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SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor.
VOLUME XXVIII, NUMBER 18.1
PUBLISHED EVERY SITURDAY MORNING.
Qißce in Arorthern antral Railroad Corn
pany's g, north-west corner Front and
rfiVainut streets.
Terms of Subscription.
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If not paid within three
months from COMITICIICCITICIII °file }oar, 200
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er's risk.
Rates of Advertising.
square (6 one week, $0
three week+
• I
each -uh.equellt insertion, 10
1 " (12:inet.) one wrrl,, .51)
three week., I VU
1!=
Larger ndverti.emeot In proportion.
A litter.' dt•rouot will lie mode to quarterly, half.
yearly or vrarlyndvertt.sers.who are ,trici* ruufiurJ
to I heir
Drs. John 8c Rohrer,
H AVE associated in the Practice of Medi-
C02n ". 11 . .in. April 1•1.1966• If
DR. G. W. MIFFLIN,
DENTIST, Locust street, a few doors above
ihr Odd Fellow. , Ihi 11 , Columbia. P.,.
Collatnlost Nhq S. 1K.6. •
• 11. M. NORTH,
ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR AT LAW.
Col nmnia. Pa.
Colleetma•, I romptly made. in Laiteakier and Ma
Conatle•.
e:nlomida,Ma
OBE!
J. W. FISH ER,
Attorney and Counsellor at Law,
Calu. - m.brice., Par.
Col utnt,ot.+ryn.mu.• 10, iut. it _ - .
GEORGE J. SiUUTII,
\\[ HOLES and Retail Bread and Cake
Baker.--.l'oloituatly on hand a variety of
too nuincrou.4 to meinion. Soda. me. Scroll.
and Sagur Cunfccuoner), of every de,riation.
11.0 , L75T sl`1:1:1•71',
Feb. Between the Bank inol Frankhit
TIROWA'S Essence of Jamaica Ginger, Gen
aisle a% ri Idle . nor
family Medicine bid,. Odd 1.. cl 11.111.
July Q. 1%57.
gOLUTION OF CITRATE OF MAGNESIA,or Pur
-1,/ unitive Niiiierial
is highlyrecommended n. Ntilodinine for
EProin Sail , rovviior, l 1... ..3111 lir olol.itii•
fresh every day at Du. E. B. 11E1111'6 1/rug Store.
Front At. [r2 _
JUST received, a fresh supply of Corn
:Rarest, Fan flu. and RO.l. Flour. at
51et'01121.1.F..4 DELLETT'S
family Merlienie Qlore. Odd Fellow-' Ilull. C 011.1111 1 ,14
COIUOIIOtIL. Mac 30,
LAMPS, LAMPS, LAMPS. Just received at
Derr'- Drug : , 00 . C, u flow and benutilul lot al
Lump+ of till rle.eripllMlA.
May 2.
ALOT of Fresh Vanilla Beans, at Ur. E B.
Derr`A “olden Alortur Drug sure.
C7nlieenhln. NI:ov
ASUPERIOR urliele of burning Fluid jug
re,...gveil ni..l foi ..11 it' by H :.U\ 11.\;11.1 :•4 IN.
A LARGE lot of Cily cured Dried Beef, just
rrrrivrd ut a lelLo.lol & miN
Columbni 11..ermher 20.1,56
A NEW and fresh lot of Spices, just re.
ceivral at It. ;LIDAII a •ON . ,
Crottunlim. nor ..21.1
JIOUNTRY Produce conhtantly on hand an d
for -$416 by 11. sll 11. 11 A. SON
- HOMINY, Cranberries, Raisins, Figs, Alm
-1..L. °nth,. IValnut., CI earn Nut-. rr .311.1 revel wed
u. FUYDAM &
.2(1. 1.511
ASUPERIOR lot of Black and Green Teas,
Coffee and Chocolate, jubt reet•teed at
it -I.'l 14 11 Se f%o\
Corner for Front and Um on eta,
LEIMIXIM
JUST RECEIVED. a beautiful usxortment of
(On.. Ileutiquatteri 11111.1
New.. 1/.1101.
Col bin, April
.VXTR I Family and Superfine Flour of the
bruoid. for y II SON._
1 EST received 1000 lbs. extra double bolted
41, itisekwhent Ate.l, at
11,v 220. I :14. 11. SUYDAM h SON'S._
NVEI KEL'S Instantaneous Yeast or Baking
1..." der. or ...Ile by 11. t•-tiVl/001 &S/ /N.
Tnit & THOMPSON'S justly celebrated Com
nterciiil and oilier ("old to.io e
noirlort—jwit received. V. S. IMF:INF:It.
Cilium in R.Apci I :2V. 1,955.
WIDTH COODS.--A full line of White, Dress
Good+ of every dc.criptioe.3,l received. nt
]wily 11. 1,57 I•ONDI.ItS%II.IrII'3.
WHY should anyperson do without a Clock,
when they can be hod for3l.soand unword,
at tinimiNErrs?
Colum , lin. April 4R.1Q56
QAITNEFIER, or Concentrated Lye, far ma
k,/ king Soup. 1 lb. I"ttlitetetti for our hurry! of
Soft Soap, or 11 4 .. fur 9 lbs. !lord Soup. Full dirre
lion. Will he glue at the Counter for making Soft,
Hard and Fancy Soups. For >ale by
R. WILLIANIS.
Coltonitin. March 31. 1P55
A LARGE lot of Baskrts, Brooms, Buckets
Ace.. for.:: to by II St/ VI/AM kSt
:it.. undersigned have been appointed
;teem+ forthe 4.41 e fff k l'1:1C
IIA wnmoned not to corrode; ut e I -I legly
the) almost equal the quill.
SAYLOR & ntcUONA LD.
Cnlumbin San. 17. 1457
DE GRATH'S r.l.EcTitin oil. Jll4l rereireJ.
fresh roma). of this popular retn«,l% for
It %VI 1.1.1 A AIS.
Front Street, Colulutau., Pa._
nem
A LATIUM loo.oronent of Rope.. nll no.ll.loziltr
1 . 1 on hood mod (or dela ut TIIOS 1C ICLBll'$.
March li, 1 t ,57 No. 1. I I oth .Ifeet.
aInoTA. stIOVIS, GROCERIES, Sc., also: Freak
c.t.)l3urtung Flutd,jutt
THOMAS Wlit.Sll'S
Nn. 1. Iliab
March M. 1657
ANF:AV 10l of WHAM.; AND CA IL OR lIP,SINC;
OILS, received at the more of the
Front Street. Colombo, Pa.
Army In. 11556
r i RI ED 11E11:1 , , rams and Plainllam., Shoulders
and mess Pork, for cute be
_
THOMAS WETStI.
No. I. Iligh sireet
'March 21.
Corn, flay, and other feeds. for 4°lo hy_
THOMAS WELtzn
Morrh 21.1.57
130XES C111:1>11 For
sale chess. by D. I'. APPOLD 3. CO.
Columbia, October .^..ti,ißrn
A SUM:rill/It ortic:e of PAINT WI. for pair by
May 10.7£50. Front St fret, Cohlinhio. Pa
TUAT RECP.IVT4II.n Inrete ned well rrlrr,rd variety
Braiilar•. rommillac w purloft-hoe. IN In, Clo th .
Crumb, Nail, Hut and Teeth Dru.l.••. mid for .u , n
by
R. %% ILIA A S.
From street Columbia. Pu.
Nlarch 72. "A
ASUPERIOR article orTONIE SPI CE girrE ß ; :,
suitable for HOW' Keepers, for }.l e by
R. WILLIAMS.
Front etreet, Eolinntna.
May 10.1454
.1-mesa W,PII CREAL OIL, ulxoy on band. and fo
Iltie by N. ivit.t.lnAls.
May 10. R5B. Front Street. COllll,llllll. Pa.
-AST received, FKEdLI CA bl and for .6110.
41./ by R. Avii.LlAms.
May 10,1456. Front Street. Columbia. PA.
1000 LAIS. New C ured City Hams and &molders
Jain received and for sale by
Peb..2l, LEW. /13..SUXHAbLodaiSON.
prtq.
Indian Summer.
There is a time. Just WlKill the frost
Prepares to pave old tViateis ♦ray,
When Autumn in a reverie lost,
The mellow daytime dreams away;
When Summer comes, in musing mind,
To gaze once more on hill and dell,
To mark how inany sheaves they Lind,
And see if all arc ripened well. -
El]
IVith balmy breath she %shivers low,
The dying flowers look up and give
Their sweetest incense, ere they go,
For her who made their beauty live.
She enters 'neath the woodlaturs shade;
Her zephyrs lift the lingering leaf,
And bear it gently a•ucre are luid
The loved and Ithd 011C11 of its grief.
At last. old Autumn, rising, takes
Arian his sceptre and his throne;
NVith boisterous hands the tree he shakes,
Intent on gathering all his own.
Sweet Summer. sighing. flies the plait:.
And waiting Winter. gaunt and grim,
Sees miser A utumu hoard his grain,
And smiles to think Ws :ill for him.
The Daisy.
The daisy blossoms on the rucks,
Amid the purple heath ;
Itlossoins nn the river's bunks,
That threads the glens beiicallij
The eagle, in his pride of place,
Beholds it by his nest;
And in the naiad it enshions sort.
Thu larks de...emeritus; breast.
refore the cuckoo's earliest Spring
.ilver circlet I. IIOWY,
greeting Lurk begin to swell,
And teplp r melt, the allow;
And when breezes howl
Along the moorlands Lore,
And only bloom, the Christmas rose,
The daisy still Is there
Samaritan of flowers! to it
All races are alike—
The •swurcr on his glacier height,
The Machin:lh ott his dl he,
The seal- , kin vested Illyinanaux,
Begirt a all icy kegs,
Alia, underneath his homing noon,
The purasolled Chinese.
The emigrant on di , tant shore,
scenes and faces strange,
Behold it flowerang IA the sward
Where'r ha% foohteps range ;
And wheat his y turning, home•sek heart
Would how to as de•pair,
It rends his e 3 e u lesson -age—
That God as everywhere!
Stirs tire &Wes that begent
The little fields of the sky.
13,Iteid by nil, and everywhere,
Wight prototype, on !ugh.
Bloom on, then, unpretending Rowers!
And to the waverer he
An emblem of St. Priers content
And Stephen's constancy.
gttzttiriit.
All For The Best
I do not think there could be found in the
three kingdoms a blither old maid than
Miss Mellicent Orme, otherwise Aunt Milly,
fur she was universally called by her ne
phews and nieces, first, second and third
cousins—nay, even by many who could not
boast the smallest tie of consanguinity.—
But this sort of universal aunthood to the
whole neighborhood was by no means dis
agreeable to Mrs. hilly, for in a very little
body she bad a large heart, of a most India
rubber nature: not indeed as the simile is
used in speaking of female hearts that 'nev
er break—but always stretch.' But Miss
Milly's heart possessed this elastic nature in
the best sense—namely, that it ever found
room for new occupants; and, moreover, it
was remarkable for its quality of effacing
all unkindness or injuries as easily as India
rubber removes pencil-marks from paper.
Aunt Milly—l have some right to call
her so, being her own nephew, Godfrey Est
court—was an extremely little woman.—
She had pretty little features, pretty little
figure, and always carried a pretty little
work bag, in whose mysterious recesses all
the children of the neighborhood loved to
dive, seldom returning to the surface with
out some pearl of price, in the shape of a
lozenge or a sugur-plum. Iler dress was al
ways neat, rather uld•fashioned perhaps,
but invariably becoming; her soft brown
hair—it really was brown still—lay smooth
ly braided under a tiny cap; her white col
lar was ever snowy; indeed Aunt Milly's
whole attire seemed to have the amazing
quality of never looking worn soiled or dus
ty, but always fresh and new. Yet she was
far from rich, as every one knew; but her
little income was just enough to suffice for
her little self. She lived in a nutshell of a
house, with the smallest of small hand-insid
e is; luleed everything al oJt Aunt Milly's
was on the diminutive scale. She did not
abide much at home, for she was every
where in request—at weddings, christen
ings, etc. To her credit be it spoken, Aunt
Maly did not turn her feet from the house
of mourning. She could weep with those
that wept, yet somehow or other she con
trived to infuse hope amidst despair. And
in general her blithe nature converted all
life's minor evils into things not worth la
menting about.
Every one felt that Aunt Milly's entrance
into their doors brought sunshine. She was
a sunbeam in herself; there was cheerful
ness in her light step, her merry laugh; the
jingling of the keys in her pocket, dear lit
tle soul! musical. She had a word of en
couragement fur all, and had an inclination
to look on the sunny side of everything and
everybody-. No one was more welcome in
mirthful days, no one more sought for in
:adversity, fur she had the quality of making
.the hoariest trouble seem lighter; and her
-unfailing ,motto Ices !All happens for the
best.'
"NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 7, 1857.
All my schoolboy disasters were depos
ited in Aunt !dilly's sympathizing ear; and
when I grew up still kept to the old habit.
I came to her one day with what I consid
ered my first real sorrow. it was the loss,
by the sudden failure of a country bank,
of nearly all the few hundreds my poor
father had laid up f me. My std news had
travelled before me, and I was not surprised
to see Aunt Milly's cheerful face grave as
she met me with. 'My dear boy, lam very
sorry for you'
'lt is the greatest misfortune I could have,'
I cried. 'I wish that wretch Sharples—'
'Don't wish him anything worse than he
has to bear already, poor man, with his
large family,' said Aunt Milly, gently.
'But you do not know all I have lost.—
That—that Laura ,' and I stopped,
looking, I doubt not, very miserable, and
possibly very silly.
'You mean to say, Godfrey, that since, in
stead of having a little fortune to begin the
world with, you have hardly anything at all,
Miss Laura Ashton will not consider that
her engagement holds. I expected it.'
'Oh, Aunt MiHy. she is not so mean as
that; but we were to have been 'parried in
two years, and I could. have got a share in
Mortlake's office, and we Should have been
so happy ! All that is over now. Her
father says we must wait, and Laura is to
lie considered free. Life is nothing to me!
I will go to America, or shoot myself.'
old are you, Godfrey?' asked Aunt
Milly, with a quiet smile that rather an
noyed me.
shall be twenty next June,' I said.—
Young people always put their age in the
future tense ; it sounds better.
'lt is now July, so that I may call you
ninteen and a month. My dear boy, the
world mu , 4 ben horrible place, indeed, fur
you to grow tired of it snzoon. I would ad
vise you to wait a little while before you
gest o desperate.'
Aunt Milly,' I said, turning away, ' it is
easy for you to talk—you were never in
love'
A shadow passed over her bright face,
but Aunt Milly did not answer my allusion.
'1 do not think any boy of nineteen is
doomed to be a victim to loss of fortune or
hopeless love,' she said after a pause. gMy
dear Godfrey, this will be a trial of your
Laura's constancy, and of your own pa
tience and industry. Depend upon it, all
will turn out for the beat.'
'Oh!' I sighed, you talk very well, Aunt
Milly ; what can I do ?'
' I will tell you. You are young, clever,
and have been fur two years in a good pro
fession. It will be your own fault if you do
not rise in the world. Every man is, in a
great measure, the architect of his own for
tune ; and where, as in your case, the foun
dation of a good education is laid, so much
the easier is it to raise the superstructure.
You may yet be a rich man by your own
exertions, and the best of fortunes is a for
tune self-earned.'
This was the longest and gravest speech
I bad ever heard from Aunt Milly's lips.—
Its truth struck me forcibly, and I felt rath
er ashamed of having so soon succumbed to
disaster; it seemed cowardly, and unworthy
the manly dignity of nearly twenty years.
Aunt Milly, with true feminine tact, saw
her advantage, and followed it up.
Now, as to your heart troubles, my dear
nephew. To tell the truth, I hardly believe
in boyish love; it is so often so much of a
dream and so little of a reality. Do not be
vexed, Godfrey ; but I should not be sur
prised if, five years hence, you tell me how
fortunate it was that this trial came. Men
rarely see with the same eyes at nineteen
and twenty-five.
I energetically quoted Shakespeare:
Doubt flint the star, arc fire.
Doubt that the still data move,
Doubt truth to be a liar.
Hut never doubt 1 love.'
Aunt Milly laughed. As both these as
tronomical facts are rather questionable,
you must excuse my doubting the final fact
also. But time will show. Meanwhile, do
not despair; be diligent, and he careful of
the little you have left. Matters might have
been worso with you.'
' Ah, Aunt Milly, what a cheerful heart
you have ! But trouble never comes to you,
as it does to other people.'
You are a little mistaken for once, God
frey. By Sharpies' failure I have lost every
farthing I had in the world.'
I was struck dumb with surprise and re
gret. Poor dear Aunt Milly I when she
was listening to my lamentations, and con
soling me, how little did I know that she
was more unfortunate than myself! And
yet she neither complained nor desponded,
but only smiled—a little sadly, perhaps—
and said she knew even this disaster was
' all for the best,' though she could not see
it at the time. She calmly made prepara
tions for quitting her pretty home, confided
her little handmaid to one cousin, in whose
kitchen the tidy Rachel was gladly admitted,
gave her few household pets to another, and
prepared to bravo the wide world. Some
unfeeling people forgot Aunt Milly in her
trouble; but the greater part of her friendly
circle proved how much they esteemed and
valued her. Some asked her to visit them
for a month, three months, a year, indeed,
had she chosen, Aunt Milky might have spent
her life as a passing guest among her friends;
but she was too proud to do any such thing.
At last a third or fourth cousin—a widow
er of largo fortune—invited Miss Milly to
reside at his house, as chaperon to his_two
daughters, young girls just growing up into
womanhood. This proposal, kindly meant,
was warmly accepted; and Aunt Milly set
forward on her long journey, for Elphinstone
Hall was some hundred miles off—a formi
dable distance to one ivho had never been a
day's journey from her own home ; now,
alas, hers no more! Still, neither despon
dency nor fear troubled her blithe spirit, as
Miss Milly set out with her valorous neph
ew; for I had pleaded so earnestly my right
to be her squire to Mr. Elphinstone's door,
that the concession was yielded at last.
Of all the gloomy, looking old avenues
that ever led to baronial hall, the •one we
passed through was the gloomiest. It might
have been pretty in May, but on a wet day
in October it was most melancholy. Poor
Aunt Milly shivered as the wind rustled in
the trees, and the dead leaves fell in clouds
on the top of the post-chaise. We alighted,
and entered a hall equally lugubrious, and
not much warmer than the avenue. The
solemn old porter• was warming his chilled
bands at the tiny fire ; he and the house
were in perfect keeping—dreary, dull, and
melancholy. The nta•ter was much in the
same style ; a tall bl,•tck fi,;ure, with a lung
lime and a white neekeloth, was the personi
fied idea left behind by Mr. Elphinstone.—
When he was gone, I earnestly entreated
Aunt Milly to return with use, and not stay
in this desolate place; but she refused.
'My cousin seems kind,' she said ; he
looked and spoke as though he were glad to
see me.' (I was too cold to hear or see
much, certainly, but I declare I did notice
this very friendly reception.) 'My dear
Godfrey,' Aunt continued, I will stay
and try to make a home hero ; the two girls
may be amiable, and then I shall soon love
them ; at all events let us hope for the best.'
My hopes for poor Aunt Milly all van
i.hed into thin air when, at the frigid din
ner table, where the very eatables seemed
made of stone, I saw two young ladies of
fifteen or thereabouts ; one, the wildest and
rude , t holyden that ever disgraced female
habiliments ; the other, a pale, stooping
girl, with sleepy blue eyes, and lank fair
hair, who never uttered a word, nor once
' lifted her eyes from the tablecloth..
'What will become of poor Aunt Milly ?'
I thought, internally: Yet there she was,
as cheerful as ever, talking to that old icicle,
Mr. Elphinstone ; listening patiently to the
lava•flood of Miss Louisa's tongue ; and
now and then speaking to Miss Euphemia,
whoso only answer was a nod o' : head,
or a stare from her immense blue eyes.—
' Well !' I mentally ejaculated, " Aunt Milly's
talent fur making the best of everything
will be called into full requisition here, I
suspect.'
Nevertheless, when we parted, she as
sured me that she was quite content; that
she would no doubt be very comfortable at
the Hall.
But those two dreadful girls, how will
you manage them, Aunt 31i ?' and a faint
vision of the tall, stout Louisa going in a
passion, and knocking my poor little aunt
off her chair, came across my mind's eye.
' Poor things they have no mother to
teach them better. • I am sorry for them ;
I was a motherless child myself,' said Aunt
Milly, softly. 'They will improve by and
by ; depend upon it, Godfrey, all will turn
out well for both you and me.'
' Amen said lin my heart : for I thought
of my own Laura. How different she was
from the Miss Elphinstones And the
image of my beloved eclipsed that of desolate
Aunt Milly, I fear, before I had traveled
many miles from the Hall.
Aunt Milly's epistles were not very fre-
quent , for, like many excellent people, she
disliked letter-writing, and only indulged
her very particular friends with a few lines
now and then, in which she fully acted up
to the golden rule. 'lf you have any thing
to say, say it: if nothing—why, say it. too.'
Thus my infimmation as to how matters were
going on at Elphinstone hall was of a very
slender nature. However, when a few
months had rolled by, chance led me into the
neighborhood, and I surprised Aunt Milly
with a visit from her loving nephew.
It was early spring, and a few peeping
primroses brightened the old avenue. Un
derneath the dining room windows, was a
gay bed of purple and yel low crocuses, which
I thought bore tokens of Aunt Milly's care ;
she was always so fond of flowers. I fan
cied the Hall did not look quite so cheerless
as before ; the bright March sunbeams en
livened, though they could not warm it. Ina
few moments appeared Aunt !Hilly herself,
not in the least attired, but as lively and
active as ever.
She took me into her own little sitting
room, and told me how the winter had pas
sed with her. It had been rather a gloomy
one, she acknowledged ; the girls had been
accustomed to run wild ; Louisa would have
her own way ; but that she was easily guided
by love, and her nature was frank and warm.
Phemie, the pale girl, who had been delicate
from her cradle, was rather indolent, but—
(oh ! what a blessing these buts are some
times )—but then she was so sweet and gen
tle. I own when I again saw the young
damsels, thus leniently described by Aunt
Milly, I did not perceive the marvelous
change ; Louisa seemed as nearly talkative,
and her sister as nearly as insipid ever;
still there was a slight improvement even to
my eyes, and I gladly allowed Aunt Milly
the full benefit of that losing glamour which
was cast by her hopeful creed and sweet
disposition.
'But now, Godfrey, how faros it with you?'
I said my good aunt. 'flow is Laura, and
I I how are you getting along in the world?'
I could givo but melancholy answer to
these questions; for I had to work hard, and
law was a dry study. Besides many people
looked coldly on me after they knew I was
poorer than I had been: and even Laura her
self was not so frank and kind. Vague
jealousies were spring up in my heart for
every smile she bestowed. elsewhere; and
these smiles were not few. I was in truth,
far from happy; and so I told Aunt Milly,
adding, •If Laura dues not love me I don't
care what becomes of me.'
Aunt Milly smiled and then looked grave.
'My dear Godfrey, if Laura married to-mor
row you would recover in time.'
'No, never! To lose the girl I love is to
lose everything in the world.'
'lt may be you do not know what real
love is, my dear nephew. The strength and
duration of a man's character depend chiefly
upon the character and disposition of the
woman he loves. Fur your Laura— But
we shall see. Once mure have good courage;
work hard at your profession, and grieve as
little about Laura as you can. If she ever
did love you, she does so still, and will us
long as you keep constant to her, otherwise
she is not worth the winning.'
I did not agree with Aunt Middy's theory,
but I said no more: my heart was too sore.
She took me over the !louse and grounds;
both looked cheerful under the influence of
the soft spring: and then she told me how
kind Mr. Elphinstone was, and how lie had
gradually wearied from his solitary life to
take pleasure in the society of his daugh
ters.
'And I hope he is grateful to to you who
have made it endurable!' I said.
Aunt Milly smiled. 'Yes, I believe he is,
but I have only dune what I ought; the girl.
both love me dearly, and it is sufficient re
ward to see them improved.
I (lid not see Mr. Elphinstono, but earnest
ly hoped the solemn, coldly polite, middle
aged gentleman had shared in the general
amelioration and reform effected by the
cheerful hearted Miss Mills.
Months had glided into years ere I again
saw Aunt Milly. Everything had changed
with me: from a buy I had grown a man.
from toying to struggling with the world.—
I bad followed Aunt Milly's advice, and had
begun to reap the fruit of it in the good
opinion of those whose opinion was worth
having. I had proved also the truth of her
old saying. 'How sweet is the bread of our
own earning!' Another of her prophecies,
alas: had come but too true. Laura Ashton
had married—but I was not her husband; a
richer man stole the jewel of my boyhood's
fancy; but—and this was the saddest to bear
—not before I had found it to be a false
pearl, unworthy of my manhood's wearing.
But I will not speak of this; in spite of Aunt
Milly's sage speeches, nu one can forget his
first love.
'When I visited Elpbinstone Hall, it was
in the golden days of midsummer. I thought
I had never beheld a more lovely place.—
The old trees were so bowery and full of
leaves ; the grassy lawn so very green ; the
flower garden so bright with blossoms. Age
and youth were not more different than the
ancient, cheerless Hall of former times and
the beautiful spot I now looked upon. Even
Aunt Milly seemed to share in the general
rejuvenescence. The two years which had
changed me so much, had not made her look
the older. She had the same clear,. fresh
cheerful face, and neat little figure ; both
perhaps a little rounder, the result of a hap- ,
py life and a few cares. Her dress was as •
tasteful as ever, but not quite so precise, and
it was of richer materials. She wore, too, I
various handsome articles of jewelry, a re
markable eircum.tance fur unpretending
Aunt Milly. I thought her pipits must be
very generous with presents.
We had not sat triking long when a very
graceful girl crossed the lawn to the French
window of Aunt Milly's room.
• I will come soon ; go and take your walk,
Phemie dear,' said Aunt Milly.
Wonder of wonders! Could that beauti
ful fair face and golden ringlets which I
saw through the open window belong to the
lackadaisical Miss Euphemia of old? I
absolutely started from my chair.
' You don't mean to say, Aunt Milly, that
that lovely girl is Miss Elphinstone ?'
• Most certainly,' said Aunt Milly, laugh
ing—her own musical laugh.
• Well, if I ever saw such a transforma
tion! You aro as much of a fairy as Cinde
rella's god•mother.'
• Not at all ; I only did as a gardener
does with half-cultivated ground; I pulled
up the weeds and nurtured the flowers. As
for Phemie's beauty, I never thought her
ugly, though you were too much occupied
with your disgust at the place to perceive
that she really had fair skin and pretty fea
tures. I have only made the best of what I
found."
•-end how has Miss Louisa turned out in
your hands?' I asked, zmilingly.
• Look at her; she is coming up the ave
nue on horseback.'
And a very graceful, fearless horsewoman
the quondam hoyden seemed ; her wildness
was subdued into spiritly, but not unlady
like manners: in short, Louisa had become
what men would admire as a fine, lively
girl.
' Why, Aunt Maly,' I said, ' you must
have grown quite attached to these girls; it
will really be painful for you to leave them.'
' I do not think of leaving them very soon,"
said Aunt :►Lilly, °eating down her eyes, end
$1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE.
playing with her gold watch chain, while a
very faint rosyness deepening of her fair
cheek, and a scarcely perceptible smile hove
ring round her mouth, were distinctly visi
ble.
' Indeed !' snid I, inquiringly.
' Yes; Mr. Elphinstono is very kind; he
does not wish me to go ; the girls love me
very much ; end my cousin—'
'Follows his daughters' good example!' I
cried, at last arriving at the truth. ' Well,
I don't see how he could possibly help it ;
and so, dear Aunt Milly, I wish you joy.'
Aunt Milly muttered something in return
blushing as prettily as a girl of fifteen, and
at last fairly ran out of the room.
' After all, everything was for the best,'
thought I, as I attended the quiet wedding
of Mr. Elphinstolie, and his second wife—
loved and loving sincerely ; though to both
the affection was but the Indian summer of
their lives. He did not loot: half so grave
and austere as I fancied, and really was a
very noble looking man, in spite of his half
century ; and if his winning little wife trod
oily ten years behind him in the road of
life, why, I have seen many older looking
brides wino were not thirty by the church
register. After all, what matters years when
the heart is still young. They both did
right in marrying, and the Indian summer
shines peacefully on them still.
I have nothing to add, except that I have
for these two years keen a married man my
self; and therefore fully sympathized with
Aunt Milly's keeping of her seventh wed
ding anniversary week.
I may, just mention, en possum', that 1
rarely cull her Aunt dilly now happening
to be her son-in-law as well as nephew.—
Perhaps, to clear up all mysteries, I had
better confess that my wife has fair hair,
sweet blue eyes, and that her name is Eu
phernia,
A True Ghost Story
'Did you ever hear,' said a friend once to
me, 'a real true ghost story—one you might
depend upon?'
'There are not many such to be heard,' I
replied, 'and I am afraid it has never been
my good fortune to meet trith those who
were really able to give me a genuine well
! authenticated story.'
I 'Well, you shall never have cause to say
so again; and as it was an adventure that
happened to myself, you can scarcely think
it other than well authenticrund. I know
1 you to be no coward, or I might hesitate
before I told it to you. You need not stir
the fire; there is plenty of light by which
you can hear it. And now to begin. I had
been riding hard one day in the autumn for
nearly five or six hours, through some of the
most tempestuous weather to which it has
ever been my ill luck to be exposed. It was
just about the time of the equinox, and per
fect hurricanes swept over the hills, as if
every wind in heaven had broken loose and
had gone mad, and on every hill the rain
and driving sleet poured down in one unbro
ken shower.
'When I reached the head of' Wentfurd
valley, It narrow ravine with rocks on one
side and rich full woods on the other, with
a clear little stream winding through the
hollow dell—when I came to the entrance of
this valley, weather-beaten veteran as I was,
I scarcely knew how to hold on my way.—
The wind, as it were, held in between the
two high banks, rushed like a river just bro
ken loose into a new course, carrying with
it a perfect sheet of rain, against which my
poor horse and I struggled with considera
ble diffieulty. Still I went on. fur the village
lay at the other end, and I had a patient to ;
see there, who bad sent a very urgent mes
sage, entreating me to came to him as soon
as possible. We are slaves to a message,
we poor medical men, and I urged on my
poor jaded brute with a keen relish f,r the
warm fire and good dinner that awaited me
as soon as I could see my unfortunate patient
and get back to a home doubly valued on
such a day as that in which I was then out.
It was indeed dreary riding in such weather:
and the scene altogether, through which I
passed. was certainly not the most conduci%
towards raising a man's spirits; but I posi
tively half wished myself out in it all again
rather than sit the hour I was obliged to ;
spend by the sick-bed of the wretched man
I had been summoned to visit. Ile had met
' with an accident the day before, and as be I
had been drinking up to the time, and the
people had delayed sending fur me, I found '
him in a frightful state of fever; and it was
really an awful thing either to look at or to
hear him. He was delirious and perfectly
furious; and his face, swelled with passion
and crimson with the fever that was burning
him up, was a sight to frighten children.
and not one calculated to add to the tranquil
ity even of full grown men. I dare say you
think me very weak, and that I ought to
have been inured to such things, minding!
his ravings no more than the dash of the
rain against the window; but during the
whole of my practice, 1 had never seen man
or woman, in health or in fever, in so fright
ful a state of furious frenzy, with the impress
of every bad passion stamped broadly and
fearfully upon the face; and, in the miserable
hovel that then held me. with his old witch
like mother standing by, the babel of the
wind and rain outside added to the ravings
of the wretched creature within, I began to
feel neither in a happy nor an enviable frame
of mind. There is nothing so frightful as
where the reasonable spirit seems to aban
don man's body, and leave it to a fiend in
stead.
[WHOLE NUMBER, 1,423.
`After an hour or more waiting patiently
by his bedide, not liking to leave the help
less old woman alone with so dangerous a.
companion, (for I could not answer for any
thing he might do in his frenzy,) I thought
that the remedies by which I hoped in some
measure to subdue the fever seemed begin
ning to take effect, and that I might leave
him, promising to send all that was neces
sary, though fearing much that he had gone
beyond all my power to restore him; and
desiring that I might be immediately called
back again should he get worse instead of
better, which I felt almost certain would be
the case, I hastened homewards, glad enough
to be leaving wretched huts and raving men,
driving wind and windy hills, for a comfort
able house, dry clothes, a warns fire and a
good dinner. I think I never saw such a fire
in my life as the one that blazed up my
chimney; it looked so wonderfully warm
and bright, and there scented an indescriba
ble air of comfort about the room that I had.
never noticed before. One would have
thought I should have enjoyed it all intensely
after my wet ride, but throughout the whole
evening the scenes of the day would keep
recurring to my mind with most uncomfort
able distinctness, and it was in vain that I
endeavored to forget it all in a book, one of
my old favorites, too; so that at last I fairly
gave up the attempt as the hideous face
would come continually between my eyes
and an especially good passage; and I went
off to bed heartily tired and expecting sleep
very readily to visit me. Nor was I disap
pointed: I was soon deep asleep, though my
last thought was on the little valley I had
left.
' How long this heavy and dreamless sleep
continued I cannot tell, but gradually I felt
consciousness returning in the shape of the
very thoughts with which I fell asleep, and
at last I opened my eyes, thoroughly roused
by a heavy blow at my window. I cannot
describe my horror, when, by the light of
the room, struggling among the heavy surge
like clouds, I saw the very face, the face of
that man, looking in at me through the case
ment, the eyes distended and the face pres
sed close to the glass. I started up in bed
to convince myself that I really was awake,
and not suffering from some frightful dream.
There it stayed perfectly moveless, its wide,
ghastly eyes fixed unwaveringly on mine,
which, by a kind of fascination, became
equally fixed and rigid, gazing upon the
dreadful face, which alone, without n„body,
was visible at the window, unless an indefi
nable black shadow, that seemed to float be
yond it, might be fancied into one. I caa
scarcely tell how long I so sat looking at it,
but I remember something of a rushing
sound, a feeling of relief, a falling exhaus
ted hack upon my pillow, and then I awoke
in the - morning ill and unrefreshed.
' I was ill at ease, and the first question
I asked on coming down stairs was whether
any messenger had come to summon mo to
Wentfurd. A messenger had come, they
told me, but it was to say I need trouble
myself no further, as the man was already
beyond all aid, having died about the middle
of the night. I never felt so strangely in
my life as when they told me this, and my
brain almost reeled as the events of the pre
vious day and night passed through my
mind in rapid succession. That I had seen
something supernatural in the darkness of
the night I had never doubted ; but when
the sun shone brightly into my room in the
morning. through the same window where I
had seen so frightful and strange a sight by
the spectral light of the moon, I began to
believe more it was a dream, and endeavored
to ridicule myself out of all uncomfortable
feelings, which, nevertheless, I could not
quite shake off.
' Haunted by what I considered a painful
dream, I left my room, and the first thing I
heard was a confirmation of what I had been
fur the last hour endeavoring to reason and
ridicule myself out of believing. It was
some hours before I could recover my ordi
nary tranquility: and then it came back,
not slowly as you might have expected, as
the impression gradually wore off„ and time
wrought his usual changes in mind as in
body, but sullenly—by the discovery that
our large white owl had escaped during the
night and had honored my window with a
visit before he became quite accustomed to
his liberty.'
TIIE MexurAcTritt or WORDS.—Tbe fol
lowing sensible remarks are extracted from
Frarcr's Magazine;
No permission has been 80 much abused
in our day as that of Horace for the manu
facture of words. Ile allows men to mould
one now and then, with a modest discretion;
but he is addressing poets, not venders of
patent leather or dealers in marine stores.
Would he not have stood aghast at the terns
'annpropylus.' Would it not puzzle a Sam'.
iger or Bently? It is time we protest to
these vile coinages when every breeches
maker or blacking manufacturer invents a
compound word of six syllables as expressive
of his wares. Ladies do not wear petticoats
now a-days, but crinolines. 'Mat is their
new name for garters? Men do not ride on
horseback as aforetime—they take eques
trian exercise; women are not married like
their grandmothers—they are led to the hy
rneneal altar. A bookseller, forsooth, be
comes a biblopole; and a servant is convert
ed into a maniciple. Barbers do not sell
tooth powder and shaving soap as their fath
ers did, but odonto and dentifrice, and ryix.-
;Amgen; hair wash has passed away—it is
capillary fluid. Can any one tall what is