Of DOLLAR PER ANNUM, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE. TOWANDA : eatnrhan fllorninn, Ring 20. 1855. Sduttb '^ottrr. THE FIRST BIRDS OF SPRING. y, come, yc come, bright warbling things, And joy is in your song ; Yc bear upon your dewy wings The spring's first breath along. Ye herald iu the happy morn, That Is the birth of flowers ; Ye tell that winter's chills have gone, Its snows and icy towers. Ye bid the earth its carpet weave, In Nature's matchless loom ; The warp from many a grassy leaf, The woof from flowret's loom. Ye bid the naked branches dress. In all their proud array, And all things don their loveliness, To welcome back the day. Ye bid the icy fetters fall From many a prisoned rill ; And onward joyful at your call They gambol down the hill. All nature wakes from sleep ; the cloud Shade- not the sun's bright ray ; No more the storm-wind's howling loud, Di.-turb the zephyr's lay. Pa*s on. pass on to other lands, Y'e birds of merry note; Sing there of spring, ye joyful bands. From every tuneful throat. And gladden every heart that hears Your message from above ; Pass on and dry up winter's teafs, Sweet harbinger of love. § e 111 h i Calf. [From the Democratic Review.] Till- DOIP.LE MISTAKE. Translated from the French by Hon. H. J. Harris, of Miss. Balthazar Polo was a true saint, who had assisted at the funeral of Louis XlV—a kind hearted and charitable man, and a pious Chris tian. An affair of love hud led him, in the midst o! many perils, to Xew Mexico. God had final ly settled him at Adayes, to take care of the bodies and souls of the inhabitants. Here he taught those to read who had capacity enough to learn, repeated their Aves to the little chil dren, cured the yellow fever, proposed riddles to the young men and played with the girls, on Sunday, at blind-man's-buff—a very new play, which he had himself introduced, together with melons and sun-flowers. Father Polo was at once the priest, schoolmaster and physician of the village. He was indeed an accomplished man, of a very tender conscience, profound slumber, sensitive heart, enormous appetite,aud of a physiognomy without spot or blemish, ex cept that he had a cataract over his right eye, which had l>eeu originally much the best of the two. Thus it was that his vision was weak and uncertain. To the worthy priest, the brightest day was only us the feeble twilight of the morning, or the timid rays of the moon, when first she rises above the trees. But he was so good, so pure-hearted, so charitable, so full of excellent intentions, that 110 one allow ed himself to laugh at the innumerable mis haps he committed—so much respected was iie, and in every way so worthy of respect and re gard. The day carac when a mistake of the good priest was followed by much chagrin and many tears. At the time I speak of, the most beau tiful girl iu the village of Adayes, even in the jiidgmcut of the women themselves, was There se Raceard, the daughter of a Frenchman who had married a Spanish wife. Not far from the village lived a young man, the son of a Spanish father and French moth er—a fine looking fellow, somewhat more Span isli than French, as Therese was more French than Spanish. Our nero, dissatisfied with tend ing herds 011 the prairies of Avoyelles, had emi erated near to Adayes, where he had purchas ed a small tract of land, and elevated himself to the dignity of a proprietor. He lived with his father and mother and a whole army of sis t'Ts, in a small cabin which he had erected with j his own hands. Richard Alvarcs, then iu his twentieth year, was the handsomest man in the village, notwithstanding he wore the costume of the prairies—a straw hat, a round-about, •ind a buckskin pair of pantaloons, with mocca sins to match. Ah ares saw Therese, and loved her. The rese 'hopped her eyes beneath the burning - ; tze of Alvarcs, and grew alternately red and ALares, too, when the dark eyes of ' lercse fell upon him, was similarly affected. -\t the end of a month or so, the young girl ;'-iit to consult Balthazar Polo. Bad as ' is eyes were, the worthy priest saw herblush- Tes, my child," he said, " yes, my child. . "'"-'Tstand you. It is true the young man b uot rich and you are very poor ; but you •• •*' both honest, iudu&trious, and of a fitting ; you love one another, as I see very clear >' • and it is not for me to forbid your being happy." J 0 About the same time and tending to the 'ame result, that is to say, to marriage, there going on, between a couple of maturer ; " irs . a cou rtship less passionate, perhaps, but "i-ire prudent aud more respectable. Madame "doyere, the widow of a wealthy planter, v' ( ! a '"' past forty, had lived eighteen . — "tuer from idleness or weariness, Madame • i icdovere had determined to receive the ho of an old and wealthy Frenchman, who gctutcd like herself near the village of Ada i( Bulae, the rieh Frenchman iu ques ;' M) , was a little man, over sixty years of age, ~ l*?b°ndrical to the very marrow of his bones. M 'jf 10 w '°rk. therefore, to ingratiate her ridiculous old Frenchman; she ' ''' lb' 1 uK ,c t unlvard of oflWoHFtiotF. THE BRADFORD REPORTER. sent him the most delicate viands, addressed hira in tones of the faintest treble, and shaved off the moustache that ornamented her upper lip. The old gentleman grew pensive. He asked himself, egotist that he was, whether the attentions and cares of so beautiful and charm ing a widow might not be a useful resource to him iu the ever increasing infirmities of his old age. He went so far as to study phrases of gallantry, which he threw out, one after anoth er, with much grimace ; and as Madame Labe doyere was as much pressed as he was, after some moments of hesitation and displays of be coming modesty, she consented to unite her heart and her slaves to the heart and slaves of M. Dulac. The venerable couple and the two young lo vers had thus changed vows the most dear, each one dreaming nothing but to receive the sacrament of marriage. Balthazar Polo, the good Providence of all husbands, was called upon to witness the quadruple obligations.— Without knowing it, the two couple had selec ted lor their marriage the same day and the same hour. It happened, also, that all the bachelors at Anayes, young aud old, had agreed to receive the nuptial benediction the same day. That year is still called, in the annals of the parish, " The year of the weddings." " A 011 know, Richard," said Therese to her lover, " that Father Polo has promised to marry all who present themselves to-morrow at noon, and the day after to-morrow at four o'clock in the morning. How embarrassing it would be to marry before the whole world ! But, my dear Richard, if we were to marry day after to-morrow at noon, who will see us ? or if any do see us, being married them selves, what can they have to say ? Let us marry, then, my dear Richard, if you please, day after to-morrow, at four o'clock in the morn ing." The young bridegroom yielded so the force of this reasoning, aud parted from his betroth ed to make the necessary preparations for the wedding. One thing is worthy of remark, that the ca price ot the young and timid girl was likewise the caprice of the wilful and headstrong Mu dame Labedoyere. She insisted with M. Du lac, that she would be married with the others at noon, but would go to the altar incognito, the dav before lent, at four o'clock in the morn ing. He consented. At length the last day of carnival arrived. The joyous carnival was about to die, and Lent raised its sharp-pointed visage, when, at three o'clock in the morning, the church was tlirowu open, with a discordant and furious clattering of the three broken bells. The worthy Baltha zar Polo, who hud been performing the mar riage ceremony all the preceding afternoon, was the first at his post. The church was speedily filled by the future conjuncts and their friends, the happy pairs coming in one after another, and forming a spectacle of great va riety and singular confusion. Nearly all the new bridegrooms were wrapped in cloaks of a sombre hue, in which they sought protection from the inclemency of the morniug. 111 fact, the sky which the evening before had been blue and serene, had suddenly become changed with th ! k and muttering clouds ; March, rliesj oil ed child of th spr ng, had passed from -in les to t< ars, from pleasure to auger Fourteen couph-s, .11 two opj o>;ng rows, the men on one side and the wonn n 011 the other, knelt down, leaving an interval for the priest to pass along, and unite the pairs by giving them his benedic tion. Behind the grooms stood the relatives and friends of each, ready to receive the bride after the ceremony, and to conduct her iu tri umph to the house of her husband. The body of the church was buried in darkness, the only lights being two candles of beeswax placed upon the altar. Outside there was gathering a terrible storm. As the day advanced, the night grew still more dark ; the wind blew with great violence against the holy edifice, and rushed in gusts through the "half-open door. 111 this deplorable circumstance of the night and the storm, Father Polo saw, what others had told him frequently, that it was necessary to hasten the ceremony, if he wished the newly married pairs to arrive without inconvenience at their several homes. He hurried according ly through the conjugal ranks, scarcely taking time to place the wedding rings upon the fin gers held out to receive them. The ring being received, the worthy Balthazar banded the bride to her husband's friends, who hastened to envelope her in her mantilla, and conduct her home before the storm came on. This was done more rapidly than can be described. At every step the good priest took, a flash of lightning illuminated the heavens, a newly married couple disappeared from the church, and Father Polo proceeded to the next. In this hasty and touching ceremony, M.Du lac and Richard Alveres were on their knees at the side of each other ; opposite to them respectively were Madame Labedoyere and Therese Paccard, both trembling, the one with fear, the other with love—both enveloped in their cloaks —both stretching out their hands for the wedding rings, with their heads bowed down for the priest's benediction. Balthazar Polo, more blind than ever, reached the two couples at a rapid pace. Fourteen carriages, the noise of the storm, the glare of the wax candles, the mantillas of the brides, brought about a very necessary result. The worthy priest, troubled in heart and soul, placed on the finger of the beautiful Therese the ring of the old and withered Dulac, while Madame Labedoyere received the ring of the handsome Richard, and to end the ceremouy, he handed Therese to the friends of Dulac, and delivered Madame Labedoyere to those of Richard. A loud crash of thunder extinguished the beeswax candies—the church was shrouded in darkness, and Father Polo fervently commended to the protection of Heaven all whom he had that night made happy. These hastened to mount their horses and depart. The kiusraenof Rich ard, all thinking the load somewhat heavy, placed Madame Labedoyere upon the beauti ful, sure-footed and fleet horse, which he had brought for Therese. On the other hand, The 'ose threw herself light lv ad the little ambling PUBLISHED EVEBY SATURDAY AT TO WANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH. " RECJARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY VUARTLK." pony, which M. Dulac had purchased express ly for the widow. Thus the two brides rode on, the one in a trot, the other in a pace Madame Labedoyere escorted by a number of active and vigorous young gentlemen, the fluttering Therese by several' staid old plan ters, and quite a number of other persons of mature years. Therese arrived wtih her escort, at the house of M. Dulac, just as the first drops of rain be gan to fall. In the morning twilight, she ob served in the building a species of consequence, which did not comport exactly with her ideas of Richard's cabin. The trees and shrubbery indicated a lordly mansion, rather than an hum ble cottage. But as she had no time to collect her thoughts, all this made but a faint impres sion on her mind. Arrived at the portico, a swarm of slaves rushed out to welcome their new mistress. One took her mantilla, another conducted her to a spacious and splendidly-fur nished room, a third hastened to offer her a chair, while a fourth, who had 011 her arms bracelets of silver, presented her a mirror, that she might re-adjust her hair, somewhat disar ranged by her ride. The young girl opened her eyes, and began to doubt whether she was awake or asleep. She regarded the apartmnet with an earnest look. The room was furnish ed with large gilt chairs with seats of crimson velvet, and exquisitely wrought ottomans en circled by garlands of oak ; an immense mir ror, gilded and carved like the chairs, hung against the papered wall just over a magnifi cent mahogany sofa. Around the room were suspended the ancient portraits of the family, in long flowing wigs and brilliant armor.— As to herself, she was seated iu a large arm chair of faded damask, with tarnished gold fringes, her feet resting on a flowered foot-stool, and before her, on a marble stand, a wedding breakfast which nothing could surpass in rich ness and profusion. There was claret in long bottles, champagne secured by wax and pack thread, glasses of rock crystal, silver plate with coat of arms, Sevres porcelain so rare and cost ly at this day, and 011 plates of japanned ware, the savory trout, the chicken salad, the fricas seed mallards, and many other delicious viands of French cookery, such a3 the young girl had never tasted or dreamed of. " All !" said Therese, contemplating the splendor and the comfort, " this cannot be the 1 mansion of Richard ; unless it may be," she j added, after casting round another look, " that after all, Richard is rich, and has intended 111 c a happy surprise." Her doubts on the subject lasted but for a little while. The inner door of the chamber opened slowly, and she saw enter an old gen tleman, with a lean and jaundiced face, and a step painful and infirm. This personage,straight ening himself up as well as he could, introduced himself by saying : "M. Dulac has the honor to salute Madame Dulac." The poor child gazed at him in astonish ment. As to the old man, not less surprised at first, hut 111 a different manner, he recover ed quickly, and eagerly seized the hand of the beautiful girl, which she dared not with draw, out of respect for one who reminded her of her grandfather. Throwing aside all the fine praises he had studied to please the widow, he said : " Ah, Madame, pardon rav embarrassment. My good fortune confounds me. I am dumb with surprise and joy. How much you are changed since I saw you last ! How happy am I to find my wife thrice as young and ten times more beautiful ! Suffer me to congratulate YOU 0:1 this grand miracle, and to pour out mv thanks to Heaven." " It is uomiracle, Monsieur,"replied Therese, withdrawing her hand ; " I ajn what I always have been ; but there is something strange in ull this, that I cannot understand." " Yon have good reason," replied the old raau, " very good reason to say so ; it is indeed strange. 111 the place of my faded widow, I have found a fresh and blooming girl, with a lustrous eye and white and delicate hand—a timid and trembling virgin as the sovereign mistress of my house and heart. It is strange— in fact —it is very strange ;itis a miracle that I cannot account for myself, but for which, once more, I thank you and Heaven." At these words the terror of the young giri increased. " Ah, Monsieur," exclaimed she, "we are the sport of some fatal mistake. You are not Ricl a d ; t is Richard that I want to see." And wringing her hands, she cried out, " Rich ard, 0I1! Richard !" She started up to leave the house ; but the enamoied old Frenchman placed himself be fore the door. Tiie beauty, which had struck him so vividly before, seemed to him more charming than ever. An overpowering pas sion inflamed his dried up soul, while he stu died, more at leisure, her round, plump face, her forehead covered with curls, her finely moulded cheeks of a color so surprisingly red, her large black eyes which the tears rendered more brilliant, and her pouting and Vermillion lips. " May I take the liberty, Madame," said M. Dulac, " to inquire who it is you call upon by the name of Richard ?" "It is Richard—my husband Richard— Richard Alvares, whom I married this morn ing." " Excuse me, Madame," replied M. Dulae, in the blandest tones. " I know nothing of Richard Alvares. The person you married this m rning is myself. lam the one to whom you pledged, before the altar, faith and fidelity.— Oh, my young wife, my beloved young wife, look at the ring upon your finger, with the motto : " Yocns TILL DEATH." That ring is mine. Henceforth, I ain your protector, your friend, your father. You are my wife, if not by consent of our wills, at least by the decree of Heaven, whieh has united us by abend that cannot be broken." M. Dulac would have gone on, had not a fit of coughing cut short his harrangue, so solemn and so loving. Therese, comprehending the whole extent of the accident, which had married her so contra ry to her wishes, cast herself into the chair, weeping and desolato. The enamored old man tried to console her. He showed her the most delicate attention-, avl prc-cntcd her the rich- est presents—pearl necklaces, gold chains, silk dresses, French gloves, perfumed handkerchiefs, and all the ornaments which had been destined for Madame Labedoyere. He spoke to her of the extent and commodiousness of his house, the size of his plantation, the number of his slaves, and the bales of cotton and the pounds | of indigo he raised to the hand ; and wound ! up by assuring her solemnly that at his death ! he would bequeath to her his whole estate.— ! Perceiving that she listened to him somewhat i more attentively, he seasoned his discourse with ! a little calumny against Richard, so poor and jso incumbered with a family. He insinuated | adroitly, that the accident which had made him the happiest of inen, could not have happened I without some aid on the part of Richard.— Then he represented Richard in the arms of the rich widow, forgetful of poor Theresc, whom he had sacrificed for the sake of fortune. His manner was so sincere, so submissive, that Therese began to regard him with an eye of favor. She placed the gold chain upon her neck, clasped the gold bracelets on her arms, and little by little consented to shore with M. Dulac the banquet lie had prepared. Seated at his side, she held out her glass for the cham pagne, and drowned her nose and her sorrows in its sparkling foam. In the meantime, Madam Labedoyere, now Madam Richard, was rapidly borne to the cab in of her spouse, on the mettlesome courser that Richard had brought from the Avoyelles. Although the dwelling of ltichard was further off than that of Mr. Dulac, yet owiug to the rapidity of the pace, she made the passage in the same time as Therese, and arrived just as the day was breaking. Her surprise was greater even than that of the young girl. The room into which she was led had a floor of roughly hewn and badly jointed planks; the bare beams of the loft were blackened with smoke ; an entire cypress log was blazing brightly in the huge fire-plae ; a few old chairs, a dozen of stools, and two large arm chairs, constituted the whole of the furniture. No slave was present to receive her. A white headed girl assisted her iu taking of her mantilla. When she stood before them, in all the blaze of other jewels, and her robes of rustling silk, the two old folks who had risen up to welcome her—the one an old man of sixty years, with a white beard and a buckskin pair of pantaloons, the other a respectable matron, some ten years younger, with a large cotton bonnet and coarse woolen dress—with drew their hands stretched out to embrace their daughter, and bowed themselves to the floor in respectful silence. " What a handsome dame !" said the old woman to her husband. " What a wife for Richard !" whispered the blonde who had taken off the mantilla. Madame Labedoyere cast upou the group and cabin looks of bitter disdain. Iler eves black and haughty, flashed fire as she spurned the miserable chair they offered her. Iler moustache, which had sprouted up anew.bristled on her curled and sneering lip. " Where am I ?" she exclaimed ; in whose house, and with whom ? This is not the home of my husband.'' " Where is my wife ?" said Richard, enter ing at the same moment, his face radiant with joy. " Where is my wife, that I may embrace her ?" Then seeing the widow, " What woman is this ?" he asked, in a tone of voice disturbed and anxious, he could hardly tell why " It is the woman," replied one of hisfrieuds, " it is the wife the priest gave us for you." " And a beautiful dame she is," said Richard's mother ; " a haudsomer one, I dare say, is not to be found in all the Avoyelles " '• But I am not your wife !" exclaimed the widow, in a furious voice—" I alh not your wife. Let some conduct ine to my husband. I will not stay a moment longer iu this wretched cabin." " You speak truly," replied Richard. " You are not my wife. It was a young girl I married, and, thank Heaven, one much prettier than you —Therese Paceard, my lovely Therese. There is some fatal mistake here, which I must clear up. You must remain as a hostage until I find my Therese. Unless Therese be given up, you shall not leave this miserable cabin as you see fit to call it." " Ah," said Richard's mother, struck by a sudden iden, " you see that all this lias happen ed through the bad eyesight of Balthazar, who has given you this unlucky dame mistake." " In that case," answered Richard, " it will be necessary for Balthazar to find and restore me my wife. What right has he to cheat me out of her another's advantage ? Why has he giv en me this haughty woman, who is old enough to be my mother ? But I will go to see Baltha zar, that he may restore me my dear Therese. In the meantime keep strict guard upon this woman, and detain her till I return." Having uttered these words he rushed out of , doors, notwithstanding the rain, which was now ! falling in torrents. His mother called to him J in vain. Mounting his horse, he rode at once to the village of Adayes. He had a long in terview with Balthazar Polo. The good priest tried to persuade him that a mistake was im possible ; he felt sure that lie had given the rings to the proper persons, and the brides to the friends of the husband. But all the worthy priest could say only increased the fury of Rich ard. He asked Balthazar if he thought the whole world was as blind as himself —if he im agined that he (Richard) could not distinguish between a woman of forty and a pretty girl of sixteen. At last Balthazar inquired if he knew the name of the man who had knelt by his side, as it might be that his betrothed had been car ried off by him. Struck with this thought, Richard knew not what to say. In his excite ment he had uot learned even the name of the woman he had left at his home. It was neces sary to get this information from the widow, and he therefore prepared to returu. He was unwilling, however, to quit the village before he had made a visit to the house Therese. In quiring there, tbey told him they knew nothing about her ; she bad left the bouse in her wed ding clothes, and they had supposed she was with her husband. He went then to church, m th' *ain that '.he might "dill be thm*- | He found only the sexton, and the horrible fig I ures of the saints, who regarded his agonic* : with entire indifference. The Virgin De Is,* j Dolores, completely absorbed in fcer own griefs, had no tears to shed for those of Richard, so new and so bitter. He was also tempted to throw down the vile paintings, and trample them under bin feet ; but as he had to look out for Therese without delay, he mounted his horse again, and soon reached his home, drenched with rain. The fury of the storm, which would have spoiled Madame Labedoyerc'3 wedding robes had she ventured abroad, enabled her to sup port with some patience her detention at the house of R chard On his return, he ftJtmd her sittiug in a chair, with an air of sociability rather than of discontent. Her more sober reflections had not been at all to Richard's dis advantage. Should Therese be found, M. Dulac was still left ; but if not, it was ensy to repair his loss by a young man of so fine an ap pearance and fresh cornplexiou. Youug,passion ate, proud, loving in the extreme, he might well compensate her for the riche.3 and asthma of M. Dulac ; and if he was poor, she had more than enough for both. On the whole, before Richard returned, she found her situation quite supportable. Soaked with rain and panting for breath, Richard demanded of the woman her name, and the name of the person she had married that morning. The whole family were called into council, and deliberated upon the informa tion thus received. Even the widow herself, in this emergency, descended from her pride, and gave them the beuefit of her advice. It was unanimously resolved that Richard should go to the house of M. Dulac, and demand Ids youug spouse. If given up, Madame Labe doyere was to be surrendered to her husband and to liberty. This concluded upon, Richard and his father prepared themselves for the journey, like pala dins of the olden time. To the impetuous lover how long appeared the road, and how cruel his old father, whom nothing could induce to hurry his pace. It was in vain that Richard remark ed to him frequently that the day was declin ing. the road a long one, and unless he rode faster, it would be dark before they reached their destination. The old man replied that it was many years now since he had been on horse back, and he had no idea of breaking his neck , for Richard's benefit. Besides, be said, it would make no difference, provided, they arrived be- j fore the night set in. At length, however, they reached the house ■ of M. Dulac, just at the twilight hour it was 1 no longer day, nor yet quite uight. The raiti ! had ceased to fall, and the sky was once more serene. The impatient young mau knocked , loudly at the door. After some delav, it was opened by an old negro, who informed the travellers that M. Dulac had just retired with his newly married wife. And wbul woman cagorlv Rioli ard." " A very haudsome and noble dame," replied the negro, " whom my master brought home this morning." At this axswer the breath and heart of Rich- j aid failed him. He had neither voice nor courage to interrogate the negro farther. His father then took charge of the matter. The I •negro answered freely. He informed them that his new mistress was about sixteen, from j the village of Adayes, and her name Therese : Paceard, that she cried very much at first in the parlor, but afterwards at the table seemed very contented and happy. What Richard suffered during this recital, it is impossible to describe. His French and Spanish blood waged a fierce battle iu his veins. At last his French pride triumphed. " Let us ' go, father," he said, "let us go. I understand the whole thing. Therese has sported with me cruelly. Let us go, father—let us go." The old man held back his sou, and said to the negro sternly, " It is necessary that I should see your master, and at once." " It is impossible," replied the negro ; "our master has forbidden us to enter his chamber, under any pretext, before morning." " Go, tell your master, you slave of Satan," exclaimed the old Louisianian, " go teii your master that I must see Lirn, and that too, in stantly." The black went to inform M. Dulse. A mo ment afterwards he returned with a message to Richard and his father, to the effect that it was his wedding uight, that he had retired with i his new spouse, that he prayed them to excuse him at so happy a period, that lie would re ceive them to-morrow, and comply with theii wishes, whatever they might be. At every word the negro spoke, the old herdsman swelled out at least half a foot, de veloping by degrees his broad shoulders, his brawny arms, his huge fists, nnd the fury which inflamed his breast. " Go, tell your master," i he exclaimed once more to the siuve, who had j left the inner door partly open, "go, tell M. | Dulac that if I do not see him at once, I will! overturn his house, and bury himself, his slaves. : and his wife beneath its ruins." No sooner had he thrown out this threat, than a window in the lower story was opened, at which a head in a woolen nightcap present ed itself; and M. Dulac inquired in a harsh and broken voice what the noise meant, and what they wished with him at that uuseasonu ble hour of the uight. Richard's father acted as spokesman. He explained, in a few words, the object of the visit—spoke of the exchange of the women, l,y which his son had been victimized—and de manded, in a loud voice, the wife of Richard, offcriug to give up in retnru, the diamonds, the dresses, and the bride of M. Dulac. A deep silence followed. Richard held him self ready to burst into the apartment, should he hear a shriek, or even a sigh ; but he utard nothing. " You see, Messieurs," M. Dulac then replied with a triumphant air, " that there has been uo mistake. lam perfectly satisfied with the happy marriage I made this morning, and I trust my young wife is satisfied also ; at any rate you perceive the makes no objection She I is my wife according to the laws of the ebnrch; ' che bear? on her the ring of a? 3" fh! \ or., xv.—xo. so. I eponr.e, which the priest gave her in my name • to the widow Labedoyere, I have no desire ; her , she id a very respectable woman, i who will, I have no cloubt, suit Richard admi , rably, and I wich aim with her all manner of ; happiness." 1 Laving saia t.i.s, the old man drew in h:a head. Richard then macie a last denpsrateef* ; fort. " Therese," he cried cut, "my Thereat— i Therese Paccard." It was M. Duiac who rsphed this time in a tone a little more elevated. " Young man," he iaid, " Is this a suitable hour to covet rnv wife ? Do you wi_h to take her from me the very hour of our wedding ? You have started quicklv Messieurs, on your gallant expedition. Even in France such conduct as yours is never heard of Even there there they leave the husband a few hours repose. And you, M. Aivares, as I understand you call yourself, I am surprised that a gray haired old" man like yon, should countenance Richard in this wicked business. You wMi to give me, yon say, Madame Labe dovcre in exchange for my wife. You will please excuse arc. lam quite content with my lot ; you should be satisfied with the woman who has talieu to you. Goodnight, Messieurs ; I wish you a safe return." With these woid.s the woolen cap disappeared, the window came down, the shutters creaked upon their hinges, and at the same moment the old negro closed and bolted the door. The father and son stood fixed in rage and astonishment. The old man advised that the door should be burst open ; Richard wished to forget the ingrate ; and the two—one swear ing, the other weeping—proceeded to the houic of the unhappy Balthazar. The good priest received them with unusual kindness ; he lis tened attentively to their complaints. "Mv friends,' lie said, " I am sorry, very sorrv, for the great error I have committed, in which, nevertheless, I see clearly, the finger of God. W hat Ileaven has done, I am not able to un do. Madame Labcdoyere is your wife before God and man. Therese Paccard is the lawful wife of M. Dulac. Come to see me to-morrow, Richard, with your wife. I will send for m! and Madame Dulac, and endeavor to arrange matters between you as well as I can." The next day the two couples were brought together again at the priest's house. Madame Dulac cast down her eyes in shame, and seem ed heartily to despise her withered old hus band. Madame Richard on the contrary, inarched with head erect, clinging to the side of her spouse as if afraid that the mistake might be repeated. As for Richard, he ap peared calm and resigned to the decrees of Pro vidence, while M. Dulac smiled with the assu rance of a man whose happiness nothing can disturb. The pood priest, when he saw the two pßirs so badly mated, understood the whole extent of his blunder, and he thus addressed them : "We have committed a great mistake, my friends, aud I am much to blame thus to have compromised my sacred office. You," said he, addressing the two old lovers, " you are much the gainers by this sport of fortune, which has so horribly ruined these two yonng persons.— You must innke them a compensation, and the one I propose is a very small one. The law gives to these young folks nothing more than to be. Therese your wife, aud Richard your husband. Make amends for the defects of the iaw. and repair my fault, poor old blind man that I am. Let Al. Daiac give one half of his fortune to his young wife—and you, Ma dame, a half of yours to Richard ; and then let Heaven aud my yonng friends grant me pardon, and your marriages remain as they are." At first this arrangement seemed a very dis agreeable oue to the rich parties, but the com mand of the priest was peremptory. M. Da iac could not think of giving np Therese, and Madame Labedoyere when 6he saw the come ly Richard at the side of his old and ugly rival, did not hesitate to compare his youth and vi gor with the other's age aud decrepitude ; and in her heart she congratulated herself on the exchange. Toe notary was accordingly called in ; the deeds were drawn up in dae form ; and the parties withdrew—Therese with M Dalac, and R chard with Madame Labedoy ere, at whose house, now his own, he went to live. The next night the newly married couples saw their grief renewed after a singular fash ion. The custom of charivaris has never ceas ed to be religiously observed in America. It is the most boisterous, and therefore the most appropriate mode of celebrating unequal and ill-assorted marriages. At the approach of night the charivari reached the hon3e of Ms dame Richard. The procession marched across the yard, to the light of pine torches, and the music of tin pans, horns, kettle-drums and horse-fiddles. It was headed by two horrible figures, one representing an old woma 1 with a haughty and confident look, the other a young rustic with the air of a simpleton. These em braced and kissed each other with the mo.:t comical ardo". Aft r them came a wag, sing ing at the top of his voice a ballad adapted to the orcisior. All tli? troupe joined in the chorus,in which the names of R'cbard and his wife figured con spicuously. Madame Richard prepared to giro the enmny a warm reception. After the baud had arrived in front of the mansion, a peasant, in the costume and with the attitudes of a cir cus clown, advanced and knocked loudly with a stick he held in his hand. This was the sig nal for the Vseiged to make use of their de fensive anus. At the first blow of the stick, the elowu and his companions were overwhelm ed with greasy water, spoiled potatoes, rotten eggs, and finch other projectiles as were near at hand. The revellers received perfume in ex change for their music ; on the one side, their ears were stunned ; on the other, their clothes were ruined. The contest waa altogether une qual, and the music had to retreat. Thus tbo jovons charivari, which bad entered in such good order, witlulr w precipitately, nor with out leaving a hire j'ortion of its arms oa the field of battle. The one at the house :f M Dulac had better success. The events.g'a enter tainment opaned by a grand overture, to whirr. ihfj m *■ T.- v A j T r ** } 4
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers