,
suitable for Hotel Weepers, for Pale by
R. WILLIAMS,
Front street, Columbia.
May 10, 19.51
WRESII IMIEREAL OIL,* always on bend. and fo
J. sale by •'• • R. WILLIX MS.
May 10,1&6. front Street, Columbia, Pa.
JUST received, FRESH CA ItIPH NNJ,I. and fi,r rale
by IL WILLIAMS.
May 10,1856. . Front Street, Columbia, Pa.
1 00 0 L i Ts ; Ne ree.7 i g
mi CAr r ed .si lla t n , ;e and Shoulders,
Feb. 2104±7. H. SITYDA3I dc SON.
plyttrij,
Differences
=I
SI 50
The king cnn drink the best of wine—
So enn
And has enough when he would dine—
So have I;
And cannot order rain or shine—
Nor ean I;
Then where - s the difference—let me see—
Betwixt any lord the Lang und me!
Do trusty friends surround his throne
Night and day?
Or make his interest their own?
No, not they.
Mine love me for myself alone—
Bless'd they!
And that's one difference which I see
Betwixt my lord the king and me.
..I .
Do knaves nrcund me lay in wait
To deceive,
Or fawn and flutter when they hate,
And would grieve?
Oreruel porn oppress my state—
By my leave'
No! iieeVell be thanked! And here you sec
Wore difference 'twixt the king and Inc.
Ile has his fools, with jest and quips,
When he'd play;
He has his armies and Ins ships—
Great are they;
But not a child to kiss his lips,
Well-a:day!
And ilia., a difference sad to see
fleiwizt my lord the king and me.
I wear the cap and he the crown;
What of that?
I sleep on straw and he on down—
What of that?
And he's the Icing and Pm the clown—
What of That?
If happy I, and wretched he,
Perhaps the Mug would change with me!
gEtittirfito.
The Painter's Pet
Claude Lafont was a painter—an artist
in the fullest and completest sense of the
word; fur he lived, as it were, in the centre
of a circle of art, and it was through this
medium that the perception of all outward
things came to him; it was under the in
fluence of this atmosphere that all thoughts
were presented to him.
He lived therefore, in a world of his own:
realities were to him the things the most
unreal; he mixed as little as possible in the
society of other men, because he found their
presence and conversation disturbed the
beautiful phantoms that, when he was alone,
held him such sweet and genial converse.—
He cared nothing for the subjects that in
terested them; they might barter and traffic
--marry and give in marriage—dupe and
be duped—all these things it only confused
and unsettled him to hear of; the relation of
them conveyed to him no clear and definite
idea, while, at the same time, it disturbed
and troubled his own thoughts and dreams.
Alone, he was never lonely; seated in his
studio in an old arm chair, with his pipe,
he saw through his half-closed eyes the
gracious company that surrounded him:
women lovlier than angels—now gorgeous
proud, queen-like—now soft and holy as the
Madonna; now tearful as Niobe—now young
and radiant as Aurora. Cleopatra passed
before him many: times as he sat there;
Helen, Clytemnestra, Guenevere, sad CEnone,
frail Rosamond, murdered Iphigenia, Jeph
thah's daughter, bending, an unmurmuring
sacrifice to a mad oath; Ruth and Griselda,
Judith and Jael—all great, or good, or
beauteous, or fated, or terrible women
named in scripture, or history or fable visit
ed him at his call. So did all heroes all
knights, all men of old remown or later
Elmo, and other visions, beings begot by his
own teeming brain, born of his own bright
fancy, grew into form and maturity to be
later fixed on the canvas.
In summer time, with a knapsack, a staff,
and a sketch book, he would wander forth
wherever the fancy led him; now over the
mountains, now by the sea shore, now
through woods and valleys, collecting every
where fresh ideas, fresh experiences of that
nature without which true art cannot exist;
that nature of which she is born, and nursed,
and nourished and inspired; that nature,
that if she seeks to let go its hand and walk
alone, her creations become monsters or
pigmies, which struggle through a weak
and ridiculous existence, and then fall away
into an ignoble tomb.
High up on the eternal hills, he listened
to the voice of God in the winds that swept
around him. It seemed to him that it was
but the clouds that capped their summits
that veiled from him the glory of his throne.
Lying on a cliff that overhung the ocean,
' far and near were sights and sounds, costly,
and strange, and beautiful. The low and
immovable horizon, over whose barrier no
mortal ken might reach; the water that
might not rest day or night, but dashed
passionately, or heaved in blow, unbroken
undulations; indented coves, with fringes of
yellow sand; cliffs with pale, stern, hard
faces looking out to sea, sometimes bright
ening into a faint rosy smile, in answer to
the sun's ardent good morning or good
night; little valleys in their laps, with trees
and white cottages, and silver threads of
streams, hurrying to throw themselves into
the bosom of the deep. And there, about
him, beneath him, within reach of his hand,
what minute miraolos in the tiny tangles of
the close short grass and mosses, leaves and
stems, buds and blossoms, roots and seed
vessels, of the unknown, unnamed plants,
hundreds went through all the phases of
their existence, completely and -perfectly,
in the space of each inch of ground; while
hosts of as minute and as perfect insects,
gauze winged, rainbow tinted, burnished
and speckled, roved through them as through
vast forests.
The woods—ah, let us not open the vol
ume, for its leaves are as many as those of
the trees, and the last page may never be
read by man!
To Claude Lafont, sensualism was a word
that conveyed no meaning. He had passed
through the stages of youth and early man
hood untempted by any of the desires or
ambitions, natural or artificial, that seem
almost inseparable from man's career in
society. lie worshipped beauty in whatever
form it came to him, but only through the
soul, and in its purest essence.
Now that his life was midway spent—
that the stamp of full maturity was marked
upon his brow—that the time was approach
ing when the sun of his existence would be
declining from its zenith, there were mo
ments when a vague want was felt, hints
that came, he knew not whence, of a yearn
ing for some more warm and real sympathy
than that shadows of great men and women
could afford him. These longings came and
passed away, but not for long; and their
stay was, at each return, more extended.
But whence could lie satisfy them? Ills
slight commerce with the men and women
of the enter world had brought him in con
tact with none whose society promised in
the slightest degree to fill the void that was
growing in his heart, wider and deeper each ,
day.
One still October day, Claude was pursu
ing his desultory rambles through the Au
tumn forest, when the sight of a thin blue
smoke, wavering upward through the stir
less air attracted his attention. lle advanced
with a feeling of vague curiosity, and soon
perceived a sparkling fire, and distinguished
amid its crackling the voice of a woman,
harsh and shrill. Advancing further, he
found he was approaching a sort of gipsy
encampment, or the bivouac of one of those
gangs of strollers, half actors, half conjurers
of the lowest order, that wander about
France, stopping to display their perform
ances only at out-of-the-way villages and
country fairs. All the party were absent
with the exception of a woman, the speaker
—whose hardened features and unsympa
thetic aspect kept the promise given by her
voice—and a little girl of about thirteen or
fourteen, small, dark, sharp-featured, but
with limbs firm and faultless in their slight
proportions, and wondrous wild dark eyes,
almost excessive in size, flashing from be
neath the masses of black hair that over
hung her face. To her the woman was ad
dressing herself in harsh and bitter reproach
es,
to which the child listened in the silence
that becomes almost apathy in children who
from their infancy are little used to any
other tone.
From household Words
Finding how slight was the effect of her
words, the woman sprung at the girl, and,
ere she could escape or parry the blow,
struck her severely with a fagot on the
naked shoulders. The stroke was a heavy
one, yet the child uttered no cry.
'Ah! little wretch! You don't care? We'll
sec—take that!' and seizing her, the virago
poured on the half-clothed body of her vic
tim a shower of blows. At first the girl
writhed in silence, then,. pain and passion
overcoming her enforced stoicism, she burst
into wild ringing shrieks of rage and agony
that thrilled through every fibre of Claude's
heart.
Springing forward, he grasped the aston
ished tormentor, and, with a voice trenm
lons with generous emotion, indignantly re
proached her cruelty. Her wrath, for a
moment checked by surprise, now only di
rected itself into a new channel, and with
fierce abuse she turned on the child's de
fender.
Claude had no arms to meet such an at
tack, and, after a fresh protest against the
woman's brutality, he turned and left the
spot, throwing a glance of pity and a word
of sympathy to the sobbing child, whose
slight frame still quivered with pain and
excitement.
Claude returned to the village inn, which
was his temporary abode. Ile dined, light
ed his pipe, and sat dost - n to the enjoyment
of his customary reveries. But the shapes
he was wont to invoke came not; one face—
a wild elfin face, with heavy black hair and
great lustrous eyes; one form—a slight,
agile, nervous one—always stood before
him. He took a pencil and sketched them
in various positions and attitudes, and form
ed plans of pictures in which this little fig
ure was to form the conspicuous of ject.
I must get that child to sit to me,' said
Claude to himself; and he resolved to go on
the morrow to the strollers' camp, and offer
the virago a few francs to obtain this pur
pose.
The sound of a cracked drum and wheezy
hand organ came along the village street;
anon, a boyish voice proclaimed that on the
following evening, at seven o'clock, would
be given by Signor Pandulfa, the celebrated
"Sorcerer of the South, a series of experi
ments in magic and prestigiation; that Mad
ame Mondolticri and Madamoiselle Edam°
would perform les pas des Djinns, aided by
'figurates of the locality;'* that Signor Pan
dolfo would further consent to execute va
rious gymnastic exercises with the brothers
Zingari; after which a variety of entertain
ments, followed by 'tine piece qui a pour in-
`The passages marked within inverted commas are
taken verbatim from the programme of such a perform
ance as is here described.
"NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, AUGUST 1, 1857.
litule Gnillaume Tell, Deliberateur de la
Suisse,' with all the strength of the com
pany, would complete the pleasures of the
evening.
Claude was sitting by the window. He
opened his eyes and looked out languidly; a
lean lad, of about fifteen, with a large shock
head and very conspicuous hands, feet,
knees, and elbows, scantily attired in dirty
flesh-colored cotton hosiery and short spang
led drawsrs, was beating the drum to fill up
the pauses of his programme; behind him
with the organ and a monkey, came the
wild eyed child whose image had, for the
last hour or two, been floating through
Claude's dreams. lie got up, went into the
street, and joined the crowd of urchins and
idlers that followed the strollers. Soon they
got beyond the limits of the village; then
the boy slung the drum behind him, and
flung over his histrionic costume, a ragged
loose coat; he helped the girl to lade her
shoulders with the organ, on the top of
which the monkey perched herself, and the
village idlers, seeing the artists retire into
private life, and consequently cease to be
objects of interest, dropped off in pairs and.
groups and returned to converse of the mor
row's performance.
Not so Claude. When the last of the
idlers had turned away, he addressed him
self to the little girl, whom he had hitherto
followed at sonic distance, and unperceived,
for she had walked along looking neither to
the right or left, but with the spiritless, apa
thetic air of one performing a task whose
dull routine afforded no shadow of interest
or excitement.
She looked up. What a change came
over the listless face!—every feature became
instinct with earnest life: the eyes gleamed,
the lips broke into a radiant smile over daz
zling little teeth, and a warm glow spread
itself beneath the dark, sallow, but transpa
rent skin.
'Alt, Monsieur!'
'You are glad to see me, little one?'
It was very pleasant, Claude felt, to see
any face light up so at his presence.
'Glad? yes!'
'What is your name?'
'Edmee, Monsieur.'
'Should you like me to make a portrait of
you?'
`Of me, Monsieur?' (Another blush and
smile.)
'Yes, if you will sit, I'll give you forty
sous.'
A pained expression crossed the child's
ME
`Yes—only—'
'Only what? You won't? Why not?'
'Because—mother—'
The boy broke in with the half laugh
that rough, ba , hful boys are wont to intro
duce their speeches with.
'She's afraid; the old woman's always on
the look-out for excuses to beat her. Al,,
that's an ugly customer—old hag!'
`Bat if I ask her leave, and give her
something?'
'Ali, then, perhaps.'
It was settled that on the morrow Claude
should make the requisite advances to the
`hag,' and giving the forty sous to the chil
dren by way of earnest mcney, each party
took their separate way—one to the forest,
the other to his inn.
Next day the bargain was struck. A
five franc piece softened the obdurate na
ture of the hag, and she readily consented
to Edmcc's giving as many sittings as
Claude desired, Inn - Aided they did not inter
fere with the double drudg.lry to which the
child was subjected in her domestic and pro
fessional occupations.
She was to Claude a curious study, in her
moral as well as in her physical nature.—
Vicious example, uncontrolled passion of
every bad sort,—brutal usage, fraud, force,
the absence of all m anliness, of all woman
liness in those she lived with; the absence
of all tenderness, of all instruction—such
was the moral atmosphere in which she had
grown to girlhood; such was the soil in
which were sown a warm heart, an intense
sensibility, a bright intelligence, and a keen
sense of grace and beauty. Not a tint of
vulgarity was in the child's nature; not a
word passed her lips that had not a meaning
not a movement.of her limbs but was re
plete with a strange peculiar grace.
Claude was fascinated by the elfin child,
who, as she sat or stood before him, seemed
not only to guess all his slightest intentions,
but constantly suggested new ideas of form
and symmetry beautiful beyond description.
Ile sketched and painted her in every atti
tude; he sometimes feared to weary her, but
when he expressed the fear, she shook her
head, with one of her bright smiles, and an
emphatic lanais!' so he went on painting,
sometimes talking to her, sometimes in si
lence which lasted for hours, and which she
never attempted to break.
At length, alter the fifth positive last ap
pearance of the troupe, they prepared to
collect their scanty properties and decamp,
and with more than one heavy sigh, Claude
bundled his baggage into his knapsack,
armed himself with his stick, and started on
the road to Paris; for his summer wander
ings were over, and was going back to his
quartier Beaujon to vitalise the fruits.
His way lay through woods—a part of the
forest where he at first met Edmee, but quite
in the opposite direction. At first he
was thinking of her, sadly and pityingly,
and with many conjectures as to the future
fate of so strange a nature so strangely
placed.
Then, by degrees, the artist again came up•
permost. He thought of the pictures he
would paint, in all of which some hint, some
movement, some expression taken from her,
could be introduced witn precious effect.—
lie opened his sketch-book, and as walked
slowly on, he contemplated the innumera
ble studies of her with which it was filled.
lie looked up at last; before him stood the
original—trembling, her great eyes riveted
on his face, with a look at once fearful, so
earnest, so beseeching.
'You, Edmee!'
Her breath came fast and thick, and her
voice was hardly intelligible; but, as she
went on it strengthoned.
'Yes! it is me; let me go with you—any
where, I will be your servant,—l'll do any
thing on earth for you; don't be angry—l
could not stay with them any longer—she
beat me worse than ever, because she knew
I was happy with you, and you were kind
to me. Oh, let me go with you—let me go
with you!"
'But, child—your mother. I have no
right to take you from her.'
'She's not my mother; she's only my step
mother; and my father is dead. I belong
to nobody—nobody cares for me. Even
what I do for them, they only curse me for,
and beat me when I can't do the work they
put me to. Oh! let me go with you—let me
go with you!'
Claude's hesitation was gone, and taking
her little trembling hand in his, he led her
At the next town they approached, he
gave her money, and sent her to a shop to
purchase some decent clothes; then he went
to a litte out-of-the-way inn, stopped to give
her rest and food, and made her go and per
form her toilet. In half an hour, down she
came—all traces of poverty, fatigue, and
emotion vanished; her neat dress sitting on
her so gracefully, her wild hair parted in
shining, wavy bandeaux beneath her trim
cap, her little Arab feet and firm slender
ankles so symmetrical in high shoes and
well-drawn striped stockings; and, above all,
her oval face, so radiant with beautiful joy
and gratitude.
Claude felt very proud and happy.
`So there you are, little one; you think
yourself smart do you, hein? Well, so do I,
—I think you look charming.'
She stood before him, smiling, holding out
her skirts, as children do when their dress
is admired. She broke into a short gleeful
laughs of joy and triumph.
'So you're happy now?'
'Oh! Monsieur!' She seized his hand and
covered it with kisses.
The tears sprang to Claude's eyes; he
drew her towards him, and, resting his chin
on her head, he began, in a voice of deep
and quiet emotion,
'Edmee, I do not know if I have done
right in taking thee; at all events, it is done
now; never, child, give me cause to think I
have acted wrongly—even foolishly, and
with God's help I will be a father and a pro
tector to thee as long as I live. Kiss me,
my child.'
She flung her arms around Isis neck and
clung to him long and in silence; and he
felt it was very sweet to bold such commu
nion—to claim such love, and trust, and
gratitude from a human creature—sweeter
than to hold imaginary unloving converse
with the shadows of dead heroes and hero-
IMO
Claude Leconte was once more installed
in his painting room. As of old ho dreamed
and painted—painted and dreamed; but
when the shadowy company was not suffi
cient to fill his heart and brain, he half
woke up from his reverie and went to the
little sitting room at the back that opened
into a bit of a garden; and there—in winter
by the sparkling fire and clean swept hearth;
in summer at the open door, round which
trailed a vine, a climbing rose and gny, vul
gar nasturtiums—he relighted his pipe, and
half dreaming, half listening, heard the
prattle, childish, yet strangely wise, of Ed
mee, who, as she fluttered about, or sat on
a stool at his feet, thought aloud in her own
wild, suggestive, conjectural way, hitting on
singular glimpses of great truths that could
only come to her intuitively.
By degrees Claude began to dream less
and think more.
Edmee was now fifteen. He felt that she
had become something more than a child
and a plaything, and that a certain respon
sibility weighed on him in the care of her,
in the provision for her future. She had
learnt, it is hard to say how, reading and
writing since she had been with him. One
day, when he entered the sitting room, he
found Edmee with a book on her knees,
which she was studying with a puzzled air.
'What are you reading there, child?' he
inquired, carelessly.
She held up the book. It was a volume
of Voltaire.
'The devil! ichere did you fish out that
book? But you don't understand it?'
She shook her head,
'Mind this; when you want to read any
thing, you must show it to me first—do you
hear, little one?'
She arranged his chair, lighted his pipe,
and sat down at his feet in silence. Claude's
eyes were wide open, and full of earnest re
flection. Once or twice she looked up tim
idly, but, meeting no reply to her glance,
she dropped her eyes again.
She said at last., 'You're not angry with
me?'
'With you? Never!"
'You see, I am afraid of nothing on earth
$1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE.
but vexing you. I care for nothing on earth
but pleasing you. Between these two
thoughts lay all the cares of my life.'
Strange! the pain and the pleasure Claude
felt. lle stroked her shining hair, kissed
her forehead, and fell to thinking harder
than ever.
Next day, instead of putting on his dress
ing gown, cap, and slippers, and retiring to
his atelier, he, for the first time for many a
long year at such an hour, donned coat,
boots, and hat, sallied forth, and returned
with a small library—books of history, biog
raphy, religion, and some poetry; all works
the most perfectly suited to the purpose they
were intended for.
`There! you want to read—there are books
enough for you. What do you say to that,
hein?'
`She bounded round him and the books,
laughing, skipping, clapping her hands, in
wild, beautiful delight.
For months, between her light household
duties, so quickly and happily performed,
and the frequent sittings she still continued
to give him, the books were studied with ear
nest attention. Some of them Claude al
ready knew; the rest be now read, and con
stantly of an evening questioned his pupil,
drawing out and correcting her impressions
with a pride and interest strangely new and
pleasant to him.
As he had anticipated, Edmee grew before
his eyes into striking and remarkable beau
ty. He noted the progress with a mingling
of pleasure and uneasiness, and watched
over her with a jealous care. Few visitors
came to his painting room; but, at the sound
of a strange footstep, a look warned Edmee
to retreat, and she fled through the back
door like a mouse into its hole.
Another year and another passed by, and
Edmee was seventeen.
'lt is certain,' said Claude to himself,
'this cannot go on forever. I am not im
mortal, and if some day a misfortune hap
pens to me, what becomes of the child? I
must find a husband for her!'
This is the French mode of settling all
such affairs, which are conducted as any
other matters purely of business might be.
The idea was a good one certainly; yet
many difficulties presented themselves.—
Claude's mode of life and unworldly, unbu
sinespike habits made him the last man in the
world to set about match-making. He knew
of nobody who in the least degree suited his
notion of the sort of husband to whom he
would confide the happiness of his adopted
child. He had a vague consciousness that,
in matrimonial affairs, there were trouble
some details of money matters to be gone
through, and on this part of the question he
felt dreadfully incompetent to enter. He
was quite willing to give Edmee anything
and everything he possessed; but how much
that might be, or how he was to find it out
and get it in train, and what were likely to
be the pretensions or arrangements on the
other side, it put him into a state of hope
less desperation to think of. All this lie ad
mitted to himself; but he did not admit—
for the thing was too vague and unformed
for admission or actual contemplation—that
a little aching jealousy, a numb pain, lay at
the bottom of his heart, when he thought of
giving to another the treasure that for four
years had lightened his life, and given him
new and human feelings and a hitherto un
known love and sympathy with his race.
Edmee %vas eighteen, and still Claude had
found no husband for her. •
Ilitherto ho had worked alone; now, the
thought and the care of her, the time he de
voted to her education and to her amuse
ment, rendered it impossible to him to do
all he had wont to do in his painting room.
He resolved, therefore, to look out for a stu
dent—a good student—who might never in
word or deed break on the cloistral strict
ness and purity with which Claude's jeal
ous care had surrounded his pet.
After long search the wonderful student
was discovered, and installed in the painting
room. Paul was essentially a pattern stu
dent. The son of a rich farmer, he found
painting the fields infinitely more to his
taste than plowing them—drawing his
father's oxen to driving them. The father,
another pattern in his species, considered
that his laborers might perform the plowing
and driving work, and that his son would
not be wasting his time in spending it as
his taste dictated.
It was the fete at St. Cloud, and Claude
went there in the omnibus, with Paul at one
side and Edmee at the other.
Arrived at the park, the sight of the peo
ple made him shrink a little.
'Go on, children—l'll follow you.'
Arm in arm the joyous children went on,
laughing and chatting gayly.
'Yes,' enid Claude to himself, 'they are
young, they are happy, happy in themselves,
happy in the scene, happy in each Mimeo
A thought for the first time flashed across
him with a thrill of such strange mingled
contradicting sensations, that ho passed his
hand across his brow and stopped, then
quickened his steps—he hardly knew why,
But the thought that had struck into his
brain, stayed there, and he took it and han
dled and examined it and familiarised him
self with it. Strange it had never presented
itself to him before! Here, under his hand!
Yes; it was the thing or all others to suit.
If the father would bat approve, he saw no
obstacle.—Paul—Paul! he would be bat too
happy—who would noti—to marry Edmee;
and Edmee—she liked Paul, she certainly
[WHOLE NUMBER, 1,409.
liked him; how gay they were, what friends,
how happy together! Yes; he would go
bravely into the thing, money matters and
all, and present the matter to the father.—
He did so, and before the week was out re
ceived a reply in the affirmative, The pat
tern farmer had looked favorably at the thing
from the first. All he heard of Claude and
his adopted child perfectly satisfied him.—
lie gave the least possible amount of mistifi
cation to Claude's brain about the question
of finance, and expressed his readiness to
the match taking place as soon as Claude
and the young people thought fit.
Claude was sitting at work with PauL—
There was a long silence; the student had
made one or two attempts to break it, but
the monosylable replies of the master bad
discouraged these, and they were abandoned.
At last Claude opened the matter lying
heavy at his heart.
"You have never thought of marrying
Pail?"
Paul shifted his position a little, colored
very vehemently, and replied that be never
had seriously.
"You ought to think of it, however, my
good boy—why not now?"
Paul replied, ''That's true."
There was a pause; Claude cleared his
throat.
"If I find you a wifo—a good, nice, charm
ing little wife—would that suit you?"
'Well, perhaps so.'
'Do you know any one you could like?'
'Oh, yes!'
Claude's heart fluttered.
'Who?'
'You don't guess? Who could I like but
Edmee?'
'And do you think she likes you?'
'Alll that's what I want to know. Some
times I hope so; at other times, not'
'We'll find out, my lad.'
Claude sat by the open door of the garden,
in the warm summer twilight—Edmee, in
her old place by his knees.
'My child, I have been thinking a great
deal about you'
She looked up hastily.
'Do you know that you are of an age to
think about being married?'
Heedless of _the start she gave—for
Claude's speech was all made up, and he
feared that if he stopped it might stick in
his throat, and he would break down—he
went on.
He told her how long he bad thought of
this; how he felt the loneliness of the life
she led; how little a man like him was fit
fed to be the sole instructor, and protector.
and companion of a young girl; how he
dreaded that a day might came—must come
—when, if she were not married, he would
have to leave her alone and unprotected in
the wide world; bow dreadfully this thought
weighed on him; how, until she was thus
provided for, lie never could feel happy or
assured conserning her. Then he spoke of
Paul; of his affection for her; of all his good
qualities; of what peace and joy be would
fool in seeing her united to him; and then,
feeling he could not wait for her answer, he
took her to his heart, kissed her, bid her
think of all he had said, and took refuge in
his painting-room, where ho smoked five
pipes without stopping.
So the affair was settled, and the prepara
tions for the marriage, which was to take
place in a fortnight, went on. Claude made
himself very unnecessarily busy—nay. per
fectly fidgety—when he might have kept
quite still, and let other people manage
matters infinitely better than he could pos
sibly do.
It was the night before the wedding.—
Claude had been out, occupied with the last
arrangement", and returned home towards
eleven o'clock.
As usual, he opened the door with his
latch-key, and entered the quiet little
dwelling, whose silence struck upon him
with a feeling of disappointment; for he hail
secretly hoped that Edmee would have been
up to greet him, after the occuations of his
busy doy. He listened, but there was no
quick, light step—no sound to indicate her
consiousness of his entrance. Claude sighed.
i took up the dim light that had been left
against his arrival, and instead of going to
his room, turned into the studio. How dead
ly still it was! how deserted! The wen,
quivering flan.e of the little lamp only made
the gloom it could not pierce more heavy.
and, as its wavering light flashed and faded
over the faces of the pictures, they seemed
to shudder on him while he passed.
And so it was all over, and she was al
ready gone from him; and the old, lonely.
loveless life was to be begun again, now that
he was so much less able and fitted to lead
it than formerly. Art is great, and noble.
and elevated, and he who pursues it w ith
all his energies, cannot fail to profit there
by. But art is not enough to fill man's life
alone. Art will be worshipped as a sovreign.
and, if courted in right guise, sometime,
condescends to let the votary kiss the hem
of her garment, and now and than bestows
on him a smile. But she gives no more
than this; and though for a time it may sat
isfy him, there comes a day when he would
resign all the favor she ever accorded bins,
for a little human love, and a little human
sympathy. Claude had felt this before he
had attained these. Now be had booms
them, and was about to la* them.:—lhrever.
The perfume of flowerr.the Some sloe
bad placed there that morning, borate bs
went out—drew him to the table. ♦ solo
lay on it—a note in her handwriting, and di
rected to himself.