P 11 1 aIINITEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor. VOLUME XXX, NUMBER 10.] lIIBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY NURSING ' Office in Carpet Hall, Arorth-west corner of •_F3•ent and %Locust streets. Terms of Subscription. ue. me Copy perannum . ,if paidin advance, '• it not paid within three monthafromeommencement of the year, tOO 4114 entaties als app . n'itosubseriplaon received for a less time than six .rts mho; and no paper will be di.eoininued until all .arrearageaare paid,unlessat the optional' the pub. • i+hrr. irrMallerillarberenralledbyMilii a uhepublielt • or's risk. Rates of Advertising. squareffilinesjone week, •t three weeks, _ eaeli4uheequentinser lion, 10 [l2:ines] one week. 50 three weeks, 1 00 •tt enelisubsequentinsertion. 25 - I:argeradvertisementsin proportion. liberaldiscount will be made to quarterly,hall ,early.or yearlyad vertisers,who are strietbeonfined their business. DR. IFIOFFER, DENTIST..—OFFICE, Front Street 4th door tram Locust, over Saylor er. McDonald's Hook store Columbia, Pa. [l:7Ehitrunce, between the Book and Dr. Herr's Drug Store. [August 21, 1858 THOMAS WELSH. TITMICE OF THE PEACE, Columbia, Pa. OFFICE, in Wl.ipper's New Building, below Black's Hotel, Front street. "'F'rompt AUOI3/10$1 given to all business entrusted to bit care. November 28,1857. DR. G. W. MIFFLIN, DENTIST, Locust street, a few doors above the Odd rellowio Na 11, Columbia, Pa. e3olumbia. May 3. 1856. IL 111..NORTIFI, ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR AT LAW Columbia ,Pa. Collectione,trompdy made,' 21 Lancasterand 'rod Bounties. Columbia. May 4,1850. J. W. FISHER, Attorney and Counsellor at Law, C74:201:2-7.23CiZoid/X, NO. Corumbiu, September ti, 1.03641 SCORN.. --A fresh lot of Shaker $...) Corn, for gale by HENRY g UYDA M. Nov. 13. 1858. Cor orr 1 • ltett e. GEORGE J. SMITH, WHOLES/LE and Retail Bread and Cake Baker.—Conatantiy on hand a variety of Cakes, X•onornerous to mention uraokers; Soda, V. Scroll. and Sugar Biscuit; Confectionery, of every description, Ate., 4.c. LOCUST STRUM, Feb. 2,'56. Between the Bank and Franklin House. JUST received, three dozen Dr. Benlion's Vegetable Diners, a certain cure for Dyspepsia; also. a fresh lot of .ap Sago and Pine Apple Cheese, Farina and Corn Starch, at D. DERR'S Sept 5,1857. Grocery and Liquor Store JUST RECEIVED, a beautiful assortment of Wass Ink *wade, at. the Headquarters and I..avea Depot. Columbia. April 18, 1357. CHEWING TOBACCO. AT HENRY PFAIILEIVS, Locust streeLopposite the Franklin House, can he had CUBA LEAF. CON GRESis, and several other brandy of the best Chewing Tobacco, to which the attention of chewers is invited. May 1. Mg. IMPORTED I.olittes, mi.°, G ernes Doable Extract', for the bandkereliter, at II A RRY GA Er.N , B, Felt. 19.'59. Opposite Coln. Midge. Front St. NOTICE. G 0 TO FENDRICII do BOO'S for the Best Tobacco. The Beg Sweet Caveniieb, Twist, Pesch Lestr, elm he bought cheaper of Fendrich& Bros.,than else where. The only er , lllidietted wholesale and retail Tobacconist* in Columbia. FRONT STREET ABOVE LOCUST. March 12.1E48. Commonwealth Insurance Co., UNION BUILDINGS, Third street, Harrisburg, Pa. CHARTERED CAPITAL, $200,000. Insure Buildings and other Properly against loss or damage by fire. Also. against perils of the Sea, In land Navigation and Traniportatioa. DIRECTORS:—Simon Cameron, Geo. M. Leeman, William Dock, Eli Slifer, James Fox. Geo. Bergner, Benjamin Parke . , XVIII. If. Kepner, A.B. Warford, W. F. Morray,F. Boas, John H. Berryhill, Win. F. Packer. oFFICERS:—SI MON CAMERON, President, BF. NJ. PARKE, Vice President. S. S. CARRIER, Secretary. H. H. FRY, Agent,Columbia,Pa. August 23. 1656. BAGLEY'S GOLD PENS. A FRESII lot of lot A. C. Bagley's Gold Pens, o [ different fazes and pric esreceived, at SAYLOR & McDONALIPS, Head Quarters and NeWd Depot, Front street, sec and door shore Locust. &lurch d 7 lit4d. .., 11.0 R i ir B,—etail, at lllo )oz. : rooms, at I' lILER'S, o nolo . or ti.PPA Dec.l2, I&7. Locuo. et reet. SINE'S Compound of Syrup of Tar, IVild Cherry and lloarhound, for the cure of Coughs, Colds, Whooping Cough. Croun,&c. For sale itt McCORKLX & DELLETT'S Family Medicine Store, Odd Fellows' Hull. October 23, 1858. C. D. HOTTENSTEIN, M. D., QURG ON AND PRYSICLIN, Columbia, Pa . I) rt. Office in the rooms lately occupied May le byL. S. Dr. L. Filbe, 1859-1. Patent Steam Wash Boilers. THESE well known /toilers are kept constantly on hand at HENRY Frit H LEH'S, Locust street. opposite the Franklin House. Columbia, July 19,1857. Oats for sale by the bushel or larger quan tsty by B. F. A PrOLD, Cotamit ia Dee. 25, 1658. Canal Basin. WITH/ and Superfine Flour, Buckwheat _EA Flour. Corn Meat. and whole Corn and 0111 A at Corner of Third and Union streets. (Jan. 8,759. I THORN StEvyidset u op o p a a r i Drag n d:a C rsaparilla, (Or Marchlal • TOBACCO and segos of the best brands, wholesale and retail, at J BRUNER'S. PRESERVE YOUR FRUITS. l iktit i g i se p r Y stl S ng P eat i n e : t atA it j T ar i ; lat Ttr. P rs e f:ne t patent,and Is entirely elleetual in esemding the air.— , The croppers can be fused as any kind of Jar or Can. The subscriber to sate agent (or Columbia. A large supply of Jars and clans of all kinds mid sizes kept eon staidly ou baud. HENRY IPPAHLER. June t3:1R59• Lomat Street. Columbia. Pa. Soap..• • ig.r. *mei , °Maffei Brown Soap on hand and for 'Z. , kr aide low at the cornet at Third and Uuio eta. August 6, LBW. - IUST Received another beautiful IA of Vanilla J Beane. at • J.B. DELL rT CO , S Golden Mortar Store. Front Street. Suffer ss longer with Corns. AT the Golden Mortar Drag Store roe can, procure an aniele which is warranted to 4010.01iC Corns in 4B boors. without plan or soreness. Fly Paper. titurfforent article of Fly Paper. or the drawer /1 tiost bas just keen received at the Drug score of • - R WILLIAMS, Front street. Columbia; 3&y 30,1.839 Atartiso' n's Columbian Ink. „ a warms . superior article, permaneniloslllCk. IT and not corroding the pen, can be had in any quantity. at the Patella Medicine Store, and blacker yet n that Ettgliab Soot Polish. Columbia, Joao ‘1,0311 Vnetris. Under the Violets BY OLIII2II %Y/SCDILL not.stas. Her hands are cold; her face is white; No more her pulses come and go; Her eyes are shut to life and light;— Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, ♦nd lay her where the violets blow. ELEM lint not beneath rt graven stone, To plead for tears with alien eyes; A slender cross of wood alone Shull say, that here a rankles] lies In peace beneath the peaceful Fk la g MII •nd gray old trees of hugest limb Shall wheel their circling shadows .round To make the scorching sunlight dim That drinks the greenness from the ground, ♦nd drop their dead leaves on her mound. When o'er their boughs the squirrels run, And through their leaves the robins call, mad, ripening in the autumn sun, The acorns and the chestnuts fall, Doubt not that she will heed them all. For her the morning choir shall sing Its matins from the branches high, And every minstrel-voice of spring, That triPs beneath the April sky, Shall greet her with Its earliest cry. When, turning round their dial-track, Eastward the lengthening shadows pass, Her Intla mourner•, clad in black, The crickets, sliding through the grass, Shall pipe for her an evening mass. At last the rootlets or the trees Sha.l find the prison where she lies, And bear the buried dust they seize Id leaves and blossoms to the skies. So may the soul that warmed It rise! If any, born of kindlier blood, Should ask, What maiden lie. below? Say only this: A leader bud, That tried to blossom in the snow, I.ies withered where the violets blow. [Atlantic Monthly grtltttivt,s. Twenty Years' Interval "So you do not think, dear mother, that Marcel and myself could possibly live in Paris on fifteen hundred francs a year and love," said a very pretty young girl look ing up from her embroidery at her mother, who was buisily nt work beside her. "Love, my child," replied the mother, "is t‘le most extravagant thing in the world; your.love for Marcel would take the form 'of a thousand luxuries to add to his com forts; his love for you would make him commit a thousand follies. lie would be rain of you—all men have at Mattes much vanity as devotion in their adoration; he would hate to see yon spoil your hands by domestic toil; he would shudder to see you in a shabby bonnet or an old-fashioned shawl. Ask Marcel how much he saves out of his fifteen hundred francs a year, and then see whether it would be possible for you to live on the surplus. You know, my poor Laurence, I can give you noth ing." "Dearest mother," exclaimed Laurence, and, throwing herself on her knees before her mother, she playfully put her arms around her, whilst she looked up in her /lice with two large melting eyes, "we both hope to be able to give you something to add to your pension and make you so happy in your old age." "Poor children," said Mme. de Mau rienne, "although I cannot but smile at your illusions, still they make me happy, for they recall the days of my own youth when I too had hope, and trust, and confi dence; now—" Here Mme. de Maurienne, turning away from her daughter, hid her face in her hands and wept. Madame do Maurienne was the widow of a brave colonel in the French service. She was a woman of high birth, and although de Maurienne had been a distinguished officer and a man of good birth, the mar riage was considered to be much beneath her. She had been happy, however, but the premature death of her husband had left her to struggle, with only a small pit tance. She had three children, but as two attained the age of manhood, when her weary spirit was looking forward to a re lease from her cares, they had both, stricken by the same epidemic, died within a few days of each other. Mme. de Maurienne had now but her youngest child, Laurence, to console her. Mme. do Maurienne, who for the sake of her sons' education had endured the priva tions and difficulties of a residence in Paris, was now at liberty to follow her own tastes and to choose a refuge where her scatty means would be less apparent. She retired to rez de chauesee in an old fashioned house in the Grande Rue de Plumy, which though totally out of the world, from the terraced garden at the back, looked down the bill, studded with fanciful villas,. to the fashionable alleys of the Bois -de Boulogne, their house with its mansarded windows and its high walls, built in a time when every one imitated Louis XlV's taste for Le Notre, forming a picturesque point de rue for the promenaders beneath. Here, with air, the dignity of space and solitude, Mme. de Maurienne had herself educated Laurence. Since her widowhood, Mme. de Maurienne had been drawn nearer to her own family, all rich, all in high society, all proud of their.ancestry and their position. All her near connections called on her twice a year, and twine a year invited the widow and her 'daughter to their house. Mme. de Maurienne woald d gladly have re fused these supercilious invitations, but considered this as Lausenee's only chance of penetrating into the class to Wigeh :her "NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 1, 1859. birth entitled her. Laurence was beauti ful, charming in her eyes; might she not chance to find some one who would think of Laurence as she thought of her/ But here poor Mme. de Maurienne was much mistaken, for the only impression Laurence's grace and beauty made on her grand re lations was to inspire a feeling of pity and regret. "How much happier she would be if she were a plain looking girl; in her position, beauty will but lead her into peril or pre vent a quiet bourgeois from marrying her." Some there were, high-born ladies with ugly daughters, who actually resented Laurence's beauty, as though it bad been a personal insult, or as though the poor child had actually stolen it from their own daughters. Laurence, who was full of vivacity and intelligence, was not long in perceiving the way in which she was received and the opinions entertained concerning her. tier quick sense of the ridiculous made her turn the whole thing into a source of con• stant enjoyment and fun, so that her peri odical visits to her fine relations began to be positively amusing. Instead of striving as her mother would have desired her to took her best, during her short and few apparitions in the salons of the Faubourg, Laurence would studiously endeaver to make herself a fright. Pretexing a cold, she would conceal her figure under a large shawl. Then she would study before the glass the most unbecoming way of dressing her hair, just as moat women do the con trary, and having found it, enter the noble drawing rooms with a demure smile, chuck- Hag over the conviction that she had made herself a perfect fright. Mme. de Maurienne had often expostula ted with her daughter, but in vain. "See how prettily your hair falls in waves to-day, Laurence, and the other day, at the Duchess', you dragged it all straight back; and this muslin dress, too, though it is so cheap, how admirably it fits." "All true, dear mother, all true. But you see I won't condescend to be patronized; our fine relations think I am trying to please them, when all the time I am only laughing at them, and that amuses me. I want nothing of them, mother; never shall." "Never shall? Laurence, my poor child, when I am gone"— "Which will not be fur years and years; however, we will not discuss that matter, but I tell you again, dearest mother, I shall never want anything from our grand rela tions; some ono else will take care of me." "Some one else?" "Yes, Marcel." "Marcel de Crillon?" "Yes, mother dear, Marcel de Crillon; our Marcel, my brother's friend; Marcel that I have loved ever since I was a little bit of a girl, and he used to carry me on his shoulder, you know be is ten years older than I am." "Yes, Laurence, you are fifteen." "Exactly, that makes him twenty-five; he meant to tell you all himself, but—" "I know all, dear girl," said Mme. de Maurienne in a tone of sadness, drawing her daughter towards her; "your all is the all of every young and tender heart; you have loved, and believe in the power of love to smootbe all difficulties. lam not angry with you. I alone am to blame. Isolated as we are by our birth, our habits and our education, from all around us, I allowed you to be constantly thrown into the society of one who is in every way formed to im press the imagination. I thought you loved Marcel as a brother, for I loved him as a son. The schoolfellow of your brothers, their constant companion, be recalls them constantly to me; I feel as though I had not wholly lost them when he is here, and so I forgot the danger to which I exposed you." "Danger, mother? the danger of becoming the wife of Marcel; noble by birth, full of talent, celebrated already, affectionate, kind, devoted, and handsomer than any one else I ever saw in my life." "True, child, but poor, with nothing but his talents and his connections to rely on; how many years you may have to wait." "Not many, mother," replied Laurence, drawing herself up; "Marcel says be is sure of iiiting an appointment—hat he will tell you all about it." "Heaven bless you, my child," said Mine. de Mauriene, "and give you strength to encounter all you have before • you. Time, time, however—" Here Mine. de Maurienne lapsed into thought, whilst Laurence, imagining all obstacles now to be removed, began to watch for Marcel. This conversation had taken place a year before Laurence bad inquired of her mother ns to the possibility of becoming the head of a family on fifteen hundred francs a year. Marcel who, as Laurence said, hild risen 'to celebrity by the publication of a novel and various witty and sarcastic feuillctons, and a daily paper, bad long been promised an appointment in the Min isterie des Finances; at length be obtained it, and when it came a great favor too it was, and many young men envied him, it was exactly fifteen hundred franc a year. "Marcel," said Im.urence„ running out to meet him, and opening the garden gate by which he always entered, "mamma does not think us rich enough to marry." All who had looked at Marcel would have been of the same opinion as Laurence bad said; ..lus was remarkably handsome, but besides his good looks there was an air of refinement and elegance about him that distinguished him from all others. Ilis dress, too, without a vestige of affectation or dandyism, was the most fashionable and becoming. Without having any fixed in come, Marcel had, by his writings, made a good deal of money, and had evidently spent all on himself. Ife said his associations re quired him to live expensively, and as it was through these associations that he was to obtain advancement, there was, of course, nothing to say. His eyes sparkled with de light as he beheld Laurence, and Mme. de Maurienne as she watched them coming up the garden walk arm in arm, looked on them with admiration and pity, they were so well suited to each other, so utterly above the dross of society in air and manner, it was impossible to associate the idea of poverty with them, or imagine them in the sordid occupations poverty would necessa rily entail. "So mother," said the young man, enter ing, "Laurel:lle tells me you do not think me rich enough yet to marry Laurence; but you have forgotten how much money I make by my articles, that is a great deal." "And bow much you spend." "But if I were married"— ''You would spend double. Such a mar riage would be the misery of both. No, my children, you must wait." "Wait! why, I may wait five years; and lam so miserable and weary of Paris. I am huppy only here." "Come oftener, then, Marcel," said Lau rence; "I will console you for waiting.— You know. Marcel, except my mother, I have but you to love in the world. To be your wife I would wait a century." Some time after this, the period arrived for Mme. de Maurienne's visit to the Duch ess de L—. Laurence, who bad lost her high spirits, except in the presence of her betrothed, after the grand pompous dinner, sat wearied and abstracted in one corner of the room, when the Duchess came up to her with a book in her hand; Laurence blushed as she recognized it; it was a new novel by de Crillon. "Laurence," said the Duchess, "young girls do not usually read novels, but I want you to look over this one, because we expect the author here this evening." "What, Marcel!" exclaimed Laurence, growing beautiful under the influence of the loved name. "Marcel, do you know M. de Crillon?" "lie was a friend of my brother's," replied Laurence, well knowing that the fact of Idarcel's visit to her mother and of his engagement to her would shock the Duchess' idea of propriety. At this moment Mine. de lneurienne ap proached. "I find you know M. do Crillon," said the Duchess, "he is a young man in whom the minister is much interested; he is to be here this evening." "Il,ve Marcel as a son," replied Mine. de Maurienne. "Then," continued the Duchess, "I will tell you a little plot that has been laid. The minister you know,- has an only daughter-, and she has taken a violent fancy to Mar ' cel's works. Now M. de Crillon, who is far nobler than the minister, is as poor as a mouse, and Mlle. de Moraine is not pretty, not in good health, and has one shoulder just a little higher than other. You know for all these reasons the minister cannot pretend to a great alliance, nor M. de Cril lon neither. We have thought this would be an admirable match, and to the advan tage of both, for, of course, the minister would advance his son-in-law; besides, Mlle. de Morville inherited all ber mother's for tune. Oh, there is M. de Crillon, and there I declare, comes the minister and his daughter. I must receive them." "Mother," said Laurence, "let us go." "Why, Laurence, you are not amused at this plot of the Duchess. I am." "I am not amused, mother. Let us go." ."You know Marcel loves you. Ali, little one, are you jealous?" "Not of her poor thing," replied Lau rence, looking towards Mlle. de Morville, a little pale. deformrid woman, gazing up with evident looks of admiration at de Crillon; "but let us go." Mine. deMaurienne obeyedher daughter's ' wish. They withdrew quietly, the Duchess having a carriage always ready to take them home. "Mother," said Laurence, when they were seated in the carriage, "may I write to Marcel without showing you the letter?" ' "What can you write to Marcel? You will see him to-morrow." "I will write to-night and send it by your aunt's coachman. lie will wait; I. shall not be long." "As you please, Laurence. What a lit tle capricious thing you are getting to bel--; Marcel is spoiling you." • Laurence wrote but a few lines; the coach man, on his return, delivered them to de Crillon; bat as the partyawas breaking up, de Crillon, in the very intoxication of grati fied vanity: standing by the Dashes, about to take leave, was listening with feigned surprise and humility, to the plans the min ister had authorised the Duchess to reveal to him. "Zenaide de Meryl le is a most accom plished woman, and her father adores her. M. de Crillon, you have no mother; let me advise you in this. A brilliant career is opened you, and, believe me, after the fast six months a husband is perfectly inseasible to his wife's beauty, and, consequently, blind to her want of it. Yon will be ap pointed charge to Brazil, and Zenaide's for tune will enable you to be a worthy repre sentative of 'our country. Will you dine with M. de Morville to-morrow?" At this moment Laurence's note was brought to Marcel. Much surprised, and imagining that some catastrophe must have induced Laurence to write, be asked per mission to read the letter, and opened it.— It ran thus: "Marcel, love is selfish. I find I do not love you as I ought, for I cannot be selfish —I cannot sacrifice you. I give you your freedom; I advise you to accept the career offered you. Come to me; never refer to the past, and love me as a sister." Marcel.bit his lips; his first feeling was one of mortification. "How easily she gives me up!" Then came a sensation of relief. Like all men who are vain and fond of luxury, Marcel dreaded nothing so much as a mental strug gle, and he did not love Laurence, but he had also been tempted by the brilliant and unexpected prospect beer him. -Laurence had saved him all trouble. It was not with out a pang that he gave her up, but still it had been her fault, and, silencing the im pulse that bade him fly to Laurence—for he inwardly felt that her excess of love, and not her indifference, had dictated the letter —he turned to the Duchess with a low bow, and, with a glance from his fine eyes that even an old woman could appreciate, took her hand and pressed it to her lips. "Madame," said he, "consider me your obedient and devoted son." It was some days before Marcel went to Pansy. On his arrival there Mme. de Mau rienne, who had been much surprised by his absence, inquired its cause; but Lau rence playfully interposed and changed the conversation. When they were alone, Laurence, in a tone in which there was neither bitterness nor anger, asked him when he was to he married. 'Laurence," said Marcel, much ember - rassed—"dear Laurence"— "Dear brother Marcel, tell me, and re member our conditions." "Next month then. Laurence; and the next day wo go to Marseilles, and embark for Rio Janeiro." As soon us he had left, Laurence sought her mother. "Mamma," said she, "Marcel and my self have decided that our marriage would be imprudent, therefore our engagement is broken." "Laurence," exclaimed her mother, "what have you not suffered?" "Do not ask me, mother. I beheld Mar cel fur the first time, surrounded and flat tered; assailed by ambition I resolved to try him; he has more ambition than love; it is better so. Now, mother, never speak of this again." Mme. de Maurienne clasped her daughter silently in her arms, and never referred again to her engagement. Marcel was married: Laurence was at his wedding. No word or look betrayed the workings of her heart, and calmly, firmly, she bade him farewell. Meantime the Duchess had taken a great fancy to match-making, and, Laurence being the only young girl within ber circle, she set diligently about seeking a husband for her. She was not long in finding one. Lau rence was young and beautiful—charming, indeed, when she chose to be. She had no fortune, it is true; but, with all her other advantages, a man of fifty-five was bound to overlook that. Laurence made no objections, though her mother pointed out to her the terrible disproportion of age, and the want of any affection on her side, as two great impediments to happiness. "I shall be rich, mother," said Laurence; "that, it seems, is the greatest happiness; I need seek no further." So Laurence became the wife of Colonel d'Espard, and • the firtt letter written to Marcel announced her marriage. "She had more ambition than love," said do Crilion, heaving a last sigh to the memory of his first love. Twenty years after these events, two young men were sitting at the Cafe de Par is, gazing at the equipages that passed along the Boulevards. They had just finished dinner, and were leisurely smoking" their cigars. "That is the handsomest woman in Parir, after all," said one of the gentlemen, lean ing out-as a brilliant calache passed them. "What, Mme. d'Espard? You are right— though I believe she has a grown up son." "A son—where?" - "In Algiers. You know hie father was commander .at Oran for some years, and his son entered hie regiMent. "Luckily for him, for he would searrely like his mother's intimacy with de Crillon, though all Paris tolerates it." • "But the Colonel?" "Oh, be knows nothing about it; besides, he is an old man, and de Crillon, you know, is an old flame of Mme' d'Espard. It's quite a romantio.history. Ile was her first love." "It is amusing to watch their main:waver log." "There is not much manceuvreing; I think they both, take very little pains to conceal their feelings." "Oh, Mine. d'Espard is a woman df fash ion you know, blase, immensely rich and a great coquette." . :. • : N 1' $ 01 r i ; "Then the honor of an old husband is not worth much care." At this juncture a young man who occu pied one of the tables just behind them, rose and left the room without attracting any attention, That evening Mine. d'Espard was at the opera. Far more beautiful than Laurence, but so different; a brilliant and steady eye, a majestic form, a cold self-possessed man ner, and withal a rich and magnificent toi- lotto had replaced the candor, grace, and simplicity of former years. From the stalls, the young man 15110 bad left the Cafe de Paris, watched her. Ile saw M. de Crillon enter her bog, but so did many others. M. do Crillon staid no longer than any other visitor, nor was his manner more familiar. Towards the end of the opera, however, he returned, and it was leaning on his arm that Mme. d'Espard left the house. She bade him good night, however, as soon as she was seated in her carriage, and rove home alone. At the moment she reached her own door, a cabriolet dashed up and the young man who had watched her, springing from it, handed her into the house. "Is that you, Melchoir?" exclaimed Mae. d'Espard, tapping his cheeks with her fan and gazing up at him with something of the expression of the Laurence of former days; "I looked for you at the opera, why did you not come to me?" As she spoke, they ascended the stairs, and they were soon in Mme. d'Espard's bou duir,i Me'choir assisted his mother to re move her cloak, and then, holding her at arm's length, he gazed at her. "You are, mother, dear, the handsomest woman in Paris." "Nonsense, Melchoir." , "My father used to talk of you as though you were an angel. Mother, do you love my father?" "What a question, boy!" said Laurence, turning away. "My'poor father, old and infirm, covered with wounds, do you love him?" "Afeichoir, has your father complained of me?" "Never—but when the husband of so beautiful a woman is old and infirm, the guardian of her honor is her son." "Melchoir, I can take care of my own honor; such questioning does not become a son. Good night." "Good night, mother," said Melchior, add clasping his arms round her, he held her to his heart; "oh, mother, if you could tell how I love, how I adore you. "Have I not adored and spoiled you, my only child, Melchoir? Ab! darling, you look weary and are sad; you are tired; that terrible climate of Algiers has scared away your youth;" as she spoke she passed her hands through his dark hair, and pressed her lips on his forehead. Then he left her. Mme. d'Espard lived in one of those beautiful mansions in the Faubourg St. Vonore, which, having a principal entrance on the Faubourg, have large gardens, which extend to the Champs Elysee. Between the hours of two and three in the morning, Mine. d'Espard, en veloped in a dark shawl and dress, was stealthily wending her way through the shrubbery, down to the gate on the Champ Elysee. She was followed by a man who appeared to walk with great precaution, and strove to walk on the turf so as to avoid the creaking of his boots on the gravel. Neither spoke, and on reaching the gate a silent pressure of the hand was all the adieu given as the gentleman issued forth, and Laurence locked the gate behind him. When she was alone, Mme. d'Espard threw herself on a rustic seat beneath one of trees, and appeared wrapped in thought, while many a tear stole down her face, and the names of Melehoir and Marcel were murmured between her sobs. "Oh, Heaven! to blush in the presence of my son. I have endured years of deceit to wards my husband, but my child. Oh, Marcel, why did we meet again?" Meantime M. de Crillon walked hastily along the Champ Elysee; all at once he was met by a man, who, crossing his path, stopped directly in front of him. "SI. de Crillon?" said he "The same." "What right has M. de Crillon to leave General d'Espard's house at two in the murning, by a back door?" "What right have you to ask it?" "My right lies in my name. I am Mel choir d'Esrard." "Laurence's son? let me pass, young man." "Not Laurence's son, as you dare call her but General d'Espard's son, and an officer in the chasseurs d'Afrique. I will send my friends to you." Melchoir stood aside, and Marcel passed The next day Mine. d'Espard inquired for her son; he was absent; she felt, however, no anxiety, but rather relieved by his ab sence, she felt embarrassed at tke idea of seeing hint. As for Marcel de Crilton lie•strovein' every way to refuse this duel, but without betray ing the secret cause of bie 'unwillingness to encounter Nekttioir, be•oould not avoid the duel. They met, That evening IleMoir was brought dead and bleeding toliis father's home, and the ad general eat weeping by his bed-side. [WHOLE NUMBER 1,519. 1 As for Laurence, she lay insensible on the I floor of her room, her hands tightly clasped over a piece of paper. The lust message of her son "Mother," it said, "I have expiated your sin and avenged my father; let my bleeding form forever stand between you and your seducer. I could not have survived my love fur you. Farewell." Laurence is 8611 beautiful, but she never passes the threshold of her home. In that sad and melancholy house she site and tends and watches a poor paralyzed, driveling old man. As for Marcel de Crillon, he has been sent on a very difficult mission to Vienna. Daniel Webster and John Nnmnia The Rev, Mr. Milburn relates the follow ing anecdote of the late Daniel Webster:— "One night before railroads were built, he was forced to make a journey by private conveyance from Baltimore to Washington. The man who drove the wagon was such as ill-looking fellow, and told so many storks of robberies and murders, that before they had gone far Mr. Webster was somewhat alarmed. At last the wagon stopped in the midst of a dense wood, when the man, turn ing suddenly round to his passenger, ex claimed fiercely—'Now, sir, tell me who you are,' Mr. Webster replied in a faltering voice, and ready to spring from the vehicle, am Daniel Webster, Member of Congress from Massachusetts.' What!' rejoined the driver, grasping him warmly by the band, 'are you Webster? Thank God! Thank God! You were such an ugly chap that I took you for a highwayman.'" To the Editors of the Post: Gentlemen—l take the above paragraph from your paper of the 27th of August. It is not usually worth while to notice such stray anecdotes, but this is so wholly un true, and presents Mr. Webster in so un pleasant and unbecoming a manner, that I do not like to let it pass. I do not know the Rev. Mr. Milburn, and* it is evident he did not know Mr. Webster,. and has been imposed upon, or he would' never have given circulation to such a *tory:- The real facts from which this tale arose. are, I suppose, the following, and are not entirely uninteresting—and unlike the 'qui ecdote," are characterislic of the man. In May, 1813, when Mr. Webster 'was on' hia way from Portsmouth, N. 11., to Wash-• ington, to take his seat for the first. time in Congress, at the extra session of that year, the stage coach in which he was, broke dovvn , on the road a dozen or fifteen miles north of Baltimore, in the evening. Some of the, passengers returned on foot to the tavern they had left, or sought shelter in the houses along the road; some remained by the coach; but Mr. Webster walked on ahead to the nenrost tavern. On arriving at this, he stated to the land lord his name and business, and inquired if he could not procure a conveyance to take him on that night to Baltimore. The land lord undertook to furl:doh him one. In the meantime, Mr. 'Webster ordered some sup per, which was got ready for him in a small room, into which he was shown, and vvitieh adjoined a large bar-room.' As the door was opened, every now and -then' by the young woman who waited on table, he, glanced into this large room, pretty well ) filled with people drinking and talking, and his attention was attrocted to a large, pow erful looking man, who seemed to take' the lead in general conversation and to be the, groat man of the crowd. After a while ho. inquired of the young woman who that ap parently considerable person was:trad was . told that it was John Mumma, the butcher. Now, in the Baltimoro riots, which todk place in the preceding year, July, /8/.2, and in which Gen. Bingen was killed, and eighb 'or nine other gentlemen left for dead, this I John Mumma was a conspicuous leader, and took a prominent part in the assault upon and capture of the Jail, where the un fortunate gentlemen wore sent for proton ' tion, and was generally supposed to have killed Oen. Bingen himself. Of course, his name was well known all over the country, and he was represented and believed todss a most ferocious and dangerous ruffian. After supper was over the landlord came lin and announced that a vehicle was ready: at the door. Mr.' Webster paid for hie supper, .put on his overcoat, and went out. An old-fashioned no-top gig was :at the door, rind a man sitting in it; and. las the landlord held up his lantern, fur the night was very dark, to show Mr. Webster the step . into ' the vehicle, -whey should he see for his driver hut Johnllum-• ma himself! It was too late to tarn >taitk; and though he would hardly have chortle stick a companion, on such an occasion,-..- one who had killed one man for•-beinew Federalist, and might -think we11 ,,, t0 'kill" another,—yet, as he used to say. be did not think that. "any roan nottld . pid hiriein sily under the wheel"—be got In; and - or they drove for their fifteen miles midnight trip. They proceeded at a great pace for some distance with but little conversation. and that Of -an ordinary kind—on the roads the weather, the night, the speed or the horse nod so forth,—until having reached the middle of a long tract of forest, the dit; rev suddenly pulled up and stopped short.. l Turning round upon Mr. Webster. he said, "Do you know who you are driving with!"- Mr. W. replied, "Oh, yes, very well;dt*, Mamma the butcher. the man who killed - Gen. Moga n." "And are you not afraid to ride with me at this time of night!"
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