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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.