.• „ • • ..,.. • . • SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and. Proprietor. VOLUME XXVIII, NUMBER 44.] POLISHED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING •Office in Northern Central Railroad Ccm toraug's Building,north-toestcorner Front and Watnut street?. Torras of Subscription. b).. Copy per annum t if paid in advance, I, Pi it not paid within three •montha from commencement of the year, 2 00 4. iacyjnr3r. Ne subscription received for a Ices time than six "Months; and no paper will be dibeontinued until all tarrearages are paid, unless at the option of the pub- Visher. 1 17-111oney may be remitted by mail at the publish r s risk. - - Rates of Advertising. maitre (6 lines] one week, three weeks, each subsequent insertion, 10 1 4, [l2:i neel one wee lc, 50 1, 100 each subsequent insertion, 25 I Largeradvertisemente in proportion. A liberal discount will be mode to quarterly, half. yearly or yearlyudvertisers,who are strictlyconfined to their business. DR. S. ARMOR, HODICEOPATHIC PHYSICIAN, COLUMBIA, PA. Orstcx Aztz. ItentostrcX—Second Street, one door from Walnut. March 13,1855. THOMAS WELSH, JUSTICE OF THE PEACE, Columbia,' Pe. OFFICE, in Whipper's New Building, below Black's Hotel, Front street. MrPrompt attention given to all business entrusted to bis care. November 28, 1857. DR. G. W. MIFFLIN, DENTIST, Locust street, a few doors above the Odd Fellows' Hall, Columbia, Pa. Columbia. May 3. 1856. 11. M. NORTH, ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR AT LAW. Columbia, Pa. Collections, ;romptly made, in Lancaster and York •Counties. Columbia, Ma 4,1950 J. W. FISHER, .Attorney and Counsellor at Law, iacaluxiclblei., Per. Columbia, September 0, GEORGE J. SMITH, WHOLESALE and Retail Bread and Cake Baker.—Constantly on hand a variety of Cakes, too numerous to mention,. Crackers; Soda, Wine, 'Scroll, and Sugar Biscuit; Confectionery, of ever description, &e., ,c. LOCUST Srith:ET, Feb.24%56. Between the Bank and Franklin I louse. Cold Cream of Glycerine, TICK the Cnre and Prevention of Chap ped Hands. Fur sale by Dr. E. D. II ERR. Col- Nov. 7. V. 157. GoMen Mortar Drug Store WISTAR'S BALSAM OF WILD CHERRY, for Coughp, Coldn, &c..for ante al MCC OH K,ll & DEL LETT'S Family Medicine. atore, Odd Fellows , Hull. Columbia, Oct. 81,1657. WOOLLEY'S All healing and Strengthen ing Salve, for Pale at McCORKL.FI h DELLF".I"F'S Family Medicine Store, Odd Fellows' Hall. Columbia, 0ct.31.. 11157. COSH Starch, Farina, Rice Flour, Tapioca, Sago, Oat Meal, Arrow Root. &c..nt the FAMILY MEDICINE STORE, Odd Fellowv., Sept. 26, '57 J UST reteived, three dozen Dr. Brunon's t Vegetable Bitters , a certain cure for Dyspep.in; a , a free& lot of Sap Sago and Pine Apple (Thecae, Farina and Corn Starch, at D. DERR'S Sept 5, ISfi7. Grocery and Liquor Store. -HAIR DYE'S. Jones' Batchelor's, Peter's and Egyptian hair dyes, warranted to color the hair Auy desired shade, without Injury to the shim. For auto by R. WILLIAMS. May 10, Front at., Columbia, Pa. SOLUTION OF CITRATE OF ALAGNESII,or Par gative Mineral Water.—This pleasant inedielne which is highly recommended as a substitute for EpsoaiSalis,Seidlilz Powders Ste., an he obtained fresh every day at Da. E. ICHERR'S Drug Store, Front at. OJ TAMPS, LAMPS, LAMPS. Just received at j Herr 's Drug Store, st new and beautiful lot of Lamps of all descriptions. May 2,1857. SUPERIOR article of burning Fluid just received and for !Kale by 11. SUYDAM & SON. ALARGE lot of City cured Pried Beef, just received et u.sure.tat & SON'S. Columbia. December 29,18543. 11 00FLAND'S German Bitters. For sale at 11leCOH1KLE & DEII.I..ETT , S Family Medicine Store, Odd Fellows' Hall. 3aly lEL'i7. POMMY Produce constantly on hand an d V for talc by H. SUYDAM d. SON. HOMINY, Cranberries, Raisins, Figs, Alm ond*, Walnuts, Cream riniQ, &e., just received tuItDAM & Columbia, Dec.2o, OM IN. SUPERIOR lot of Black and Green Teas, Coffee and Choeolate,j an received nt n. 04.50:5 . 5 Dec. 20,1956. Corner of Front and Union sta. TNT RECEIVED, a beautiful assortment of Glass Ink Stands, at the Headquarters and News Depot. Columbia, April 1E1,1657. EXTILA Faintly and Superfine F our of the beat brand, for WC by IL SUYDAM & SON. TIM received 1000 lbs, extra double bolted Buckwheat Meal, at Dec.2o, 1856. H. SUYDAM ac. SON'S. ____ _ WEIBEL'S Instantaneous Yeast or Baking Powder. for .ale by 11. SUYDAM & SON. FARE & THOMPSON'S justly celebrated Com mercial and other Gold Pens—the brat in the market—junt received. Columbia. A era 25.1.855. WHY should au yperson do without a Clock, when they cau be had forsl,soNnd upwards. SHREINER'S? .let Columbia, April 29,1955 imported Harlem Oil, for sale at Dr. E. D. HERR'S Golden Dlortur Drug Store, %Trent street,Columbia, Pa. [Feb. 6, ?SABLE AND FLOOR OIL CLOTHS, all widths, 1 and Carpeting!, for sale cheap. by OeL 10,1807. 1. 0. BRUNER rk. CO. ATS AND CAPS. suitable for the season. and at Al low priest., at the Corner of - Third and Union sts. Oct. 10, 1957. LOOKING GLASSES. ott 517 e.. tja I. 0. BRUNER & Corner of Third and Union sts. - 0ct.10,18 , 01. White, Red and Yellow Wool flan nets and •410 Wool Yarn, ofall color, and qualities, at October 10, 1557. BRUNER'S. ,SALT by the sack or bushel, and Mackerel by dm barrel Or retail, at 1.0. BRUN Ett h MS. October 10, 1857. DR= SEGARS AMP TOBACCO, or different breads, wholeaale and retoil,hy October 10,18577. R. 0. DRONER & CO. MARLS sold gook Sall, by We sack or bushel,for sale lose. by Oct 10,1917. DGRATH'S FILE.CI I IIIC OIL . Jcmt received. fresh supply-a:this popular remedy, find for sale R. WILLIAMS. Front Sirem, Columbia, Pa. May 10,1936 ALARCH assortment oritopea. all siren and lengths, en hand and for halo at THOS. wELstre, Marsh 13.1967. No.l. High street. ANEW lot of WHALE AND CAR CREAMING OILS. received at the 1110Teortbe •obreriber. R. WILLIAMS. Nay 10, IWO/. Front Street, Colombia, Pa. "Bringing Our Sheaves With Us." EMU The time for toil has past. and night has coma, The last and saddest of the harvest eves; Worn out with labor long and wearisome, Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home, Lad= with golden sheaves. Last of the laborers, thy feet I gain, Lord of the harvest—and my spirit grieves That I am burdened not so much with grain, As with u heaviness of heart and brain; Master, behold my sheaves! •0 39 Few ; light and worthless—yet the trifling weight In ell my frame a weary aching leaves; For long I struggled with my hapless fate, And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late, And these are all my sheaves. Pull well I know I have more tares than wheat— Dead brambles, and dry stalks, and withered leaves; Wherefore I blush and weep, as at thy feet I kneel down reverently, and repeat "Waster, behold my illeftweb!" Dut passing where radiant flowers grew Drowsy with humming bees—the flattering thieves— I braided garlands, crimson, white, and blue -1,,0, how their drooping grace and gorgeous hue Make beautiful my sheaves! I know these blossoms, clustering heavily, With evening dew upon their folded leaves, Can claim no value nor utility— Therefore must fragrancy mud beauty be The value of my sheaves. So do I gather faith and hope anew, Since well I know thy patient love perceives Not what I did, but what I strove to do, And though the full. ripe eats be sadly low Thou wilt accept my shaeves! (Portland 'Transcript. Awful Warning to Bachelors In the last week's number of this journal (to which I have grave objections, but which I read regularly for the purpose of exercis ing my critical ability as a finder of faults,) there appeared an extremely absurd confes sion of weakness, called, "A Shy Scheme!' The writer of the confession, not satisfied with exposing himself to public contempt, in the character of a Shy Young Man, was so obliging as to enter into details on the subject of his manners, his place of resi dence, and his personal appearance. I am about to give this feeble visionary a word of advice, and I am not at all afraid of being quite as particular as lrs has been, in de scribing myself at the outset. If my memory serves me, the Shy Young Man informs us all that his residence was in the country, that his hair was light, that his cheeks were rosy, that his stature was small, that his manners were mild, and that his name was Koddle. In reply, I have no hesitation in avowing that my residence is in London, that my hair is dark, that my cheeks are swarthy, that my stature is gi gantic, that my manners are surly, and that my name is Grump. I have further to add, in opposition to the Shy Young Man, that I havo the strongest possible antipathy to being settled in life; and that, if I thought either of my eyes were capable of fixing itself on a young woman, I would shut that eye up, by an eflort of will, henceforth an 4 forever. I don't say this is good writing; but I call it straight-forward common sense. If any man is bold enough to contradict me. I should like to meet him outside the office of this journal, at any hour of the morning, when the street is tolerably empty, and the policemen happens to be at the opposite ex tremity of the beat. Flow do I propose to enlighten and fortify the Shy Young Man? I intendlto teach him the results of my own experience. If he has ono grain of sense in his whole compo sition, he may profit by the lesson, and may step out of the absurd situation in which he has now placed himself. I have not the slightest feeling of friendship for this imbe cile person. It is merely a little whim of mine to try it I cannot separate him from his young woman. I see his young woman in my mind's eye, even from his miserable descrip tion of her. Complexion of the color of cold boiled veal, white eyelashes, watery eyes, red hands with black mittens on them, raw elbows, sickly smile,—form, plump and shapeless,—kicks her gown when she walks, —stiff in the back-bone when she sits down, and embarrassed by her own legs when she gets up. I know the eott of girl, and I de test her. If I can make her sweetheart look at, her.with my unprejudiced eyes, I shall have accomplished my object to my own entire satisfaction. This is, perhaps, not a gallant way of expressing myself. Never mind that. There is plenty of gallant writing at the present time, for those who want to be flat tered. Let the women take a little rude ness now, by way of a change. Would anybody think that I was once a lady's man? I was,—and, what is more, I was once in love, was once anxious to be settled in life, was once on the point of making an offer. I hail settled how to do it, when to do it, where to do it. Not the slightest doubt of success crossed my Aim/. I believed then, as I believe now, that any man may win any woman, at any time, and under any circumstances. If I had been rejected the first time, I would have proposed again. If I had been rejected a second time, I would have proposed again. If I had been rejected a third, fourth, fifth and sixth time, I would have proposed again and again,--and I should have ended by carrying my point. I know that, and yet, at the eleventh hour, I shrank from making =! rutttg. I= gasttigno. From household Word!' "NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, MAY 8, 1858. my offer. What altered my resolution? A book. Yes, that very bachelor's manual, which the Shy Young Man is so anxious to lay his hands on, was the awful warning that stopped me, in the nick of time, from the insanity of investing myself in a matri monial speculation. I tell Mr. Koddle that the sort of book he wants has been in exis tence for years; and I ask his beat attention to a narrative of the effect which that pub lication had upon my mind, when I was young enough and weak enough to allow myself to fall in love. It was on a Monday morning that I first said to myself, while shaving, "I'll snake that woman promise to marry me on Wed nesday next, at from half-past one to a quar ter of two P. M. Later in the day a friend came to see me. He remarked the more than usual radiant and agreeable expression of my countenance. "You look as if you were going out court ing," said he. "I think of putting my foot in it, for the first time, on Wednesday next," said I. "Would you object to my making you a little present?" said he. "No, I shouldn't," said I. He took his leave. An hour afterwards, a very small, very thin, very square parcel arrived for me. I opened it, and found a book inside, called, The Etiquette of Court ship and Matrimony. I read the book on the spot. The effect of it was, first, to fill me with feelings of the deepest gratitude towards the friend who bad sent it to me as a joke; and, secondly, to inspire me with such a horror of courtship and matrimony, that I instantly gave up all idea of making my proposed offer, and resolved to consult my own convenience, by preserving a bach elor's freedom to the end of my days. To state the proposition, generally, at the outset, I assert that the whole end and object of the Etiquette of Courtship, and Matrimony is to insult, persecute, and de grade the bridegroom. I first became satis fied of this disgraceful fact at page thirty six of the Hand Book or Manual. In the earlier part of the volume it was assumed that I had fallen in love, had made my offer, and had been accepted by my young woman and her family. Etiquette is hard on my heels all through those prelimi nary processes, and finally runs me down as soon as I appear in the character of an engaged man. My behaviour in my future wife's compa ny is of the last importance—and there Et iquette has me, and never lets me go again. "In private," says the Manual, "the slight est approach to familiarity must be avoided, as it will always be resented by a woman who deserves to be a wife." So! I may be brimming over with affection—l may even have put on a soft waistcoat expressly for the purpose—but I am never to clasp my future wife with rapture to my bosom—l am never to print upon her soft cheek a momentary impression of the pattern of my upper shirt-stud! She is to keep me at arm's - length in pri vate as well as in public—and I am actually expected to believe, all the time-that she is devotedly attached to me! First insult. A little further on, (page thirty-eight) the family have their fling at me. I "must not presume to take my stand, thus premature ly, as a member of the family, not affect that exceeding intimacy which leads," et cetera. Thus the father, mother, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and cousins, all keep me at arm's length as well as the bride.— Second insult. First persecution. During my engage ment, I am to be "very particular and even punctilious, in my dress. My visits, which, for the most part, wo may presume will oc cur in the evening, should be made invaria bly in evening dress." Indeed? I have been at my office all day—l have dined at my lonely chop-house. I fly, at the risk of indigestion, with ray "follow-chop" and my love contending for the uppermost place in my bosom to the loor of my charmer. I suddenly Top with my hand on the knock er, remember that I have a pair of gray trousers on, and turn away again to case my legs in black kerseyrnere, to change my col oredi shirt, to make pomatum pills and rub them into my hair, to put fresh scent on my handkerchief and a flower in my dress coat; to send for a cab, and to drive up, at last, to my young woman's door, as if she bad asked me to a party. When I get in,does she slip into the back dining-room and pri vately reward me for my black kerseymere, my pomatum pills, and my scented hand kerchief ? Not she! She receives me, in the drawing-room, at arm's length; and her family receive me at arm's length, also.— And what does Etiquette expect of me, un der these circumstances, for the rest of the evening? There it is at page forty-three.— I "must never be out of spirits but when my fair one is sad—never animated but when she is cheerful; her slightest wish must be my law, her most trifling fancy the guiding star of my conduct. In coming to her, I must show no appreciation of time, distance, or fatigue."—llly Jupiter! if this does not disclose the existence of an organized plan for the harassing of bridegrooms, I should like to know what does?. I put it to the women themselves: Are you any of you worth all that? You know you are not! What would you privately think of a man who . was afraid to come and see you of an evening in grey trousers, and who tried to conceal from you that his poor corns ached a little after•a long walk? You would pri- vately think him a fool. And so do I pub-1 liely. Second persecution—in case the wretched bridegroom has survived the first. As the wedding-day approaches, I "must come out of the bright halo of my happiness" (hap piness(!) "into the cold, grey, actual daylight of the world of business." I must "burn all my bachelor letters"—why I should like to know?) "and part with, it may be, some few of my bachelor connections"—(does this mean "some few" of my relations, my blood relations, who adore the very ground I tread on?) and I must, finally, "bid a long fare well to all bachelor friends!"—"Did you say all? 0, hell-kite?—all?" Yes, there it is in print, at page sixty-two. My affectionate tendencies, my grey trousers, my comfortable shooting-jacket, my appreciation of time, distance, or fatigue, my bachelor letters, my few connections, my bachelor friends—all must disappear before this devouring Mo loch in 'petticoats. Nothing is left me— nothing but my evening costume and the prospect of being married! After the insults and persecutions, minor troubles envelope me previous to the com mencementof the wedding-day degredations. All the responsibility of getting Moloch's wedding-ring is thrown on me. It must not be too thin, or Moloch, in course of years, will wear it out; it must not be too large, or Moloch's finger will let it drop off. If lam self-distrustful (and how can I be otherwise, after the severe discipline to which I have submitted during the courtship?) I must get nt Moloch's size through the intervention of Moloch's sister; and when I have purchased the ring, I must be very careful to keep it in the left-hand corner of my right-hand waist coat pocket, and to be ready at a moment's notice for the clerk when he asks me for it. Having grappled with all these difficulties, my next piece of work is to get my bride groomsmen. I must be very particular in selecting them. They must be limited in number to the number of the bridesmaids, one for each. They must be young and un married, they should be handsome, they cannot fail to be good-humored, they ought to be well dressed, their apparel should be light and elegant, they should wear dress coats. The bride sends white gloves, weapped in white paper and tied with white ribbon, to each of the bridesmaids; and I must do the same to each of the bride groomsmen. My own costume is to be "a blue coat, light grey trousers, white satin or silk waistcoat, ornamental tie, and white (not primrose -colored) gloves." Pleasant! having insulted and persecuted me all through the courtship, Etiquette, on my wedding morning, strips me even of my evening costume, clothes me in an ornament al tie and a. white Batik waistcoat, and pro duces me maliciously before the public eye in the character of an outrageous snob. We now come to the Bridegroom's First Degrodation. It is the morning of the mar riage; and the wedding-party is setting out for the church. Here is Etiquette's order of the carriages: "In the first carriage the principal brides maid and bridegroonisman. "In the second carriage, the second brides maid and the bridegroom's mother. "Other carriages, with bridesmaids and friends, the oarriages of the bridesmaids taking precedence. "In the last carriage the bride and her father." Where is the bridegroom in the pro gramme? Nowhere. Not even a hackney cab provided for him! How does he get to church? Does he run, in the ornamental tie, and white satin waistcoat, behind one of the carriages? Or has he a seat on the box? Or does he walk, accompanied by two po licemen, to prevent him from taking the only sensible course left,—in other words, from running away? We hear nothing of him till it is time for him to undergo his second degredation; and then we find him waiting in the vestry, "where he must take care to have arrived some time previously to the hour appointed." Observe the artfulness with which this sec ond degradation is managed! If the bride groom only arrived at the church door five minutes before the appointed hour, he would appear in the estimable character of a rig idly punctual man, who knows the value of time (especially when you have an ornamen tal tie, and a white satin waistcoat to put on,) and who was determined not to waste the precious moments on his wedding-morn ing. But Etiquette insists on making a contemptable fool of hint all through. The beadle, the clerk, the pow-opener, and the general public must all see him "kicking his heels" to no earthly purpose, some time before the hour when he, and the beadle, and the clerk, and the pew-opener all know that he is wanteo. Consider the bride dash ing up to the c hurch-door with, her train of carriages; then, look at the forlorn snob in light grey trousers, humbled by insult and wasted by'persecution, who has been danc ing attendance "some time previously to the hour appointed," in a lonely then say if Etiquette does not punish the lords of creation severely for the offence of getting married ! vestry; and But the offence is committed—the mar riage has been perpetrated—the wedding party returns to breakfast; the bridegroom, this time, having a place in the first carriage, because the Law has made a man of him at last, in spite of the bride and her family. But the persecutions are not over yet. They assume a small, spiteful, social character in error of the aforesaid Law. The breakfast is eaten. Drink, the last refuge of the wretched, partially revives the unhappy ' man who has been kicking his heels in the vestry. Ile begins to lose the galling sense of his white satin waistcoat; he forgets that he is personally disfigured for the occasion by an ornamental tie. At that first moment of comfort, vindictive Etiquette goads him on to his legs, ana insists, no matter whether he can do it or not, on his making a speech. Ile has hardly had time to break'down, and resume his chair before Etiquette sends the bride out of the room to put on her travel ing dress. The door has hardly closed on her, when a friend (assuming the form'of a bachelor friend,) attacks him with "a short address" (see page seventy-nine,) to which he is "expected to respond." Give him time to show his light grey trowsers once more to the company, above the horizon of the table-cloth—give him time to break down again—and the bride re-appears, ready for the journey. This is the last chance the family have for some time to come, of making the bridegroom uncomfor table; and Etiquette shows them how to take the meanest possible advantage of it: "The young bride, divested of her bridal attire, and quietly costumed for the journey, now bids farewell to her bridesmaids and lady friends. Some natural tears spring to her eyes as she takes a last look at the home she is now leering. The servants venture to crowd to her with their humble though heartfelt congratulations, and, finally, melt ing, she fulls weeping on her mother's bo som. A short cough is heard, as of some one summoning up resolution. It is her father. Ile dare not trust his voice; but holds out his hand, gives her one kiss, and then leads her, half turning back, down the stairs and through the hall, to the door, where he delivers her to her husband; who hands her quickly to the carriage, let.ps in lightly after her, waves his hand to the party, who appear crowding to the windows, half smiles to the throng about the door, then gives the word, and they are off, and started on the voyage of life!" There are some parts of this final pro gramme of persecution to which I have no objection. I rather like the idea of the father being obliged to express paternal grief by the same means which be would employ to express brochitis—a short cough. I am also gratified to find that Etiquette in volveshim in the serious gymnastic difficulty of taking his daughter down stairs, and of half turning back at the same time. But here all sentiments of approval, on my part, end. From the forgoing passage.— I draw the inference—as every one else must—that the bridegoom is kept watch ing at the street-door for the bride, just as a begging-letter imposter is kept waiting at the street-door, for an answer. And, when she does come down, what does the triply degraded man find to reward him for waiting? Part of a woman only: the rest having melted on the mother's bosom. Part of a woman I say again, with a red nose, and checks bedabbled with- tears. And what tun I, the bridegroom, expected to do under these circumstances? To hand what the mother's bosom and the father's short cough have left me, "quickly into the car riage," and to "leap in lightly" after it.— Lightly? After what I have gone through, there must be a considerable spring in . my light grey trowsers to enable me to do that. I pursue the subject no further. The new Divorce Court occupies the ground before me; and I make it a rule never to interfere with the vested interests of others. I have i followed a man, by the lurid light of Eti quette, from his Courtship to his Marriage; and there I leave him with emotions of sym pathy for which the English language affords me no adequate means of expression. I defy British families (being a bachelor, I am not the least bit afraid of them) to point out in any other mortal affair which a man can go through, such an existing per secution against the individual as that which is attached to the business of court ing and marrying when a man undertakes it in this country. There is the book with the code of inhuman laws against the un offending bridegroom, for every one to refer to. Let the Shy Young Man get it, and prop erly test my accuracy of quotation; and then let him say whether he is still prepared to keep his eye on his young woman. after he knows the penalties which attach to let ting it rove in that dangerous direction.— No such awful warning to bachelors has been published in my time as the small volume on the Etiquette of Courtship and Matrimony, which I now close with a shud der henceforth and forever. Old Bailey Practice In the middle and towards the end of last century, there figured at the Irish bar a Mayo man, a passage in whose life will interest. He was a descendant of the an cient and honorable Norman house of Cos telloe—(your Nagle and your Nangle are varieties of flit Costelloe, be it known.)— He had received an excellent education, and possessed considerable legal knowledge.— He was shrewd; of much seeming gravity; "a fellow of infinite jest"—a living joke: witty himself, and the cause of wit in other men. Ho was. although his family had re sided during six centuries in Ireland, a true Norman. Ile had been in the year 1745, and subse quently, a student of the Middle Temple, London, and had not denied himself any of the pleasures, or indeed any of the adven tures, of which the English metropolis afforded—that is, to the utmost extent of the means supplied by his family. He thus acquired vast reputation of a particular kind among his cotemporaries, and even bccdme the hero of a tale in which he was $1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; :$2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE. made to appear a staunch Jacobite, guilty of high treason, in short, in harboring the Pretender in his chambers. In justice to the counsellor's character for loyalty, it must be stated, however, that he was maligned in that respect. I had heard and laughed at the story myself, and had even told it once or twice with much sue eves. I had occasion to refer one day, how ever, to some of the old chroniclers of France, and found in Brantome the adventure which had been ascribed to Costello°, related of the Duke of Orleans, brother of Charles VI. Continuing my investigations, I hit upon it also in the "Esrais Historiques of St. Foie," and in an English version of it by Gilbert, in his "Views of Society in Europe." This story was a specimen of a hundred anecdotes of "The Counsellor," of which I refrain from giving here; not, however, be cause there is any doubt of correctness.— Fortunately, there is one which is not liable to the objection that imposes silence on me respecting the others, and which will serve to portray my hero in his proper colors. llis terms served, Costclloo was called to the bar in Doublin, where ho gave unquest ionable proofs of talent; but whether through indolence or taste, eschewing equity or com mon law, he devoted himself to what is termed Old Bailey practice, and in which he was unrivalled. One morning, at the time when Costelloe was in the height of his reputation, the city of Dublin was :frightend front its propriety by the announcement that Gleadowe's bank had been plundered of a large sum of gold by the chief cashier, to whom its charge had been entrusted. The alleged culprit was immediately taken into custody, brought before the city magistrate, interrogated, and the proofs of his guilt being held manifest, committed to Nev - gate. The whole process was terminated by eleven o'clock, A. M. Before the prisoner had reached his des tination, Costello° was made aware of all the circumstances of the case by one of the committing magistrate's clerks, whom he kept constantly in pay. This man had hardly left Costelloe's house after acquitting himself of his duty, when the Counsellor received a letter inviting him to repair forthwith to Newgate to see Mr.—, just brught in, who desired his advice. Costelloe proceeded at once to Newgate, for such a course was not then interdicted to practitioners by private resolutions of the bar; but even had it been, he was not a man to be turned from his purpose by any rule that interfered, however slightly, with the indulgence of his humor. He was there introduced to the cashier of Glead owe's, a man of serious, sanctimonious mien, and of some fifty years of age. The usual salutation over, and the door carefully closed, Costelloe, with that wonderful coup d'ail for which he was celebrated, saw at once the species of person he had to deal with, and begged to be informed why his pres ence had been requested. "You have heard, probably, sir;" said the man. "that I have been the cashier of Gleadowe's bank, and that it is said a large deficit has been discovered in my accounts?" "That you had been a clerk of old Glead owe, I was ignorant" replied Costelloe; "but I have just been informed that his cashier has appropriated to himself one of his money bags, in fact that the bank has been robbed by the rascal, of a whole heap of gold." "Rascal! That is a harsh word, sir." "Not if applicable." "Well, sir, I shall not dispute terms, however painful to nn honest, conscientious man to bear them. lam the party in ques tion. "And you done the trick?" "Sir!" "You sacked the bag?" "I don't understand you." "Yo'vo gotten the money?" "Really, sir, I cannot comprehend you!" "You robbed the bank?" '•Do you mean to insult me? I rob the bank! I cheat my employer! I plunder my benefactor, and preserve the fruits of it! No, sir: no! I have not a shilling in the world." "Then, by—,you'll be banged." "What can you mean?" "I'll make it as clear to you as that those fetters are of iron. If you have robbed the bank, you must have, at least some of the money, and can afford to pay me well for saving your life. If you are innocent, and consequently penniless, you will be weighed as sure as was &Air nu geppul! "Weighed:" "In the city justice scales. The case is spoken of everywhere, with this addition, that the proofs against you aro irrefutable." "Then there is no hope?" "None, if you be what you say yourself —guiltless? for you cannot afford to retain me, who, probably of all the bar, could alone give you a chance." Overwhelmed and horrified, the hypocrite, after some hesitation, admitted that he was in a condition to remunerate the counsellor for undertaking his defence. "What is your fee, sir?" he naked. "Ten per cent!" "Ten per cent? Why, that is a thousand pounds!" "So much the better for both of us." After many futile attempts to beat down the counsellor's demand, the prisoner ac ceded to it, and gave an order upon his wife for the enormous sum of a thousand EWHOLE NUMBER, 1,449. pounds, on an understanding that if the counsellor's exertions should fail, he would return nine hundred and fifty pounds of it to—the willow! Immediately upon receiving this draft, Costelloe left the prison, and without wait ing to present it, proceeded to the Crown Office, situated on South Cope street, on the site of the rear or coart-yard of the present Commercial Buildings, which at that period resembled in its functions the head police office of Modern times. The sitting magis trate had risen; but the chief clerk was at his desk when Costclloo entered. "Good morning, Mr. Johnson," said lie. The clerk returned the salute. "Anything in my way to-day, Mr. John :ma?" be asked with the most perfect non- chalance "What, Counsellor! Have you not beard or the robbery at Gleadowe'b?" "Gleadowe'b? The Bank? Not a word of it." "Yes; the cashier, who was deemed the most trustworthy of men, Las plundered tho chest." "Plundered the chest?" "Extracted from it ten thousand guineas in gold made up in mutant's, and has sub stituted for them as many farthings." "And got clear off?" "No. lie is safe in Nan-gate." "What a scoundrel!" "A consummate one; but he will suffer for it. The evidence against him is conclu sive; for a part of the stolen property was found in a secret drawer of his desk at home." "Did you not say that the money abstract ed was in gold?" "Yes; but those pieces hare been identi fied." "How? One guinea is so like an other!" "True; but mark the finger of Providence! Along with the guineas the villain carried off the foreign gold coins, Dutch Ducats, which were also in the safe, and these have been sworn to by his deputy, and will hang him. See here." The clerk opened his desk, and took from it a small box, committed to his custody tor production at the trial of the accused, and poured its contents into the hands of the apparently wondering Counsellor. Costelloe examined thorn, piece by piece, with the most intense interest, turned and returned them in his hand, and again re garded them with the concentrated attention of a Jew money-changer. The scrutiny lasted so long that the clerk manifested im patience. At length Costelloe restored them, observing, "The fellow has undone him self." "What a fortunate oversight! Was it not, Counsellor?" "Providential, as you just now properly remarked. Never was proof more clear." After a few words more on general sub jects, the counsellor left the office, with a mind seemingly disengaged. That evening his confidential clerk and secretary was seen to go on board a Liverpool packet which lay at Sir John Rogerson's quay, and sailed half an hour afterwards. Some weeks later the prisoner was brought to trial at the Commission court, Green street, and in the presence of as numerous an auditory as had ever been congregated in it. As usual, the counsel for the accused sat immediately before him. On one side of Costelloe was placed his clerk, with whom in the course of the proceedings, ho fre quently conversed, and whose hat was on the table before him; on the other hand of Costelloe was the attorney of the prisoner. When called upon to plead, the unfortunate man at the bar, with much emotion, ex claimed "Not guilty." With a solemn asseveration, he added that the rouleaux of coin (farthings) found in the safe were tho.o which had existed there for years and formed part of the 'rest,' as he had been given to understand; and lie had received them from his predecessor at the value indicated by the ticket attached to each packet. He had never opened them. Costelloe cross-examined, but only slight ly, the witnesses who deposed to the prelim inary facts. At length came the turn of the deputy cashier, who swore that he had fre quently seen in the chest the identical ten Dutch pieces of gold which the Counsellor had so curiously examined at the Crown Office, and which the witness now again identified. At this testimony Costello looked serious. The examination in chief of the deputy cash les being over, and no movement made by Costellee, who seemed deeply absorbed in thought, the council for the Crown was led to believe that no cross examination was intended, and accordingly told the witness that he might go down. 4'Stop a moment, young man," said, the Counsellor rising, and with an abstracted and vacant gaze; "stop a moment. I have a question or two to ask you on behalf of my unhappy client," who now, feeling the peril in 'which his life was placed began to weep bitterly. The witness resented him self, and Costolloe went on: "And so, sir, you accuse your friend of robbery?" "I am sorry that my duty compels ma to give criminatory evidence against him." "No doubt, no doubt. His conviction will gain you a step, eh?" "Sir, do you think it was under such an impression, and with such a view, that I gave my testimony?" "Certainly I do." A murmur of disapprobation ran through the court at this insult to the-witness. Tho
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