1 4.• - • :',.-r . .. - ..L:11,C,..... 1 !'1.-..:11./.._.. - -•• '• - .`i -.,:::'-i..• SAMUEL WEIGHT, Editor and Proprietor. VOLUME XXXIII, NUMBER 32.3 PUBLISHED EVERY SITURDAY NORINING. gefice in Carpet Hall, 'forth•westeornerof i Front and 199aust streets. 'forms of Subscription. Clor , y e rtn tf not d p i ll ' i l trvt d . v irl:l e e.ik re e month sirom commeneetnerl etihe year, 100 qn 031t13 451, 0c:•13,3r. plot übseetritton received fo•ti less time than srr A ioutits; and no paper will be discontinuetl unit: all preuruzessreputd.unlessal the optiottof the pub • libel , irrsloneynaybe•emittetlbTtnali au hepublisht er s risk. • Rates of Advertising, quartio inesione week. three weeks. rich . Itro,qu rtnin sertion Ittt (12 inesfone week 50 three weeks. LOU .-nehtulytequenrinsertion. 25 t. a rgeridvertisemestmt properties xliberulliscountwilthe made toftuarterly.half. a t ,esrtytavertisers,who are strictl)eottfined .0 heir husiness rretrg. Under the Cross. I cannot. cannot ray— Out of my braked and breaking heart— Storm driven along a thorn-set way , While blood drops Marl From every pore, as I drag on— " Thy will, 0 God, be done." I cannot, in the wave Ofmy suango FrOITOW4 fierce baptism, Look up to heaven, with spirit brave IVith holy eltd.m; And while the whelming rite goes on, Murmur, “Cod's will be done." I am not strong to bear This sudden blast of scorch iv, breath, Which blossoms Lorin black despair, And life in death; cannot say, Without the sun, tlgy God, thy vela be dose." I thought but yesterday, My will was one with God's drar And that it would he sw ee t to sa y— Whatever is My happy state should smite upon, ••Thy will, my God, be done." Ent I was weak and wrong; pplh weak of soul and wrong of heart; And Pride alone an me was wogs, Willi cunning art To client me in the golden sun, To say, “Clod's will be done," 0 shadow, drear and cold, Thal fights me out of foolish pride; that through my bosom rolled tii:towy udet I said, till ye your power made known, "God's will, not mine, be do.te., Now faint and sore afraid. tinder my cross—heavy and rude— My idols in the ashes Mid. Like ashes strewed, The holy word* my pule lire Rllllll - God, thy will he dose." Pity my woes, 0 God! And touch my will with thy warm breath; Put in my t;embliug hand thy rod, That qu ieLens death; Tint my dead faith may feel thy sun, And say, •Thy will be done." [IV. r. Under the Ice Untie: - the ice the water. run; Under the ice our spatial lie; The genial glow of the Allmmer sae Shell looiien their fetters by end Irv. Moan and groan in thy prison cold, Raver of life—river of love; The winter is growing worn add old, The fro-t is leaving the melting mould, And the sun shines bright above. Under the we, under the snow, Voir lives ore bound iii a ery.tal ring; and by will the Foully wind, blow, Attl :he rows bloom on the banks of .yiring. Moan and gloan an thy fetters strong, River of rife—river of love; The nights grow Amt. tit., days grow long, 'eaker and weaker the hoods of wrong, And the sun shines bright shove Linder the ice our souls are hid; UnJcr these our gout deeds grow; Idea but credit the wren; we did, never the motives that lay below. Munn on I groan in thy fiction cold, River of life—river of love; The winter of life is growing old. The frost is leaving the media" mould, And the sun shines warm above. rnder the ice we bide our wrongs— Under the ice that has chilled u, through! Old that the Irmo& who have known tia long Dare to doubt that we are good and true. Aloan and grow* in MYp r mon ccld, River of life—river of love; Winter is growing warm and old, Roses stir in the inciting mould; We shall be known above. gelsrtionO. The Mystery of Kiss Marsh's Lodger. A TALC Or CIRCMIsTANTIAL ErmExct Since the expiration of Miss Marsh's oc cupancy, scores of tenants have come in and gone out of 14 Great Rumball street. Just now one would be puzzled to say who is the representative tenant, it is let out to so many divisions of handicrafts, all asserting their respective claims to the portion of door posts where their bells are ranged one above the other; and the door itself—where the French polisher in the parlor, the work ingjewclet in the first floor, and the dress and pelisse maker in the second, announce Themselves in zinc; all, I should think, with more than their full complement of offspring,s, to argue from the children that truing upon the raitings and play upon the door-steps,'. and generally harass the skirts of the house. But in Miss Marsh's time it was so differ ent. That was, as I said, very many years ago. Then it was all so trim and tidy.— The windows shone. The old fashioned balsams and mignionette from the sills blossomed kindly out upon the street. The blinds hung straight and snowy,- • The brass knocker and door-knob were stainleSsly radi ant. It was q positive pleasure to see rosy cheeked Marian come, in her clean cop and rough check *prom, pith clinking pail and twirling mop, to wash the steps in a morn ing and Bluish and palish every speck away. That was what old Mrs. Withers, who lived opposite, said; and she ought to have known if any one did, for she passed her life sit ting in her easy chair, knitting, and look ing out of the window at the world of Great Rurnbsll street. DEI I do not think if Mrs. Withers' spectacles had been of twenty times stronger tinseitify big power they could have seen anything to disapprove in her neighbor's arrangements. All was so fru A til, and clearly, and patent to. society. Front six &cluck in the morn ing, when the window of Miss Marsh's bed room was opened to the cheerful early sun shine, to ten at night, when her candle was extinguished, you might almost read her daily life of simple industry on the other side of the walls—at least in so far as any one can read any one else's daily life. But amongst other things which Mrs. Withers. and the world in general, saw in the course of time, was a change in Miss Marsh's cir cumstances—long suspected, but openly an nounced one day by a flag of distress in the parlor window, bearing the legend, "Apart ments to lett" and, in the course of time also, they witnessed the arrival of Miss Marsh's lodger. I think, in a general way, householders are disposed to resent the existence of lodgers as a class—are disposed to view them with suspicion and treat them with rigor. So, in proportion to the good will felt by Great nutnhall street to No. 14 was its distaste to the newly-installed "first floor." He was a young man. lle was a medical student. lie was a fine, strapping fellow. Given all these premises, would not the fair deduction be late hours—rollicking —dissipation--extravagance? Decidedly, Miss Marsh was imprudent, to say the least of it, to take suck an occupant under her quiet, orderly roof—and with that young, good-looking servant tool Had it been an elderly lady now, or a blind gentleman, or, in feet, any one else—although she would hare done better to hare given up house keeping altogether, and become a lodger herself. So the little world of the street settled the affair of their neighbor for her, years upon' years ago; just as the younger world of to day arranges fur another generation of neighbors just as my affairs are decided fur me, and yours settled for you. • Fur once, howerer, they were wrong; and whether right or wrong, as the popular man ner is, having had their say out, they soon I forgot all about the young man who had oc casioned it—only to Miss Marsh, and to Miss Marsh's maid he became an object of daily increasing interest. Every man is a hero to some woman; so, to these two, ho became part of daily life—' his breakfast, his fire, his boots, his bed, his books being made much of; just, only in lesser degree, as his mother, the clergy man's widow down amongst the Somerset orchards, nod his young sister, and one other, talked of hint, and prayed for him, and kept him in their simple, loving hearts. it was September when ltalph Sellwood entered upon Lis lodgings; and now it is May. All that time he had been studying hard in the schools of medicine he bad come to town to attend, making way steadily, and becoming a favorite from a frank, genial good nature, which am-riled well with his vigorous good health and light heart, and good looks. Many a day. a Item some jest of t h e ta ,,, oent had been uttered, or some boy iffkli freak had been played, they were re• membered, and thrown into the casting np of the stain. So much for the generalities' of the young nian's fife. - On Sunday. the 14th of May, as the hells wore ringing for morning prayers, Mr. Sell wood, coming down stairs, encountered at the open hall door his landlady dressed for church, and talking to a friend who had paused without, also on her way to the ser vice. The fresh sunshine lit up the street. The sky was blue above. There were a thousand sweet odors of eerly summer in the air. vision of the fragrant summer seized him, and smote him with the indefin able longing that every one has experieoeed —a longing to feel the foot on the green sward, and to bare the head to the pure breeze upon the bill! Miss Marsh, however, with all her kindly sympathies, would not have had one for such a want. The tender sky, and the cowslip meadow, and the blue hell bunk in 'Warped, wore things, so to speak, to be put decently out of sight and hearing, like the children's toys in the drawer, from Saturday till Monday. All this had often been discussed between young Sellwood and his landlady—on one side with raillery, on the other with the nearest ap proach to acrimony that gentle nature was capable of. But he was in no mood for a lecture now; so, in reply to her question of which church he was going to, he said, on the spur of the moment, he was going to a friend at some distance, with whom he should remain to dine. Miss Marsh had then said neither would she return for the day, but would accept the invitation her ac quaintance without had just been urging upon her, to go to hear a distant preacher and remain with her. As the young man passed out, she stepped back to tell her maid the change in her arrangements. Ralph Sellwood was soon out of the streets—it did not then take so long to leave them behind as now. The streams of peo , plo with prayer and hymn hooks, bound sedately to church and chapel, gradually declined into one or two late and hurried • El "NO ENTERTAINMENTIS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING." COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, MARCH 8, 1862 stragglers. The bells had ceased, and as he passed here and there a place of worship he could hear the deep boom of the organ within, or the voices of the congregation singingtsome old psalm tune, that seemed like a faint echo coming back, muffled and indistinct, but familiar, from his boyhood. A morbid sense of isolation weighed down his buoyant nature as he strode on through the bright, sad, Sunday street—a yearning for home and the dear faces there, such as a child might feel, fell upon him with fierce impotence. As he stretched northwards away by the then country villages of High gate and Hampstead. and sat down upon the wild Head) overlooking the great city, it was not L radon below that he saw with his vacant eyes, but the distant cottage with the pear-tree against the gable, and the jes samine around the porch, and the fragrant cabbage-rises and sweet lavender in the garden. It was his mother with her wid ow's dress that sat at the open window of the cool, low .parlor, and his sister and young cousin, in their Sunday white frocks and blue ribbons, that paced up and down the path without, as he had so often seen them. tinder that pure light gentle Mem ory took his band, and opened many a long closed chamber: A cluck rudely struck out the hour, and all the vision melted away. There was only the wild heath, and the woods, and the stern fact of London et his feet. Ile rose and stretched himself. Ile felt tired, and cross, and hungry, and in no mood for companion ship. Instead, therefore, of seeking out any of his friends, as he had had some vague in tention of doing, he bethought him of turn ing home again, and getting through an ac cumulation of work in writing out old notes of leotures which ho had neglected. So, like a working-man he stepped out. There is nothing like a brisk walk for restoring the mental circulation. By the time he had got past the fields and gardens on to the flag-stones, he had left behind all the gloom and reverie of his morning's idle dreams, and was, through the elasticity of his na ture, once more gay and sanguine as ever. As he got into his own neighborhood they were taking down the shutters from a pub lic house much frequented by the students of the hospital, and where he was well known. There he turned in, and took a glass of ale and bread and cheese; and as the clock struck two let himself in with his latelekey at his lodgings. Everything Ralph Sellwood did, whether it were work or play, he did in earnest, so he lust no time in dreaming, but sitting down to his table, commenced putting into order the disjectra mem bra scattered through his note-book. Ile read and he wrote, he wrote and he read, on and on, fluently and clearly, interested in his subject, and with the indefinite, pervading glow of satisfaction which attends any kind of successful labor. The sunshine, which had streamed broadly down upon the floor of the room when he began, rose to the chairs, to the tables, to the walls—higher and higher till it vanished. The bells had again rung out their summons to evening prayer, and all was still. Closer and closer he bent to the task he had set himself for his day's work. It was a race between him and the fast-fading light. Nu! strain his eyes as he might, he could no longer see the faint pencil-marks to which he referred, and he wanted but a few lines more to finish all up! llis lamp, ready trimmed, stood upon the dumb-waiter in the canner; but in those days Lucifers were not; it was the stern bid regime of steel and tin der bus, and the place of the lire in the grate was tilled WWI the fragrant beau pot of ha wt h. wit and s weet-hriar. Putting down his pen he rang his bell, therefore, fur a candle, and sat waiting in the twilight. Ile rang again and again, lie then bethought hint that it was Sunday, and he had said he would not return—there was, probably, no ono at home but himself, so he went down stairs to seek what he required. Everything in the underground kitchen was quiet, and so dusk that tor a moment he cooll not dis ' titiguish what was that atatioble•• heap yon der—oulp a terrible instinct made his heart stand still. In an instant he had stirred up the sutuuldering embers of the tire into some thing of a blaze, and had turned the purple, swollen face to its light. Oh, horror! There with protruding tongue, bitten through and dropping blood, with wild, starting, dead eyes, with fiercely clenched, blue hands, lay Marian, the pretty, fresh maid ho had seen but a few hours before. It was the work of an instant to light a candle, to tear apart her dress, to take out his lancet and open the vein in her nook, Alas, no! The blood was atilt warm, but it had-ceased to flow for ever! Then, with a wild cry far help, Ralph Sellwood rushed into the street. This was on the 14th of May. The Criers. inal Courts were then sitting. and, on the 11th of June following be was placed at the bar of the Old Bailey on the charge of "wil ful murder." There could not he a °leveret , case cduaed from circumstantial evidence. Read it, u it stands in those dark annals side by side with other cases, and you will see it fits in, piece by piece to a complete mosaic, while many of them, considered sufficiently proved have hero and there irreconcilable gaps of contradiction. . The crown prosecutor had not many wit nesses t call. The barmaid at the tavern, who bad served the prisoner .rich drink at half-past one she remembered the hour by the doors baring been just opened)—and the gentlewoman who )'rota her opposite win- dons had seen him enter the house with his latch-key as the clock struck two, were the principal ones. The person to whom Miss Marsh bad been'speaking in the morning also bore testimony to the young man having distinctly said he was engaged to spend the day at a distance, and to his having heard his landlady speak of her in tention not to return till night. This Miss .Marsh herself was obliged to confirm, and a cross•exatnination only strengthened the the impression of the intimacy which had existed between the prisoner and the de ceased. • Now for the aspect of the house. - Everything was undisturbed. Tho plate gathered together in the basket was safe in in its accustomed place. There was money lying open in the girl's work-box upon the dresser. The kitchen-table had been set for tea for two persons, and there stood also upon it a bottle of brandy, which was prov ed to belong to Mr. Sellwood. Me had been seen to enter the house at two o'clock, and itnvas nearing eight when he called for as sistance. What had he been doing in the interim? It was in vain to point to the mass of manuscript. That only referred to weeks and weeks past, as the date of the notes and evidence of the professors who delivered the lectures wont to show, Nor could he at tempt to prove having had any such engage ment as he had spoken of. As for the deceased, she was a quiet, re served person from London, having no friends in the country. There was no question raised of "Death from natural causes." It was a palpable cuss of "murder," so palpable that Sell wood's counsel advised him as his best chance to plead guilty to the charge of "manslaughter;" but to this, as to every imputation of the crime, the young man, heart-broken and be wildered as he was, persisted to the last in returning an indignant insistence of his in nocence. Yes! to the last; and that was not very far off, fur in those good old times there was but little fear of the sword of jutice rusting in its scabbard. Barely six weeks bad elapsed from the committal of the crime to that unclouded sweet summer morning when the unhappy lad made that dreary journey along Holborn and Oxford street, whose ter mination was Tyburn. There he was "hang ed by the neck till be was dead," and Jus tice sheathed her sword, and rode home in her coach. Thirty years after that Juno, When fine stuccuoed houses were beginning to rise on the clearing of the ugly, fruitful Tyburn tree, and when Justice, no longer taking her morning drive westward, only made a good breakfast and took but one step to the ad joining scene of her triumphs, a relation of the jotter-down of these facts was jogging along, as country clergymen are wont to jog through the green lanes of their rural dis tricts. Ile was thinking of turnips, or tithes or Sunday's sermon, or Monday's vestry meeting—of nothing, or anything, rather than what ho was riding to hear. roe, truth must be told, the best of vicars riding to visit a dying bed does not spur his beast. wildly and think of nothing;but his mission The call which the clergyman had received I the night before as he paced, in the purple evening light, by the south wall of his gar den, peacolu I ly contemplating the strawberry beds and the mellowing green giges, was one which often came to the vicarage—"A man was bad and wished to see the parson." He was lying at a house at the extreme end of the perish, a good four miles off, where he had lived as a farm servant for some time. Ile was now down with fever, and all his cry was fur the minister. It was in compliance with this request, therefore, that the vicar mounted his mare next morning, and rode through the rieh country, where the ripening fields of corn and the fragrant hay gave promise that the year should be crowned with plenty. The mistress of the farm was a kindheart ed dame. well-esteemed by my relative, who generally had a crack with her on market day.. and who always saw her in her place la church, ac became a decent %comm. She now cilia° out to meet him Its he rude into the yard. '•The sick man was still alive, but sinking fast. lie had lived with them fourteen years come next Martimas, and all that time had never so much as once crossed the church threshold. Some thought he was a Papist, and some a Jew; but he was very close, and nobody cared much to meddle with him. lie was a steady, sober man, and could not be said to be the worse for liquor more than once or twice in the year. It was after one of these bouts be had fallen sick, a month or more ago." SJ the good woman gossiped. The room in which the sick man lay was in a range of out buildings appropriated to the farm laborers. A glance at the ashen face, and tight, receding lips on the pillow of the truckle-bed, convinced the vicar thnt his hours were indeed numbered. At snob diagonosis divinity is as skillful as physic. The door was closed, and they were alone— not a sound but the tioklin6•of the clergy man's watch, and the buzz of the summer insects by the window. Then the sick man spoke, laboring in that sweat of his brow w+ he had never labored in all his hard life before. "Witnt d-ttt. i: it?" "It i 4 Iliur4day, my friend," anid the vicar; "Thur.+ toy, the 26th day of June." ••That'll,l , .. Sit'en down there; l'reforne thing I want'co to put dawn in writing." Upon the table lay inkstand and paper' ready prepared, and he sat down. I copy verbatim from the document he wrote at that bedside, taking down the words as they slowly fell from his dying lips: "My name isn't John Gibson. My right name - is Thomas Dell. My cousin's name was Marian Dell, and I was courting her a matter of fire-and-thirty years ago. She went up to London to place, and I had a situation as helper in the stable at 'The Three Crowns.' When we had saved a bit of money we were to be married and take a public-house--but that was all talk. When she went away I got rtupid like, and didn't care for nothing. I tried the Methody's, as I heard people say that did them good; but it didn't do me none. After that I broke clean out, and took to drink, and skittle-Flaying, and that finished by my losing my place. Then I rummaged about. and got from bad to worse; not because I was thinking of the young woman. I 'most clean forgot her, and I'm sure I didn't want her to think of me. If I'd a known she was coming down ono street, I'd a gone up the other. I'd no character, and couldn't get no employment, so I went on the cross altogether. I'd been in London a matter of two year, when, one day, who should I see but my young woman gain along with her basket. I knew her in a moment, and she knew me, for all the elmnge in me, and though I hadn't a decent tuck to my back. We was very good friends, and I often seen her after that. I used to watch fur her when she went out of errands. I think if she'd of taken up with me again I'd hare turned over a new leaf, but she seemed to have got proud and upny: and whenever I talked of sweetheart ing she'd take herself off with a bounce, as though she wouldn't demean herself with the likes of me." "It was somewhere about Christmas that r got into some trouble about a trifle, and got four months for it. When I came out side the gate I was in rags, and had only a few half pence in my pocket. My position was a most unpleasant ono. I was in the wide world without a friend and without a character. I feared every constable I met was on the watch fur me, although I had done nothing to care for. But yet I was afraid. I didn't know what to do, unless I went on the cross again. I hung about un til Sunday, and was a'most starved out.— Then I thought I'd go and make a hole in the water, but that I'd just see the girl first. "There was some stables running at the back of the house whore she lived us servant. I'd been up there before, and see her clean ing the windows. When I got up there I found one right close where the bricklayers had been nt work, and left open. I easy swung down, and crept under the wall of the back kitchen to see if she was there; but there wasn't a sign of her. Then I got a handful of ashes and heaved it at the win dow. In a moment out she comes, and when she see me she looked quite white and scared, as though she'd a fainted away. Then, with out a word, she took me down into the kitchen. It was 'most like a parlor, and she was dressed fur all the world like a lady, in a beautiful sprigged cotton grown. I've seed it often enough since then! We didn't say nothing much, but she set the tea and put out a bottle of liquor, and I took a good swig of it. I suppose it was my being so right down clammed that made it get up into my head. I felt as though I should like to shriek out and hit some'at. I says, 'Come. Mary, give use kiss, my lass!' Then she rises up like a queen, and says, •I'ou wretched man, you'll never be no better than n jail-bird, and a disgrace to everybody be longing to you! Leave this house before any one comes into it, and never let mo see your face no more,' "Then my blood was up, and I began to reckon her about a young man that lodged in the house, and we got to high words.— Then I suppose the devil bad right hold of me, for r caught her by the arm; but she hit me with the other hand. She was going to scream out, but I caught her by the throat. She was very strong in the arms and we had a tusgol for it. While we was struggling the bell rang. I thuught we was alone in the house, and 1 was most fraud* mad; so I gave her a grip that did for her, and she only fetched one moan, and fell down straight off my hands. Then I was frightened, and all my strength seemed gone in a moment, and to run out of me in a cold sweat, Bite water. I heard steps coming down, and 1 had only barely time to hide inn coal-cellar at the foot of the stairs be fore the young man that lived in the house came down. Lie was a doctor, and he tried to bring her to, but 'twant no use. When the crowd come into the house I got mixed up with them, and nobody suspected me, for they'd all made up their minds the other young man had done it. "1 went to his trial, and I went to his execution. Ile was very geattel and pretty spoken. I got a plats right under the scaf fold, for I felt I must see the last of it. no I was dressed all in black, with his hair tied with a blue riband—somebody said bis sweetheart ha I sent it to him. When his arms were pinioned, he stood up facing the crowd, very pale, but quite composed. as if he was laid in his coffin, and he says. quite distinct: 'Good 'people, I go to meet my God ; innocent of this crime!' and, as I live, he lookel straight at mo with his shining eyes. I -ma name was Mr. Ralph Seltwood. and the place where it b tppened was 14 Great Retntrall street, London. $1,50 PEE YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE "After that, two or three time:-, I tried to make away with myself, but I couldiet.— Once the rope broke, but Pre the welt of it on my neck now. •"On the 14th of every May, wherever I am, I see Marian Dell in her flowered gown; and on the 29th of June the young man!— The first year they appeared they wasn't so big as my little finger, but quite perfect, eyes and all. The next year they were as long as my hand, and every time they've been growing bigger. I shouldn't have minded so much if they was always the same. 'Twas no use getting drunk; I've tried that. This May I was mending a bar row in one of the sheds, and she come and stood looking in at the door. She was now just her natural size, and I knowod by that she'd never came no more. "I feel I'm dying, and I solemnly declare every word of this confession is true.—Juns GinsoN, his mark X. Exhausted by the lengthened effort, the lids dropped over that dreadful long line of light seen under half-closed dying eyes; the fingers plucked feebly at the coverlet; the thickening speech became incoherent as he 'fluttered fast. The clergyman stood, sadly, trying now and again to deliver his message of pardon and peac:.... Suddenly, with a wild cry and °nailing arms, he rose upon his feet in the bed, glared with a savage terror into vacancy, aud —was gone! Thirty years! Whose story lasts so long? To whom could erring Justice come now with a mournful acknowledgment of her mistake? Those heart-broken women whom it so cruelly concerned had long ago gone to the Source of all truth and justice. And as for the world—the world, buying and sal ling, marrying and giving in marriage, eat ing and drinking, and living the life of to day; holds as little reckoning of that other world of a dead and gone generation, as the tenants that sleep, and rise, and sleep again, under the roof of the old numball street house, do of their preacessors more than half a century ago. Napoleon and the nothschilds A great many stories have been told illus trating the comprehensive powers of the Rothschilds, but we reoollect no instance more strikingly illustrative of such powers than that related of them in connection with the escape of Napoleon frmn Elba, and his march to Paris. The st •ry is very well told in Sharp's Magazine Io• Sevteather 1845.- Not haring the book iterore us we shall attempt only the 21ubstance es it come,. to us in memory: It was about nine o'clock in the evening of March —, a number of clerks wore bu , ily engaged in the rooms of a celebrated bank ing house in Paris, preparing letters to be forwarded to different parts of Europe by the morning. post. Suddenly the head of the house breaks in upon the scene and dis turbs the monotony of the hour. his swarthy visage more swarthy by twine apparent dis. turbine; cause. The clerks look up surprised and astonished. (The house is that of the ll,.thschilds—the person, the re+ide-t French partner.) lie abruptly addressed them by stating the startling news just received in Paris. that Napoleon had left Elba and was on his way to Paris: that the Bourbon mon arch was packing Lis crown jewels, and other valuables, preparatory to as hasty a departure as his immense fat would allow, and ending by exclaiming— "Thu houso of Rothschild is ruined! We hare fire millions in gold in the vaults. Na poleon will require it as a forced I,mn. Oh, that my brother in London was here! lie is the genius of our house. lie alone can save us." ICI such a strain he continued alternately to address bis clerks and to soliloquize.— Presently a modest under clerk by the name of Wulverdendon, a German, ventured to ask— '•{Vhy cannot your brother be communi cated with before the news in regular course crosses the channel?" "Impossible!" shouted the excited Isra elite, "the gales are closed. No one will be permitted to leave but a courier from the English Embassy; and if he gets the news into London before my brother hears of it, the house of Rothschild is ruined." The clerk, emboldened by his success, ven tured to incioire— "What time does the courier leave?" "At ten o'clock precisely, and it is now only fifteen minutes to that boor." "Oh," said be, agonizingly, "if I could only get a message in ahead, but it is impossible." The clerk asked if the courier's name was not Schmidt. "Yes, the same," replied Rothschild.— "Why do you ask?" "Trust me. I will go and get to London ahead of him, or lose my life." Turning to the head clerk, R. asked, "who is this young man—can he be trusted?" "Yes," mis the response, "true as steel. "I will run the risk—what do you want young man?" "Plenty of gold, a letter to your brother and a token of recognition." "Here is a ruby ring, valued at sixty thousand francs. My brother will recog nize it. But stop, take this," and he scrawled upon a slip of paper a few tiobrow charac ter., the interpretation of which was—" Trust this young men in all things." Seeing the gold, and taking the paper and ring. Wolserdeuden with one bound cleared the flight of steps into the street, rushed into [WHOLE .NUMBEit 1,646. 1 the embassy, and found Schmidt seated in a coach, with five horses attached. Schmidt recognized him; they were old chess play ers, and this was the secret by which Wol= rerdenden hoped to overreach him. W. was the best player, and at the last game bad taken the odds. Schmidt knew nothing of the employment of Wolrerdenden. When the latter approached the carriage, be care lessly inquired: "Where now, friend S.:timid: across the channel alone?" • "Yes." ".1:), you hare lights in your carriage?" "Yes " ••What a grand chance to play chess." "Capital!" exclaimed 6...:1tt idt; elate, go,t: in; 1 shall ba so lonesome without coMpany." "You had better not aik a second time,' said lVolverdenden; I hare got nothing to d for a few (lays, and the trip would be de lightful." ••llop in then, we are off." Virolrorden.len rushed to the nearest cafe, purchased a chess-board, returned to tho carriage, and they were off—passed the gates of Paris. They drove rapidly towards Boulogne, Relays were awaiting them uloug the route, and at Boulogne two conveyances %reit awaiting to take the courier across the channel. From Paris to Biulogne Wolver deudett was busy studying out how he should outwit Schmidt. Ti do this„and get to London first, he was detctmined, and oven the dark thought swept across his mind of doing murder as the last resort.— Arrived at Boulogne, a happy thought struck him as the courier waited for rest• and change of horses. 14ulverdenden saun tered out in the street and found' a black smith. Taking him to a carriage, lie signift candy pointed to a nut fastening one of the joints of the carriage. "Sir," said he, "whet would ho the result it this nut was removed?" "The carriage would break down." "What if this one was removed?" point- ing to another. "The carriage would go about two miles and then open the axle." "Ab, that is it; I have a ftocy for that net. Remove it, and here are ten Napo leons. The carriage will be returned for repairs. You wilt repair it, but understand, not under two hours. You understand?" "Yes," said the shrewd blacksmith. The carriage started. At two miles the norident lis ppened; the earrings returned and the same blacksmith was on band. Schmidt retired to a roam to study out a move in the gatue of chess be was playing. Wolverdenden slipped out on pretence that he did nut wish to di.turto his friend, rushed into the street, called for the swiftest horse. announced himself an advance of the Eng lish courier, reached time quay, overcame all objections of the coast-guard, paid the crew tire guineas upiecc, crossed the channel to Dover, passed time pucka that AVIS waiting for the courier, reached the house of Roths child ut tire o'clock, rushed into his room and inculieref.tly broke the news to him; ex. plained all, and handed him the token nod scrip. R. motioned him into an adjoining rum), and in a few' minutes he made bis appear ance oalm and collected. "Young man," said he, "you have done well;" our house is not in