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SMEEITEL WEIGHT, Editor and Proprietor.
VOLUME XXXIV, NUMBER 14.]
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lloftrg.
Summer Evenings Long Ago
sat behind my window-sill,
In the hot and dusty town,
The sun behind theaultry walls
Was slowly sinking down.
The breeze across my migaonette
Came breathing sweet mad low,
To wake sad-sleeping memories
Or evenings long no!
thought that I had driven back
Such memories as these,
Jut now they all return again
On a whispering summer breeze,
Tond words come ringing through my brain,
That ail my heart with woe—
O God! what brought them back to-night.
Evenings of long ago?
I see the green lanes where we swayed,
Thy dear hand clasping mine;
The same blest breeze that fans my cheek
Sweeps softly over thine;
And words of love pour from thy lips,
Not measured, cold, and slow,
As those I now hear. Ohl 1 pine'
For the evenings long ago:
I thought I had forgotten thee;
Hod schooled my aching heart
'To pass through life as best I may,
And act my weary part.
Alas: the mocking vision 's o'er,
To noon, alas: I know
'Twos but my loneliness that dreamed
Of evenings long ago:
Trust and Rest
Fret not, poor soul; while doubt and fear
Disturb thy breast.
The pitying angel•, who can see
How vain thy wild regret must be,
Lay, trust und rest.
Plan not, nor scheme—but cm mly wail;
Ili-choke is host.
While blind and erring is thy sight,
His wisdom see. and jadgea right,
So trial and rent.
Strive not, nor struggle, thy pan igh t
Can never wren'
The meanest thing to serve thy will;
All power in His atone, be stilt,
And trust and rent.
Desire not; self-love is strong
Within thy breast
And yet He loves thee better still.
So let him do his loving will,
And trust and rest.
What doe( thou fear? Ms wisdom reigns
Supreme confessed;
His power is inCnite; ills love
Thy deepest fondest dreams above—
So trust and rest.
gettttinms.
A Flirtation.
Mme. do Vitry bad been early left a wid
ow; young, handsome and rich; suitors
had not been wanting, but Mine. do . Vitry
had refused every one; one experience of
marriage had sufficed her, and she had con
centrated all her affections on ber son.
Ile was now about twenty-two and
in every way calculated to gratify the van
ity of a mother's heart. Mme. do Vitry,
however, who appeared to have had within
her heart some hidden history of life's ex
perience, for her ostensible history was the
simplest in the world, mourned in secret
over the inactivity in which his life was
passed and strove in all ways in her power to
draw him from the life of useless pleasure
end luxury he was leading.
Rich and in the highest social position,
all that Mme. de Vitry aimed at was a di
plomatic appointment to some foreign court
that should take him from Paris and by de
grees infuse serious ideas into his head.
Mme. do Vitry had every chance of ob
taining what eho desired for a distant con
nexion of hers, a young heiress whom she
bad brought up, was married to her nephew
and was the sister of the minister for for
sign affairs then in power. Still, by some
unamountablemeans Albert de Vitry's ap
pointment seemed always to fail just at the
very moment it appeared on the eve of suc
cess.
- At length, towards the close of the winter,
the minister announced a grand ball. and
Mme. de Vitryresolved to try her personal
influence by appearing at it, and herself so
liciting of the minister what she ardently
wished. .
She had been for some time in the crowd
ed drawing rooms, not only without seeing
the minister bat without meeting her son.
Leaning on the arm of an old friend of her
husband's she at length came into one of the
anterooms distant from the fete to rest her
self.
'•I tell you, de Monconr," said she, as she
seated herself comfortably on a sofa, "that
there is some mystery in this inexplicable
delay in Albert's app3intmeat. With the
influence we have we should only have to
ask to obtain; I am convinced that there is
a plot against ma."
, s 1 cannot think," replied do bloomer,
"why it is that you desire to seperate your
self from your son; he is all you have in the
wor/d."
"He is; but I cannot endure to see him in
gilded idleness. I hate to see a fine, hearty,
brawney young fellow get up at twelve
o'clock, then smoke, then ride a little on
horseback, talk a good deal of nonsense,
smoke again, dine, change his dress for din
ner, then re-smoke for the third time, put
on a pair of yellow kid gloves, talk a little
more nonsense at some theatre or ball, and
go home to bed, concluding the day with a
parting smoke. Do you think such a man
as this when ho dies deserves an epitaph on
hie tomb."
$l5O
=I
"You had better ask Caroline, your ward,
Favieres' wife, to get him appointed."
"Caroline! why she has taken an absurd
dislike to Albert, and refuses her influence;
but I am waiting for Albert."
"Here he comes and as I don't want to
listen to your scolding, I will wish you good
night." •
"Well, really Albert, I think you might
have found me out sooner," said Mme. de
Vitry, trying to look angry, but the admir
ation and love she felt for her son, peeping
out spite of herself, "you should take some
pity on your mother. Ali! my child you
cannot think how we mothers feel, when
after having for twenty years nursed you,
watched you, cherished you, a mother sees
her son cut loose from her and launet him
self with all the heedlessness and impetuous
ity of twenty into that mysterious and un
known region in which young men spend
their lives. Who knows what influences
may counteract the principal we have in
stilled; villa knows but all our work may be
destroyed?"
"Why, darling mother, you look so young
and so handsome in this new dross of yours
that it seems absurd to hear you preach
liko a grandra other. What is worrying you?
Always this same appointment?"
"Yes; you don't want to kayo Paris, I see
that, clearly."
"Well, I confess I do not."
"You aro in love?"
"Perhaps."
"Who is it, a young girl? Nut a married
woman, I hope? Albert, that would make
me very wretched."
"Suppose it is with a widow?"
"Oh, a widow can do as she likes. 'Du
you mean to marry her?"
"Candidly, no; but do not be angry; our
love is of the most etherial kind, worthy of
the ago of chivalry. Nu, but lam waiting
for news from her."
"News?"
"Yes, you must know that this widow of
mine has a gaurdian; so we have contrived
a signal."
"A Signal?"
"Yes, a signal; the presence or absence of
a certain ruby ring on the baud of this bus
band—l mean guardian—"
"Albert, do not strive to deceive me; I un
derstand all; and you have made me even
more wretched than before. Ah! surely,
you must have heart and soul enough not
to waste your life in an intrigue that will
bring misery and disgrace on all."
"Mother, I will try to obtain a mission to
Madrid; it was offered to me last night."
"Well, Caroline can obtain it for us. You
have neglected her of late. I know she
could do anything sho pleased with her
brother, the mia6ter. You must collie and
see her with me to•morrow."
Albert bowed and turned away with a
sot tof mysterious smile. At that moment
an inner door, concealed by the draperies,
opened, and M. de Favieres, the Secretary
of State, appeared before them. Albert,
glad of the opportunity to escape, seeing
his mother had some one with her, slipped
away and entered the ball-room, whilst M.
de Favieres saluted his aunt.
"Where do you come from—through that
secret panel—like in a play?"
"From my office. Dear aunt, I am over
joyed to sea you."
"One would scarcely think so, for I have
been trying to get at you for a long time and
always failed. How about Albert's ap
pointment?"
"Oh, it is not my fault. Albert quarolled
with Caroline, or has not striven to concili
ate her, else all would have been well. By
the way, bow has be offended my wife?"
"How should I know if you don't."
"If I don't?—l am Foreign Secretary of
State; the homo department is not mine.—
Ask me what is going on in Sidney, in
China, or in Japan, and I will tell you, bat
here at home, in Paris, why I don't even
know what o'clock it is."
"That's all very well, my dear nephew.
It may be very well for a statesman to know
what's going on in Japan, but it strikes me
that a married man had better know what
is going on at home."
"But I have no time."
"I know you have interests in a great
many countries."
"In the five quarters of the globe."
"There is a sixth ought to interest you a
little?"
"A sixth?"
"Yes; the house inhabited by your wife,
the Countess Caroline de Fsvieres."
"I am less there than anywhere else."
"Yon come to your office early?"
"At dawn of day."
"You breakfast—"
"liens. I have no time to go home."
"You dine here probably too?"
"Only three times a week."
"I wonder you go home to sleep."
"NO ENTERTAINMENT SO CEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER S, 1862.
"I don't half the timeovaiting for tele
graphs and dispatches."
"Poor Caroline."
"Why do you say poor Caroline? There
is not a more loving or a more faithful wo
man in all Paris."
"Faithful; yes, you have no mistress, but
do you think it makes any difference to Car
oline whether you neglect her for politics or
a pretty face. She is just as much neglected."
"I assure you she does not feel neglected;
we are as happy as the first day we were
married; we have a thousand little atten
tions for each other; even this very evening
she made me a present; see this ruby ring,
and she insisted on my wearing it."
Alma. de Vary gazed for a minute, stu
pefied, on the ring held before her. Albert's
words concerning a ruby ring came back to
her, and she felt that she had found the key
of a great mystery. What was to be done?
This was evidently the signal of a secret
meeting. At all hazards. Albert must not
see the ring. She pretended to admire it,
and at last found courage to ask her nephew
to lend it to her to get one like it. Scarce
ly had she obtained it than she turned the
conversation, recurring once more to the ap
pointment. At length, when Albert re
turned, M. de Faviers told his aunt chat he
would proceed immediately that very eve
ning to obtain the promise of the minister.
"Well," said Albert, ''M. de Fosierves
going without shaking hands wtth your
cousin."
"Scapegrace, we have been talking all the
time of you, now let me go."
"Mother," said klbeet, "I am going to
leave the ball; good night."
"So suddenly? Ah! I see the telegraph has
not spoken. You have seen the man of the
ruby ring, but minus the ring."
"I have seen him as you say, minus the
ruby ring, that is what makes me so happy."
"So happy?"
"Yes, fur the presence of the ring signi
fied leave Paris; I have repented; I can
never see you again; but the absence of the
ring means come. I am alone, I wait for
you. So lam off."
"Good Gracious, Albert!" exclaimed Mine.
do Vitry, in the greatest consternation;
"Albert, you shall not go."
At this moment M. do Faviores re-entered
the room hastily, through the private door.
"My deer aunt," said he, "the minister
will receive you himself, and reply in per
son to your demand; but pray do not lose
an instant; go there, ho is yonder in the
grand salooh; the British Minister is talking
to him, if you let him finish, and somebody
else gets hold of him, you will lose all
chance."
"But I cannot leavo Albert, he must not
stir from hero."
"Why, what an absurdity!"
"An absurdity if you please, but much
more important than all the affairs of Syd
ney, Japan or China, I assure you. I'll
take him with me."
"No, that would spoil all; go, my dear
aunt, I will keep guard over Albert."
Meantime, Albert, much astonished nt
this strange freak of his mother's, began to
wonder whether she had guessed anything,
but seeing her leave the room he made qui
etly for the door.
"No, no, my good fellow," said do Fa
vieres, "I promised to keep you a prisoner
on parole, and I'm going to do it: sit down
and hold your tongue, here is a newspaper
to amuse you•"
"Hang the newspaper; either by the win
dow or the door, I must go out."
"Oh! old some love appointment, eh?"
"Wall, yes; my mother suspects it, but
what is it to her."
"What, indeed; but have patience, when
my aunt returns I will speak to her; it iti
certainly very absurd in her."
"I will not wait. Really de Favieros, for
a serious politician, a secretary of state, you
are playing a very singular part."
"So it seems to me. Do I know the lady?"
"No."
"Never mind, the first appointment should
always he kept; it is of no use to give time
for scruples and reflections."
"Particularly with a tender, susceptible
nature—"
"Driven no doubt to despair by the faults
of the husband; eh! albert, they don't know
that husbands are the best allies of all you
gay Lotharios. But as really Ido not con
sider that it is any of your mother's busi
cess; why here, take this key, it opens yon
der door, and off with you."
Albert caught the key which his cousin
threw to him, but the situation was such a
strange One that even he hesitated, and
gazed for a few moments silently on M. de
Faviores; at length, seeing his mother ad
vancing along the saloons, he rushed to the
door.
"Farewell," said he, I must atop at Mine.
Provob's fur a bouquet on my road; I shall
be late, and so he disappeared."
"Where is Albert?" exclaimed Madame
de Vitry.
"Gone, my dear aunt, the bird is flown;
why you really are ridiculous with this boy
of yourr; he is twenty-three years old; yon
don't know that at that age young men re
quire liberty—"
"And you gave it him?"
"I did."
"4313: Heavens, you do not know the mis
chief you have done; the peace of a whole
family destroyed; hie happiness, my own;
he must not go to this meeting, for it is a
rendezvous, I suppose you know?"
"Yes, yes."
"It is, I tell you, death, misery, digrace.
Oh! why did ynu set him freer
"I can find him, I can find him; he is
gone fast to the Valais Royal; my carriage
is below; be sure I will find him."
With these words M. de Pavieres hurried
away, leaving his aunt perplexed and alarm
ed, and utterly undecided in which way to
act.
Meantime Caroline Countess do Favieres
sat at home in her boudoir, alone. She had
married M. de Favieres, loving him with all
the enthusiasm of eighteen, and had pic
tured to herself a life of enjoyment and hap
piness. What had-dui:found:it, young and
beautiful as she was? A life:of solitude, of
weariness. She had not learned yet to hate
her husband, hut she felt deeply irritated
against him; and she had been balm to her
wounded vanity to find that she bad inspired
Albert with a passion be declared profound
and eternal, and which evidently formed the
principal interest of his life.
What was she to bar husband? Nothing.
Yet she had a yearning for love and happi
ness; why should she refuse them—why?
And so, in a moment of irritation, when de
Favieres had again told her he was going to
leave her, and could not even come back to
her for this ball, she gave him the signal
which was to bring one who adored her to
her side.
Now she •nat waiting for him, when all at
once she heard on the stairs the voice of her
husband, and then presently another voice
—Albert's; yes, it is Albert's. Have they
met, and have they quarreled? Caroline
trembled as she heard them approach.
"Caroline," exclaimed de Fa vieres, en
tering, "you must excuse me for intruding
on you, but I had a prisoner in my custody,
and I didn't know to what prison to bring
him but this."
"Is M. de "Vary your prisoner?"
"Yes; Albert de Vitry. I cannot toll you
what horrible social revolution he was med
itating, but his mother discovered it, and I
promised to prevent his keeping a certain
appointment. Now I have dune my duty,
I have no more time to waste on him. He
is here safe in your drawing-room; consider
him your prisoner. I am off; watch over
him, and try to be a little amiable to him.
You have quarrelled, I believe; let me
reconcile you."
As ho spoke, M. do Favieres playfully
seized his wife's hand and Albert's. and
was about to join them when Caroline,
looking at her husband's hand, exclaimed:
"M. de Favieres, where is_the ruby ring
I place,' on your finger a few hours ago?"
"Well, if I must tell you the truth, my
aunt took such n violent fancy to it that I
lent it to her to get one made Like it. Do
you forgive me?"
"Yes, now I know what has become of it."
"Well, then I will leave you. Take care
of my prisoner." And sa M. de Favieres
vanished.
Scarcely was ho gone before Caroline,
turning to Albert, exclaimed:
"To what have I been exposed? But,
thank heaven, you knew my better instincts
had conquered; you knew I had determined
120 t to see you. Now leave me."
"You forget that I em a prisoner on
parole. Besides, Caroline, 11.1 ve you really
determined to drive inc to dc-pair? Why
reject to-day the conqolation and alfoction
you were yesterday so inclined to accept?"
"Affection is not possible between us.
Ahl I felt, in the few moments my husband
was here, that I could not live a life of de
ceit. Your affection was love."
"And, if it is, it is love without hope,
without exactions; it required no sacrifices;
it was content to live in the atmosphere
that surrounds you."
"That is but self-deception. I love my
husband still. But, hark! surely that is
Madame de Vitry's voice; yes."
"Yes, it is my mother. She must not see
me here."
"Nov,
"No; she might suspect. Here in this
recess, behind these curtains, she will not
see me."
He had scarcely time to conceal himself
before Mme. de Vitry entered. Nothing in
her manner indicated that she had any sus
picions, and Caroline; who in reality was
innocent of all but a flirtation, soon recover
ed her presence of mind, and conversed
freely with her visitor.
"My child," at length said Mme. de
Vitry, "I have come to ask a favor of you.
I want you to write to your brother and ob
tain this appointment for Albert. I am
very unhappy about him. Ile is, I am
afraid, getting entangled in an intrigue that
will lead to hie misery and mine.
"An intrigue?"
"Yes. He is in love with a married wo
man. Ile is young—that is his excuse; but
he does not know how terribly he will pay
for his dangerous happiness. He, a man
of honor, reduced to act a part of deceit, to
clasp the hand of the man ho is dishonor.
ing, to be toward him a living lie, to feel
that he has forever destroyed his happiness'
—oh! this is all horrible to think of; is it
not, Caroline?"
"Indeed it is."
"The woman he loves, too, I know her
also. She has a noble and a generous heart;
but she is unhappy because life—her mar
ried life—has not been to her all her young
imagination pictured; but she could not en
dure remorse or shame. But I will sure
her from both, and one day, in years to.
come, in her old age, when she is surround
ed by respect and affection, then sho will
bless me mud thank ire. You must help
me."
"I will do all I can," replied Caroline, l
her voice trembling with emotion.
"Then write to your brother, obtain this
this appointment; let Albert leave Paris.
Come, Caroline, sit down to your desk, I
will go here, out on the balcony among the
flowers in this calm moonlight; it will do me
good, and I shall not interrupt you."
Mme. de Vitry, as she spoke, stepped on
to a sort of terrace, and turned her back to
the room. Then Albert quickly, but noise
lessly, rushed from his hiding-place, and
darting across the room, seized Caroline's
hand, pressed it to his lips, and whispering
adieu in an accent of despair, disappeared
from the room. Mme. de Vitry, who had
seen the whole proceeding, breathed again,
while Caroline, sitting down at the table,
thinking herself unseen, buried her face in
her handkerchief and wept.
Then Mme. de Vitry stepped back again
into the room, and going up to Caroline laid
her hand on her shoulder.
"Have courage, Caroline."
"Ahl you knew all—and you so good,
ever so virtuous, will despise me."
"Do you think, Caroline, that because I
am virtuous I do not know what virtue
costs? Oo the contrary."
"Ah! if I had only been loyal by my hus
band as you were!"
"As I was! Ah, Caroline, M. de Vitry
was an excellent soldier, an engineer, and
between his campaigns and his military in
ventions, thought very little of me; hut the
time of peril is past; you wire be as happy
I am when you are my age."
"Ile loved me! Ab, Madame de Vitry, he
was in despair. D.) you think ho would
commit any desperate act?"
"Desperate act? Never fear, Caroline,
he is like all young men, dramatizing his
life after the most approved models; but here
comes your husband again."
"Victory," exclaimed M. do Favieres, as
he entered; good news—Albert has his ap
pointment."
"Thank Heaven!"
"Yes; he is enchanted."
"Have you then seen him?" eagerly in.
quired Caroline•
"Yes, ha w.as just on the steps of the
Opera House as I passed."
Mme. do Vitry smiled as she glanced nt
Caroline, for a look of disappointment over
spread her face. She would rather have
hoard ho had shot himself than that he was
enjoying himself.
"You don't ask me to where Albert is ap
pointed; you have very little curiosity; to
Madrid."
"To Madrid? lan appointment? But is
tiara not a new ambassador to be appoint
ed?"
"Ito is appointed."
"Who is be?"
"No less a person than myself. Mine. la
Countess° de Favieres, aro you not glad to
be an ambassadress?"
"Certainly."
"And you, my dear aunt, are you not
happy to think that your son will be with
us? I shall put him under Caroline's care.
I assure you he will be safe." .
Mme. do Vitry drew on her gloves and
bit her lips.
"Really," said she to herself, "it is no
use my being his guardian angel; his evil
genius is the strongest. Well, after all,
this id only a flirtation—at least in Paris—
what will it become in Madrid? What a
pity my nephew does not use his diplomatic
penetration at home, instead of prying into
the affairs of Congo and Japan. Against
fate there is no use in fighting—so I leave
them them to chance."
The Two Pictures
A few years ago some persons of cultiva
ted taste, and lovers of the fine arts, met at
the house of a distinguished traveler. Du
ring the evening a discussion arose among
the guests respecting certain paintings, ned
the comparative merits of the old masters.
"I hear," said the host, turning to a
friend at the table, "that you purchased the
large picture that in days of yore adorned
my ball."
"Yes," was the reply, "and although I
obtained it at a very moderate price, con
sidering its great merit, it ultimately proved
a very bad bargain for me."
"I can tell you," said the gentleman, "a
very singular adventure connected with that
picture; but before I do so, pray tell me
bow your afflictions arose."
"It is a simple story, and I fear you will
say—the story of a simpleton. The picture
was greatly admired; and one day a gentle
man expressed a great desire to iuspect it,
and after giving utterance in glowing terms
to his admiration,. be urged that it should
be sent to a person ho named to be cleaned
and repaired. I consented to confide it to
this highly extolled artist, and after paying
soma pounds for a suitable case, and divers
other pounds for charges to and fro, and
thirteen pounds to the knight of the brush
for his labor, I again received my picture,
but, in the interval, alterations in the house
rendered so large a picture no longer ad
missible; I therefore forwarded it to London
for .sale. This was another expense. It
was placed iu a ga:lery, and there for some
time it remained; but the expenses becoming
too heavy, I ordered it to be sold for what
ever it would produce. For my consolation
I received a letter informing me that I sent
the painting to town in its original state,
the writer would have given me two hun
dred guinea, for 'it; but now ten pounds
$1,50 PEE YEAR 7.:1( ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVA
was the utmost the p:eture was worth, and
from this goodly sour must be deducted all
the charges incurred, which meant, in other
words, that I had to pay whatever sum was
due over the said ten pounds. I settled the
matter and bid adieu to my picture, and
my advice to others is now exceedingly pru
dential. I say to them—if you are rash
enough to buy an old painting, at least be
wise enough to shun all repairs and clean
ing. It is like gilding a bronze, you waste
your gold, and your bronze is spoilt. Now,
my friend, that you have had your smile at
my simplicity, let us hear your adventure."
"It is soon told. When I was in Italy I
had the oportunity of seeing many very
choice pictures in private collections, and
oar ray return to England I was astonished
to learn that one of these collections had
been sent to this country, and to be sold by
an eminent auctioneer in Bond street. I
took care to attend the sale, as there were
two pictures which I desired to possesss; the
one was the painting which caused your
afflictions, and the other was a cabinet pic
ture, very small, but delicately finished, and
thought to be the best production of that
master. The attendance was good, and the
contest for the little painting W. 19 very spir
ited, but stopped very suddenly when the
last bidding had reached to nine hundred
and fifty pounds. Upon this I advanced
twenty-five pounds, and no one seemed, as I
thought, willing to exceed that sum, when
a Jew cried out a thousand pounds. I bid
again twenty-five pounds, and felt assured
that the picture would be mine; but, as the
hammer was fulling, my opponent, the Jew,
called out:
"'Make it guineas.'
"The bidding ceased, and the autioncer
turned to me a first, a second, and even a
third time, and almost entreated me not to
lose the picture. I said 'I cannot go high
er,' and the picture, the next iMoment, be
came the property of the Jew. A very few
minutes afterwards a foreigner entered the
room in great haste, and coming up to rne
inquired, in broken English, when the ea:-
Met picture was to be soli, pointing to the
catalogue. I replied:
"'lt is already sold,'
" 'What do you mean, sat?' he exclaimed.
"'I mean,' was my reply, 'that you are
too late; for the lot you mention has been
put up at auction and sold.
"The gentleman left me, but shortly etc?'
came to me again:
" do understand, sar,' ho said, 'that
you have bought that picture.'
"'You are misinformed, sir,' I replied.
'I bid for the picture, but I was not success
ful. had I purchased the painting, it
would have been added to my little collec
tion; tut the person who has obtained it, if
I am not in error, has bought it for sale,
and the purchaser you will find standing in
yonder corner. I may tell you for your
guidance that my bid was one thousand and
twenty-five pounds, and the successful offer
was one thousand and fifty pounds.'
"The foreigner expressed his thanks fur
the information, and after a short time he
returned to rue, I.ringing with him the buyer
of the picture, and requested me to do him
the favor to step aside to witness his ar
raogement for the purchase of the painting.
The terms agreed upon were that the for
eigner was to pay the auctioneer the ono
thousand and fifty pounds purehroo money,
and whatever charges there might he, and
to pay to the Jew ono thousand five hun
dred pounds as profit upon the picture.
When the terms were settled the fortunate
Jew--finding That without drawing one
pound from his purse he was to deposit one
thousand five hundred pounds into it—could
not conceal his delight, and in the exuber
ance of his exultation, he laughed, and
leaped, and rubbed his hand. The French
gentleman, unable to comprehend this ac
tive kind of mirth, mistook it for ridicule,
and regarded it as an insult on the part of
the Jew. The offended man's wrath rose to
actual rage; when, clenching his Est at the
Jew, he cried out:
" 'You laugh nt me, cir, yon in insult me
—yes, ear, you mock me because you have
gained one thousand pounds by me. Now,
ear, as you do make de sport of me, I will
tell you something. I belong to de King of
Holland, and my master say to me, 'There
is such &picture to be sold in England;
there are bat two of that kihd in de world,
and I bare de one, and I desire very much
to have de other. Now, you go directly to
England, and buy that picture, and you
hear me, ear,' said the king, 'you never
come back to Holland if you do not bring
that picture with you.' Why, ear, in place
of giving you-two thousand and five hun
dred pounds for de painting, I would have
given you five thousand pounds if you had
asked me that price for de picture—yes, ear,
I would have given you five thousand
pounds.'
"No sooner bad the Jew hoard that be
might have obtained two thousand five hun
dred pounds above the price he had asked,
than his joy vanished in a moment, and he
set up a roar, wringing his hands in deep
agony. The one thousand five hundred
pounds profit already obtained was last
sight of in the overwhelming grief of think
ing that had it not:been for his modesty in
asking, be might have walked oat of the
room a richer man by four thommod pounds.
The foreigner's triamph was complete, and
if the Jew •be living,-it is move than proba
ble that his chagrin continues to:tbisday,
and what is worse, that he never- will for
give himself while life lasts. =lf revenge
=
[WHOLE NUMBERI,6 1.
were the angry Frenchman's object', never
was revenge more effectually accomplished_
When I consider the opposite results to the'
Jew and to spnri3clfp the two buyers 44liese
pictures, I fear there is some truth in lion
est Sancho's sentiment: 'that some men are
born with a silver spoon in theirmoutha,7
and others with only a wooden ladle."
A Talented Pig
_ The Rev. J. G. Wood, in his "Animal
Traits and Characteristics," thus glorifies
ono:—"A carious animal is a pig, gentle
men! Very cunning, too—a great deal more:-
sensible than people give them credit for.— .
I had a pig aboard my ship that was - too'
knowing by half. All hands were fend of
him, and there was not one on board wife
would have seen him injured. There WWI
a dog on board, too, and the pig and• he
were capital friends; they ate out of -the
same plate, walked about the decks -togeth
er, and would lie down side by side undei-•
the bulwarks in the sun. The only thing .
they ever quarrelled about was lodging. The
dog, you see, sir, had got a kennel for him
self; the pig had nothing of the sort. Wu
did not think he needed one; but he had his
own notions upon that matter. Why should
Toby be better housed of a night than he?
Well, sir, he had somehowgot into his head
that possession is nine parts of the law; and
though Toby tried to show him the rights of
the question; he was so pig-headed that , ho •
either would not or could not understand:- , •
So every night it came to be 'catch as onto!.
can.' If the dog would get in first,-Ise
would show his tooth, and the other bad to
lie under the boat, or to find the softest plank
where he could; if the pig was found in
possosion the dog could not turn him out,
but looked out fur his revenge next time.—
One evening, gentlemen, it had been blow ,
ing hard all day, and I had jest ordered
close-reefed top-sails, fur the gale was in- •
creasing, and there was a good deal of sea
running, and it was coming on to be wet; in
short, I said to Myself, as I called down tbe
companion-ladder for the boy to bring•
mni pea jacket, 'We are a going to have
dirty night.' The pig was slipping and'•
tumbling about the decks, for the - ship lay
over so much with the breeze, being cI
hauled, that ho could not keep his hoofs.—
At last, ho thought he would go and secaro.
his berth for the night, though it Iw/cited a
good bit to dusk. But, lo and behold! To'uy
had been of the same mind, and there hu
was safely housed. 'Graph, umpb!' says
piggy, as ho turned and looked up at the
black sky to windward; but 'TOby did not
offer to move. At last, the pig seemed to
g ive it up, and took a turn or two, as if lie
was making up his mind which was the
warmest corner. Presently, he trudges off .
to the lee scuppers, where the in prate was
lying that they ate their cold potatoes off.
Pig takes up the plate in hisrmouth, and
carries it to a part of the deck where the
dog could see it, but some way from the
kennel; then, turning his tail toward the
dog, he begins to net as if ho was eating out
of the plate, making it rattle, and _ranching,
with his mouth pretty lend. 'What!' thinks
Toby, 'has piggy got victuals there?' and
he pricked up his ears and looked oat to
ward the place, making a little:whining.—
'Champ, champ!' goes the pig, taking not
the least notice of the dog; and down goes
his mouth to the plate again. Toby couldet -
etand that any longer; victuals, and ho not
those! Out he runs, and comes up in front
of thepir , with his mouth watering, and,„ •
pushes Ins cold nose, Into the empty !plate,
Like a shot, gentlemen, the pig turned tall,
and was snug in the kerniel before Toby':
well knew wether there was any in - cat ur
not in the plate."
skv-It is probable that the city of Jeru
salem is a kind of architectural geology,
whose various strata would record specs of
HutuLn history. The Ilassian Government
has ben building a grand cathedral and
other works. In carrying out those, ground
near the Holy Sepulchre has been excava
ted to a depth 0k . 35 feet. Here the remains
of pillars and porticoes, which formed part
of the principle entrance to the Itchy Sep
ulchre in Constantino's time, were found.
Signor Pierotti, the Pasha's Engineer, has
discovered that built upon successive tratu
of ruins, the modern city rests upon '"deep
ly levelled and enormous stones," which he
attributes to the age of Solomon; that
above it, to the age of Z mobabel; that
following, to llerod's time. Super
imposed upon this the remnants of the
city of Justinian came to be hidden tarn by
those from that of the Saracens and Cruse
dere. Ile traced a series of conduits' or
sewers leading Irons the "Demo of the Rook,"
a Mosque on the site,of the Altar of Sacri
fice, in the Temple, to the Valley ofJcito.so
pbat„ by means of which the priests were
able to flood the whole temple area witirwa
ter. and so carry off the blood and offal of
the sacrifices to the Brook . licdran. ' Two
years ago Signor Pierotti discovered a: foun—
tain at Pool ofßethsaida,whick on. being.
opened, has continued to flow._ Tke o .,Judis.,
were greatly excited by this disooceo; and
regarded it as ominous of tbemoutiogagetheL.
Messiah. The engineer .ifleolifiesr
that built by Ilezekish sad. trefon:4 . l•Ay;
Josephus.... ,
barna Bieghaurptoe Jeninsirin'eti;) .
street* a new dietiotrary . . 7
gnierar term, aysbracis'iselsethillo 4
this is a sample, the naiedietibtialtPteilt
comprehensive' eneisgh," at/ lettstiliu
444
B
CIES
rri ur tr“l 7