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