ONE3LLAR PER ANNUM INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE.
TOWANDA:
.'hursday Morning, Jane 12, 1862.
jsjlcttcb
ADA.
■T FLOBSNCK FKRCT.
Here U one of of those uweet facea
Made to light earth's darkest place
herein chidhood'a playful archness brightens earnest
thought's repose—
She is fairer, purer, sweeter
Than when woman's years shall greet her,
/en as is tho bud unblosaomed sweeter than the ripen'
ed rose.
There is no voluptuous splendor
In her face so pure, so tender-r-
Niugh of mid suoimur perfection—'tis the promise of
young June—
Naught of womanhood's completeness,
Dm an innocent, a nreetness
Dearer far, as in the morning lovelier than the perfect
moon.
Less an angel—more a woman,
Less etherial and more human,..
Will she be, when lire more Aprils shall have browned
each sunny curl-
She will seem another crealnre
Changed in heart, and hope, and feature.
When the yvoma.n'B carej and trialr down the dreamiags
of the oiul.
Lapsed in bright and georgeous dreaming,
Wiih romance's rose rays gleaming,
Yet she makes a gentle effort to awaken him from its
power.
Conscious of a sphere of being
Just beyond her tinted seeing,
Like a bee at morning drowsing in a yet unopened
flower.
And she looks with childish wonder
Toward the misty realms beyoud her.
Where are eares and strifes and discords—toil for heart
and hand and brain.
But she hearkens, all unfearing,
Like a young bird faintly hearing
From beneath its mother's pinions, the rude rushing of
the rain.
Time will be co partial preacher—
Good and evil he will teach her,
Hope* and lears will fill her bosom—joya and griefa will
tryjtheir power ;
But the innoctncy tender
Ila'oing her brow with splendor,
Will depart as does a raiu-drop from the forehead of a
flower.
As a woman ahe Is fated ;
She will be adorned and hated,
Know all depths of joy and sorrow—see glad days and
gloomy years ;
And her path that now lieeglowiDg
Through green vales—by streams eweet flowing,
Will wind sadly tinough dark places where the ground
Is wet with tears.
Ah,the" evildnys" are Hearing,
When, her day dreams disappearing.
She will make to morn the nbsenct of this freshness Joy
and truth,
And her spirit backward turning
Will be vaguely, vainly yearning
For the tender light and gladness of the morning-land of
youth.
Ah, that woman's gladdest laughter
Has a mournful echo alar !
Ah, that time should sow wild dis:ord 'mid her heart's
resounding strings 1
Ah. that wealth and pride and power
Should eclipse love's h"ly dower-
That earth's rolling dust should gather on her spirits
snowy wing!
Stay awhile, oh, dawning maiden !
Coming time with change is laden—
Lingering ret upon t!i threshold of tuv womanhood"'s
domain ;
For as years around thee cluster t
Though they bring the added lustre,
They will take a bloom, a freshness that will never
come again.
jsdttttb ©avt.
A Blindfold Marriage.
The elite of the Court of Louis the XI Y.the
great monarch of France, were assembled in
the chapel of the great Trenton,to witness the
nuptials of Louis, Court of Fruuche Compet—
a natural sou ot the King—with Lydonie,
Duchess de Baliverue, a worthless heiress.
Tiie singular feature of the ceremony was,
that tfie bridegroom's eyes were to be baudug
td with a white handkerchief.
This circumstance excited the wonder of all
Had the bride been old and ugly, they would
not have been-surprised. Ou the contrary,she ;
was yor.ng and quite pretty.
The King alone understood this strange
freak ot the bridegroom, and though much en
raged, he prudently held his peace and suffered
the ceremony to proceed.
A few words will explain the motives of the
bridegroom.
Wnen LouisXlV came back from his great
campaign In the Paiatiuate, he determined to
unite h;s son,whose valor and daring in the war
had greatly pleased him,to cue -of the wealthy
wards of the -crown.
He propostd the union to the yoeng Du
chess of Hahverene, and found her favorably
iuciined.
She had just come t© conrt, having just
emerged Irotu the couvent where she -had com
pleted her education.
She had seen the yonng Count often,though
be had never designed to cast u glance upon
her. she knew he was brave and. noble,
fl "d, she thought handsome. Tne bar sinister
to his escutcheon was no objection. She ac
cepted him.
Unfortunately, Lonis of Franche Compte,
*ho, like his father, wan something of a rep
* te, would not accept her.
My son,'' said the King, " f have resolved
A you shall marry."
h Ay worthy sire and most excellent father,"
p:'*d the Count, " i have resolved to do
*lMg.
<rownd. He wae not in the habit
f j s.
THE BRADFORD REPORTER.
" I have made a formal proposition in your
uame, for the baud of the Duchess of Balive
rene, and she has accepted you," said he
gravely.
" Doubtless," sneered the yonng scapegrace,
" her taste is exgelleut, and how could she re
fuse mi ? Perhaps it would have been as well
to have consulted my inclinations in this mat
ter. Ido uot wish to marry."
"Are you iu love with any one ?'
" No 1"
" Then love my Duchess. She is noble,
wealthy.'
" I am tired of pretty women, they are al
ways fools.'
" Could you but see her, you would be sure
to fall iu love with her."
" I uever will see ber," answered the Count
determinedly.
" See her or not,you shall marry her," cried
the King iu rage.
" If I do I'll marry her. with my eyes shut,"
returned the Count.
The King grew purple with passion.
" Harkye boy 1 You owe me obedience as
subject and as a son. it is my will that you
bestow your hand upon the Duchess de Bul
iverene. The wedding shall take place this
day fortnight. Submit to my will with a
good grace, and I will create you a Duke on
your wedding day. Dare to disobey me, and
I will strip you of your title, and the lands
yon hold Irom me, and cast you into the Bus
tile "
This was what had brought the Couut of
Franche Compe blindfolded to be married.
The King smiled gimly, but said nothing.
Ttie Count placed the ring upon the finger
of his bride, but he did not salute her, und
when the ceremony was over he turned his
buck upon her, took the handkerchief Irom
his eyes, uud walked dehbcrutely out of the
chappie.
Lydonie pouted her pretty lips, and was al
most ready to cry with vexation.
The King took her in charge, escorted ber
to her carriage and they were conveyed to the
hotel her husband occupied.
" Here you are, ray dear," said the King,
conduct ug her through tlie apartments he had
expressly furnished for lier reoeptiou ; " here
you are, at home."
" But where's inv husband?" asked Lydoi.ie.
"Silly boyl" un ttered the King.looking very
much annoyed. " Never miiid, ny dear, lie is
your husband ; the rest will come hi time."
" What is the use of having a husband if he
will, not look at you ?" pouted Lydonie.
" He Khali look at you, or I'll seud him to
the Bistiie."
" Oh, no," cried Lydonie, "do oot force
him to look at me. It he has not curiosity
enough to see what kind of a wife he has, I'm
sure 1 do not wish to oblige him to look at
ine. 1 see how it is," he continued, a sad ex
pression stealing over her couuteuance. " Sire,
you have forced the Count into this union."
The King caiighed and looked guilty.
" Oh," cried Lydonie, witn auguiah, " he
never loved me, then—he will never love rae!"
" Why should you carj ?"
" Because 1 love him,' answered Lydouie
innocently.
" L'>ve him ?'
"Oh, so dearly; that is why I married him.
I had loved him from tiie moineut I first he
held him. And uow I am his wile, he will
not look at me."
Lydonie burst into a flood of tears,aud sank
upon a sofa.
Tiie King pitied her sincerely, but what
could he do ? He had forced him to marry
her, but lie could not loree him to love her.
He thought of the Bastile. It would uot
make huu love his wife to seud him there.
" Well, weii," he said, " you are his wife
I will make him a Duke, and 1 dare say you'll
fiud him home before morning."
With these words the King withdrew.
Lydouie was lelt ulone with her sorrow.—
But she was oot to droop long. She soon
dried her tears, and looked all the better for
them, like a rose alter a shower.
Her old nur-e came in,aud together they in
spected her new home, wtiich Lydonie found
entirely to her satisfaction.
The Count did not come home that night.
A weak passed by aud he did not make
his appearance Lydouie cauie to the conclu
sion he never would come.
She knew it was useless fo appeal to the
King. lie had made Franche Compie a
Duke, but he could do nothing for her.
She determined to ascertain what her hus
band was about.
She dispatched a trusty servant for intelli
gence, and.l.ke all wives who place a spy upon
their husbands' movements, she was not at all
pleased with the news she received.
The Duke was plunging into all kinds of
di.-sipatiou lie was making love to all the
pretty daughters of the shopkeepers in the
Roe St. Antoine.
in fact, for a newly-married man, his con
duct vi as shameful.
" So leave me to run after such canaille!"
exclaimed Lydonie.
She pa;:sed suddenly. An idea had enter
ed her brain. She determined to act upon it.
While she is meditating upon it, let us see
what the Duke is about.
One night, abont eight days after his mar
riage, the Duke, plainly attired and muffled in
a cloak, roamed through the Faubourg St.
Autouie, as was his weut, in quest of adven
tures.
As he tamed the corner of one of those nar
row lanes that intersected that quarter at that
period, a piercing shriek burst apon his ear,
mingled with suffocating cries for assistance.
The Duke's sword was out in an instant
He was brave to rashness. Without a mo
ment's thonght he plunged into the lane.
He beheld a female straggling in the grasp
of a man. *
The man fled precipitately at bis approach,
and the girl sank into his arms, convulsively
exclaimed:—
" Save me, ob, save me V
The Doke sheathed his sword and endeav
ored to calm ber fears
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. 0. GOODRICH.
He led ber beueatb the lamp that swung at
the corner.
" Why, you are a perfect little beauty I"
be cried rapturously, and in surprise.
Tiie girl cast down ber eyes and blushed
deeply, and the Duke felt—the little baud
that rested upon bis arm tremble. But she
did Dot seem displeased.
" Do you reside in Paris ?'
" Yes; but we have only been here a short
time—we came from Bellvtlle—mother and I."
" From the country, eh 1" Where do you
live, my pretty blossom ?'
" In Rue fct. Helena.'
" What, that is some distance from here.—
Will you permit me to escort you home. These
streets are dangerous, as you have fouud, to
cue as beautilul as you are.'
" I would very much like to have yoa see
me home—if—if
She paused and uppeard confused.
" If what ?" asked the Duke, eagerly.
" If you would only be so goo—as to prom
ise oot to—to —to —try to—kiss me again,
if you please sir," replied the girl innocently.
The Duka was churmed. There was a sim
plicity, a freshuess about this young girl which
pleased him.
" I give you my word as a gentlemaD," he
said, frankly, " that uo action of mine shall
despleuse you, if you accept of ray escort.
She came to his side aud took bis arm with
confidence.
" I tun uot afraid of you," she said, with
sweet simplicity ; " I know you are too good
to injure uie.'
The Duke blushed for the first time in—he
could uot remember how mauy years—he knew
he was receiviug a better character than he
deserved.
"What is your name ?" he asked, as they
proceeded ou their way.
Bergerouetle,' she replied.
" What a pretty name 1 And yoa live here
in Paris, all aloue with your mother."
"Yes"
" I dure say you have plenty of .weet
hearts ?'
" No, I haven't one."
" What, no one that loves you ?"
" None," repiied Bergeronette, quite sadly.
" Would you uot like a sweetheart ?"
" Perhaps."
" You must be particular in your choice, or
you would have had a sweetheart before uow.
What kind of oue would you lik ?"
"I would like one,if you please,like —like, —
" Like who t"
" L ke you."
"Phew 1" thought the Duke, " I am get
tiogon here. Now, is this cunning, or is it
simplicity ?'
They walked on sometime in silence.
Bergeronette checked the Duke before a lit
tle cottage, with a garden iu front. There
was a wicket gate leading i to the garden.
" Here is where I live," she said,
She took a key from ber girdle aud unlocked
the gate.
" Will she invite mo to enter ?" Thought
tho Duke—aud the thought was father to the
wish.
" Good night, sir,"said Behgeronette, "and
many thauks lor your kindness."
" She is a Diana 1" was the Duke's meDtal
reflection
" Shall I never have the pleasure cf seeing
you Hgaiu 1" said the Duke.
" Do yru wish it ?" she said earnestly,
" Most ardently."
" I'll u.-k my mother."
An oath rose to the Duke's lip, but he pru
dently checked it.
" Will you receive me to-morrow
" You muy come, if my mother is williug
—yes."
" I shall be sure."
" You will have forgotten rao by to mor
row."
" I ehnli not forget you."
" I have heard ray mother ray the men al
ways protest uiore than they mean.'
" Your mother is " the Duka paused,
and bit his lip.
" What is Ehe ?" asked Bergeronette arch
ly.
" She is—right. But I mean what I soy.
As sure as the morrow comes, so wiJl 1."
" Come. Good night.'
She turned from him, and was about to en
ter the garden.
" Bergeronette." he said quickly, "one kiss
before I go. Surely my lorbearunce deserves
it."
She made no answer, bnt she inclined her
head gently towuds him. For a moment she
lingered in his arms, and then tore herself from
his embrace and passed quickly through the
gate.
The Duke determined to follow her. When
he placed his hand against the gate he found
it securely fasteoed. Bergerouette had pi n
c'ently locked it after her.
So the Duko went to his lodging—he had
taken bachelor apartments on his wedding day
—to dream of Bergeronette.
The next day he went to the cottage in
Rue St. liekue.
He was received by Bergeronette timidiy,
and introduced • y her to her mother, a fine,
matronly dame.wbo sat quietly spinning in the
corner, and allowed the youug couple to rove
about the garden at will.
The Duke thought she was a very sensible
old woman.
The Duke departed, -at the end of three
bonrs, more in love than ever.
He came every day for a fortnight, and ev
day he pressed his rait. But there was only
one way in which Bergeronette could be won
—an honorable marriage.
The Duko was in despair and at his wit' 6
end. He bad a stormy 6ceoe with the King,
who threatened to 6end him to the Bastiie if
he dtd not return to the' Duchess.
So he came to Bergeronette, on the four
teenth day, to meke a final effort to obtain
ber. Tb°y were alone together in the gar
den. r >
" Here me, Bergeronette,' he cried, when
be bad exhausted every argument and found
ber still firm, ' I swear to jfoo were I free,
" REBARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANT QUARTER."
this instant would I wed yoo. I will confess
it aii to you. I have told you tbat I am a Duke
tie Francne Compt, and— l am married.'
" Married. ?' echoed Bargerouette with a
smotheriug scream.
" I was forced into this union by the King's
command. Ido not love my wife I have nev
er even seen her face. I left her at the altar's
foot, and we have never met since. She pos
sesses my title,but you alone possess my heart.
Fly with me. In some distant laod we may
dwell in happiness, blessed with each other's
society. Time may remove the obstacle to
our union—death may befriend as, a divorce
may be obtained, and tbeu I swear to you, by
every saint iu Heaven, you shall become my
Duchess.'
" Were you free, would you really make me
your wife 7'
" I have pldged yon my word.'
" I believe you.'
" You will fly with me V
" I will.'
" Dear Louis," she UiOrmured, for so bad
he taught her to call him. " I also have some
thing to impart to you My name is not Ber
geronette, and I am not what you take me
to be.'
" What do yon mean ?"
" I have a title equal to your own.'
" Then this old woman 7'
" Is not my mother, bat my nurse.'
" And the man who assaulted you?'
" Waß my lackey, instructed for the pur
pose.
The Duke looked bewildered.
" Aud like you,' she continued, I am MAR
RIED.'
" I'll cut you husbands' throat,' exclaimed
the Duke wildly.
" I dou't think you will when you know
him.'
" Who Is be then, and who are you 1'
" lam Lydonie, Duchess de Franche Compt,
and you are he.'
The Duke was thunderstruck.
Lydonie kuelt at his feet.
" Forgive ma for this littie plot,' she plead
ed ; "it was to gain your love . If it has
succeeded lam happy—if it has failed, with
my own lips I will sue the King for our di
vorce.'
" Up—op to my heart,' cried the Djke,
joyfuiiy, as he caught her iu his arms ; "you
nave iusured our mutual happiuesss. Ah.noue
are so blind as those who will not see.—
Little did I think when I stood blindtolded
by you side at the ultar that I was reject
ing such a treasure.'
They passed their honeymoon in the lit
tle cottage, and the Duka was not sent to
the Bastde.
An Angel.
BT MARY A. DENNISON.
A little pauper boy sat down on the curb
stoues, and tried to think. His feet were bare,
red, and cold ; but never mind that. The chill
uir penetrated his ragged garments ; but never
mind that. He wanted to think. Who are
these people passing him, looking so warm aud
comfortable? What did it mean that they
should be happy uud cheerful, and he so sad ?
None of them had such heavy hearts ; thai he
was sure of. He looked up into the cold blue
sky. What was it, and who lived up there ?
Some bo y had said once that God would take
care of him. Where was God? Why didn't
he take care of him ? Oh if he could only see
God for one little minute, or the utigcla that
the good men told him of when his mother
died I Did they eVer see angels ?
An organ grinder coiue near and took his
stand. The melody he played lightened the
little boy's heart somewhat ; but it didn't warm
him ; it didn't make him less hungry. He kept
shivering iu spite of the music, and he felt so
all alone, so despairing? Then the organ
grinder passed away ; he never heeded the lit
tle child sitting on the curbstone, he had so
many things to think of. The carriages passed
by, and the cart 9 and a company of soldiers;
b-t it was all dumb show to him—be was try
ing to think, with such a dull pain at his heart.
Presently, three or four course-looking boys
gathered behind him, and wiuked and laughed
at each other. In ■another moment, the young
est gave a thrust, and over went the poor little
homeh ss child into the gutter. One scream,
one sob of anguish as he gathered himself up,
and looked after the boys, now flying away
with shouts of mirth. Oh ! how cruel it seemed
in them—how cruel ! The little hungry boy
walked slowly on, sobbing and shivering to
himself. He did i't know what he was walk
ing tor, or why he was living. He felt out of
place—a poor little spirit that had lost its
way—a braised reed that any one might break
—a little heart so tender that look was an
guish, how much more a blow !
The little boy stood at last near the corner
of a street. An apple 6tand, at which he gazed
with longing eyes, not far off, was tended by
a cross-4ooking old man. There cakes on the
stand, and the ptor little month of the home
less child watered as he saw oue boy after an
other deposit his penny, and take his cake.—
Ho had no penny, and though there was hun
ger in his eyes, the cross looking old man never
offered him a morsel.
The tempter came. The old mail's back was
tnmed. A vile boy at his side—at the side
of the homeless child—nudged his elbow.—
" You take one," he whispered ; " I'll give you
half."
The little child gazed at him steadily. He
saw something in the bleared eyes that made
him shrink ; something that set his heart to
beating.
" i tell you, hook one," whispered the boy ;
" I won't tell, aud we'll go awey and eat it."
" I don't want to steal," said the homeless
child.
"Oh 1 you fool," mattered the brutal temp
ter, and smote him iu the eyes, his heavy hand
dealing a blow that sent the poor little child
against the wall, his whole frame quivering
with angsish. The terrible blow bad almost
blinded bio for a moment. A sob came np io
bis throat. "Ob t what bare I done to be
treated eo V There never, never was a Crodj
or he would not let him suffer so, and that be
cause be refused to be wicked. I doQ't believe
that ever a man in his deadliest bereavements
suffered more than that sad little child. His
heart was literally swelling with grief, and
though be could reason about it, he felt as if
there were great aud sore injustice somewhere.
He started to cross the street. A dark,
bliodiog pain still made his poor temples ring.
" Back 1 back 1 Good heavens 1 The child
is under his feet I Back ! back I
" Oh ! mamma, it is our horses run over a
poor little boy. Oh 1 mamma, mamma 1"
"Is he hurt much, coachman ?" The wo
man's face is pale as ashes. " Yes, he is hurt
badly. Take him right in ; don't wait; carry
him right in aud up 6'air. It was your care
lessness. The child shall be attended to."
There is no anguish oow. Perhaps God saw
he had borne all he could, and so took the
poor little broken heart there ro heal. How
very white and quiet ! "Oh ! a sweet face—
a Bweet, sweet face 1" murmured the woman,
bending over the boy ; and tears fell npon his
forehead, but he did not feel them.
" Oh, the poor little boy 1" sobs Nelly," the
poor little boy I I wish he had kept on the
sidewalk ; I wish he had staid at home with
his mother "
Alas ! in this world there was no mother to
keep him.
The doctor came, said he was not dead, bat
would very likely die. Tnere was a hospital
near. The poor thing had better be sent there.
But the good woman would not allow that
She would care for him herself, she said. Ho
had been injured by one of her horses, and she
felt it was her duty to attend to him. Besides
it was likely the child had no mother. Such
a boy as he, with a face so sweet and girlish,
so pure and loveable. would never be sent on
the streets like that,if be had a mother. Besides
(and here her tears fell) there was a little
mound not yet greeu over just such a child.—
No, no ; it was not in her heart to put the poor
wounded boy away. Let him stay, whether
he i.ved or died.
The weary, weary days passed on. One
morning, the little boy opened his dim, blue
eyes, but he did not know himself. His glance
fell wearily on bis hands. There were white
bands around his wrists, with ruffle 3 on them.
The bed was so snowy white, too, aud a erim
son light fell over every thing.
" Dear God 1 I am in heaven," murmured
the child. " Yes, God will take care of me
uo\"
What visions of loveliness glanced forth
from the shadow behind the bed ? The rich
curls fell around a face of exquisite beauty.—
The beaming eyes looked love and giadness
upou him.
" Oh i yes, there is an angel !" he said soft
ly. " I aui giud. They wou't knock me over
again ; they wou't want rae to steal apples
here ; and perhaps I shall never die again.—
Now, I waut to see toy mother.''
"My dear boy, are you belter this morn
ing asked a low, soft voice.
He turned slowly, wearily.
" Is it mother 1" he murmured.
" Oh, yes," and there quick sobs and tears ;
" yes, my little child, I will be your mother,
and you shall be my son. Will you love me
dearly ?"
" Yes, I do love yon, mother; is it heaven?"
" Heaven I no, darling it is earth ; but God
sent you here to our hearts, and you shall be
loved and cared for. See, here is a little sis
ter, and you will be very happy with her.—
Kiss him, Nelly.
Iler rosy lips touched his paie ones, and a
heavenly smile lighted np his face. The past
was not forgotten, hut it was gone. No more
mouldy crusts, oaths, harsh words, and b!ow3.
No more begging at basement doors, and look
ing half famished to envy a dog gnawiug a
bone in the streets. No more tear of rude
children, who never knew where their hearts
lay ; no more sleeping on door steps, and list
ening in terror to the druuken quarrels of the
vicious aud depraved.
Yes the past was gone ; aod in the rosy
future where love, home, even God and the
angels. Certainly sweet spirits had guarded
that child, aud guided him out of seeming evil
into pusitive good. Surely henceforth he would
put his baud trustingly in theirs, and turn bis
fuce heavenward. Yes, it was so to be. The
dear teachable child—a jewel picked from the
raire, a brand snatched from the bnrning—was
yet to illumine the dark paths of this world
with bis holy, heaven like teaching. Like a
dove he was to go forth over the waters, and
find the oiive branch with which to garland
his glad tidings. Blessings, then on all who
hold their arms out toward needy little chil
dren, making their homes arks of refuge 1 —
Beautiful stars shall they have in their crowns
of rejoicing, for surely there is no jewel bright
er iu all the world, and perhaps iu all eteruity,
than the soul of a little child.
Niglit."
Hearing a confused noise In front of my
house, the other night, writes a correspondent,
I threw up the window to ascertain the cause.
I observed a dark object clinging to the lamp
post that stands sentinel in front ot my door ;
and listening attentively, I overheard the fol
lowing soliloquy :
" Mariur's waitin' np for me 1 I see the light
in her win'er. What the deu deuce does she
act so darnfool (bic) foolish for on lodge lodge
nights ? 'S'well enough to stay up ou o'rrer
nights—bat's all dam uousense, ye know, to
wait for a fell'r on lodg • (hie) nights. She
knoirs 's'well as I do, basin' 's'got to be 'tend
ed to—committe 's'got tt> report, an' var'ns
o'rrer little matters —she oughter 'ave more
sense. Said she had the head (hie) headache
when I left'er—told me not to stay ont longer
than I conld 'elp. Well, I didn't 1 how could
I 'elp it ? Besides, I'll have the headache
worsen she will'n the nornin'. So devilesh
stupid in her to get the headache when 6he
knew I'd big bianess to 'tend to. Ah 1 these
women, these women, they'll never (hie) learn
any thin', never I
'"So let the world wag as wMa at ft win,
I'll ba gay and (hie) happy still.'"
"Hal ha ! ba! (blc) Wood* what's be
. a e%
VOL. XXIII. —NO. 2.
come of Bulgor 1 Left 'im settin' on a curb
stone. Kaiuin' like blazes, and the war'rer op
to his middle. He thought be was at Niag
(hie) Niagara Falls. Says'e, says'e, 'Spicer
me boy, aint this glo'us ? Don't ye bear the
ra rapids ? I was strike'n oat for home as ra
(hie) rapidly as I could. T'9 pity for Bulger,
cause I don't think he can swim ; and he hates
—ha ! ha 1 ha ! (hie) hates war'rer like
p-poison. Wish 1 was 'ome and in bed.—
B-r-r-a ah 1 I'm ail of a shiver ! Clos' all
wet outside, and I'm dry as thunder inside.—
Think I'll tell Mariar I ju Jumped overboad to
>ave a feller screechef from (hie) drowning.-
Then she she U want to know what I did with
the fell (bic) feller creature. So that won't
do. She's got a pretty good swallow, but—
egad 1 she—she can't swallow —ha ! ha 1 ha !
(hie) no drowned man, you know. Tba-tbat'a
a ieetle too much I She's taken some awful
heavy doses of lit from me, but I'm afraid lha
drowned chap woald choke her."
At this juncture a guardian of the public
peace approached aod a*ked the votary of
Bacchus what he was doing there at that time
of night, and v>by he did not go home.
" What'in I doiu' here ? Why, I'm holding
on like grim death— that's what I'm doing.—
Howsever, ole feller, I'm gl- (hie) a-ad to see
ye. Fact is, I've been oui'd ibe raiu, aßd I've
got a leetle so soaked, d'ye see. Itaia warrer
alters did make consiruble 'p presiion on me.—
Say, you 1 can yt t-tell mewhy I'm like a pick*
(bic)-picket-guard ? But I know you can't;
's'no use asking youa p'iice fellers anything.—
Bat's dev-desiiish good— ha 1 be 1 he 1 (hie)—
for me. I—l'll tell ye why I'm like a black
guard—l mean a p-picket guard. Beeause I
c can't leave my p post until I am re-(hic) re
lieved 1 P'iice feller, d'ye aee that shutter
over the way, the one with the green Venitian
houses iu front, three doors to go up to the
step—that is my (hie) house, aud therein
dwells my s& saiuted Mariar. Did you ever
belong to a spout-shop ? But 1 spose not.—
As the charming P-Portia says :
" ' That light we see is burning in my hall;
How far that little beam throws his c-canilles!
So shines a g-ood (hie) deed ia a naughty world.'
" Th-tben pity the sorrows of a poor young
man wh-ose tangled legs have b b-brought him
to this spot. Ob, relieve, and take him home
at ouce, and heaveu will ble-bless your store
—when you get (hie) oue."
The polieemau kindly assisted him to his
house aud rang the bell. The door partially
opened. I got a transient glimpse of a night
capped head, as our boro was hurriedly drawn
in by nusceu liand9 ; and a shrill voice, that
pierced the midnight air, was heard to say :
"Solyou'ie tight again, you brute 1" The
door was rudely slammed in the unoffending
policeman's face, while 1 crept shivering to bed,
wondering at the probable fate of " Bulger."
The Woman who never Gossips.
Ob, no, I never gossip! I have enough
to do to take care of my own business, with
out talking about the affairs of others, Mrs.
Smith.
Why, there's Mrs. Crocker, she deals in
scandal by the wholesale. It does seem to
me as though that wouran's tougne must be
almost worn out ; but no, there's uo danger
of that. If everybody was like me, there
wouldn't be much trouble in the world. Oh,
uo, I never gossip !
But did yon kuow that Miss Elliott had got
a new silk dress, Mrs. Smith ? \ou didn't ?
Weil, she has. It's a real brocade j I saw
it myself ; and I do say its a shume for her
to be so extravigant I mean to give her a
piece of my mind, Mrs. Smith. You believo
her uncle gave it to her ? Weli, I dout care
if he did. Why its ouly two months 9ince her
fattier failed ; and now to see her dash oat
in this sjy e it's & burning shame. I soppose
she thinks she's going to catch young lawyer
Jones ; but I think she'll find herself mista
ken. He's got more sense that to be caught
by her, if she has got a brocade silk dress.
And there's the upstart dressmaker, Katie
Man'y, setting tier cap for the doctors son.—
The impertinence of some people is periectly
astonishing. I dont think she's any better
than she ought to be, for ray own part. I
never did like her, with her mild, soft look,
when anybody's about. My word for it,
she can look cross enough when there ain't.
Then she says she is only seventeen ! Good
ness knows she's as old as my Arrabella Lu
cretia ; and she's —well, I won't say how old,
but she's more than seventeen, and I ain't
ashamed to say so, either : but I think Dr.
May's son will have more discretion than to
think of marrying her. Some folks call her
handsome. Well, I don't. She ain't half so
good looking as my daughter Jane. Then the
way she does up her hair in such fly away
curls 1 and, if you believe it, Mrs. Smith, she
actually had the impudence to tell me she
conldu't make her hair as straight as my Ma
ria's. Impertinence! If she would let curiiDg
papers and curling-irons alone, I'd risk but
what her hair would be as straight as any
body's.
But what do yon think of the minister's
wife, Mrs. Smith ? You like her ? Well, all
I can say is you've got a very peculiar taste, —
Why she's as proud as Lucifer —been married
a whole week, and hasen't been to see me
yet. Yoa presume 6he hasn't had time ? j
don't see what the minister wanted to go oat
of town to get him a wife for, anyway ; and
then, above all things, to get that girlish-look
iug thing? Why didn't he take oue of hsi par
ishioners ? There's my Arrabella Lucretia#
would have made him a better wife than he's
got now. And she's joet the right age for
him. What do yoa say ?—that Arrabella
Lncretia is two years older than the minister?
I should think it was apitty if I didn't know
my own daughter's age, Mrs. Smith ! If soma
folks would mind their owu business, as I do,
I'd thank them.
* There's a woman at the bottom of
every mischief,' said Joe. ' Yaa, lap Had
Charley; 'when I nsed to gat in
chief, my mother was at tba JP*
ma'
.. '"' T