SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor. VOLUME XXIX, NUMBER 4.] PUBLISHED EVERY MURRAY MORNING (Vice in Korthern Central Railroad Cern pany's Building,north-wericorner Front ana - Walnut streets. /onus of Subscription lyue Copy per anoum.t f paid to advance. .. `• if not paid within three months from commencement of the year, 200 4 c7oats Cll.. .No subscription received fora less time than six months; and no paper will be di-continued until all p . trearages are paid., unless at the optionof the pub et.her. Irrftloney may be remitted by mail [tithe publish grt Rates of Advertising. 11. square [0 lines] one week, " three weeks, ,t each 4uliscque.niineertion, 10 1 " [l.2littec] one week. 50 It three weeks, 1 00 01 each,iuti.equentineertion, 23 Largeradverticernent.in proportion. A !literal dkeouni will he 100110 to quarterly, half. yearly or Nearly tdvertiser*,who are strictlytionfined to their huriine.m. 'Sfittts. Nusa BY OLWEE WENDELL DOLDIES O my lost Beautyi—hast thou folded quite Thy wings of morning light Beyond those iron gates Where Life crowds hurrying to the haggard Fates, Anil age upon hin mound of ashes waits To chill our fiery dreams, not from the heart of youth plunged in his icy streams.? Leave me not fading in these weeds of care, Whose flowers are sil erred 11:n4- -Have I not loved dice long, • Though my young lips have. often done thee wrong, And vest thy heaven-timed ear with careless song? • Ali wilt thou yet return, Bearing:thy rose-hued torch, and bid thine altar burn' Come to mel—l wi'l flood thy silent shrine With my soot's sacred wine, And heap thy marble floors As the wild spice-trees waste their fragrant stores In leafy islands walled with tnadrepores And lapped in orient seas When all their feathery palms toss, plume-like, in the breeze. Come to mel—thou shalt feed on honaled wotdn, Sweeter Omit song of birdsi— Fu qt bulbul's throat, "No tneltinz duleimer's melodious nave. NViltik oar the midnight wave its murmur R fiord, Thy ravi+hed sense aught soothe With flow so liquid soft, with strain so velvet smooth Thou shalt he decked with jewels, like n queen Sought in lho•c Dowers of green Where loop the clugered vines And the elose-clinging dulcamaru twines,— Pure pearls of ltlaydew where the moonlight shines, And Summer's (ruin d gems. And coral pendants shorn from Autumn's berried stems Sit by me drifting on the sleepy , Vrl'M Or stretched by grass-grown groves, Where gray. high-shouldered stones, Carved with old names Life's lime-worat roll disowns, Lean, licit: It-spotted, o'er the crumbling bones Still slumbertng where they lay While the sad Pilgrim watched to scare the wolf away Spread o'er my couch thy visionary wing! Mill let 112 e. dream and silig.— Dream or that winding atone 'Where scarlet cardinals bloom,—for me no more,— The stream with heaven belleatit its liquid floor, And clustering Itenuphars Etpristictiliz its mirrored Lilac like golden-ehaliced Mars! Come while their balms the linden-blossoms shed:— , - Come svbtl the rote is red; , While blue-eyed summer unties O'er the green ripples round those sunken piles Washed by the mean-suave warm from Indian Isles, .lad on the sultry oir The ch.:nuts +Tread their palms like holy men in prayer. Oh, for thy burning hps to fire my brain WWI thrPls of wild sw.•ct polo! On life's autumnal Ma -t, Like shrivelled leaves, youth's passiomfiowers are cast. *Once loving thee, we love thee to the last'— Behold thy new decked shrine, ♦nd heat once more the voice that breathed ••forever thine!" gtIIZIiAIIO. Alexandrine. If it is a great triumph fur a woman to obtain celebrity and fashion in society in Paris, a similar position has, in a large pro vincial town, far greater renown, and is at tended with more absolute power than in the capital, where the numerous circles into vehich society is divided, gives, necessarily, a ticecn for each especial realm. About two years ago, the town of Moulins possessed, amongst the curiosities and at tractions pointed out to strangers, and held in high esteem by the inhabitants, a young lady of the name of Alexandrine d'Orville. She was the daughter of a gentleman, the name of whose ancestors might be seen on many of the public monuments, as well as ig,the archives of•the city. Pqnmanyjears this representative of the house of bad I:leen,a,bpopt ,from his native : town.— en ho returned to it, it was rumored that, by,sonte of those wonderful speculations for - which Paris is celebrated, he had increased bib paternal inheritance, and that his im mense wealth fully warranted the style of splendid magnificence in which he estab lished himself and family. Ito was a widower, and had an only daughter. Alexandrine d'Orville, whose edu cation had been the object of his care, as well as theme of conversation fur many years in the town of Moulins. At eighteen, when Mademoiselle d'Orville Made. her ap pearance at a ball at the Perfect's, there was but one'opinion of her beauty, her man. hers and her accomplishments; and, as all Moulins had interested itself in hor educa tion, so now alt Moulins decided on being 'proud of her. Perhaps the universal atten , tion and admiration she excited might be, in a measure, influenced by Alexandrine's beilig an heiress—the undoubted heiress of JAC immense wealth her father was sort • posed to possess—a wealth exaggerated and magnified by the fact that its source was a mystery even to the most enquiring minds of the city. Nature bad, certainly, made a mistake in making Alexandrine the daughter of a pri vate gentleman. She was evidently intended for a queen. Generous, high-minded, free from all petty pride, her manner and bear ing were so haughty, so grand, so thorough ly independent and self-possessed, that the lead in all circles was accorded to her al most involuntarily; and those older, and even higher in rank, felt that they were being patronised by a girl whom they had not intended to condescend to notice. S 1 50 Of course a girl with all these advantages was not wanting in aspirants to her hand. It was a great delight to the gossips of Mou lins to reckon up the discarded suitors of the proud heiress. Alexandrine, herself, apr eared, however, perfectly unconscious of the existence of these unlucky wights the moment they bad been refused, and con tinued her triumphant career as proudly and smilingly as ever. She had no intimate friends. Girls of her own age appeared to be afraid to confide to her all the little secrets that make up woman's life till the cares of marriage and maternity render it serious.— Alexandrine had been brought up in perfect confidence and companionship with her father; and she had, beside, a cousin, Max ime do Tailly, whose society she appeared to prefer to that of every one else. The gossips of Moulins were not without speculating on this intimacy, and many pre dicted that, after all, Maximo would be the favored mortal and carry off the prize.— Maxime, however, knew better; for his cou sin, with the frankness which distinguished her, had settled that question in a few words. "Alexandrine," had Maximo said to her one day when they were alone, "you have rejected suitors possessed of every advan tage supposed to be desirable in a husband. What would you say to one who offered you unbounded devotion, a heart that has never bent but for you, a moderate fortune, and an honorable and noble name?" 1311 "I should say," replied Alexandrine, "that I want the devotion of no one; for in weal or woe, I can suffice to myself; and that I should not value the love of a heart, however good or noble—even one as good and noble as yours, Cousin Maxime—if it did not make mine beat in return. Give me your hand. Do you feel one pulsation quicker than health and youth would war rant?" Maxime was answered. Ire never renew ed this conversation, lest a more formal re jection should banish him from Alexandrine altogether. But, after all Alexandrine was not in vulnerable. There came from Paris, to take possession of a large estate bequeathed him by his uncle a certain Count Jules de Matt terrier. From the first moment ho had ap peared at the perfixture, Moulins, profoundly impressed by his appearance and manner, had consider . ed him a fit match for Alexan drine d'Orville. Alexandrine had, in her inmost heart, though no outward manifesta tion testified to the fact, acknowledged to herself that the Count was the only man to whom she would consent to resign herliberty and her individuality. Monsieur Idaulev rter, however, appeared perfectly uncon scious of the plans and conjectures going on around him; nay, the oven appeared un conscious of the charms of the Moulins heiress. .Too proud to be coquettish,. Alexandrine carried it off with a high hand, appearing quite as unconscious of M. le Comte do Maulerrier as he was of her. [Adantic Monthly But, one evening, without any prelimi naries, the Count invited Mlle &Orville to dance; and, after the conclusion, he sat down near her, nor ever again left her side dur ing the whole evening. M. do Mnulevrier openly testified his admiration and his do. votion; and, finally, ns he elnducted Alexan drine to her carriage, he ventured to press her hand and to ask her permission to wait on her father. "Shall I find an advocate to plead ray cause?" "If you need one," replied Alexandrine, "I shall be there." Alexandrine contrived to know when M. de Maulevrier paid his visit, and scarcely had the door closed on Lim before she en tered her father's room." "Alexandrine," suid her father, "I was going to send for you. M. do Maulevricr was here an instant ago." "I know that. What answer did you give him?" "An evasive one, because---" "Because you didn't know what I thought Father dear, you may say yes." ~B at"No "No but; I love him." "Does be love Alelandriniormy heiress?" "Father, that doubt is notcompliMentary to your child. M. 'de Maulevrier doesn't, I am sure, care for money." "That is lucky, child, for I have a con fession to make: am an utterly ruined man. You will not have a thousand francs at your disposal." 3l'lle d'Orrille started. "Father," said she, "how did it happen—what could it be?" "Do not ask. rue, darling. I care not for min; but the disnace 4 the mortiAcatiott. to you, my child." "Never fear for me, father; they cannot mortify me. Bear up, let us leave the city; bat no-- 7 .11. de Mrusievrier." "There is the worst. I casoot avow to him—l do not plat hire." "I do." "I wish lie had not bean tried. Wait, a few days, Alexandrine; lira s a few days "NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 31, 1858. longer with your illusion—for my sake." Alexandrine's proud nature revolted at deceit, but she was rewarded for the sacri fice, by N. do Illaulevrier's protestations of love and devotion when they met on that very evening. "Ile trill stand the test. I wish I dare tell him." That night, on her return, in her impa tience to inspire her father with the confi dence she felt in M. Maulevrier, she hast ened to his room. It was very late; yet surely ho must hear her knocking—her voice must awaken him. But no voice was ever destined to wake him more. The door being burst open by Alexan drine's command, M. d'Orville was found dead in his bed. d'Orville's ruin was known, of course, with his death. There was great wonder, and great indignation, and much supercil ious pity for M'lle Alexandrine. She could have saved from the creditors hor mother's fortune, but she refused to accept anything; and with only her personal effects, left what had been her home the day of her father's funeral. She had an aunt, who was the widow of a nobleman attached to the court of Charles X. She was rich and childless; but be tween herself and her brother a fetid had ex isted almost since Alexandrine's birth.— Still she was Alexandrine's nearest rela tion, and her own dignity and the conven tionalities of the world obliged her to offer to her niece the protection of her house. Coldly and proudly was the offer made, coldly and proudly was it accepted. On the day of her arrival at her aunt's two let ters were given to Alexandrine. One was from Maximo and ran thus: "Alexandrine, my best loved. The devo tion I offered you is increased tenfold. My love is the same. That could not increase. If you will not let me be your husband, re member that I am your brother, and your truest, fastest friend." The other note was thus worded: "Iktinevoisett.E—Believe me, no one has more deeply sympathised with your grief than myself. I rejoice that, in yourchange of position, you have found the protection of such a distinguished person as your aunt. If I were not obliged to leave Moulins fur Paris immediately—having decided to re side in the capital—l should have done my self the honor of calling on you. Your obedient servant, JtLES MatmEvntEa." To her cousin's letter Alexandrine ans wered: "Thank you, Masitne. Adversity teaches us to know our friends. Do not come to me; but be sure that your letteris my great est consolation." To M. de Maulevrier's note sho returned no answer. Her cousin's letter she careful ly put away; but M. do Maulevrier's let ter she more carefully put away in her bosom, and was never without reading it over every night before she slept. Meantime, the strength of Alesandrine's character was sorely put the test by her aunt. Mme. do Portallier was proud, like her niece. But ono was the pride of a weak nature, the other that of a nature strong and self-reliant. Still there was a struggle. Mme. do Por tallier was, perhaps, avengingon the daugh ter the hatred she had borne the father. "Alexandrine," said she, one dny, "here is a bill of perfumery foryou. Who do you expect to pay for such luxuries; you have no money." "Not money," replied Alexandrine, "but what will bring at least the amount of this bill." That evening, Mlle d'Orville, going up to her aunt's man of business, who dined with her twice a week, said aloud: "Monsieur Lemaire, will you be good enough to sell this bracelet for me, in order that I may pay a bill I have heedlessly con tracted." Male. de Portallier bit her lips, and every one looked at her. Somo days afterwards Mine. de Portallier renewed tho attack: "Pray, Mademoiselle d'Orville, who do you think will giro you new silk dresses when those you wear are gone? lam afraid you will not be able to earn them yourself, you were brought up to be an heiress and nothing else." Mlle. Alexandrine did not reply, but that day, at a grand dinner given by her aunt, she appeared in a high black merino dress, with a plain white linen collar, and ever afterwards retained the same costume.— When her duties to her aunt's guests were accomplished, she would retire to a distant• part of thesalon, and, taking her work-basket, begin diligently to work. Mme. de Portallier tried to conciliate; but her niece was so perfectly deferential and respectful, that it was a difficult matter to enter into a discussion. But Alme. do Por tallier went to Paris for the winter. There she hoped that her niece would change both her dress and her manner. She was, how ever, mistaken. Alexandrine persevered; only, as her work did not prevent her con versing, the presence of this handsome, in dependent, clever girl in the somewhat staid and stiff society of the Countess, got to be a greatattraction in the Faubourg St.Gennain. Muse. de Purtallier, who saw gradually the exclusive circles of the Faubourg St Ger main gather round her, began to feel that Alexandrine was a necessary element to her happiness; and she grow deferential, con- Cjiating, and affectionate. Alexandrineaffected notto see thechange; but still persevered in ber habits and her manners. One evening a gentleman intro duced to Mine. de PortaHier, M.de Maulevrier. Alexandrine started as, from her retired corner, she recognized him; but recovering herself, she went up to him and, greeted him, with perfect self-possession, as an old acquaintance. "Excuse me," said she, after the first salutations, "if I did not answer the note you wrote me; I was so absorbed at the time, that I know you will excuse me." M. de Maulevrier was astounded. He did not exactly know what to say. So he asked Alexandrine how she liked Paris. "I know nothing of Paris beyond this room; that is sufficient for an old maid in my position." • But Alexandrine, old maid as she chose to style herself, (she was twenty-one) eclips ed the most brilliantly attired women in her aunt's drawing-rooms. Her beauty, her pride, her accomplishments, were the themes of general admiration. "You have the talent of an artist," said M. de Maulevrier, one day, to Alexandrine, as she rose from the piano. "I have striven to acquire it. When my aunt grows tired of me I shall have to give less ons for my daily bread." Such speeches as these, uttered fearlessly aloud, created great sympathy fur Alexan drine, and brought the animadversion of all upon Mine. de PortaHier. M. do Maulevrier, though of course he could not think of Alexandrine as a wife, now that she was poor, was deeply mortified at the calm and civil indifference with which he Was treated. 'At Moulins hehad courted the heiress; here, in Paris, he was fascinated by the woman—a woman, too .the object of universal admiration, but who seemed to disdain all admiration. Ms vanity would not allow him to give up the idea of mak ing an impression on Alexandrine. If be could but feel that he was regretted, he would be satisfied. But Alexandrine never changed her manner towards him. Madame de Portnllier, however, saw M. de Mauterrier's admiration. She had be gun to discover that her niece was necessary to her happiness. She was nn old woman, and her importance, her position depended on Alexandrine's remaining with her. "Alexandrine," said she, "don't you think it is time you should marry?" "Marry! Who ,could have me, poor as I ME "You may be poor, but I . —" "You are rich." "Well, have younever had a preference?" "Once, aunt," said Alexandrine, "for de Maulecrier." "The very husband I had thought of for you." "If I had been rich," said Alexandrine, "it would have been, perhaps, a happy lot. We should have lived with you, have em bellished your old age, have surrounded you with care and love; but I am too poor. It cannot be." "Child, but I am rich—and you are my natural heiress." "My dear aunt," said AloNandrine, stoop ing dawn to kiss her aunt's hand, "you are too good." "You will never leave me, dear child, and you will forgive me?" "All is forgotten, aunt," replied Alexan drine, with real emotion; "I will never, never leave you." A few weeks afterwards, M'lle Alexan drine, in a most splendid costume, was await ing the arrival of the lawyers and the invit ed guests, to sign the marriage contrac- Amongst these guests was her cousin Maximo. She bad just lefther aunts' dress ing -room, when proceeding to the drawing room, she encountered M. do Maulevrier. "Jules," said she, "do you love me; or is it only a•marriage de convenance, after all?" "I love you, Alexandrine, now; and your fortune is nothing to me." Alexandrine had only time to reply by a smile of deep meaning, when her aunt entered and the guests began to assemble. Now all was ready. The law'yer read the marriage contract. 3l'lle d'Orville was an heiress, after all; and M. do Maulevrier had a rich dower, besides a beautiful wifo. Now, amid the silence of all the specta tors, Alexandrine takes the pen. But be fore she signs, she pauses, and Casting it beside her, she takes from her bosom a let ter. "My dear aunt," said she, "now that the contract has been rend, and it is proved that I am at least M. do Maulevricr's equal in wealth, and, therefore, that there is not cal culation in the match, allow me to rend you this short note." Then, in a clear, steady voice Alexandrine read the note she had formerly received from her intended. When she had concluded, amidst the aston ishment. or all, she twisted up the note, and, holding it over a candle, watched it as it burned. "Now," said she, as the blackened par ticles fell around—"now. M. de hlaulevrier, I have done with you. You and your letter will be alike Cirgotten, fur I am avenged." With a profound courtesy to M. do -Mau,. leerier, she walked proudly up to her aunt. "Why, Alexandrine, then there is to be no wedding after all?" said Mate. de Portal lier. "Yes, aunt; merely a ebange of husbands. Maximo," continued Alexandrine. with great dignity, "tha hand you sued for, when I was in sorrow and poverty, is yours. Will you accept it nowt" "With eternal gratitude and joy," ex claimed Maxime—"but without the contract. I am nokrich, but I have sufficient happi ness. Let Maze, do Portallier keep her for tune." "Then you will leave me!" exclaimed Mme. de PortaHier. "Never," replied Alexandrine. "I am your daughter. I hare lived in bitterness till now,—and, for revenge, love shall be my guide ever after. This, dearest aunt, is the dawn of happiness to us all." "Enter First Citizen." A STORY, OF THE THEATRE. The first time I saw him ho wore a brown tunic, of the value of ten cents a yardOte had orange-colored legs; his naked arm was branded with a rude device, indicating that ho had been carelessly leaning against a fresh painted wing; and in his hand he bore a staff, as Roman citizens arc wont to do on the stage. His name was not in the bills; he was an "auxiliary"—one of that stalwart band which fills the eye of an audience when the stage directions say, "enter citi zens" or "soldiers." On this particular evening he appeared to be a fellow of tur bulent disposition; and though he spoke but seldom, his actions and bearing were so re bellious, that, in the course of the evening. he and his disorderly comrades were thrice driven from the scene by a small but deter mined body of lictors, consisting of two men and a youth--an illustration of the natural triumph of discipline over revolutionary anarchy. I next saw him as the "servant, with a torch," in "Macbeth." He was that Scot tish menial who receives directions relative to the Thane's drink, and is theta summarily sent to bed by his agitated master. Ile had the same legs and tunic, but the tunic was this time adorned with plaid by the liberal management. Since then I have seen him fighting in the wars of York and Lancaster, enlisting with careless bravery, sometimes under the 'White, and sometimes under the Red Rose. His modest merit has been re warded with the Cross of the Legion of Honor, given by the Emperor himself. in the spectacle of "Napoleon;" and with un daunted patriotism, ho has battled for lib erty under the immortal Washington, for no reward save the consciousness of duty ful filled, and the small nightly stipend received, not regularly, from the theatre. After a grand personation of a loyal Sepoy, in the "Cataract of the Ganges," he has, a few nights after, assumed the character of that traitorous rascal who receives his death blow from Mr. Forrest, in the council cham ber scene of "INletamora." He was a man of genial presence; a mild blue eye gave a guilelessness to a face whose general expression was not unpleasing, and although he appeared on the stage so often in connection with the famous legend, "S. P. Q. It," that he might have been consid ered a type of the Senate and people of Rome, his amiable features seemed out of place in the mobs and legions of that great empire. However, he was soiled by no his trionic conceit; and even sometimes came on to remove tables, chairs. and loose proper ties, preparatory to a change of scene, re ceiving the customary hoots of the "gods" with the equanimity of a well-balanced mind. Notwithstanding the simplicity of his du ties, I became interested in the man; and one night, pointing him out to a person at tached to the theatre, asked his name. It was, as I had supposed, Jones. There was, indeed, a chance of its being Smith; but having a presentiment in favor of Jones, I had already rejected that remote possibility. His Christian name was unknown, but, ow ing to the Roman circumstances in which I had so often seen him placed, he was, by an unconscious movement of the mind, imbed ded in my memory as S. P. Q. R. Jones. One day, fractures suddenly appearing in some window-panes in my house—nobody knew when or how the damage was done, and as we had neither cat nor children, I, of course, believed the glass had fallen to pieces from old age, especially as I had never known a servant of alien birth to state any thing but artless truth—l sent to a neigh boring glazier for aid, who despatched to me ono of his journeymen. It was S. P. Q. R. Jones—a painter and glazier by day; at night, a Roman senator, or some gallant, though generally speechless, knight, near the loved person of bis liege and honored king. I spoke to him, commencing with a little of that flattery not utterly despised by any profession, but which strikes the not UElCX pectant ear °rat actor or musician with sin gular pleasure. Supposing, in my ignor ance, it impossible to be a glazier and pro fessional gentleman at the same time, I asked him how ho contrived it? "The manager and I have long been pro fessionally connected," said he. "He finds me trust-worthy, and willing to do many little jobs about the theatre, so he excuses me from rehearsals. In this way I have all the daytime for my trade. I very sel dom have anything to say on the stage; and when there are ono or two lines in the part. I commit them in a few minutes; and in all the stock pieces I know all my exits and entrances by heart. You • must know I al ways had a liking for the stage, my wife. too, was one of the profession: she played chambermaids, and such like, but her voice was not very strong; so, s tance her marriage she hasn't been on in speaking parts.' She is a villager sometimes, or a virgin of' the *1,50 PER 'YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE sun, when an extra force is wanted; but never appears except on extraordinary oc casions, as we have a little girl at borne, too young to be left alone; and the mane- I ger don't like to see children about the! theatre, which is very proper." With this explanation he set the panes of : glass in the places of those which nobody had broken, and went away whistling some familiar music from the "Forty Thieves." After this interview I saw him frequently both on and off the stage, and finding that Mrs. S. P. Q. R. Jones had cultivated a, natural taste for dress-making, my wife oc casionally employed Ler. Thus was drawn closer the bond of acquaintance between her husband and myself. The lady was I about twenty-five years of age, very pretty, and charmingly conscious of the fact. Not disinclined to admiration, and po:•essing large share of vivacity, it was to be feared that, with the opportunities found in the dissipated atmosphere of a theatre she I might sometimes be placed in an equivocal position; but, as yet, slander bad never soiled her name; while the affection she honestly evinced for her husband and child seemed to he an effectual barrier between her and evil. There came a period when the legitimate drama, never, perhaps, adequately support ed by a dekle people (who, as time moves on seem mare and more inclined to reserve the legitimate article for their closets,) wee withdrawn, and the equine had usurped its place. Mr. Blank and his splendid stud of horses, consisting of a dozen white and parti-eolored ponies, combining their talents with those of the stock company, were drawing enthusiastic audiences in "Mazer,- pa," and the like. I attended a representa tion of this drama. The beautiful Arabian mare, Bloody Mary—so styled, probably, because she was cream-like in color and re markably kind in temper—portrayed, with her accustomed docility, the Ukraine steed. On her first entrance she threw about, with well-simultated rage, her delicate limbs: but stood commendably quiet when Mr. Blank, as Mazeppa, was bound upon her back; and then like an arrow from a bow slackly pulled, started oEf at is moderate amble up the canvas precipice which concealed the rear of the stage. Instead of completing her route, the unfortunate animal, when half-way up the ascent, stumbled and fell upon the stage, a distance of ten feet. The injuries received by Bloody Mary and Ma zeppa were but slight; but, in falling, she struck with her hoof S. P. Q. R. Jones, who was standing beneath, and broke his collar bone. This occurred out of sight of the audience, who, with hisses demanded an other flight; so, while Bloody Mary was again prancing upon the stage, poor Jones was tenderly lifted up and carried home senseless. A few hundreds in the Savings' Bank, the fruits of former economy, furnished the means for proper attendance, medicine and 1 the little comforts expected in convalescence, while his wife was one of the most affect ionate of nurses. For a week every, thing went on well, and poor Jones seemed to have all a damaged mortal should expect under such circumstances. What was it that changed all this? Why did the wife, still devoted and kind, lose the loving ear nestness which had characterized her man ner? Where was the old home-light in her eyes, those beautiful eyes whose sparkling glances the downcast lashes now concealed? 'Why, at the sound of. some un expected knock at the door, or footfall on the stairs, did she start almost wildly, as if ill-fortune were near? And, bending orer the little girl; she would smother deep sighs and gaze wistfully toward her husband, with anxious face of one seeking the con fessional; and he, dozing, his brain clouded by opiates, and confinement, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, blind and deaf, when each mortal sense should have been soundest.—" Deaf to the low, musical tones of a manly voice, trained to love-speeches and husky with the importunity of passion, which sometimes came unheeded to his drowsy ear from adjoining rooms, in the watches of the night. Deaf to the click of closing bolts and the stealthy sound of retreating foot steps! Blind when a dark mustache and evil eyes appeared at the open door, and she, whom he loved with all the power of an honest and noble heart, left him to fol low the beckoning finger from his presence. It was the old, sad story. Before the in valid had left his room, and while he was recovering his former health, his wife went away. Noon came, but she came not; and when the shadows deepened, and the little girl raised her melancholy wail for the ab sent mother, the poor father, anxious and fearful, sent messengers to seek for: her; then news came from the theatre which made his limbs tremble, and the muscles of his face twitch, and heavy groans come from him, as from one in convulsions. At; iast the manager arrived; and then he I know that the woman he had cherished bad stolen his honor and fled, leaving a legacy of shame to her child. A handsome actor attached to the company—a man famed for excellence in light comedy and juvenile tra gedy—had fascinated the poor Woman, and the opportunity afforded by Jones's' sick ness completed her rain. They went to an other city, where the eedacer, 'being very popular among the younger part of ilia fe male portion of the theatre -going public, readily obtained 813 engagement. After the first explosion canoed by the intelligence, Jones, to every one's surprite, rapidly rm. [WHOLE NUMBER, 1,461. gained his strength, and in a few days was able to attend to some portion of his mma: avocations. , lie did not, like a proper her , of romance, arm himself to the teeth with the deadly weapons of Ameriedu civiliza tion, follow the fugitives, and commit what a jury might have call . ed justifiable horni aide. But he felt more than the pangs of the hero of romance, and deeper was the agony from his efforts to conceal the wound. It needs not Othello's visage, nor station, nor the sombre scenery belonging to tneditr val tragedy, to awaken in our time the same passions which drove the noble Moor to murder,-despair, and death. Only tour short weeks passed and the lost woman, bearir g on her face the age , ', weary look with which guilt and remor: , a brand their victims opened the door of the scout which once enshrined a happy fire side, and knelt sobbing at his feet—a dis carded mistress! He did not spurn her; eyes, from which the of happiness wrs gone forever, did not blaze with fury on the unhappy wretch before libu; but ho took her up, drew her tenderly tuLil breast, and kissed her; then leading her to the bed where the little girl lay asleep be said. "Kiss her, Mary dear; she has been wait- ing long for you:" No upbraidings no noisy ebullition of rage —nothing but the loud sobb:ngs of t hy (also wife and the clamorous joy of the awakened child. She lived with him but a little while.— There was no longer any hope or object iu life for her. Broken-hearted and abased, she never left the house again. hour by hour she faded, and when the cold time of autumn came he tool:her from the cheerless, noisy city, and laid her to sleep in the sun. near the trees of the country church-yard in the sight of whose spire she was born. He toiled on for the sake of his child, faithful to all his duties; never misanthropic or moody, although silent, and sometimes when alone, tearful; and time passed on un til it was two years from the death of his wife. The actor with the black mustache and winning voice came back; two years had wrought some change in him. too. 'The black mustache was there still, but the voice was hoarse from constant drams, and the speaking eye was yellow and sunken- Whether this loss of personal beauty struck the audience unfavorably, or whether the disreputable circumstances under which he closed his'last visit, excited against him tho strong moral feeling which is always sun posed to' pervade an American audience, it would be impossible to deeide; but no sooner. did he spring, with the old, elastic, light comedy step, upon the stage, sideling toward the boxes with the professional smirk which begs applause, than a hiss oozed from one corner of the house and spread with fearful rapidity from pit to gallery—a hiss which seemed to remind all that this man had violated the decencies of society, and was now insulting the proprieties of life by hit very presence. It may be remarked that the juvenile moral sense of the young gentlemen in the gallery appeared to be so severely outraged that from that quarter proceeded by far the fiercest and loudest expressions of disappro bation; to such an extentdid the enthusinsru of these young supporters of a pure life carry their opposition, that many half•cen sumed apples and other seasonable fruit were discharged with considerable velocity and tolerabletlilll at the stage. Pale throngh his paint, the actor east a deprecating loi.k at the more respectable part of the audience. and his knees involuntarily trembled when his practised eyes saw the excitement against him was too strong fur him to calm. Crie of "01P. off!" forced him front the foot-lights. and bending to the storm, be ran from the stage. The tempest immediately ceased; and he, panting with agitation, beheld be. fore him the pale countenance of S. P. Q. 11. Jones, who chanced, at that moment, to step to the prompter's table. Jones started, for until then ho had not seen the man shire his return. "Ah! it is you, then!" cscluitned the dis graced actor; "you, you cowardly villain:— This is the way you take to revenge your soli. You pack the house, curse you: with a gang of hissing. dirty, sweaty mechani.-, to drive me from the stag s— to ruin me and because voter wife—" He said no more, for Jones' liana nits cn his throat, and the insult trembling on Li tongue died away in an unmeaning gurgle The blows fell fast, and the pent-up misery of many a month added weight to the arm, no ono not even the mighty manager, silly was attracted to the scene by the tumult.-- attempted to restrain the supernumerary, and when, after a last effort, he east hie enemy on the ground, the remains of manly beauty which dissipation had spared to the actor were destroyed forever. After this unfortunate affair the theatre became more and more distasteful to Jones —more so, perhaps, from its being stained with the memory of revenge desperately taken. It is indeed certain that he felt more remorse for this than the actor ever did Pa. the great wrong be ho had inflicted. A feu months after, I accompanied him to the care, for:we had been good friends from the first, to see him off to the West, where, with Lie little girl, he had determined to settle. "I shall never come back agyin," said be. as be shook my hand at parting. "Ever, • thing here makes me shudder and think t,o much of things which must be forgotten." I stooped and kissed the little girl; the bell rang, the train started, and the "first citi"en" made hie final exit.
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