,t 115
. & „• 44 `.
114
110
4 8A1trEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor.
VOLUME XXX, NUMBER, 39.]
I PUSBLIRED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING
9 ; Office in Carpet Hall, Nortle-teestcorneriy
'Front and Locust streets. •
ter ins. of tbscription.
,4-I,l hae Copy perannum,if paidin advance.
.. • • •• if 1101 paid within three
-month sfrom eommeneemeniofthe year, 200
C'eana.ths; a Copy.
aub.eripinni received for a lce• time than .ix
',lentils; and nopaper will be discontinued until all
lette acne sa re paid,unlessat the optional - the pub
latter..
- -
:U"Molvey maybe - emitted bymail aithepubli.b
risk.
Rates of Advertising.
k 4 quart [o.ines)ohe week,
. 4 three weeke. ..
earh.ohttequenuinsertion, IO
[l2 inetlanecreek 50
three aveeks._ I. 00
at. .-
ILargertdaerti.ernent , ln proportion
, A liberal liseoum will lie made to quarterly,half
trarly.nr:narly ylvortisers.who are strietlyeonfined
othe;r huainees
•
DR. - •HOFFER, '
DENTIST.—OFFICE, Front Street 4th door
Irom Locust. over 14.4ty10r & McDonald's Honk store
,10.olunsbi.• Pat sy - Rutrunce, between the Book and
4r. Here's Drug more. [Augwtt 21, , 185E
• . THOMAS WELSH . ,
4USTICB OF THE PEACE, Columbia, Pa.
OFFICE. in %Wipper's New Building, below
ack's Hotel. moot street.
Er Prompt attention given to all business entrusted
tdpollis care.
't November 29, 1957.
H. M. NORTH,
A TTORNEY ND COUNSEOR L
Voluml.m. Pa.
'4 Col leetton. promptly made.i n Lancaltei and Von
44444
Ma'
a=
J. W. FISHER,
Attorney and Counsellor at Law,
Columbia, 4
6 : clietnber ti, Its:11 4 174..6"
S. Atlee Bockius, D. D. S.
I)RAirrICKS the Operative. Surgical and Meehan
Mai reparittlettle or I)riil6lty;
(teeter_ I.ocu't .Item, helmet., he. Franklin LICIU-e
and 1 . 0.1 Office. Columbia, Pa
May 7 1.-t.511
ri - `O3IATO PILLS.---Extract, of Tomatoes; a
cathartic mid Tonic. For .ale nt
J. S v mi.pyrr & CO'S
Golden Mortar Drug Store.
Dec .3 '59
lnl ro RTKD ulso, Me nu', Weide Extract-,
for the handkerchief, at
- • • '
FI RRY GREEN'S.
Oppo.lic Coln. Bridge. Prow St
Feb. ID. ,SSI
1.11t001118,---100 Doz. Brooms, at Wholesale
_LJ or Reinil.mt H. PFAHLEWS.
Dec 11. 1857 I,nra.t caret.
SINE'S Compound of Syrup of Tar, Wild
Cherry and 13nn rhound, ior the r•uu• .•t
171.:01,1-, Whooping Cough. rrielp.ke. It of
Me1:01,1K1,1 , ..1 DELI "rrs
Fondly Medicine Store. Odd I•rdow,'
October 23.
Patent Steam Wash Boilers.
4.frllitiSS well known Uoilnra nre kept ronsouoly on
J. hand ut HENRY
1.0eu40 street. opposite the Pranklin House.
COIUIIIII,IB, July 18.1:5.57.
'lats for sale by the bushel or lar-ernan
r;.0, 9 0.
AJtity
Cnlumb in Dec. !NI. I Du-in.
-110BACCO and Segars of the best brands,
witalesnle and reinil.at
UM
TUST in •iorr, a treAlt lot of f3rcittg & I million'.
vel celebrated Vegeta',le Cattle Powder. nail for .ale by
WII.I..IANIS.
Troia street. Co.utabin
Popt . 17. 1559
Soap.
AL Boxe.ihr Duffey Brown Sonp on hand and for
Gr 001 r low 01 the corner 01 Third and Ilmon tzto.
A agust 6. 1•156
• Suffer no longer with Corns.
T the Golden Mortar Drug Store you rnn procure
tt no article which is warranted to remove Curtis iu
-4 , hours. without plan or tvreitess.
Fly Paper.
A SUPERIOR article of Ply Paper. for the dettrue•
al lion or &c.. hoe juet heel' received at the
Drug Store of
R WILLIAMS, Front greet.
Columbio,July 30.15.50.
Harrison's Columbian Ink
i. a +uperior trrtiele, permanceuir black.
VY and not corroding the pen, snit be lied in any
.quantity. al the Vanuly hlcdiciue Store, and blacker
yet is 'lint English Boot Polish.
Columbia, Juan 9.1,09
11711:4,714
ittr Rs. wiNsLow•s Soothing Syrup. which will
171grearly facilitate th e prorec , of teething by re
ducing ioflmnnlion. n:liiyitin pant, .pit•nnoilic action,
Ate., In very tiliort time. For role It,—
R. WII.I.TANI 4 .
• 5ept.17.1e59. Front street, Columbia.
I. ERRING I.; CO'a Russia Salve! This ex
tremely popular remedy for the cure otexternal
ailments Itt now for •ist le by
R. WILLIAMS.Front si., Columbia.
rept 24.1E59
(ALT by the Sack or Bushel, and Potatoes
large or .mull quantities, for sale at the Corner
entil,' and Union streets. [Jan 8. 'W.
Extracts and Soap; en everlasting
l perfume. at lIA REY GREEN'S,
Fel. ID. '3D. Opposite Cola. Bridge. Front St.
CISTERN PUMPS.
!,51flpHF. subscriber has a large clock of Ci.tern Pump•
• and Rums. to which he eal;s the attention of the
,public. He is prepared to put them up for use in a
rubroamial and enduring meaner.
H. PFA
Locust Street.
December 12.1957
FANCY TOILET SOAPS.
•1T 11g .
g fine+tu.rtonm e I Fancy Toilet Soupy ever
nervred to Colurn l / 1 1211A. at
BARRY GREEN'S.
OPPo , ite Cola. Bridge, FrOPt. St
Feb 19, 'r9
pOLOGNE WATER by the pint. quart or gallon
Glenn's Extrac:s for the linnillmrchiti by the
ounce or pound, or in any annualy to suit purchafter'i
liAllnY Ganics'o,
Opposite Coln. Bridge, Front St.
Feb 19.'59
Just Received and For Sale,
200 Bldg. Ground Flouter; 50 (ado. Extra Family
Flour; 55 lit to. No. I Lard Ott of best quality;
301/ bus. Ground Alum Sult, by
111
a reh 23,'39
TENKIN'S Celebrated Black and Green Teas,
vity notice! Cocoa and Chocolate, at Corner of Third
and Union •treeta. (Nov. 20.'59.
Gni"- or, Bond's Boston Craekers, for
Dyspeptics, and Arrow Root Crackers, for in
warier; and shadiest—new articles is Columbia, at
aka Family Medicine Store.
. April 16. lEtrA.
NEW CROP SEEDI.F.SS RAISINS.
.•
HE best for Pies, Pudding, .fresh supply at
H SUYDAM'S
Grocery Store, Corner Frontand Union its
Nov. 19.1819. •
Seedless Raisins!
LI
14 . 7 Ak LOT or very choice Seedle s s Raisins. just receive'.
at Q . F . EBERLEIN'S
Nay.lO, VG. Grocery Store. No. 71. Locust st.
SHARER CORN.
J USI received, a first rate lot of Shaker Corn
U. SUYDAM'S
Grocery Store, corner Front and Union et.
, Nov. 26, ISSI.
SPiLIIIIB'SPREPAIMII GLIZ—The want of
each an article is felt an every family, nue now
It can be supplied; for mending furniture, china
vrare., °momenta! wart, tem ac.. there i 4 nothing
anterior. We kave.found ito•eful in repairing many
armlets which have been unless for mouths. You
teen obtrin.lt at the
Jast.SS. . rEILMILIC MEDICINE STORE.
e 50
There is a period in life when such a con
fession is very difficult to make. From thirty
to forty, which is a sort of chrysalis state,
when one clings a little to past hopes, and
feels quite confident their like will come no
more, there is a decided sensitiveness in re
gard to autobiographical dates, a shrinking
from prolonged interviews with- genealogists
and inqusitive old ladies, and even a latent
dread of the cotemporaries of youth, who are
happily married, and generously teach their
offsprings to call you "aunt."
This transition period has passed for me
long ago, in fact, 1 am a score of years be
yond it, and now, setting here by" the fire in
my cap and spectacles and deep wrinkles. I
will tell you my little story.
I was very pretty when I was seventeen
years old, 1 could not help knowmg it, and the
knowledge was accompanied by a little flutter
ing thrill of pleasure, which Mother and Anne
called vanity, but as I always, to this day,
have the same feel;ng at sight of any thing
lovely and fair, be it human face or delicate
field flowers, I think they were mistaken.—
My mother was one of the best of women—to
me, far the best woman 1 ever knew. You
recollect the picture of Faith that hangs at the
foot of my bed! I have it there, where my
glance may fall upon it last at night and first
in the morning, because the serious mouth,
saintly eyes, and bands of shining hair are so
very like hers, who is now, 1 trust, in Heaven.
By this you will know that my mother was
beautiful as good.
Sister Anne was ten years older than I.—
She was a great deal better than ever l thought
of being, for she could do all sorts of hottse
hold work ; and then sbe had a way of help
ing the poor, and nursing the sick, and corn.
forting the afflicted, and making garments for
dirty children, like the good Dorcas of whom
we read in the Acts of the Apostles; so every
one in the village looked up to her with as
much respect as they did to the minister's
I wife.
F
As for me, I am sadly afraid 1 never did any
thing to make people look up to me with re
spect. At home I was so careless that if dear
mother had not been a saint, and Anne a femi
nine edition of Job, I should never have known
where to find a single article of my wardrobe.
And as for pickling, and preserving, and nice
cooking, and the homelier offices of sweeping,
dusting, and the like, I could not bring myself
to them with any degree of patience. In vain
the good mother often said to me, "My dear
Rose, these actions that seem so slight to you
may be done in such a -pirit as to please God,
as good George Herbert says:
lUMEES2
I liked the poetry—it was simple and sweet
—but it failed to beautify brooms and dusters,
in my estimation.
Anne had a lover over seas, who was to
come home some day when he had made a
large fortune and marry her. They parted,
with this hope in prospect, when she was
eighteen and 1 a little girl of eight; and as
years passed I should have forgotten the ex
istence of Ralph Haven, had it not been for
the monthly advent of a foreign letter, which
Anne, with heightened color and shinning
eyes, always took to her own chamber to feast
upon in solitude.
.When I was just turned of nineteen I had
the first great sorrow of my life.
We had been spending one of our quietly
happy evenings—mother, Anne and I—in our
cozy winter parlor. They had been sewing
while I read aloud, and after that we had a
little concert. Anne played very well upon
an old hardsichord that had been a Wedding
present to mother, and we all sang to that ac
companiment, 1 think it was as sweet music
as I ever heard. At ten o'clock, our usual
hour for evening prayers, Martha came in from
the kitchen, and I brought the great family
Bible for mother to read. She turned over the
leaves slowly, pausing at the record of her
marriage, and at last selecting the Sixteenth
Psalm, which she read through repeating the
last verse three times, with great emphasis,
"Thou wilt show me the pith of life ; in thy
presence is fullness of joy; at thy right band
there are pleasures for evermore." Anil then
she knelt down to pray—my dear, dear moth
ert There was a full minute of intense
silence, and then Anne and Martha lifted her
in their arms, and bore her a senseless weight
to her bed-room close by.
It was paralysis!
This happened in February, and for three
months we watched and prayed and hoped
that she might in some degree recover the use
of her limbs and speech. Poor Anne lost her
little beauty in constant care and anxiety.—
Her cheek grew thin and white, her grey eyes
sunken ; here and there a thread of silver
mingled with her dark hair, and two deep
lines marred the smoothness of her low fore.
head. But she was never weary, never im
patient, and mother could not bear her out of
her sight a single moment ; so there she staid
by the invalid's couch, smoothing her pillows,
holding her poor bands, and smiling sweetly
in her lace, until it seemed to me that our
Anne was little less than angel. Early in
May mother died; and forgetting the few
months of sufferingour memory gave her to
us as she used to be—gentle, tender, loving—
and we mourned for her with deep sorrow.—
We buried her in the garden, under the shadow
of her favorite tree—for we wanted to feel
that she was near us still—and we planted
shrubs and lair Bowers over her grave.
And now that all was over, Anne began to
think of herself. She kept it from me as long
as it was possible, but at length I learned the
truth. Long watching, and care, and grief bad
done their work, and Anne was going blind.
B. r. APPOLD,
No I and 2 Canal Batin,
gretsztirats.
Anne and I.
I am an old maid
•'A servant th,s (duos.:
Makes drudgery• thyme:
Who sweep, a room, as for rhy laws,
Makes that and the action fine."
"NO ENTERTAtNALENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, APRIL 28, 1860.
l'ne first I knew of it was one evening
about a fortnight after the funeral, We were
standing together it the open window, before
the lamp was lit, talking of mother, when my
eyes chanced to fall upon the new moon just
sinking behind the dark line of pines that skirt
ed the western horizon. I drew Anne's at-,
tention, and for a minute or more she strained'
her poor eyes to catch its tremulous silver
light; then shaking her head, she laid her so ft
hand in mine, and whispered, sadly:
cannot see it, Rose."
I looked down in her face—for I was a head
taller than she—and I have never forgotten the
expression of divine resignation that softened
every feature.
cannot see it, sister," I echoed.
.11slo, dear, nor the stars. It is a long while
that 1 have not seen the stars, anJ 1 miss them
more than 1 can tell. 'They always comforted
me so I Rose, my child, your sister's sight is
failing l"
I would not believe it. The thought of
Anne blind—good, thoughtful, careful. Anne,
who was now looking forward to one great
joy, the speedy return of her lover—she to
have her eyes darkened! Oh, no ! God, who
was good and kind, would not sufFer it. Thus
reasoned the foolish girl at eighteen. Since
then I have learned to trust Ris love, although
%often fail to understand the way by which be
leads rne.
Neither Anne nor 1 closed our eyes to sleep
that night. We thought ant planned until
day-break, for, if what she said was true,
something must be done, and that speedily.—
Surely ill ere was room for hope when there
were such great oculists in New York and
Philadelphia; they could, they must help
Anne. As if in anticipation of our wishes,
there came within th• week a letter from one
of mother's old, friends who lived in New
York. It was full of gentle sympathy and
kindness, and she begged one of us to come to
ter for a few weeks of rest. Here was just
the opening we needed, and of course Anne
must go. And yet, so careful was she for me
that she would scarcely consent to the jour
ney. She knew how lonely the house would
be with mother and her both gone ; and then
I knew so little about housekeeping. I verily
think she would have given up the journey,
acd been content to settle down to ber darken
ed life for the sake of saving me the trouble
and pain ors separation, had it not been for
the thought of her lover, As it was, she spent
a week in arranging for my comfort, mapping
out Martha's wore• with the utmost precision,
and even writing down on a slip of paper the
things I must try to do and care fur while she
was gone.
I knew I should miss our Anne, but I had
not anticipated such utter loneliness. When
I went back into the house, after watching the
stage until it was out of sigh,t I wandered
about t rom room to room unable to set myself
at wo.k. Every article of furniture was in
nicest order. Anne's last work had been to
set back a chair, and pick a thread from the
table cloth. I think it was a great mistake to
leaves me nothing to do but to'sit down and
cry.
Anne wrote immediately on her arrival at
New York, but after that Mrs. Allen wrote
for her. She bad put herself under the care of
an eminent oculist, who gave her strong
hopes of a permanent cure, only the strictest
care was to be observed for several weeks.
It was hard to think of Anne lying in a
darkened room, when the dear world was so
fair and full of bloom ; but she sent me such
cheerful messages that at last I began to think
that she was less afflicted than I. I might
have known her better-1 who had witnessed
her beautiful life of unselfishness and love.
One day—l think it was the 2d of dune—l
gathered from Anne's garden and mine a bunch
ofroses, the first of the season, and carried
them to fill a marble vase on mother's grave.
It was almost sunset, and I lingered a long
time thinking of the dear one whose body lay
there, and pleasing myself with the idea that
her pure spirit might be near me, though un
seen, and also thinking of Anne, and wishing
she were again at home.
This reverie was interrupted by the unusual
sound of approaching footsteps, too heavy and
measured for Martha's. I looked up and saw,
through my tears, a man of medium height,
stout figure and swarthy complexion, whose
deep gray eyes were fastened upon the white
marble cross which marked my mother's
grave. It was too nearly dusk for him to
read the simple inscription, and turning to me,
he asked, in a sharp, abrupt voice :
' , Who lies buried there 1"
"My mother, Mary Wesley," I replied,
brushing away my tears, and rising from the
green turf.
"gAnd-where is Anne? Are you the little
Rose grown so tall as this? You were a mere
baby then; but it is nearly twelve years—
twelve long years!
So this was Ralph Eleven, Anne's friend,
come home at last. We walked slowly to
ward the house, and he did not repeat his in
quiry for her, but all the way I was puzzling
my head to plan the gentlest manner in which
to communicate the intelligence of her mis
fortune; for I knew he expected to meet her
in the house. When we came upon the ter
race, under the parlor window, I stopped short,
and looking up into his face, said, slowly:
s.Sister Anne is not at home, she is in New
York."
"And yet she knew I was coming!"
The tone in which these words were utter.
ed was a reflection upon Anne's faithfulness,
and I cried,
are., sir, she knew; but Anne's almost
Jollied. She is there for advice: I hope for
cure."
“Anne blind! Anne Wesley blind! Child,
are you telling me the truth?”
He was greatly moved, else I should have
resented his 'ungentle words and manner. As
it was. I sat down near him, upon the piazza,
and talked of her and mother until quit* late,
witnont lighting the lamps or going into the
parlor.
"Of course he will go to New York at
once," 1 said to myself, after he left me, as 1
locked the hall door and closed the windows
for the night—"of course and how happy Anne
will be!"
But I was mistaken. The next morning,
while I was busy tying up a drooping helio
trope, Mr. Haven came again, and stood lean
ing over the gate, talking about the flowers,
until I was ready to go in; then he pushed it
open, and followed me up the path, gathering
a few buds from Anne's rosebush, which nat
urally led the conversation to her. I was only
too glad to speak her praises to some one be
sides Martha, and in Mr. Haven 1 had a most
eager listener. 1 remember, as I watched his
kindling face, 1 wished I had some such friend,
one who would be as true and faithful. Soon
after this I had a few lines from Anne, writ.
ten by her own hand. "1 am better," she
wrote; ••please God, I shall soon be quite well,
and with you again, little sister. Do all you
can to make Ralph happy; I give him into
your care. The Doctor refused In let him
come to me at present. how I long to see
you both."
Just as 1 finished crying over this note, I
heard Mr, Haven's step on the graveled walks
and ran to meet him, with it open in my hand.
It was such a relief to find that Ire did not
stay away from Anne voluntarily, that 1 was
quite ready to obey her injunction. •
He, too, had received a line, and I hail never
seen him wear so bright a look as when I ran
down the steps and slipped my hand through
his arm, full of joy for the two bits of letters
which had come like songs of hope.
We sat in the parlor all that evening singing
together, and wishing many times that Anne
was there with her sweet contralto voice to
make our concert complete. When Mr. Haven
said good.night, I laughingly told him I was
going to obey her commands, and do my very
best to amuse him until she could come; in
plege 01 which he begged the blue ribbon that
bound my bair. I gave it to him, and stood in
the door watching him as he went away, with
my long, unloosed curls falling almost to the
floor.
Days passed so swiftly they seemed like the
days of a delicious dream. I never paused to
question my . foolish heart, which throbbed
with new and strange emotion. It was enough
that I was happy; yes, so happy I had not a
single tear even for my dear mother's grave.
But at last there came a letter from Anne an
nouncing her speedy return. Mr. Haven
brought it from the ofFieo, and we read it to
gether,standing by the West window in the
parlor.
"She is a good girl," he mused, after a pro
longed silence, abse:.tly caressing my hair
with his white fingers. ' , She is a good girl.
and so she is coming—when?" Hr gldnced at
the date, which was a week old; the letter had
been delayed, and even now she might be on
her way. I felt his ddrk, magnetic eyes search.
ing my drooping face, and I trembled under
their power. "Are you glad, Rose?" be whis
pered, bending to my ear,
"Glad? Oh yes, I am very glad," I Siam
meted and burst into tears.
"Rose, you love me," said he plowly.
can read your little heart like a page of sweet
poetry. You love me, Rose!"
My pride took fire at this.
"And if I did," cried I, "if I did, without
thinking or knowing it, I have not forgotten
that you pre Anne's promised husband!"
''lt is true, Rose," he said, gloomily, "that
before 1 went to China I had a youthful liking
for Anne, but—" and here his tone changed to
one of deep tenderness— "you, little Rose, are
the only one I ever loved, the only woman I
will marry."
"And so," said I scornfully, for I was be
ginning to realize the depth of woe into which
I was sinking; "and so, because in your long
absence Anne has grown older, and you fear
she is less fair and gay, you would cast her 01
Alb, sir, I shall soon learn to despise you!"
"Rose your angry words bring me to my
self," said he, sorrowfully. "Forgive me,
child, and tell ine how I shall expiate my of
fence."
, 431arry Anne, and never let her know of
MOM
“Marry Anne! Yes; I will, I will. But pity
me, Rose. You did love me, little flower?”
This tone of lender beseeching bow could
my heart withstand it? For one moment I
forgot Anne, honor and duty and flung my
arms around his neck, sobbing.
"Rose," he whispered, "dear child, let us
tell her all. She is generous; she will for
give, she—"
"Never! never! never!" I wrenched myself
from him as I spoke, and turned to fly, when
lo! in the centre of the room, rigid and white
as a marble statue, I beheld Anne!
I. threw myself into her arms, and she held
me there in a brief but kind embrace; then
leading me out in the hall, she touched her icy
lips to mine, and went back to the parlor, clos
ing the door softly alter her.
What passed between her and Ralph in that
long interview I never knew; but he left the
village at night, and I saw him no more for
years.
Anne passed through this furnace of antic.
tion like the holy children,"upon whose bodies
the fire bad no power." Whatever she suf
fered was known to God and herself alone.—
Ontsvardly,there was not the shadow of change.
Twenty years after all this trouble as I sat
musing over the fire one winter evening, a
note was banded me, which read as follows:
Dams Rost.:—Come to me.
•"Rataa HAV ."
The lad who brought it was waiting to golds
me. I snatched a cloak and hood, and without
a question followed him down the street to
the village inn, and here I found Ralph Haven
—dying—dying! He knew me, notwithstand
ing my gray hairs, (for at eight-and-thirty I
was as gray as I am to-day,) and he'beld out
his hands to welcome me. I took them both,
cold and shrunken as they were, and kissed
them.
"Sit down, Rose," he said. “You will stay
by me until I die?"
I took the chair proffered by the good land
lady, and sat all that night with his dear
bands in mine, praying that God would spare
him to me yet a little while. But this was
not to be. At early dawn be died in my arms,
with our dear Lord's name on his quivering
lips.
It has'been the comfort of my life that I
was permitted to be with him when he went
down into the valley of the shadow; that my
ear caught his last whisper; that no one but I
closed his eyes and smoothed the thin gray
locks over his forehead.
Well; the old woman's story is almost
done.
1 am neither lonely nor miserable. The
world looks as bright and fair on this calm
October morning as it did forty years ago; but
1 hope for one which is brighter and fairer,
whither my feet are hastening.
Anne and her children and grand-children
come to see me often, (for Anne married a
good minister, and has reared up a family of
girls to imitate her sweet and womanly vir
tues, and to alrhost adore their mother.) They
also love Aunt Rose.
Here, in the old brown house where I was
born, wbere I have lived and loved and suffered
will I die. You will see that lam decently
buried, very near my mother and Ralph; and
you will not forget to plant a flower over my
grave. I have loved them so well 1 shall like
to think they will bloom near me, even when
I can no longer see their gentle beauty. And
should your tender heart suggest a more en-
during monument, let it be a broken shaft, (for
my life has been incomplete,) bearing only my
name,
ROSE WESLEY.
The Two Breastpins.
I=l
One day last January, Madame Lavogue, a
broker's wife, of ['aria, took it into her head to
want a breastpin. Moreover, she determined
to desire a particular, sort of breastpin—an
emerald encircled with diamonds—which could
be altered ingeniously into a bracelet or a
necklace by a clever contrivance of clasps.—
Madame Lavogue therefore went to a jew
eler's in the Rue de la Paix, and discovered a
love of a thing—just what she wanted, in fact;
and the jeweler, with that sagacious foresight
peculiar to French tradesmen, insisted on her
carrying the breastpin home to show her hus
band, and examine more at her leisui e.—
Madame yielded.
That evening there Wai a dinner-party at
the Calapasses', and Madame L. could not
resist the opportunity it affirded of trying the
effect of the breastpin by gas-light, upon a
rose.colored knot of ribbon. The Paris jew
eler was probably aware of the use that Mad
ame L. might make of his courtesy, but he
was perfectly resigned beforehand, having, no
doubt, his reasons. The emerald produced a
vivid impression among the guests of Mrs.
Calapasse ; and Madame L• being much com
plimented thereon, felt obliged to say that it
was an old tamely relic, reset, and but rarely
worn. The last she added, in case she should
be obliged to return the jewel; for her hus
band, on hearing the price—six thousand
francs—bad rebelled.
On their return to the conjugal hearth, there
ensued a discussion. Mr. L. "could not coun
tenance such extravagance—could not support
it." Madame reminded Monsieur that he had
made for:y thousand on the Pansy mortgage
bonds last week. Monsieur hinted at other
deficits to be made up: X shares down it ; no
sales of T. stuck, &c. Madame began to
weep. Monsieur put on his hat, lit his cigar,
and went to lounge on the Boulevard.
Lounging thereon, Mr. L. beheld the show_
window of a dealer in paste-jewelry. A bright
idea struck him. He entered the store.
"Do you happen to have an emerald (bogus)
surrounded by (bogus) diamonds, in the form
of a breastpin, which may be altered into,"
&c.? Thus, to the storekeeper.
"Certainly, sir. Here is exactly the ar.
tide."
Mr. L. finds that the article does, in fact,
resemble the six thousand franc bijou wonder
fully, incredibly. He asks the price. "One
hundred and twenty francs." Mr. L. reflects
upon this fortunate speculation, and buys the
article—conditionally.
Returning home, he says to his still pouting
wife: "We are going to the bal I at the Coqueli
cots', to-night, you know. Put on the breast.
pin again, and if it meets with equal success
there"—
"Well! what then ?"
“Clikil we'll see about it, then V'
Madame goes down stairs, smiling, to gii e
an order, leaving Monsieur alone in the bou
doir.
That night, all the women at Mrs. Coqueli
eot's ball whispered that Madame Lavogue
was certainly over forty, and had a red nose,
in spite of her famous emerald.
As she disrobed, Madame L. said to Mon
meta L :
"Well! you saw the success of the breast
pin I""
"Certainly !"
"Now, you'll give it to me, won't you,
dearest ?"
"I will !"
"Oh I dear. good, amiable Edward I must
embrace you! you are a real treasure !"
"Yea haven't called me that this long time."
"Because you have not made me so happy
this long time. Now, I'll tell you what, you
give me three thousand francs for the New
Year, to buy a set of furs: here they are ;
renounce the tura , take the money, add the
other three thousand, and pay for the Imes: t
pin."
"Not in the teas!! Keep the money, dear
Anastasia!" •
$1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE
"What 7 Most generous of men ! you—
you—!"
"Yes ! keep it; or rather, give me one hun
dred and twenty francs, and keep the rest."
"One hundred and twenty francs ? One—
what do you mean, Edward ?"
"That's the price of the emerald !"
A Edward, "moat generous of men," ex
plained.
Madame had worn the paste at Coquelicot's
ball.
(Note.—Behold the value of public opinion.)
Madame was indignant. "Monsieur, it is
abominable! you are a traitor—a tyrant !
What! make me wear false jewelry, to have
myself vilified,called red-nosed, over lorty !
o—h! 1 shall never survive it 1"
Let us cut short a scene, of which in truth
we were not witnesses, but only gained these
details through the indiscretion of a friend.
The next day the two breastpins were sent
back to the respective jewelers, Monsieur un
willing to pay for the true, Madame refusing
tv have the false. Fifteen days pass. The
Lavogues are invited to a soiree at the Grebe
lous'. They go.
"How is this, my dear?" cries the widow
Grabelou to Madame L. "You have not put
on your famous emerald this everiiiig ? Do
you not think my soiree as worthy of the
honor as those of the ealapasses, of the Coque
licots 1 You wound my feelings, believe me."
Poor Madame L. begs a thousand par dons;
tells a countless nembei of little fibs that eve-
' , Madame L. has not got her famous emer
ald on to-night," says one lady.
"No! but she has her red nose, though," re
plies another. Madame L. overhears, and
convinced at last that her husband can't be
coaxed into the six thousand franc breastpin,
she resolves on buying the bogus jewel in time
to sport it at the Pardouillasses' ball the next
night, and covertly seeks the paste dealer's
where she is shown the bogus article, just as
I it was returned, in its red morocco case, and
I whence she carries it away in triumph—a
very modest triumph !
The rest of the season is one long ovation.
A year goes by. • • • • • But tirst
we must retrace our steps, and return to the
day succeeding that on which the two breast
pins were sent back to the jewelers. On that
day an American lady calls at the store in
the Rue de Ia Paix, sees the six thousand franc
emerald, likes it, buys it, and that' evening
takes it with her to England, and thence, per
steamer, to Boston. When the vessel reaches
the harbor of Boston, the weather is bois
terous that she cannot make the dock. The
impatient voyagers and their luggage are put
aboard of yawls and rowed ashore. That
which carries the American lady is capsized,
and, though the passengers are saved, the lug
' gage is all lost ; consequently the emerald
I goes to the bottom.
Now we return to Paris, and to the present
January. Madam Lavogae, alter a long season
of triumph, has begun to discover that as far
'as jewels are concerned, the bogus passes as
well as the simon pure, and she has consequent
'ly worn her emerald bravely. But about the
beginning of this January, encouraged by her
success, she concludes to have a pendant at
tached to the breastpin by way of variety.—
So she goes to the paste.jeweler; but he tells
her that a real pendant will cost but little—a
pendant in gold and enamel—and that she had
better go to a jenuine jeweler; whereupon she
seeks the tradesman of the six thousand franc
emerald in the Rue de Ia Paix. This artist is
rather reluctant to work upon bogus jewelry,
but finally consents, and Madame L. hands
him her one hundred and twenty franc brooch.
Tne jeweler puts his glass to his eye, looks at
the brooch, looks harder, holds it up to the
Tight, turns it, turns it again, and then ex
claims:
"But, madams, this is a real emerald! these
are genuine diamonds!"
"Oh! what do you mean, sir?"
"1 mean what 1 say, and—hold! by Jove!
it is the very breastpin I contided to you a year
ago! 1. see my private mark on it!"
"You are mistaken," exclaimed the trades
man's wife, seeing Madame Lavogue blush
and look indignant. "You sold our emerald to
Mrs. 8., an American lady. Here it is on the
books, duly credited and cash received a year
air.."
don't care." cries the jeweler; "this is
my emerald. Here's my mark—a horse's
head and a double cross."
"But I sent it back to you," exclaims Ma
dame L., "and your wife tells you you sold it
to an American lady;" and she seizes her
breastpin, which the jeweler had laid on the
counter, "Look at your book yourself, sir!"
madame—"
«:4y husband shall come and rectify this,
ago. If there is an error he will correct it;"
and Madame Lavogue left in an inexplicable
state between anger and mystification, and
sought her spouse. Mr. L., after hearing the
affair and reacting upon it, came to the con
clusion that in returning the two breastpins,
the day after the Grabelou ball, Madame L.
must have accidentally placed the bogus emer
ald in the real jewel's rase, and vice versa; so
that Mrs. B. of Boston had paid six thousand
francs for a paste breastpin, and Madame La.
vogue bad obtained a remarkably pure emerald
surrounded by brilliants for one hnuilred and
twenty francs! The explanations which en
sued between Mr. L. and the jeweler proved
satisfactorily that this was the true solution
of the mystery.
But the real jeweler insisted on haring the
true jewel back. Mr. L insisted on not return
ing it except in presence of the American lady,
and on her restoring the imitation article. At
this crisis, a friend is found who has read—and
I produces the proof,in a Boston journal—these.
count of the accident in landing the pauengers
of the steamer Massachusetts at Boston, seven
months ago, and the names of those who lost
all their effects, among which is that of Mrs.
8., the purchaser of the emerald. Bow shall
the aflair be arranged now?
[WHOLE NUMBER. 1,549.
. Is Mrs. 8., who paid the six thousand francs,
wronged?
The jeweler, who innocently sold paste for
genuine jewelry, has he any right to demand
the restoration of his breastpin, or any claim
for damages?
Finally, have the sharks of Boston harbor,
who have doubtless taken this green glass as
the real thing, no right to complain?
Mrs. 8., the American lady, is expected in
Paris this spring; and Madame Lavogue has
resolved to go frankly ro her and relate the
whole story, resting entirely upon her decision,
hut at the same time entreating her to allow
Madame L. to enjoy the fruit of this singular
accident. If, however, Mrs. B. insists upon
having the true emerald which she paid for,
Madame L. will equally insist on having the
false one which she has also paid for.
Where will Mrs. B. find it?
We anxiously await the final act or this
comedy of errors.
Death of.the Gipsey King
[From ihe l'intburg 26,11 j
Owen Stanley, the recognized leader of a
large band of Gipsies in this country, died a
short time since, at Madison, Indiana, and his
remains were taken to Dayton, for interment,
beside those of Harriet Owen, a Lipsey Queen,
who was buried there some two years ago.—
The ceremonies were announced to have taken
place with great pomp, and roving bands of
this singular people were gathering to Dayton,
in all directions, to participate in the funeral
ceremonies, which were to be of a curious and
imposing character, becoming the interment of
deceased royalty.
In noticing the fact of his death, we observe
that the papers make no remark upon the
character, life and personal history of the de.
ceased.
The "Lipsey King," Owen Stanley, and his
numerous family, have frequently visited this
part of Pennsylvania,and we know them well.
The government of this peculiar people, among
themselves, is patriarchal, the oldest member
of the tribe or family receiving peculiar reve
rence and implicit obedience from all its rnem
bers.
The Stanley family of Gipseys, of which
Owen was the Patriarch, Chief or King, came
to America some seven or eight years ago, from
England by way of Canada. The Gipsey King
was the father of seventeen children, all of
whom, we believe, are in America and living.
These, with their descendants now number
about two hundred persons. They still keep
up their nomadic, Gipsey mode of living, trav
eling f rom place to place, in bands, sub-divided
according to circumstances. The tribe is pos
sessed of considerable wealth in horses, wag
ons, and money, the latter of which they are
not averse to loaning to persons in whom they
have implicit confidence. Knowing themselves
suspected, they are naturally a suspicious pen.
ple, but when once their confidence is acquired
ti-y are free hearted, open handed and jovial.
In all matters of practical life they are well in
formed. They drive a sharp bargain, are eau
nous and prudent, and we can say that the
Stanley family have proved themselves honest.
for in all charges matte against them, which
are not unfrequent, they insist open istweeti
gallon and come out triumphant.
We recollect that at one time when in this
city, a man from Ohio, swore positively to the
ownership of a horse which was in the posses
; sion of a member of the tribe and offered for
sale at t he horse market, and he was tweeted.
After he had, by questioning and cross ques
tioning induced the complainant to svrear posi
tively that the horse was his father's, Stanley
produced the bill and receipt for the purchase
of the horse, gave bail for a stay of proceed
ings for a couple of days, and not only proved
his legal ownership in the horse, but also that
the man who was said to have been its owner
still had his own horse.
When the Stanley tribe first came to this
country, the father and mother remained in
England and joined their children in this coun
try at the request of their son Levi Stanley,
who sent to England a thousand dollars to aid
them and some of the poorer members of the
tribe to come to the United State,.
The old man had many valuable articles
which had descended to him from his ances
tors, and which he desired to preserve as relics
of the olden time. They were silver cups arid
silver quarts or tankards, which bad been pre
sented to various members of the tribe, by
English noblemen and gentlemen, as rewards
for feats of agility, strength, running, jumping,
dancing, &c. When encamped upon large
common grounds belonging to the nobility and
gentry of England, amusements of this sort
were common, but by an act of Parliament,
passed about twenty years ago, there ground*
were enclosed, and the camp grounds and the
grazing of the Gipseys, like the boating grounds
of our Indian tribes, were taken away from
them. This tact, together with the fear that
the younger members of the tribe might be
impressed tor the Russian war, induced the
Stanleys, together with several other Gipsey
tribes to emigrate to America, where they
I could find plenty of room without being regard
ed as trespassers.
When the Stanleys resolved to come to
America, one and all, the question arose as to
bow they should convey the family relics
above spoken of, which were numerous, and
being of silver, valuable. They feared that
both in England and in this country, the pops.
I tar prejudice which set down the Gipsey as a
(thief, might induce the authorities to siezo
them under the supposition that they were
stolen, and that thus they might be put to
trouble and delay, or might lose their cherish.
ed treasures altogether. They accomplished
the affair with tree Oipsey cunning. parches.
ing a cask of liquor, they secretly placed the
silver ware in it, wrapPed up so as to deaden the
sound, ■nd then entered their liquor for regular
exportation at the Custom House. The cask
and its valuable contents Caine sorely through
official bands, and the liquor was uninjured by
the valuable deposit which it contained. The
family are still in possession of these retire,