• -
r -
_
.4:V;
SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor.
VOLUME XXVIII, - NUMBER 9.)
,PUBLISIIED EVERY SITURDIY MORNING.
Office in Northern Central Railroad Com
zpany's Building, north-aced corner Front and
ircztaut streets.
Terms of Subscription.
itiOae Copy per annum ' if paid in advance,
" if not paid within three
.months from commencement of the year, 200
Coss - tog za.
"No subscription received for is Ices tiler than six
-months; and no paper will be discontinued unid all
urrrarages are paid, unless at the option of the pub
s other.
11:7 - 1 1 1oney may be remitted by mail at the publish
er's risk.
Bates of Advertising.
I square (0 lines] one week,
• three weeks,
each subsequent insertion, to
1 '. (Wines) one week.
three weeks, 1 00
each subsequent insertion, :tr..
Larger advertisements in proportion.
A liberal discount will he made to quarterly, half
yearly or yearly.lvertisers,who are striettyconfined
to their business.
THOMAS WEL.SII,
TIISTECE OF VIE PEKE, Columbia, Pa,
0 oirtley„ in Wliippent New Building, below
Black's hotel, Front street.
t intention given to all business entrusted
to l Eic c PmmP
Nove !kilter 28, 1E:17.
DR. G. W. MIFFLIN,
DENTIST, Locust street, a few doors above
the Odd Followo Hall, Columbia, Pa.
Columbia. May 3, ISM.
11. M. NORTII,
ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR AT LAW.
Columbia,
Col lections, romptly made, in Laneabter and York
Counties.
Columbia. Mny 4,1850.
J. W. FISHER,
Attorney and Counsellor at Lam,
Columbian X.
Columbia, September li, 1556-tf
GEORGE J. SMITH,
WROLESILE und Retail Bread and Cake
Baker.—Constantly on hand a varlets , of Cakes,
TOO numerous to mention: Crackers, Soda. Wine. Scroll,
and Sugar Biscuit; Confectionery, of every description,
&c., fix. LOCUST :STREET,
Feb. 2,i56. Between the Bank and Franklin House.
CORN Starch, Farina, Rice Flour, Tapioca,
Sago, Out Meal. Arrow Root. Ike. ' at the
FAMILY MEDICINF: STORE,
Odd Fellow.' MIL
Sept 26,'57.
JUST received, three dozen Dr. Brunon's
Vegetable Miters, a certain cure for Dyspepsia;
also, at fresh lot of Sap Sago and Fine Apple. (Theirs;
Farina and Carat Starch, ut D. linarrs
Sept 5, 1b57. Grocery and Liquor Store.
BAIR DYE'S. Jones' Batchelor's, Peter's and
Egyptian hair dyes. w arranted to color the lion
any desired shade, without injury to the skin. For sole
by. R. WILLIAMS.
May 10, Front at., Columbia, Pa,
JUST received, a fresh supply of Kennedy's
31eriteul Ihscovery. illlll for snb•. by
R, WILLI MS, Front street.
ColllMbill. June 27.11,57.
BROWN'S Essence of Jamaica Ginger, Gen•
uinc Article. For .t le let
Alcetlitli .1.; &
Family Medicine 8 tote. Udd Fellow.' Hull.
July 2.5.
o,,,OLUTION OF CITRITE OF MAGNESIA,or Fur-
Li votive Al Otero! Wuier.—Thi , piece-old medicine
which is highly reroinmeoded as a i•iihsldute for
Epsomnsnhs. Seidliit Powders, he.. I . II it lie obtained
fresh every day at Do. E. 13. HERR'S Drug Store.
Front at. Ij2
JUST received, a fresh supply of Corn
Stureh, Furl an, and Flier F . lour. at
MeCORICLE DELLErrs
Family Medicine Store. Odd Fellows' flail, Columbia.
Columbia. Mac :30, 1537.
LAMPS, LAMPS, LAMPS. Just received at
flerr'a Drug store, a new and beautiful lot of
Laman of nll dexeliptante..
May
A LOT of Fresh Vanilla Beans, at Dr. E B.
Herrla Golden Mortar Drug More.
Columbia. Mar 2.t..67.
ASUPERIOR article of burning Fluid just
received nod for by H. SUN' M Az. MIN.
ALARGE lot of City cured Dried Beef, just
received nt it suYt.A.NI &
Columbia. December :20, 1956.
TIOUFLAND'S Gzglitlts.lvlc at
r .uKi..zi:l P I":
Family Medicine Store, Odd F(.111014 ,'
July 25. I K 57.
COUNTRY Produce constantly on hand an d
for -olic by 11. SLIVI) M & SON.
HOMINY, Cranberries, Raisins, Figs, Alin
oik, WuMail, Cream Nut-, ke ,Just received
u. EXYDA3I &
Colombia, Dee. 20. IPSG.
A SUPERIOR lot of Black and Green Tcas,
Cotree and Chocolate, just meowed at
u. ,UYDA M k sox`a
Dee. 20,1856. Corner of Front und Union w.
JUST RECEIVED, a beautiful assortment of
DMus luk *Lauda, at the Headquarters and
IS:CWR Depot.
Columbia, April IS. 1857.
TIVFItA Family and Superfine Fiore of the
heft brand. for .4kle by 11. SUYIM M & SON.
JEST received 1000 lbs. extra double bolted
Buckwheat Meal, at
Dec.:2o. l 356. 11. SUYDAM & SON'S._
WEIKEL'S Instantaneous Yeast or Baking
Powder. for cote by 11, SUYDAM & SON.
- PARR Is THOMPSON'S justly celebrated Com
': !Herein! and other Hold PCll.—the hem in the
market—just receiVCll. P. SHREINER.
Columbia,April 26.1E55.
WHITE GOODS.-••A fall line of White Dress
Goods of every description. Just received. at
July 11, 1e.57. FONDERSSIITH'S.
WHY should auypersou do without a Clock,
when they can Le hat, forlll,:illand w ar
NEs.
SHREI?
.C+olumhia. APO] 28.1855
SAf . ONEFIER, or Concentrated Lye, for ma
: /pug Soap. I lb. is sufficient for oue barrel of
..1011 Soap, or Ilb.for 9 lbs. Hard Soap. Full Ilirer
pon. will be given at the Counter for making Soft,
Hard and Fancy Soaps. For sale by
IL WILLIAMS.
Columbia. March 31.1635
MADLE and Rock Salt. by the sack or bushel, for
.L sale tow. by
Oct. 10. 1857.
TIE GRATH'S ELECTRIC OIL.. lust received.
4../ freak supply of this popular remedy, and for sale
R. WI L.LIAMS.
Front Street, Columbia, Pa.
'May 10,18506
A LARGE atiortnien tof Ropes. all glee. and Irngthe,
.11 on hand and (oriole ac THOS. WELSH'S,
March 12.1952. No. 1. High •trees.
A. Nit:VP lot of WIIA LE AND CAR GREASING
OILS, received at, the store of Or ttaln.ertber.
111.INVI L.1.1A MS.
Front Street, Columbia. Pa.
11,lay 10,1956
A . SUPERIOR article of PAINT OIL. far 1.11 i• by
It WII.LIAM:4.
Front Street, Columbia, Pa.
May 10, lE5a.
TUAT RECEIVED, a large and well selected vralety
of Brushes, consisting in part of Shoe. Hair, Cloth.
Crumb, Nail, Hat and Teeth Urudtes, and for sale by
R. WILLIAMS.
March 22,'55. Front street Colombia. Ps.
ASUPERIOR article ofTONIC SPICE HITTERS.
suitable for Hotel Keepers, far saie by
It. WILLIAMS.
May 10, 1850. Front street. Columbia.
"'DRUM' ET OCIt 'CAI. OIL, al way. on hand. and of
J! pale by K. WILLI/I%IS.
May 10.1854. Front Street. Columbia, Pa.
JUST received, FRESH CA NIPHEiat. and for *ale
by IL WILLLIDIS,
.Nay 10, ISMS. Front Street, Columbia,
Lost and Found.
Solemnly, silently, sullenly slow.—
It is the mourners—
See how they go
On through the rains, and the dabbled slush,
lit the grey of the day, and the lonely hush
Of the wailing winds, weary and weeping
SE 50
Stretching above in the comfortless air,
For it is winter,
And they are bare,
Chesnut mid sycamore, gaunt and gray,
Overhead, o'er the dead motionless clay
Bend down silently, thinking her sleeping
*0 39
Through the long avenue echoes the trend
Of the crowd, thronging ,
After the dead,
Living, they knew not as I did know,
Yet, alas! as they puss, I may not go
To mit& my woe with their sadness.
Loveliest. and proudest, and gayest of all
Those haughty rich ones
That swarmed in the hall.
Yet for me, lowly, unheeded, unknown,
She apart bent her heart down from its throne,
To fill me with joy—nud with madness.
Like some grand meteor that startles the night
With its great glory
Transcendently bright,
So on my soul-night a moment she shone,
Sudden light, darker night, for she wns gone,
Gone! Be still, heart, and case this wild beating
Yet, I shall follow where they dare not go,
Hul those sumo mounters
Solemn and slow.
For it is creeping up, up to my heart,
Rampant pain, through each vein, leaps like n dart
Aid nett' pain adds new Joy to our meeting.
Now is that wintry sky shut from my sight,
All, all is darkness
Deeper than sight.
Here I no longer nay, mourning alone:
Earth, farewell. Hush that bell: make no sad monan
Two souls are united in Paradise.
The Path through the Snow
Bare and sunshiny, bright and bleak,
Rounded cold us a dead maid's check,
Folded white as a sinner's shroud
Or wandering angel's robe of clona—
-1 know, I know,
Over the tuner the petit through the snow.
Narrow and rough it ties between
‘Va,tes ,there the wind sweeps, biting keen,
Aud not a step of the slippery road
Out marks where some weary foot has trod;
'Who'll go, who'll go,
After the rest iu the putt through the snow?
They who would tread it must walk alone,
Silent and steadfast. one by one;
Dearest to dearest can only say:
'•\iy heart: I follow thee all the way,
As we go, as we go,
Each utter each in the path through the suow.n
It irtny be under the glittering, hate
Lurks the prontine of golden rltiy4,
That each !sentinel tree is quivering
Deep at its core with the blood of ~pring„
Green binder ore piercing the frozen snow
It army be the unknown path %pill tend
Never to any earthly end,
Die with the dying day obscure,
And never lend to a human door,
That none know who did go
Patiently once on this path through the snow
No matter—no mutter! The path shines plain,
The pure snow crystals will deaden pain;
A hove. like stars in the deep blue dark,
Guiding spirits will stand and mark;
Let us go, let us go,
Whither lieut en leads in the path through the snow!
A gaunt man in a gaberdine sleeps du
ring the winter months on a mattress placed
for him in a cupboard near the entrance
hall of The Charles in the Oak Inn; which,
by right of him, inscribes upon one of its
door-posts this charm, indicative of constant
business: 'A Night Porter—Always in At
tendance.' When I first saw .this inscrip
tion it appeared to me as odd a confusion
between town and country as 'Bill Stickers
Beware' on a banyan-tree.
John Pearmaine is the night porter's
name. By day he is half-witted; perhaps he
is on that account, shrewder than most
people at night. His only relation, a broth
er, is an idiot in the county lunatic asylum;
But the half of his wits left to John, enables
him to live at large. He digs and goes on
errands for a market-gardener close by, re
ceiving fool for his labor; and at rare inter
vals, a shilling. The poor creature is home
less; and, in summer time, uses his master's
greenhouses as sleeping rooms; or, in fine
weather, lies among the cucumbers, it being
his charge to watch them and the fruit.—
He is an exceedingly light sleeper, and de
serves more pay than he receives for this
part of his service. Should these lines by
any chance come under his master's eye,
let him say, Dowsie (they call John 'Dow
sie,' which means, in these parts; half-wit
ted—daft, as the Scotch say,) Dowsie shall
certainly be better paid next summer, if he
lives to see it.
BIUNEU Co_
Some years ago the life of this afflicted
outcast must have been very distressful in
the winter season. There was no fruit to
be watched, and little work provided by the
market-garden. The gardener, indeed was
not unkind, and the people of the neighbor
hood did not shut up their hearts. Ile
never felt the want of ,food except when
times were hard, and then the hand of
common charity among poor people being
closed perforce, Pearmaine took refuge in
the workhouse. But when free during cold
weather, the unhappy creature wandered
always in no little uncertainty as to the
whereabout of the good Christian who
would next open to him a barn or an out
house for the night, or generously welcome
him to a warm horse cloth and the right of
lying down before the ashes of the house
place fire.
Igriris.
And as sve go, ns we go
gritttions.
From Household Words
The Night Porter.
"NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JANUARY 23, 18.58.
The railway station claiming to belong to
the next town, lands pas,engers at the dis
tance of about a mile from it; and on the
roadside between town and station, stands
The Charles in the Oak. Passengers to and
from the trains go by the door of this mod
estlinn in omnibusses, which unite the railway
to the Biffin's Arms Hotel. All the night
work that the railway brought us, in the
the first year after its establishment—and a
pretty pice of work the landlady considered
that—was caused by one passenger from the
mail-train passing at four in the morning,
who, having missed or scorned the omnibus,
knocked up the house for a glass of hot gin
and-water; and even this customer appears
to have regarded the demand as a mere pas
sing joke. But, in the second year of the
railway, night-work was brought by it to
The Charles in the Oak, in the shape of a
gang—mine host considers that it must have
been a gang comprising the select of Lon
don burglars—who broke into it; and, with
out disturbing a mouse, stole from the bar
six tea-spoons, a summer (vulgarly known
as a tumbler;) a crown punch-bowl, several
hare-skins, a dish of mutton-chops and a
pepper-castor. The rest of the glass was
fortunately locked up in a chimney cup- I
board, and the bulk of the plate was under
the host's bed; where it is always kept of
nights. I take for granted that no London
burglars are among the readers of the jour
nals which contains this revelation.
After the burglary, _both landlady and
chambermaid expressed, after dark in win
ter time, unusual alarm. A house dog was,
for their satisfaction, turned loose in the
passages at night: but he kept the whole
establishment awake for a month, chamber
maid informs me, by continual howling.—
Then, every one who tells the history claims
for himself or herself the merit—which be
longs truly, I think, to the hostler—of hav
ing brought into discussion the superiority
of such a watch-dog as poor Dowsie John.—
It would be Christian charity, said that
somebody, to gtve him settled lodging in
the winter, and he was so light a sleeper
that the footfall of a cat would wake him up
as surely as the bigest gun. The only
fault to be found with him as a watcher
was that, if some tales were true, ho had
been known once or twice to say that he
had heard and seen such things as were not
to be heard and seen by any of his neighbors:
that he had, in fact, like other dowsie peo
ple, his delusions. 'We all have our delu
sions,' quoth the landlord, looking toward
his wife, and, straightway pluming himself
on his own infalliable acuteness, he engaged
Pearmaine to sleep on his ground•fioor du
ring the winter season. Then it was that
by a happy stroke of wit, and as a potent
charm to allure the traveler or scare the
midnight thief, mine host of The Charles in
the Oak Hotel, and—no, not Posting House
(the railway had scratched that off the
sign)—caused to be written in small black
capitals upon its door-post, 'A Night Porter
Always in Attendance.'
I regarded this unhappy night porter,
whenever I passed him in his cupboard,
with a certain awe; and, when I had him ,
up into my room—ke had no awe of any
body—and sat looking blue, and cold, and ,
hungry, with his feet upon my fender, :Lila
his knees scorched by the fire, a glass of,
punch in one of his long bony hands, and a
great rump steak in his stomach, he scarce
ly seemed to be a man of common flesh and
blood. A shimmer of something more or
less than reason played over his face; and,
as I won upon his confidence, he sometimes
made my flesh creep with the things he
said.
He thinks there is plenty of good life in
him for a Night Porter's business, though
(turning up his elbows) his bones are so
sharp. He sleeps in his clothes, and knows
when a step is coming; so that he can spring
up at once, and have the door open as soon
as the bell is touched; or sooner, for the
matter of that. Sometimes people look stir
prised; and once a man, who had not rung,
took to his heels and ran. It was supposed
that that man was a London burglar.—
Knowing that they can got in easily in win
ter nights, and have a light struck, or a
kettle made to boil, at any hour, by the
quick hands of Dorsi() John. belated neigh
bors often come at strange hours to the
Charles in the Oak; and so the good fellow
conducted a little branch of business that
earned at least his right to a good supper
all the winter through. The house and all
within it was, indeed, of nights wholly at
his disposal; the entire district being assured
of John's trustworthiness. He is a man
to lie down and die starved upon the floor
of a full larder, if the owner of the larder
does not say to him, 'Fall to and eatl'
Yes, he had seen seen some curious things,
he says, as a Night Porter. There did
come a thief once—only once; be came un
der pretense of being a traveler, hut John
soon throttled him. ➢faster came down and
dragged him off, but only in time to prevent
the vagabond from being throttled before
his time. But that was nothing. He would
tell me, as a secret, an adventure that he
often dreamed over again after it happened,
and still dreamed about, and feared he al
ways should dream about to the end of his
days.
One December night, several years ago, it
was bitterly, bitterly cold. It had been
snowing for two days, but it was not snow
ing then. The earth was white, and the
air was black, and it was bitterly, bitterly,
bitterly cold. Dowel° John lay in his cup
board, and was kept awake by the stirring
of a cruel wind among the snow. By-and
by the wind fell. There was a dead calm,
and John slept till a sound of voices at a
distance—beyond anybody else's ear shot;
but his ears were so very ready--woke bum
up again.
'God avenge this!' said a man.
'This way to the Charles in the Oak, I
think,' said another.
And then one of the two shouted out,
'John Perri - mine, put a light in the window:
We can't see the house!'
John's light was on the window-sill, and
the shutter was thrown back in an instant.
They were the voices of two neighbirs—
stout young farmers, brothers, who lived
with their father, and had been, as he knew,
to a distant mnrket•town with cattle. They
came slowly, with heavy steps. The candle
sent a ray of light across the road; and.
through the ray, passed at last the arms of
one young man; then, suddeoly, the gleam
flashed over the pale. still face of a woman
whom the two were carrying, tenderly, rev
erently, dead as she was. They brought
her in with blessings upon Duwsie John's
quick ears.
'Lost in a snow drift; cold and stiff as ice.
There may be life in her yet. Quick is the
word, Johnny, quick!'
The Night 'Porter dragged his mattress.
from its cupboard to the feet of the two
brothers, and they laid the body down upon
it, just within the threshhold of the inn.—
One brother darted out again, to bring the
nearest doctor to the rescue; and the other,
when he saw that Dowsie John had rushed,
as a matter of course, to the tap in search
of brandy, hastened up stairs to alarm the
house. So when John brought his brandy
to the corpse, he and it were alone. In
stooping down to it, he moved aside the
shawl, the folds of with enclosed lung strips
of snow: and, under it, saw that there lay
fixed in the woman's rigid arms a cold,
white baby. The half-witted man knelt
down—he never could tell why—and picked
away a lump of snow that lay unmelted nn
its little bosom. 'Pretty hire he said. and
put his gaunt face down, and kissed it on
the mouth. Then he turned to the mother
with his brandy, and spilt it; because, sud
denly, she opened her large eyes, and looked
at him.
The eyelids crept down over the eyes
again, and covered them. John turned
away to fill the empty glass. At the same
moment landlady and landlord, chamber
maid and cook, were hurrying down stairs,
the cook with an arm-load of blankets. The
bmiy was moved, fires were lighted, bricks
were made hot, the set teeth of the dead
were parted. To no purpose. The doctor
came and declared that life had been fur
many hours extinct, putting aside John's
evidence to the contrary as a delusion of the
senses. The woman might have died of
hunger and exhaustion before she was buried
in the snow. He could not tell. There was
a wedding ring upon her finger. and the
child, which, as it seemed to him, had ex
Aired several hours later than its mother,
was of about seven months old. The rags
that covered them had been good clothing
ME
In the hope that somebody would recog
nize this woman, she lay with her chill du
ring a whole week at the inn; and the Charles
in the Oak itself, by the desire of its landla
dy, who would hear nothing about parishes,
gave her a decent burial.
A week afterward a young man came to
the neighborhood, obtained leave to have
the grave opened, and was distracted when
he looked inside the coffin. He said she
was his dearest sister—his bright Phoebe;
that she had gone away with a bad husband,
who had ill-used and deserted her: that he
lost trace of them till he heard that she had
set out from a distant place to seek him in
some town in this direction; and upon this
followed news of the bodies of a woman and
an infant having been found here, and then
he earner at once.
This mini, though he looked poor enough,
(and was, indeed, a yciman of small means,
named Thomas Halton,) paid all the ex
penses incurred by the host of the Charles
in the Oak on account of his dead sister, and
gave Dowsie John ten shillings—as insane
an act in poor John's eyes as the free gift of
a million would seem tort' or to me, if sud
denly made to us by some chance capital
ist.
'I shell face the villain yeti' said Ilaisten,
as he galloped out of the inn•yard.
'I would not be in his shoes if you du,'
muttered the hostler.
'I would not be in his shoes if you don't,'
said Dowsie John. 'I wouldn't go out of
the world like him, with such a score chalk
ed up behind my door, and never have met
with a man willing to rub it off fur me be
fore I went.'
Two months afterward, at about ten
o'clock on one of the last nights of February
—it was a dull night, with a mizzling rain
that had accompanied a rapid thaw, and the
Charles in the Oak was gone to bed for very
dreariness—John Pearmaine, before retiring
to his cupboard, was at work over his last
purchase of a halfpenny worth of new bal
lads by the kitchen fire. Intent upon •The
Soldier Tired.' he did not notice any sound
outside until ho hoard a shot, It mime from
the road, but was not very near. lie was
on his feet instantly, and made all haste to
the front door; but after the first bound into
the entrance hall, ho stopped. Across the
threshhold, just as it had been on that night
in December, Jay—or seemed to lie—his
mattress, with dead Phcebe and her infant
stretched upon it. The white snow gleamed
among the folds of the dress. All was as
it had been once before, except that the dead
face. rigid and white, with the eyes closed,
was turned toward John, and one hand was
lifted from the baby, and fixed in a gesture
that appeared to bid him stand and listen.
He did stand and listen. After the shot he
heard words uttered by persons in the
distance so rapidly that he could not catch
their purport; then a sudden, sharp cry. fol
lowed by a voice that moaned, 'Heaven
avenge!' The spectre's hand flickered slowly
—moved—and pointed to the door. Its
opened eyes shone full into the face of Dow
sic John.
After some minutes a step was heard in
the wet road. It approached the door of the
Charles in the Oak, but John, fixed by the
woman's gesture, stood immovable, candle
in hand, his face aghast. The do tr had not
been bolted for the night. The stranger
pulled the latch, and opening it, briskly en
tered. The spectre vanished; but the last
part of it that vanished was the pointing
hand. The person who suddenly had come
in damp out of the mist stood where its
form had lain, and shivered suddenly as
though a cold blast from the ground had
whistled through his bones.
'ldiot!' he said, fiercely-,
stare"
It wag evident to him, at a glance, that
no one eh.° wmi stirring in the Charing in
in the Oak; and Julia way for the time an
idiot indeed.
'lf you have any sense,' said the stranger,
'remember what I tell you. A man will he
found dead in the road to-morrow. It wa•
I that killed him; but his blood is not upon
my head. He waylaid me in my road from
the town to the station, shot at r.•e, and was
slain by me in self-defence. That is my
name,' he added, throwing down a card; 'I
am known to many people in the town.—
To-morrow I must be in London. If an in
quest be held, give evidence before it, as
well as your wits will allow, and say that if
they will adjourn over another day, I shall
appear to answer for myself before the jury.
Take this to keep your memory alive.'
The stranger, who was a good looking,
brawny man, advanced toward Dowsie John,
and tossing a half sovereign into the dish of
the chamber candlestick, turned on his heel,
and went into the road again, closing the
door tranquilly after him.
The man had brought much dirt into the
hall with him; but where he had been
standing longest was a stain over which
John bent till he assured himself that it was
blood. He tried it with a corner of the
card; and sickening at the bright red c o l o r,
slunk, trembling and cowed, into his lair.
Wonderment followed wonderment next
morning at The Charles in the Oak. The
night porter had gone to bed, leaving the
outer door unbolted; his candles•stick was
on the floor of the entrance hall, with the
candle burned out in the socket. There
was blood on the floor; the name of Mr.
Robert Earlby on a visiting curd, marked
with a blood stain on the corner; a piece of
money was found afterward embedded in
the tallow that had guttered down over the
candle stick; and John Pearmine, who could
have explained all this. lay on his mattress
with the sound half of his wits astray.
Furthermore, on the came morning,
body pierced through the breast, was brought
to the Charles in the Oak—the nearest inn—
and identified by the people there as that of
a man, Thomas Mrlstou, who had come into
those parts two months before. A dis-
charged gun was found in the hedge near
him. and there were obvious signs of a strug.
gle in the muddy road. An inquest was
held in the inn parlor, at which everything
was told arid shown that could be told and
shown. The card was declared by a jury
man named Philips to be that of a gentle
man of good character and most amiable
disposition, living near London on a free.
hold farm that yielded him a comfortable
income: 'He had been at his house,' said
this juryman, 'nn the preceding night, and
bed left at about a quarter before ton, in
the best of tempers, to walk to the train
that passes at ten thirty.'
'How long had Mr. Philips known this
gentleman?'
•Only six months; hut he had, before that
time. made the acquaintance of his eldest
daughter Mary, when she was in town last
spring upon a visit. As her accepted suitor,
he had been lately a frequent visitor at his
house, and in his character he had reason
to place the utmost confidence. He would
not fail to write to him at once upon this
business.'
'ls you friend bachelor or widower"
'A bachelor.'
The jury went to John Pearmaine as he
lay tossing in his cupboard; but no kind of
information could be had from him. His
mind rambled over a great number of wild
subjects; but he said not a syllable, insane
or sane, of anything that could be supposed
to have happened on the previous night.
While they were thus engaged, news cam e
that Mr. Earlby had descended from the
omnibus at the inn door, and was in the
parlor waiting for the jury. He was pale
and faint, he said, from loss of blood.—
Pressing business as well as the desire to
submit his wound at once to the attention
of his own surgeon, had caused him to per
severe in his purpose of returning home on
the night in question; but ho was so anxious
to avoid every appearance of a desire for
secrecy or mystery upon the subject of the
unfortunate affair, that he had COMIC back,
weak as he was, without eren a day's delay.
He had been the more anxious to do this,
because he had doubt whether the message
left by him at the Charles in the Oak would
be delivered by the person whom lie saw
there. He explained s.ati,factorily all that
had been seen that morning in the inn: the
blood was his own, set flowing by a shot
which only grazed his ribs, though it bad
been aimed at his heart by the man whose
body he had on his arrival gone up stairs
to see. The person was a perfect stranger.
Ile must have been a man well known to
the police; fur so desperate an assault ns
that which had, in the case, led to the death
of the assailant, must have been committed
by a footpad of no ordinary sort. After
firing at him from the hedge, the fellow
had leapt down into the road upon him, and
would, as the deponent firmly believed, have
killed him, had he not been provided with
the sword-stick, which he used in self-de
fence.
Every circumstance helped to support the
statement of the witness; who, after the re
i turn of a verdict of justifiable homicide, was
complimented by the coroner for the high
minded way in which he had come forward,
despite all risk to himself, and for the valor
which he had shown in the defence of his
life against a desperate assassin.
Mr. Earlby went to the house of the Phil
ipses, and was sought after as a lion by the
townspeople. The ball, he said, had re
bounded from a rib; his surgeon had found
nothing to extract. He was confined, in
deed. to bed for a few days at Philips's
house with sharp pain on the wounded side;
but this was fir a few days only, and then
all went well again.
Halston was duly buried in unconsecrated
ground; and, in a place where nobody had
known him, there was nobody to take his
shame to heart; except, perhaps. our
hostler. This worthy, who cut out a large
cross on a piece of an old manger, scrawled
under it, with irregular incisions, 'Thomas
I (Liston, His Mark,' and set it up by the
neglected grave. His only assigned reason
was that he must pity a man who had no
luck in shooting vermin. Ti) the cook alone
the hostler would confide all that he thought
about the matter; but site, too, was myste
rious, and all that she could say was that
she must pity poor Miss Philips. Other
migivings were soon set at rest; and, for a
time, I fear, the hostess was to be caught
now and then regretting the new linen of
her own that she had gilen to 'the burglar's
Isister' for her grave clothes.
iThe poor night porter said nothing, and
knew little more upon this sullicet. His
illness continued till the spring; and I must
say of our hostess, that if she regretted
kindness after it was spent, she never
grudged in the hour of need. The Charles
in the Oak promoted John to a commodious
bedroom on the upper floor, and, by good
nursing, helped him to regain his former
health with to fur portion of his former wit.
I Nobody spoke of the affair which had pro
duced the painful effect upon his mind.
lAlthough incessantly, as I believe, tor
muted by phantom shapes and such delu
sions as are common to disordered minds, a
strange instinct kept ail speech about them
• from our poor night p.rter's tongue. He
lived alone with his ghost world; and it is
only by chance, or upon the strength of a
rare confidence, that any one or two of his
experiences were revealed. I may bete
state that there was one especial reason for
preserving silence with Daft John upon the
present matter. For the market garden, in
which he fund summer employment, lay
between the inn and the town. Fifty paces
down the road—measured from the gate of
the garden, going town-ward—is the spot
where Phcebo and her child were found; and
against the very bank near which he had
been told that she lay covered by the snow
drift, Thomas Ralston, when he had tracked
her destroyer, stood to shoot him down.
Happily ignorant of this, Pearmaine work
at his summer duties among nectarines and
roses, gaunt as ever. He planted, pruned,
and gathered, with the same unearthly
shimmer on his face. February long since
gone, July was come, and John was caper
ing in his uncouth way down a gravel-walk
pursued by little Tabby Full, his master's
youngest girl, and a few other olive branches.
The children wore all dancing to the tune of
wedding bells that rung through the pure
morning air from more than one of the town
steeples.
They were arrayed in muslin, very clean,
except Tabby, who bad twice been on her
knees, embroidering herself with gravel.—
All in good time came more little girls in
white; and ono or two girls of a middling
size appeared by ones and twos and threes
to swell the group. Finally, in the very
nick, Mr. James Foll, the mnster-gardeuer,
in a white waistcoat, establiblied himself as
a telegraph station at his gate, and began
working in a lively manner.
Obedient to signal, all the fairies disap•
peered within the great conservatory, each
quickly to reappear with a boquet. Mr.
Full, in his character of Generalissimo, then
formed his troop, and animated them with
this harangue:
'why do you
'Now, girls, the happy pair are coming
I Show yourselves worthy of your fathers and
mothers. Honor the brave and fair, your
dear companion. Mary Philips—Mrs. Rob
ert Earlby, now—wife to our noble and
courageous friend—shall—tho wheels, la
dies; they are coming. Now's your time—
form /Me across the road, band in hand, and
adranee. Peermaine, take this hotpot—my
$1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE
[WHOLE NITAIBER. 1.434.
token of affection to the bride—tell ber so
when you give it through the carriage win-
d OW
The damsels, bent upon their — wedding
freak, formed a white chain, like a living
wreath of snow across the road:then-march
ed forward some fifty paces before meeting
the bridegroom and his bride. Of course
the postillions stopped, end straightway
there appeared at either window a group of
smiling eyes and lips speaking confusedly a
babel of sweet language, while dimpled
hands were raining bouquets down upon the
laps of the much honored pair. The bride
groom leaned forward, laughed, then looked
for half a minute stern; and in the mind of
Dowsie John, who stood aside under the
hedge will: the great nosegay of the morn
ing in his hand, a wild memory was start
led into life. Unconsciously, his lips utter
ed the cry that had been wafted to him on
the night of his great terror. He moaned
it faintly, just as it had floated to him
through the February night, but struck its
every note upon the bridegroom's ear:
'Heaven avenge'
Earl by sank hack in the carriage. It was
not the voice of a gardener's man in a gaber
dine; it was the voice of a dead man, as he
believed, or of his blood, crying aloud from
the place where he had fallen. The girls
and the bride in their glee had not noticed
this. Their happy riot was nearly done,
and it was now time for John to do his mas
ter's bidding. lie stepped, therefore, to the
carriage window, and, leaning with his
weird face before Mr. Earlby to prevent the
flowers to the bride, who sat upon the other
side, said, true to his text:
nm hidden to present these to you, as a
token.'
Bratitifulr the Lride. '012! do tell
me whq ,:e n t
As a token from—' between the bride
and bridegroom suddenly appeared to his
sick fancy a spectral face—lrom Phoebe
llab , ton!' he screamed, and recoiled as a
man who had been stung. A blow from the
bridegroom, who had risen in wild fury,
overtook him as he shrunk away: and the
poor creature, staggering back fell under
the hedge.
lie rose almost directly. Earlby woe
coughing violently, with a wedding hand
kerhief before his mouth. It was drenched
with blond.
The horses' heads were turned, and the
bridegroom was conveyed without lose of
time to the sick chamber. The boll that
had not been extracted had indeed glanced
against one rib, but it had been only so di
verted as to lodge behind another rib. The
wound, healed externally, had made only
the more certain way within. Sudden emo
tion, and the strong exertion of the chest
necessary to strike DowsieJohn, bad caused
the ball to make a fatal plunge into the lung,
and to set the red blood flowing.
Hopeless illness, which endured for months,
intervened, ns you might suppose, between
this accident and death. Those months
were not ill-spent by Robert Earthy. So
fully did he take upon himself the shame
due to his crimes, that while unable to re
store, even by his fervent prayers and er
d.•nt repentance, the brother and sister and
the innocent tendril whose lives were either
directly or indirectly on his head, be didthe
beat he could, tts I learned afterward, to
keep Dowsie John out of the poor•heuso for
the remainder of his life.
THE BASQUE Satter ea the ma
ny heroes whose renown is built upon the
mortification of excisemen, is a French
Basque named Ganis, to whose fidelity was
at one time confided a freight more illus
trious than silks,or furs, or the best Mocha.
He hod the distinguibbecl honor of smug
gling the Princess of Beira, the consort of
Don Carlos, over from France to Spain, when
she went to be united to her liege lord. On
this occasion, finding himself briskly pur
sued, he coolly took the Princess on his
shoulders, and bore her bodily through the
swollen Bidassoa, leaving the French troops
to seize a barailesq Italian, whose accent
caused Lim to be taken fur the Count do
Montemolin. We are not informed whether,
the Princess in safety, her guide fell on his
knees, and, like a true knight of thu olden
time, bogged her to accept his head as some
small atonement for his presumption; but it
is satisfactory to learn that she did not for
get him, for, as the bells rang next morning
for her marriage with Don Carlos, she set
tled upon him that annuity of 1,800 francs,
which to this day makes him a solitary me
morial of the gratitude of Spanish Bour
bons.
Ganis is a megnanimons fellow, as the fol
lowing anecdote records: "A boat laden with
smuggled goods is sailing towards Bidoche.
The revenue officers present themselves to ef
fect a seizure. Ganis, surprised, advances
towards their chief, who, doubtless mistak
ing his intentions, discharges a pistol, load
ed with ball, the muzzle against the smug
gler's breast. One sign from the latter, all
tho officers aro seized, gagged, embarked
and conducted to a lonely shore, where they
are tied to trees and made ready to be shot.
Tl•c leader calms the fury of his companions
and forbids them to fire without his orders.
He then withdraws, probes the wound with
a knife, ascertains that it is not mortal. and
having extracted the hall, returns and pre
sents it to the officer who had fired the pis
tol. 'Learn from a smuggler,' he says. 'to
respect the life of thy fellow creatures. I
pardon thee: but, do not return.' All were
released without injury."