- . . . , - ... - ---.. . '''''''''''', . ny----- - 1 . . ' ' . - ' ' • . . , _ ... . , ' •":, t _..• . . .., _. , _. ...._ .__ ..„..„ -• ....._ . ...' .. i.i' . A \ R' . " 1 , 111 011 r.P 114.--1. :f. ~ • ..... '': --. 17,, • . ..., . . , - ;,..... ;~.... t . . - - . -.!;.• iiiil l 1 _ ~ _. .... . . ._. .. ~,,...., SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor. V LUME XXXI, NUMBER 2t.1 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY MIMS Office in Carpet Hill. Kortle-weetcorner of /Pewit and Locust streets. Terms of Subscription. flye Copype ratinumir paidin advance, •• •• if not within three inonthsfrom commeneemen tofthe year, 200 Cosi:teal A. N.1:03 utmeription received lora time than t. 1.2 ......zwixths; mad no paper will be di-combined unlit all arrt..vngut•rre ptid,artles.ttat the option of the pub- I eller. iErnoncy naybe•cmittedbymnil an hepablisli bras risk. - Rates of Advertising. °guar t [Gi ines]one week, 50 ?.9 • three weeks, :5 edelvult.mieniiiinertion, 10 ( t_ inesjoneweek. SO tII iee week.:, 1 MI it eitehttili.enneniinttertion. 23 • L•tmeriiiverii.enteill , in proportion All beralliseou elwoll be mode to rill nil orl y,lial f rirlyor te trly id tieriiiie re,who are strie 11)coisfineil °their iiiiiiiee:A. DR. HOFFER, •- DNTIST.- - -OFFICE, Front Street 4th door trout Locust. over Saylor & Ale Donald's Bonk More Golan*hut, Pa. IrrEttirance, same n- Jolley's Pho tograph Gallery. (August iss9. THOMAS WELSH', JUSTICE OF Tug PEACE, Columbia, Pa. OFFICE. in Wliipper'a New IlatiMing, below Ulriclea lime:, Front .tre: 117 - Prompt intention given to all I/11,111,44 rah 41 , 1N1 ID no: care. Novemlwr H. Di. NORTH, A TTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR AT UV Collet:nom, .1. rompily made nLa oicaLte t and Pori 1011111 ICE. Columbia,Mny 4,190. J. W. FISHER, Attorney and Counsellor at Law, 4Cc,l - 23300.1=01a,, Columina, Svptelither II S. Atlee Beektus, E. D. S. lAcrricms rite Operative, Stir? ina I and Meehan 111, DepurIMPIIIN of DC1111411y; OrkICE i.oolltl it reel.llolW. n he Frankli n lioll-P and Void Office, Columbia, I'd May 7. 1d59. Harrison's Coumbian Ink Wi- a rdrperine perm:mewls. Itlnek Vl' and not eorro ling the rata, t• on he had In 1111 r y. at the ratitily 31edieetc *tore, and blacker Net ix that English hoot Calutattia. Jnne 9.'859 We W Rave Just Reieived R. CUTTER'S Improved Chest Expanding Su , seatler tool Shoulder Bowe+ for r;e 0 0, t 0,•,,, nod Potent Skirt Supporter tool lirnee fur 11.:olie+. joss the article Il u n n taunted at thpa time. Como 1.1111 pee them at 1 7 .mtily Mt:divine Store. Odd 1 , e:lowo (April 9.1:159 Prof. Gardner's Soap wEhave the New Ragland Snap for tbo w wi t . did IT not obtain it from the seen Mali; it is plow -oat to Ike skin, and will take grea, .1.01 4 from Wooleo Condo, it is therefere no litnollott. for you eel the worth of your money lit the Faintly Medicine Store. Columbia, Julie It, 1539. CI,BIOIII, or, Bond's Boston Crackers, for unit A rrntv Root Crnr k.•i., for 'a vail& and elnidien—iieW articles in Columbia, al the Family Mrdicine Szorc, Ann! 16. 111:19. c,',PALDING'S PREPARED GLUE...The 'want of such an nritele is ielt nt vvery faintly, nun now it ettu be supplied; for Melltilllg (11111iIUM eiiilla- Ware.ornamentul work, toys Ao• , there is leuilling superior. We have fulled tt u-eful tii repairing ao article. %gild, hnve been ti-ciest , fur moutli•. You It Lit thin EMILY ?l ISDICISF.s PURL•:. IRON AND STZEL! TlF.Sul,scrtlier.have received u New tn.,' Large :Lock of 01l kin:1. 4 ..1,4 w ... of MM3=llr= 'They nre constantly .llpp ied with , terlr in 'hi. branelt (11111,11 it in etwonytr- JAI Lug, -or emull quannneft, at line lowe.i .tits. J HUMPH; & SOS. Lortvri street below Si cued, Columbia l'a. A prat 2.9, HIM RITTER'S Compound Srrup of 1 - I.r and ‘Vild Cherry, far C0ug!1 , 4; , .!41..a.e. F. r -ale a ,he Golden !dollar Chap. Prue , ri, i --- AYER ' S Compound Conrentrated EArarl sarr.mmLram for the rare e Of Sr SProf :vil. and ail aerafulouv affections, a Ire .1' nit It ju-t received and for .le lip K. WILLLASIS. Frond al, Columbia, Sept. dl. ISO. FOIL 5.% LE. • 200 cross Prirl,o Nlatcho.. v , •ry low for ca.. 11 J.011.2:1. It. 11'11.1.1A NIS Dutch Herring! ANY one food of t.t good Homo , n corp!!cd uf Npv. 19. 1E.:39. • Grocery Siuw., 71 1,14, L"N'S PURR OHIO CATAWBA BRANDY' MIR IcWI N r.pectall) sof :11e.h.•11,,. lid Siler3Mrlllo 1101110..... n 1 lhr Jule .28. 1111;1)10INESTOI:1: NICE RAISINS for 3 cis. per pound, are to be II:111°10y u 1 MERLE:Mr: Greterry Sino•. N.. 71 Lorti-i ,irevt March 10, *GO GaRDEN SEEDS.—Fresh Garda, Nrcds, war fUllttd plIrC, DI II It jig.' Ve-dal EBERLE' NoS brorrry Store, March 10. IM.O. No 71 1.0.11-t .treet POCK ET BOOKS AND PURSES Alot of Floc and Cairiaittit Pocket no/4.4 and Pure, from IS cent. 10 two dollar.: ettell Ile rilquarter i t New,. Depot. Colutratiai April 14.1 A EEW more of those beautiful Prints 104 which will he gold .4.heitp, ut SAYLOR ilc-AIeDONA TY'S ealuinbiii. Apiii II Just Received and For Sale. 1500 SACKS Ground Alum Salt, in large or amid; quami ix., at A PPO LID'S \Pareliou•e, Ca u ca Bain 111a3 . 5,1:0. ,COLD CRI%M OF GLYCERINE.—For the care UN.'and preVrnliOn fO chapped Ganda, hr .. I'or ~.), Attie GOLUI:N AIORTA IC DRUG S PU R E. D.e.3.185P, Prnni rnitiml.ll Turkish Prunes! ~110 R a first rate article of Prune. you mutt to V. 1,1111-:ItLEIN'S N0v.19, 1549. Grocery Slorr, No 71 LOCU.t GOLD PENS, GOLD PENS 't IIST received a large and fine a.cortmeat of Cold Penc.or Nevelt,n nml manufamare. at VLOR & 1 1 1e1HINA1.11'8 Book %grit I front <ire< t. Mom, I.nen.t. FRESH GROCERIES. .11r P. continue to Pell the t...t" tear , Syrup. With, and Brown Sega good Coffees nod clout Tea, to be Sod its Colurnlou et the Now Como, ett ou o. op. ,posite Od i Fellows' /1011, and 411 the old o.'join. lag the 'zit. N. C. FONT DKRS3IIIII. Segars, Tobacco, Sm. ALOT of Gr•terate Scram Tobacen antl Siva will be towel at the stew of the pub-eriber. Ile keep. only a Fret rate article. COI it. F'. Grorery Store. LUCLIfi Al, 0tt.6,163 CRANBERRIES; NEW Crop Prunes, New Cstron. rt .11 Oct. VO, 1561 1 . A. Ai. RAM W'3, SARDINES, --- - It r areesterobire Snare, Refined Cocoa, kr- rc celved and for *ale by S. F. EBEIL .12k4-211, £SGU. No. 71 Lora-t CRANBERRIES. POST reeetved a (red, lot or Cranbett iclt cud New Currants. at No. 71 Locu•t Street. Oct 11, It 40. tl. r. I:STIRLEIN. ritty. Love's Reproach Mil EE= Deer Tom, my bravo, free-hearted lad, Where've )0u go. Liod bless )ou; You'd better speak than wt.!' ) ou had, If love for ate dit.iress you, To me, they shy, yr ur thoughts incline, htal he-shly they may so; Their once for all, to quiet mine, Toni, if you love me. , ay so. On that sound heart and manly frame nits lightly •port or labor, Good-humored, frank, and stilt the ' , nine, To mein, friend. or neighbor. Then why po-tpnne your horn to own For me, from day to day so, And let me whisper, still alone. -Tom, if. you love me, say eo?" How o(t when I was sick, or sal With same remembered Cully, The sight of you has made me glad,— And then most melatteholY' Alt! why «•ill thoughts of one so good Upon my spit it prey so' 11y you it ihoold he utal,r , tood - t•Tein, if you ;ore me, say ,ri Monday, at the eric Let match, No rival ,toad het, re y wit; In harvett time, for quiet. elivairh, The farmer. all adore you, Atid evermore your trance they .ins;, I hough Otto you delay An I I -leep nightly mut louring. -Tom, if you love me, ..ty ro Wliste'er of our• you elinuee to trek, Alino.t I,efore you bre.itlie I being Sri Is blushes on toy cheek, A to J cult Foy 'quid goes With it. wio th ,i,k toe, Ibru, w•itle voiee so low, And rant riiig turn uwitv -0? %Viten next you cow:, before you ill, 'rout if yon love inn, may no. When Jteyer Wi d, beside the brook, Resentful round us toweled, I "II recall that lionsloak Tlyt queiled the -avarre coward, Cold wortl4 and free you uttered then,— I.Vould they could fund their way so.— When the, moisi eye: !la plutilly -Tom. tf you cent me, say so." My 1 iced, 'tis true, are well to clo, A nil yOurs are poor aril frieudlestt, All. no! for they are rich in you, Their Imppinere it end leo?. You never let them slice a tear, Save thin on you they weigh so; There', one ought bring you better cheer, Tom, if you love me, say ito. My flock'. legacy is nil lot you. Torn when yoti choose i . ; In butter (mud- it cannot tail, Or bent r tr.iineil to use 111 is an for y ra, In ktt not, Nor wooed nor plighted cirty co, Sure a coati anti mirth make even lot, Toni, if you %eve ine,cay co. gtittticin.s. The Cold Embrace Ile was a student—such things as hap pened to him Im - ppen sometimes to students He was a German—such things as hap pened to him happen sometimes to Germans He n•as young, handsome, studious, en thusiastic, metaphysical, reckless, unbelier ing, heartless. And being; young, handsome and eloquent, he was beloved. Ile was au orphan, under the guardian ship of his dead father's brother, his uncle Wilhelm, in whose house ha had been brought up from a little child; and she who loved him was his cousin—his cousin Ger trude, whom he swore he loved in return. Did he love her? Yes, when he first swore it. But it soon wore nut—this pas sionate love, how threadbare and wretched a sentiment it grew to be at last in the sel fish heart of the student. But in its first golden dawn, when he was only nineteen, and had just returned from the university, and they wandered together in the most ro ut:train outskirts of the city, at rosy sun,et, by holy moonlight, or bright and joyous morning, how beautiful a dream! They keep it a seeret from Wilhelm, as he has the fathers aniliition of a wealthy suitor for his only child—a cold mad dreary vision beside the lover's dream. So they are betrothed and standing side by side when the dying son and the pale rising moon divide the heavens. 110 puts the betrothal ring on her linger, the white and taper finger whose slender shape he knows so well. The ring is a peculiar one —a massive golden serpent, its tail in its mouth, the symbol of eternity; it had been his mother's, and he would know it among 4 a thousand. ir he were to become blind to-morrow, he could select it from amongst a thousand by the t,uclt alone. He places it on her finger, and they swear to be true to each other for ever and ever— through trouble and danger—in sorrow and change—in wealth or poverty. Iler father would be won to consent to their union by and-by. fur they were now betrothed, and death alone could part them. But the young student, the scoffer at rev elation, yet the enthusiastic adorer of the mystical, asks: "Can death part us? I would return to you from the grave, Gertrude. ISly soul would come back to be near my love. And you—you, if you died before me, the cold earth would nut hold you from me; if you loved me you would return, and again these fair arms would be clasped round the neck as they are now." But she told him, with a holier light in her deep blue eyes than ever shone in his— she told him, that the dead who die nt prace with God are happy in 'leaven, and cannot return to the troubled earth; and that it is wily the suicide, the lust wretch on allow "NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS ILEADING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." sorrowful angels shut the door of Paradise, whose unholy spirit haunts the footsteps of 'the living. The first year of their betrothal is passed, and she is alone; fur he has gone to Italy on a commission for some rich man to copy a Raphael, or a Titian, or a Guido, in a gal lery at Florenee. Ile has gone to win fame, perhaps; but it is not the less bitter—he is gone! Of course her father misses his young nephew, who has been as a son to him; and he thinks his daughter's sadness no more than a cousin shoald feel fur a cousin's ab- EGII3 In the meantime the weeks and months pass. The lover writes often at first, then seldom—at last, not at all. How many excuses she invents for him. How many times she goes to the distant lit tle Post Office to which he is to address his letters. How many times she hopes, only to be disappointed. How many times she despairs, only to hope again. But real despair comes at last, and will not be put off any nilre. The rich suitor appears on the scone, and her father is do termined. She is to marry at once. The wedding day is fixed—the fifteenth of June. The date seems burnt into her brain The date, written in fire, dances forever before her eyes. The date, shrieked by the Furies, sounds continually in her cars. But there is time yet—it is the middle of May—there is time for a letter to reach bite at Florence; there is time fur him to come to Brunswick, to take her away and marry her in spite of her father—in spite of the whole world. But the days and the weeks fly by, and ho does not write— , he does not come. This is, indeed, despair which usurps her heart, and will not be put away. It is the fourteenth of Juno. For the last time to the little Post Office; for the last time she asks the ow question, and they give her fur the last time the dreary answer, "No! no letter!" For the last time—for to-morrow is the day appointed for her bridal. Her father will hear no entreaties; her rich suitor will not listen to her prayers. They will not be put MT a. day—an hour; tonight alone is hers—this night, which she may employ as she will. She takes another path than that which lends home; she hurries through some by streets of the city, out on to a lonely bridge, where he and she had stood so often in the sunset watching the rose colored light glow, fade, and die upon the river. 1n , .. Gun He returns from Florence. He bad re ceived the letter. The letter, blotted with tears, entreating, despairing--he had re ceived it, but he loved her no hmger. A young Florentine, who had sat to him fur a model, had bewitched l.is fancy—that fancy which with Mtn stood in place of a heart— and Gertrude had been half forgotten. If she hail a richer suitor, good! let her marry him; better for her, better far for himself. He had no wish to fetter himself with a wife. Had he not his arts always? his eter nal bride. his unchanging mistress. Thus be thought it wiser to delay his journey to Brunswick, so that he should ar rive when the wedding was over—arrive in time to salute the bride! And the vows—the mystical fancies—the belief in his return, even after death, to the ribrace of his beloved! Oh, gone Out of this life! melted away forever those foolish dreams of his boyhood! S on the fifteenth of June he enters Brunswick by that very bridge on which she stood, the stars looking down on her the night before. Ile strolls across the bridge and down by the water's edge. a great rough dog at his heels, and the smoke from his short meerschaum pipe curling in blue wreath: antastical in the cure morning air. lie has his sketch-book under his arm, and, attracted now and then by some object that catches his artist's eye, stops to draw. A few weeds and pebbles on the river's brink--a crag on the opposite shore—a group of p•'llard wil lows in the distance. When he has done he admires his drawing, shuts his sketch-book, empties the ashes from his pipe. refills from tobaco•pouch, sings the refrain of a gay drinking sons, calls to his dog, smokes again and walks on. Soddenly he opens his sketch book again; this time that which attracts him is a group of figures—but what is it? It is not a funeral, for there are no mourn e-s. It is not a funeral, but it is a corpse lying on a rule bier covered with an old sail carried between two bearers. It is not a funeral, for the bearers are fishermen—fishermen in their every day garb. sr, About a hundred yards from him they rest their burden on a bank—one stands at the head of the bier, the other throws him self down at the fit of it. And thus they form a perfect group; he walks back two nr three paces, selects his point of sight, and begins to sketch a hur ried outline. lie has finished it before they move; he hears their voice+, though he can not hear their words, and wonders whet they can be talking of. Presently he walks on, and joins them. "You have a corpse there, my friends?" ho says. "Yes; a corpse washed ashore an hour ago." "Dmwned?" "Ye., drowned;—a young girl, very hand soms." "Suicides are always handsome," he says; COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 29, 1560 and then he stands fur a little while idly smoking and meditating, looking at the situp outline of the corpse and the stiff folds of the rough canvas coverinm. Life is such a golden holiday to him— young, ambitious, clover—that it seems as though sorrrow and death could have no part in his destiny. At last he says, that as this poor suicide is so handsome, lie should like to make a sketch of her. He gives the fishermen some money, and they offer to remove the sailcloth that covers her features. No; ho will do it himself. He lifts' the rough, coarse, wet canvas from her face.— What face? The face that shone on the dreams of his foolish boyhood. The face which once was the light of his uncle's home. His cousin Gertrude his betrothed! • He sees, as in one glance, while lie draws one breath, the rigid features—the marble arms—the hands crossed on the cold bosom; and, on the third finger of the left hand, the ring which had been his mother's—the gold en serpent; the ring which, if he were to become blind, he could select from a thous and others by the touch alone. Bit he is a genius and a metaphysician— grief, true grief is not for such as he. His first thought is flight--Might anywhere out of that accursed city—anywhere far from the brink of that hideous ricer—anywhere away from memory, away from remorse— anywhere to forget. * * * * Ile is miles on the road that leads away from Brunswick before he knows that he has walked a step. It is only when his dog lies down panting at his feet that he feels how exhausted he is himself, and sits down upon a bank to rest. flow the landscape spins round and round before his dazzled eyes, while :his morning's sketch of the two fishermen and the canvas-covered bier glares redly at him out of the twilight. At last, after sitting a long time by the roadside, idly playing with his dog, idly smoking, idly lounging, looking as any insouciant light-hearted traveling student might look, yet all the while acting over that morning's scene in his burning brain a hundred times a minute—at last he grows a little more composed, and tries presently to think of himself as ho is, apart from his cousin's suicide. Apart from that, he was no worse off than he was yesterday. Ifs genius was not gone; the money he had carnal nt Florence still lined his pocket book; he was his own master, free to go whither he would. And while he sits on the road side, try ing to separate himself from the scene of that morning—trying to pat away the image of the corpse covered with the damp canvas sail—trying to think of what he should do nest, where ho should go, to he further away from Brunswick and remorse, the old diligence comes rumbling and jingling along Ile remembers it; it goes, from Brunswick to Aix la-Chapelle. lie whistles to his dog, shouts to the pos tillion to stop, and springs into the coupe. During the whole evening, through the long night, though he does not once close his eyes, he never specks a word, but when morning dawns, and the other paisengers awake and begin to talk to each other, he idtis in the conversation. Ito tells them that ho is an artist, that Ito is going to Cologne and to Antwerp to copy the Rubons. Ile remembered afterwards that ho had talked and laughed boisterously, and that when lie was talking and laughing loudest, a passenger, older and graver than the rest, opened the window near him, and told him to putt his head out. He remembered the fresh air blowing in his face, the singing of the birds in his cars, and the flat fields and rood-side reeling before his eyes. He re membered this, and then falling in a heap on the floor of the diligence. It is a fever that keeps him for sic long weeks laid on a bed at an hotel in Ais-la- Chapelle. Ile gets well, and, accompanied by his dog, starts on foot for Cologne. By this time he is his former self once more. Again the blue smoke from his short meerschaum curls upwards in the morning air —again be sings some old university drinking song— again stops here and there, meditating and sketching. Ile is happy, and has forgotten his cousin —and so, on to Cologne. It is by the great Cathedral lie is stand ing with his dog at his side. It is night, the bells have just chimed the hour, and the clocks aro striking eleven: the moonlight shines full upon the magnificent pile, over which the artist's eye wanders, absorbed in the beauty of form. . • • Ile is not thinking of his drowned cousin for he has forgotten her and is happy. Suddenly some one—something from,be hind him, puts two cold arms round his neck. and clasps its hands on his breast.. , And yet there is no one behind him, fur on the flags bathed iii the broad moonlight there are only two shadows, his own and his dog's. Ile turns quickly round 7 -here is no one—nothing to be seen in the ; broad square but himself and his dog., and along!' be feels he cannot see the cold arms:nlatped round his neck. It is not ghostly, this embrace,lny it is palpable to the touch—it cannot bersa 4 l,fur it is impalpable to the sight. • Ile tries to throw off the cold =Test :lle clasps the hands in his own to , t e ar, them asunder, and to cast them off his neck. He can feel the long delicate fingers cold and wet beneath his touch, and on the third finger of the left hand he can feel the ring which was his mother's—the golden serpent —the ring which he has always said he would know among a thousand by the touch alone. He knows it now! His dead cousin's cold arms are round his neck—his dead cousin's wet hands are clasped upon his breast. He will die! lle will go mad! "1.7 p Lee," he shouts. "Up, up, boy!" and the Newfoundland leaps to his shoulders—the dog's paws are on the dead hands, and the animal utters a terrific howl, and springs away from his master. The student stands in the moonlight, the dead nrms round his neck, and the dog at a little distance moaning piteously. Presently a watchman, alarmed by the howling of the dog, comes into the square to see what is wrong. In a breath the cold arms are gone. He takes the watchman home to the hotel with him and gives him money; in his grati tude he could have given the Mall half hi little fortune. NVill it ever come to him again, this em brace of the dead? lie tries never to be alone; he makes a hundred acquaintances,and shares the chum• ber of another student. Ho starts up if he is left by himself in the public room at the inn where he is staying, and runs into the street. People nutice his strange actions, and begin to think that he is mad. But in spite of all he is alone once more, fur one night the public room being empty for a moment, when on some idle pretence he strolls into the street, the street is empty too, and for the second time he feels the cold arms round his neck, and for the second time when he calls his dog the animal slinks away from him with; a piteous howl. After this he leaves Cologne, still travel ing on foot—fur economy now, as his money is getting low. Ile joins traveling hawkers. he walks side by side with laborers, ho talks to every foot passenger he falls in with, and tries from morning till night to get company on the road. At night he sleeps by the fire in the kitch en of the inn at which he stops, but di what he will lie is often alone, and it is now an old thing .fur him to feel the cold arms round his neck. Many months have passed since his tocsin's death—autumn, winter, early spring. llis money is nearly gone, his health is utterly broken, he is the shadow of his former self, and he is getting, near Paris. lie will reach that city at the time of the carnival. To this he looks forward. In Paris, in Carnival time, he need never surely he alone, never feel that deadly careo, he might even recover his lost gaiety, his lost health, once more resume his profession, once more earn fame and money by his net How hard he tries to get over the distance that divides him from Paris, while day by day he grows weaker and we.,kcr, and his step more slow and heavy. But there is an end at last; the long and dreary roads are passed. This is Paris, which he enters for the first time—Paris, of which he has dremiied so much—Paris, whose million voices are to exorcise his 'phantom. To hint, to night, Paris seems one vast chaos of lights, musk and confusion—lights which dunce before his eyes and will not he still—music that rings in his ears and deafens him—confusion which makes his head whirl round and round. But in spite of all, he finds the opera house, where there is a masked ball. Ile has enough money left to boy a ticket of admission, and to hire a domino to throw °ter his shabby dress. ft seems only a mo ment after his entering the gates of Paris that he is in the very midst of the wild gaiety of the opera house ball. No more darkness, no more loneliness, but a mad crowd, shouting and dancing. and a lovely Debardeur hanging on his arm. Tho boisterous gaiety he feels surely is his old light-heartodness come back. He bears the people round him talking of the outrageous conduct of some drunken stu dent, and it is to him they point when they say this—to him, who has not moistened his lips since yesterday at noon—for even now he will not drink; though his lips nre parched, and his throat burning, he cannot drink. His voice is thick and hoarse, and his utterance indistinct, but still this most in his old light-heartedness come back that makes him so wildly gay. The little Debardeur is wearied out—her arm rests on his shoulder heavier than lead —the other dancers one by one drop off. The lights in the chandeliers one by one die out. The decorations look pale and shadowy in that dim light that is neither night nor day. A faint glimmer from the dying lamps, a pale streak through the half-open shutters of cold gray light from the new-born day. And by ,this light the bright-eyed debar deur fades sadly. lie looks her its the face. flow the brightness of her eyes d:os out. Again he looks her in the face. how white that face has grown. Again—and how it is the shadow of a face alone that looks in his. Ainin—and they are gone—the bright eyes—the face—the shadow of the face. 'leis alone, alone in that vast saloon. • Alotie;andin the tkrible silence he hears the echoes of his own footsteps in that dia.- inal Lime which has no music. Vie music but the beating of his heart against his breast. For the cold arms are $1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IP NOT IN ADVANCE round his neck—they whirl him round, they will not be flung off, or cast away, he can to more escape from their icy grasp that he can escape from death. lie looks behind him—there is nothing but himself in tin treat empty hall; but be can feel—cold. leathlike, but oh' how palpable—the lone slender fingers, and the ring which was hi. mother's. Ile tries to shout, but helms no power in hh burning throat. The silence of the place is .nly broken by the echoes of his own foot steps in the dance from which he cannot extricate himself. Who says he has no partner? The cold hands aro clasped ot, his breast, and now he does not shun their caress. No! One more polka . if lie drops down dead! The lights are all out, and half an hour after the gendarmes come in with a lantern to see that the house is empty; they are fol lowed by a great dug that they have found seated howling on the steps of the theatre• Near the principal entrance they stumble over— The body of a student who has died from want of food, ex:mustion, and the breaking of a blood vessel! An''Hon est Arab "SroOsman, Expre3s, .Wercury, fusecs, penny a hunder•—this days Scotchman, sir!" shouted is shrill-piped, ragged little fellow, at the end of a cold, yet bitter day in Octo ber, as we stood at tho door of the New Royal in Princess street, while stopping fur a day or two in Edinburg a short time since. "No, we don't want any." "Fasces, a penny a hunder, sir;. this day's paper, sir—halt price, sir—only a bawbee," persisted the young countryman of Adam Smith. "Get along, don't want any," growled any traveling companion, Phillips. "They're good fosecs, sir, penny a homier." "Don't smoke." "They'ro good fusees, sir, bonder and twenty for a penny, sir," coming around on my flank. "No, don't want 'etn, my boy," The keen, blue face, with its red, bare feet ingrained with dirt, and bundle of scanty rags, looked piteously nt me, moved off a little, but still hovered around us.— Now, when I put down my first subscrip tion to the Ragged School in Westminister, I took a mental pledge from myself to en courage vagrant children in the etreets no more. Somehow in this instance that pledge wouldn't stand by me, but gave way. "Give me a penn'ort:l, young 'un." "Yes, sir—they dinna "Ab, haven't got a copper, nothing less than a shilling; so, never mind, my boy, I'll buy from you to-morrow." "Buy them the nicht, if you please. I'm very hungry, sir." His little cold face, which had lightened up, now fell; for, from his bundle of papers, I saw his sales had been few that day. "I'll gang for change, sir." "Well, I'll try you—there is a shilling; now, be a good boy, and bring me the change to -morrow morning to the hotel— ask fur Mr. Turner." "As cure's death, sir, I'll bring the change the morn, was the promise of the Loy before he vanhlted with the shilling. "Well, Turner," said Phillips, as ITO Strolled along Prince4s street, "you don't expert to see your ragged friend again, do pa"' "I IL I." "The boy will dishonor his 1. 0. U. as sure as--" "Well, I won't grieve about the money; but I think I can trust the boy." "Can? Why, you have trusted him." "Well, we'll see." "Yes, a good many remarkable things, but not young I,rimstone and your money." Nest morning we spent in seeing the On our return to the inn, I inquired: "Waiter, did a little boy call here for me today?'' 'Boy, sir,? --gll, sir? No, sir?" "Of course 1.0 didn't," said Philips.-- "Did you really expeot. to see your yourg Aral) again?" "Indeed I did." Later in the evening, a small boy IWO in troduced: who wished to speak with me.-- lie was a duodecimo edition of the small octavo of the previous day--a shoeless, shirtless,'shrttnk, ragge 1 , wretched, keen witted Arab attic streets and closes of the city. He was so very small, and cold, and child-like,—though with the same shivering feet and frame, thin, blue, cold face, down which tears had worn their weary channel —that I saw at once the child was not my friend of the previous night. lle stood fur a few minutes dividing and rummaging into the recesses of his rage.— At last he said: "Are you the gentleman that bought fusees free Sandy yesterday?" "Yes, my little ...an." "W e el, here's seven pence, (counting out divers copper coins,) Sandy canna come, he's no weel; a cart run over him the day, and broken his legs, and lost his bannet, and his fusees, and your four-pence piece, and big knife, an' he's no weel. lie's no weel, ace, and the doctor says he's dee— dec--in, and—and that's a' he can gie you [WHOLE NUMBER 1,584. two." And the poor child, commencing with subs, ended in a sore fit of crying. I gave him food, for though his cup al' sorrow was full enough, his stomach was empty, as he looked wistfully at the display in the tea table. "Arc you Sandy's brother?" "Ay, sir," and the good gates of his heart igain opened "Where do you live? Are your father and mother 'Wo bide in Blackfriar's Wynd, in tho Cooga to My raither's dead, and father's awn, and we bide whiles VW our gudc mither," sobbing bitterly. "Where did this accident happen?" "Near the college,air." Calling a cab, we were speedily set down .at Blackfriar's IVynd. I had never pene trated the wretched places of these ancient cities by day, and here I entered one by ~ight, and almost alone. Preceded by my little guide, I entered a dark, wide winding stairs, until climbing many flights •,f stairs in total durh ness, he opened a dour, whence a light maintained a feeble, unequal struggle with the thick, closc•smelling, heavy gloom. My courage nearly gave Away as the spectacle of that room hulk upon me. In an apartment, certainly spa cious in extent, but scarcely made visible by one guttering candle stuck in a bottle, were an over -crowded mass of wretched beings, sleeping on tniscrabie beds spread out upon the floor, or squatted or reclining upon the cold, unfurnished boards. Stepping over a prostrate quarrelling drunkard, I found little Sandy on a bed of carpenter's shavings on the floor. He was Still in his rags and a torn and scanty (Mr erlet had been thrown over him. Poor lad! he was so changed. His sharp, pallid face was clammy and cold--beads of the sweat of agony was standing on his brow—hid bruised and mangled body lay motionless and still, except -when sobs and moaning heaved his fluttering breast. A bloated woman in maudlin drunkenness, (the dead or banished father's second wife, and not kis mother,) now and then bathed his lips with whisky and water, while she applied to her own a bottle of spirits to drown the grief she hiccupped and assumed. A doctor front the Royal Infirmary had called and left some medicine to soothe the poor boy's ag ony, (for his case was hopeless, even though he had been taken at first, as he ought to have been, to tho Infirmary in the neigh rhood,) but his tipsy nurse hail forgotten to administer it. I applied it, and had him placed upon a less miserable bed of straw: and a feeling woman, nit occupant of the room, offering to attend him during the night, I gave what directions I could, and left the degraded, squalid home. Next morning I was again in Blackfriar's Wynd. Its close, pestilential air, and tow ering, antique, dilapidated mansions (the abode of the peerage in far-off times) now struck my senses. Above a doorway was carved upon the stone: "Expcept ye Lord do build ye house, yet uilder build in vain." I said the room was spacious--it was almost noble in its proportions. The wall of paneled oak sadly marred, a massive marble mantlepiece of cunning carving, ruthlessly broken and disfigured, enatnelled tiles around the fire place, once representing some Bible story, now sore, despoiled and cracked, and the ceiling festooned with some antique fruit and flowers, shared in the general Vandal wreck. With the ex ception of a broken chair, furniture the: o was none in that stifling den. Its occupant:, said the surgeon, whom 1 found at the sufferer's bed, were chiefly of our cities' pests, and the poor lad's step mother—who had taken him from the rag ged school that ohs might drink of his piti. ful earnings—was as sunk in infamy as any there. For the patient, medical skill was naught, fur he n•as sinking fast. The soul looking ft ont his bright blue eyes was slowly ebbing out, his palled cheeks were sunk and thin but consciousness returned, and his lamp was flickering up before it sunk forever. As I took his feeble hand, n flicker of rec• Ignition seemed to glance across his Ince. •'I got the change, and was comin'--" "My poor boy, you were very honest. Have you any Wish—anything, poor child, I can do for you. I promise to—" "ltruhy. I'm sore I'm deer, who will tnke rare o' you noo?" Little Reuben was instantly in a fit of crying, and hinisolf prostrate on the h o d. Sandy! Sandy! Sandy!" sobbed his lit tle heart. "I %%ill sec to your little brother." "Thank you. sir! Minna—Dinna leave me. lieu—lieu—by I'm eem—comin'—comin', cornin"-- "Whist! whist!" cried little Roub, look ing up, and turning around to implore silence in the room. That moment the calm, faded smile that seemed to have alighted as a momentary visitant upon his face, slowly passed away, the eyes became blank and glazed, and his little life imperceptibly rip pled out. rho honest boy lies in the Canongato church-yard, not far from the grave stone put up by Burns to the memory of Ferguson, his brother poet, and I have little Reuben at Dr. Guthrie's ragged school, and receive exelleat account of him and from him. IleirLaziness begins in cobwebs and ,ends in iron chains. It creeps. over a roan to slowly and imperceptibly, that he is bound tight before he knows it.
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