A YEAR IN ADVANCE, EWiERIES, VOL. 1, NO. 32.1 WESTBROOK Ar. SPANGLER, EDITORS ASO PROPRIETORS. ptha,ng °flier—Front Street, opposite Ilarr's Hotel Putibrattort 01/Ire—Locust Street, opposite the P.O. Trois. —The Curium DIA SPY 10 published every Satanist' morning at the low price of ONE DOLLAR. A YEAR,IIS; APVANCE, or 0110 dollar avid fifty cents. if :WI paid within rine month of the time of subscribing. Single copies.Tlllt "EiNTs. TERMS OF Anstrerr , orn—Advertisements tiol exceed i,nr. a aquare tbree times for 61, and 25 cents for each drifonal insenion. '1 hose of a greater length in pro -I„.tat. ri.5.A. I ibtral discount made to yearly adver tllolo. 'an (15ni9,11m. m the ..‘AlllMiitie t fnr•. e-t lie who eopk-4 it Ln. m•ter tat Chilli it, mud vi mild lee hiippy to n u° , it: ii ent anal Nadler of !hi. , parr, ‘Blll milt:4'll/ml him: lilt he Int, a, 60111 a 101 k, Say, 110111, 011 pctligree, , Then all .land he—atill clear the w y VC .1011%0r - 10 . 1W , 10110,1 of yore. .1.00 Ilse SCIII of old We:1130%1,1'- 1A let lat: hat a Inn: phly. t.,,xlloLon:tct, from aqes dark A p.dicr., nrl:, parollawnt nice— ! r f..r I lvas A. lint ni all 1 slid appear With 1:v.• end 1 m .I.lnm Adam I, And I ww- la e. and l'we was I, iu .. 1 ,0,•,il wand or wnaoher— Eat hark mVa , not 1, th, .Aolotit I, tzde, t:i.•v %sere iwp•ther e,p ) ,e, Ile it I:vo talkittfr. 11 111) t re they ,-;11!. 1 . , I 1,, :11111 1/11/ . :1 11/16 141 , ,1111 :0 111 \oi ail old 1.1,t that I've breath 11,,z..r. to -ac•h a Lind ci drath Id in ,. I in 4,l,3e•eitt..” rOr -ana avain 1 C.d: tholaW a (111,11.1:1 t true 'll.l L,lacct ,Csitoric. THE GRIND HOFSE IN OCR VILLAGE. I= Our tillage is situated in a beautiful valley. This valley is about a toile in length, and varies from a half to three quarters of u mile in breadth. It is feu"' round with an irregular line of hills, which 1, broken in three places, where the principal roads pass. On the western side, there is no outlet, and hare, Ike continuous fence of hills is very steep. From this direction, the more scheming people of tir: valley expect a railroad will come, some day ; nI, at times, they get so warns with this expecta• lion, as to enjoy the fame of the tunnel through Ark hill. The south end of the valley is open to distant view of the sea. The scenery is enchanting. In spring and sum• mcr, it is brim Mil of the spirit of delicious dreams. • )ur people are noted for their purity of manners, and their good school 4. But they are too busy to dream mach. They are, generally, honest, quiet fulls, who till the earth, make butter and cheese, and abhor nil sorts of " aristocracy." ",t few springs ago, the ordinary quiet the vil- Inc was somewhat disturbed, by the arrival or new ool,.bitaok. such an (Nem is always a god iced hr the gossips of any country village; be in the present rase, tlie excitement was nausual, for thc new•emners arrived with an imposing crini loge, and very plainly assumed to be of no ordi nary consequence. :qr. Jonas Harding was a retiring merchant." le was a great man, in his own estimation, be- Cause he was rich, and he had conic to play the nabob in a country village. While putting on the giant's mantle, I* doubted tint that the giant's pnwcr was beneath it. Perhaps he had never heard, that the giant's mantle did not contain the whole virtue of the giant's greatness. Ile was cure the simple villagers would treat him with great reverence. They would at once elect him to all the chief offices. He should become a judge. That country district would immediately send hum to Congres.. Mr. Harding's good qualities had never had fur pity. While acquiring money, he had failed to acquire intelligence or refinement. ILs good qualities were like sick trout in a frog poad. Ile knew nothing beyond the arts by which he had made money; and his lofty igno. ranee wusi none the less unlovely fur being set up to view, in the temple of pride, on a golden pe destal. firs. Ilgrding was a "lady," born and bred; that is to say, she was born in the city, and grew to womanhood under the cure of a mother, who Lad kept her eyes turned toward the circles of ex treme Cushion, as to the summits of the delectable mountains, or the bowers of Paradise. Shc had married Mr. 'larding because he w..s rich, and be cause, after ma namvring ten years, she despaired of doing better. She had flirted with dandies, and waltzed with whiskered foreigners ; she had re. pentedly visited the springs fur her health; site had pent two winters in Washington ; she had dressed, and sighed, and done her best to be sentimental : bat all in vain. When she stood at the marriage altar, her strongest emotion was resentment against fate. Why, she had believed a god would come in a cloud of ambrosial things, from the heaven to which her eyes had been turned so anxiously, and bear her away, swooning with rapture on his bo som; and, mow, to have caught only this Jonas Yarding: But he was very rich. That was some thing; and, with commendable philosophy, she resolved to make the best of it. Mr. [larding, who had never succeeded well as a dandy, reverenced her as "finished lady ;" and she had spirit and tact enough, not only to have her own way, but, also, to govern him when she choose to do it. They had three children, two daughters and a son. This son did not come with them to Elmvale. Ile was then in college, where his father had placed him, guided partly by come vague notions of learn ing, as a genteel accomplishment,though chiefly by the mother's persuasion that her son was a genius. Mr. Henri Alphonse Jules Fitzwilliam Howard Harding resembled his mother in person, as well as in sonic qualities of mind. Before Ire was able to speak, she had discovered in him the indications or wonderful talents. As he grew older, she saw these indications more clearly; and, in talking the matter over with her confidential friends, often re gretted that Mr. Harding was not an English no bleman, that her son's fbture career, assisted by a title, might be as dazzling as Byron's. You smile, perhaps; but she was never more sincere. The new inhabitants were at length fully es tablished in their " grand house," as the people of the village named it; but the airs they displayed in their intercourse with their neighbors, began to Will them anything but warm-hearted respect. If ?qr. Harding and his family had been wise enough THE COLUMBIA SPY. to place themselves in true relations with the people around them, they might have found, in this charm ing village, some of the purest and richest enjoy mentsoflife. What means did their wealth offer, for all the beautiful ministries of good will But they came on purpose toassume a false relation; and their appearance in the place was like the breaking out of a cancer. The social health was disturbed.— They failed to bless themselves, while they occa sioned much that was unlovely in others. In the latter part of the summer, the family at the grand house invited the few of our people on whom they deigned to cast a glance, half-patroniz ing, half•social, to meet their son, on his arrival from college. This event occasioned no little gos• sip, and no small flutter in the minds of several young ladies who were invited. Miss Sophia Green had heroine acquainted with the Misses [larding, and pretended to an intimacy with them. Sophia's weak mother was predisposed to the social disease of the new neighbors, and had, of late, frequently found occasion to observe that her husband was a justice of the peace, and the owner/if two faring. She began to add also, that her uncle Stevens was very wealthy. Miss Sophia dressed herself for the party with great care, thinking, the while, that Mr. lienri's sisters would surely prepare him to make her the chief object of his attention. Meanwhile, let us turn our attention elsewhere. A small river winds through this volley. Up this stream, nearly India mile from the meetinghouse, and some forty rods from the road, there is a kind of bower, formed of luxuriant grapevines, and a high rock. While Miss Sophia was at her mirror, arranging her pretty face, an over-dressed young man might have been seen walking down the stream toward this bower. He had just left a car riage, which was now passing on to the village.— This was the expected son. He had left the car riage, with the consciousness of his genius, which, on his arrival, he presumed, should vindicate itself by getting enchanted with the scenery of the place, • which lie had been told was very beautiful. Ile walked on, thinking of eyes in `fine frenzy rolling,' and trying to work his ow.l eyes up to this frenzy movement, until he came, to the bower.— flare, Ito had a aision, which suddenly changed his mood, and woke an interest, in which there was not the slightest tinge of affection. lie beheld a young maiden, reclined in the shade of the grape-vines, and occupied with a book. lifer bonnet lay on the grass, and her glossy brown hair hung in ringlets about her shoulders. Shc and the foliage together, seemed like a picture, just starting and softening into life. tier form, her attitude, her whole appearance was enough to change the mood of a wiser man. His quiet approach had not drawn her attention, and for sonic minutce, he stood gazing at her, as if enchanted. With a quick blush, she snatched her bonnet and started to her feet. Whatever may have been the ordinary tune of Henri's manners, a sudden tllscination, as if he felt the power of a superior being, now gave to his manner the appearance of 'hold and delicate re spect. Ile introduced himself, and asked permis sion to walk with the young lady to the village.— This short walk increased the spell. She was a beautiful creature, and he had timer before seen a face that had more of the indescribable witchery that springs from unconscious beauty of intellect, blended with artless modesty, and spontaneous self reSpeCL; ....6whory which I "..t_ but, can never be imitated, ur manufactured at the tenet.— Henri ventured to ask what book she had been reading. 'Spencer's Faerie Queen,' she replied. 'Spencer's Facrie Queen he echoed, 'Oh, I have seen that hook. It is in the library of our Society; I must take it out and read it next term. Let me see. It is about the heavenly Una, and her milk white lamb. Wasn't she a shepherdess? and didn't a great prince full in love with her? and didn't he finally marry her, and become a shepherd, and raise a flock of sheep from her lamb?" Henri s genius had undertaken the story. The maiden was silent. In fact, she struggled to repress a burst of laughter. She was a strange girl, after all. She could not well prevent his walling with her to the village; but somehow he felt hi [ltself unequal to the familiarity of asking her name. He could not get a step beyond that dissertation on the Faerie Queen. Henri reached home so lull, of his adventure, that he forgot to be cordial in his'greetin,g , . At even ing when the company began to appear, he watched every arrival, but the beautiful girl did not. come. He was vexed, and, turning to his. mother, asked, `Arc they all here?' Yes, all we invited. Some of these, perhaps, ought to have been lett out. But the best of them are really so barbarous, that any selection is almost intolerable.' ;There arc better peop'e in the village.' • No, T have invited the very beet.' • I tell you, there arc better people here than any you have invited.' Henri's mood did not contribute to enliven the party. He did nut fascinate the visitors. They generally thought what the physician's wife said: • He is just like the rest of them.' But Henri had condescended to converse with Sophia Green, fifteen minutes; and during that time, said some things that nearly turned her head. She 11.. d asked, with what she thought the most lady-like modulation of voice imaginable,— 'flow do you like our village, Mr. Harding?' • Oh, it is a gorgeous place! Romantic trees! Splendid hills! Glorious rocks! and I have found here the most glorious girl I ever saw.' 'lndeed! she will be proud or your admiration. What is her name or is that a secret ?' I cannot tell her name now; but I shall re member her as long as I live: Sophia took all this to herself; and lay awake half the night, thinking how fine it would be to marry Henri, and live like the people at the grand bowie. What would her companions say ? She went so far as to settle in her mind how to demean herself, and what to say, when introduced to his fashionable acquaintances in New York. And she would go to Europe with him ; for his sisters had said it was fashionable to finish a bridal by travel ling in Europe. The next three or four days, Henri spent in the fields near the bower. He sought another meeting wills the unknown beauty ; but site came not. Once, he thought he saw her go from the bower, and pass quickly among the trees toward the village. The truth was, this bower was her favorite haunt, where she was accustomed to spend leisure hours in de lightful converse with books. But sho had observ ed his movements, and chose not to meet him again. He said a few words to his mother and sisters, of the vision of the bower ; but they assured him, that she must have been some transient visitor in the place. He was vexed and sullen. His manners at home were quite rude; but his mother explained all, by whispering to his sisters, that he was un doubtedly at work in secret, on a great poem. She added, that his eyes were dreamy and spirituel, and his hair and shirt-colar more intensely poetical than she had seen them. One Sunday morning, he sat by the window, watching the street, with his mother and sisters. The people wrrc passing to church. At length, three young ladies passed together on the opposite side. Henri saw them, and exclaimed, AND LANCASTER AND YORK COUNTY RECORD. 'There she is ! my soul! there she is ! Look ! mother, look ! Estelle, who is she ?' What do you mean V said his mother. There she goes! That is the girl I met the day I came home. What is her name? She with the straw bonnet?" The ladies burst into a laugh. 'The girl with the straw bonnet? Why, you simpleton, her mother is an old woman, who lives by the river, and takes in washing.' 'No, mean the splendid creature farthest from us.' 'That splendid creature! Is the boy a fool?' and the mother's voice growled. 'There! she looks round ! My soul, what eyes ! Why don't you tell me her name ?' • We have not had the honor of an introduction to her,' sneered Estelle. Henri hastened to church; with some of the people he was already acquainted. In the course of the day, be learned that the maiden's name was Jane Lea His eagerness, his talk about Jane, and his inquiries were all reported. The next day every tongue was in motion. Some said Jane had won a great prize; some thought Henri was most certain-, ly the very softest of fools ; some hoped Jane would' ' keep that fellow at a distance!' Miss Sophia wondered what lie could see in 'that girl;' Jane kept closely at home, and said nothing; Mrs. Lee was indignant at the ill-mannered fellow;' and when Henri called on her, she sent him away, with the assurance that she had no desire to become ac quainted with him. At the grand house,' there was something like a whirlwind, a thunder-storm, and an earthquake, all together. Henri vowed he would marry the girl, as soon as he left college. Estelle scowled and mocked; his mother wept, declaimed and cursed ; his father smoked cigars, and threatened to disinherit him. But Mr. Harding finally suggested, that boys would be a little wild. • Henri cannot be persi.a. ded to marry that low girl,' he said ; 'boys don't alwlys have marriage in view, when they run after Pretty faces.' I hope it is so,' replied the Indy-mother ; ' but Henri is very imag,inative ; exceedingly romantic, sod likely to du strange things if lett to himself.' The demonstrations at home might have had the proper effect upon Henri, but for his genius. Ile thought of princes in love with peasant girls; and of poets writing sonnets to shepherdesses. Ile had read, that poets area most susceptible race of mor tals, with whom love is apt to make strange work. It occurred to him, that a youth of genius must not listen to the stormy lectures of his family ; and certainly, Jane was as beautiful as any shepherd ess that ever brightened the summer air, if her mother did take in washing. One afternoon, he met Jane in the street. She would have shunned him; but he ran to her, and aimed to keep up with her. She hurried on; he, too, hurried. "Dear Miss Jane," he said, brnathing hard, " I have—have something—very particular—to say to you." " I cannot stay to bear it." " But you ❑moot—you arc so beautiful—l vow to marry you—l lo—love you—you will stay to hear that!" But Jane had escaped. lle stopped, like one in doubt as to whether he is or is not thunder street. Presently he felt his brain in labor with a new. idea: Jiae nu.. 'al., thought. "She would not be so proud an&disdamr fel to me, if she bad not something to be proud of'. She is not that old woman's daughter. There is some mystery about it," Princesses in disguise had kept sheep, he be lieved. This Jane must belong to some distinguish ed Eunily. He was certain of it. lie supposed she had good reasons for living here unknown, until her family appeared to claim her. " And she su haughty ; I suppose they are about to appear,"— he thought. Ile could not meet her again; but, the morning of his return to college, he wrote the following epistle, and, without directing if, bade the coach man give it to the handsomest girl in the place. " Beautiful creature,—l love you! I love you ! I love you! I solemnly promise to marry you, as soon as I come home again from college. 1 have found out your secret, but I will keep it. When we are married, and they know all about it, how mother and Estelle will stare! How proud of you they will be ! I love you, and I never will love anybody else. Your passionate lover, Now the coachman thought the prettiest girl in the village was Sophia Green. He believed the Misses Harding thought so too, for they notictcd her more than any other. So he carried the epistle to her. Sophia read it, and believed she was rising a little above the seventh heaven. She ran with it to her mother, who read it exclaimed, "My dear, dear child!" sighed out a room full of sentiment, and, leaning back, fanned herself violently. They , agreed to keep the mutter secret. But Mrs. Green could not hold it all in; and, when Henri was Mentioned in connection with Jane. Lee, she would say, " Ah, Henri is too deep for you! He knows how to play his cards. He knows how to mystify people." Jane Lee's mother was the daughter of a very wealthy farmer. Her mother died when she was a child; but she had been very happy at home, with her father and brother, until her brother en gaged in mercantile speculations, and ruined his father. She married a young man, with whom she lived happily two years, when he died and left her nothing but her child, and poverty. Her brother left the country, and went, no one knew where; and, when her father died, a few years afterwards, she was left alone to struggle with poverty as she could. She was universally beloved and respected, in Elmvalc. She had learned to be happy under the discipline allotted her ; and, though she said it often, to her neighbors, yet she never said without manifest emotion, that June was the light and the joy of her life. It is not exaggeration to say Jane was a rare creature. She hal grown up like a beautiful wild flower: she bad not only the most engaging quali. ties of mind and heart, but that beauty, that charm of these qualities, which is the "flowering of vir tue." An curly Ike of intellect had made her the best scholar in the schools, and led her to make a diligent use of the village library. Her mind was strong and rich, as well as bright; and, while she was loved as the 'excellent Jane Lee,' always amia ble to her companions, and always kind and help ful to her mother, few. if any, were aware to what an extent culture had filled her mind with life and aspiration. In this culture of her mind, Jane was partly in fluenced by a motive which she did not fully ac knowledge to herself. Among the companions of her early school days, there was a certain Charles Sears, with whom she had been a favorite. This lad was timid and reserved, and seldom joined in the amusements of other boys of his age. Ire was Jane's closest companion in her studies, and his uncommon activity and originality of mind had contributed greatly to hers. While they were at school together, she had found nothing pleasanter than his sympathy. Charles was the clergyman's son. As he grew older, ho devoted himself to study. His father had ' removed to another parish, and he had visited Elm- COLUMBIA, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 15.48 IIF:NRI ALPHONSE JULES FzrzwitLlA3l HOWARD lIARDIXO." vale but twice since lie entered college. But he had frequently written to Jane, always expressing the warmest rememberance of her, and requesting an account of her reading, while he spoke at large of books that had interested him. In Jane's feel ings, he was associated with much that had found sympathy nowl-crc else. He had pursued his studies successfully, and wan now in the law school at Cambridge. Henri's passion for Jane became so alarming to his family, that his mother, not doubting Jane's readiness for a clandestine marriage, raged, plead ed, threatened, schemed, and, finally, Contrived to have him to undertake a voyave to Europe. He, accordingly, went with his father to New-York. While they were in New-York, the feelings of the lady at the 'grand house' underwent u very sud den and surprising charge. One evening, about ten days after their departure, Jane and her mother were astounded by a visit from her. The ldely came in her.carriage, and was dressed as if for a royal levee: • Poor Mrs.J...eo was startlod;—but Jane's instinctive self-respect could not allow her to stand abi*ied in such a presence. Presently the lady began : My dear,Miss Lee, I..have called to speak with you and your mother on a matter of some delicacy, —a matter in which we all feel a deep interest,— I mean the attachment between you and our son, which Mr. Harding has seemed to oppose.' At first, 'my dear Miss Leo' gave her a look of astonishment,—then replied, with a lone and man ner by which the patronizing air of her visitor wgs much embarrassed: Excuse me, madam, I do not understand you.' 'Oh, there is no mistake,' said the lady ; 'on :the whole, you have been very prudent, and I respect you for it.. You may own it all now. We thought Henri was too 'young to marry—bat early mar riages are' happiest. His passion for you makes him wild, and Ido not wonder, now I see how beautifulou aro. My dear Jane, the fond love of two younthearts shall not be- crossed. I have just received sAltei &mit Mr. Harding. Henri will not go to.'''.;urope. They will return to-morrow, and you shall be immediatelyunited.' What du You mean, madam?' said Jane, with a flash of indignation ; 'what have I done to war rant tide language!` My :dear, you need not hesitate to be frank.• with me,' continued the lady, in whose mind there` had not begun even the dawn of a thought that Jane could refuse her son, 'you must understand tne, lam really in earnest. It is the dearest wish of my heart, to sec you and Henri united. Tho whole village knows how strongly you and he aro attached to each other.' • Ercuso me, madam; the whole village knows, or should know, just the contrary. Yoa compel me:teeny, that my strongest feeling toward your son is contempt. Pirhaps I ought to pity him, fur I believe he is not capable of.fichaving like gen tleman." -Mrs. Harding turned to stare at the speaker, and her silk rustledas if quivering with sudden anger. Then recovering herself, she said, Oh, I under, stand,—some love,quarrel,—but lovers' quarrels navel. last long.' "What is your object, Mrs. Harding What do ,yslu mean; by pirsisting to speak in this way?— Have you come here to insult me 'You talk strangely, Miss Jane: do you mean thatyou, will not marry Henri, now we all desire it? sari sli..meln xt:,- 1 hoP-Ti--.rn--uncc.-5.u,....- Jane was a little severe, perhaps; but she was cruelly provol.ed. Mrs. Harding went home, - swel: ling with indignation; and, because she could do nothing else, she vowed vengeance. But what hod occasioned this change in the lady's feelings? A very natural question, which must be answered. One morning, when Mr. Hard ing had been in New-York about a week, an elder ly gentleman, of very striking appearance, came to his room with an acquaintance, and was introduced as Mr. Wilson, from the East Indies, and late of the firm of Wilson, Reeves & Co. Mr. Harding bad lon g known the reputation of the firm, and received him with obsequious reverence, much as a Broadway dandy would receive a great lord, just landed from Europe. The stranger said : 'I have called, sir, to beg the favor of some in telligence from Elmvale, where, I am told, you reside. It is my native place. I had a father and sister living there, when I left it.' I shall he very happy, sir, to give you any in telligence in my power,' replied Mr. Harding. 'Some years ago, I saw a notice of my father's death, in an American newspaper. I had sent my father some money, that did not reach him, and thus failed to secure communication with my friends. They, probably, thought me dead. I wish to learn whether my sister resides there still. Our father's name was Benjamin Wilson; and, just before I left, my sister was married to a young man by the name of William Lee.' Lee—Lee—Lee—' mused Mr. Harding; do not recollect any person of that name in Elmvale. There is 110 one there of that name but a washer woman, who is very poor. But she cannot be your sister.' •Is she married 7 Has she a family?' asked the stranger. ' She is a widow, and has one child, a daughter. Mr husband has been dead a long time, I believe; and I now recolleat having heard that her father's name was Benjamin Wilson, and her husband's William Lee. She has always lived there, I think. But it is not possible that she is your sister, for she is a washerwoman, and very poor.' Mr. Wilson's rave quivered as his eyes filled with tears. 'Yes, yes,' lie replied, 'that is my sister.— Paor Mary ! :1411C must be very poor, for I ruined my father by an unthrtunate speculation. There was nothing left. She must be very pour; but I have no family, and all I have shall be hers. I will settle half of my property on her immediately, and tho rent shall be her daughter's, as soon as I have done with it.' In the course of the day, Mr. Harding inquired in various quarters, and found that Mr Wilson's property amounted to more than two and a half millions of dollars. ' By the stars I' he exclaimed to himself, 'Henri has made a hit alter all. That pretty girl is now worth having I' Without delay, lie wrote to his wife, telling her of the great fortune of the Lees, and advising her to call on them at once, and consent to receive Jane as Henri's wife, before they could have time to know of Mr. Wilson's arrival. This letter occa sioned the visit, from which we saw the lady re turn with looks not so fair as Jane's roses. The ;next day after the visit, towards evening, Jane was in the vine-bower by the river; and now, there was a gentleman with her, from whom she did not seem anxious to escape. They remained there until after sunset; and they walked so slowly homeward, that it was nearly dark when they reach. cd the widow's door. When they had entered, he led Jano to her mother and said, 'Jane and I have known each other a long time ; but now, we have learned to know each other bet ter than ever. Will you make us both huppy, by saying she msy be mine?' ' Yes, Charles,' was the tearful answer. 'I have long foreseen this; and if I must part with her, there is no one to whom I could be so willing to give her, as to you. Take her; and may the bless. ing of God be upon you both r • But you will not part with her,' said Charles Scars; .no, you will nut part with her; for we shall not be happy, unless you live with us.' There was a knock at the door, which Jone hast ened to open. Mr. Wilson entered, and stood a few moments, gazing at the widow. He spoke : Mary, my dear sister, do you not know your brother 1' She advanced towards him, and he caught her in his arms, as she cried, 'George! George ! is it you? Then you are alive! You have come back again! heaven be praised!' There was happiness in the widow's house that night; and there was joy on her account, through the whole village the next morning. Mr. Wilson purchased the farm which had be longed to his father. He also built a house in the village, where he resides with his sister. He will nut suffer Charles and Jane to leave them. He idolizes Jane's children; and says, they are almost as beautiful as their mother. Henri soon afterwards married a New-York lady, whom Mr. Wilson always speaks of as 'that melancholy butterfly.' His marriage increased his fame in Elmvale; for it occasioned a law.suit. Miss Sophia Green prosecuted him for a. breach of paomisc. It was in vain that he protested that he was innocent—that he scarcely knew the girl, and all that. His letter was produced in evidence; and Miss Sophia recovered. But the Hardings have left Elnivale, and return ed to the city. They grew sick of the country.— Mrs. Harding says; the country sir did not suit her health; and that she feared the country village would spoil the manners of her children. BECKY WILSON'S COURTSHIP. Ob, now, Becky, do tell us all about it ?"scs the galls. Becky had'nt been married mor'n a month, and hadn't got over her bashfulness yet. Bout what ?" acs she. " Why, bout your courtship," Ems the galls. Shaw,' sea she, turning away her head and blushin dreadful; "you better tell your own court ships yourselves, I reckon." " Yes, but none of us ever had any bows, Becky, and you's a married wuman. Como ' now, do tell us all about it. I do.lovc to hoar about courtin ho much," ses Betiy Bowers. " Oh, yes, Becky, do tell us." " Well," sea Becky, after a great deal or blushin and twistin about, " I'll tell all how it was, ifthat'll satisfy you." " Well, now," ses the galls, all gettin round her so they could hoar good. " Well," ses Becky, putting an emphasis on bout every other word, "John, he cum to over house to see me," she ses, turnin away her head and kind o'lookin down sideways under her arni. "Fool ho better go to sec his self, I reckon. Gracious knows, I didn't care nothin bout him." " Well," ses the galls. "Well, Jolni, lie sed he liwed me. Fool I better love his self, I reckon." "Oh, that's so funny," ses the galls—" go on." "Shaw," sea Becky, won't tell no more." " Oh, yes, do—do, Becky ?" ses all or 'cm. then,John, he ax'd me if I wouldn't have him. Hem, fool better have his self, I reckon." "Then what did you say 1" "Hem : I never sod nothin. Gracious knows, he w...efil ,, ..V.wine.l4.Z.i.t_n2tlijnir out if - "Then, John, he, aa'd mother, if he moughtn't 'pave ~,°. Fool! better have his self, I reckon." " Well," scs the mine. " Well mother, she, got kihd o'llustricated, and scd yes. Fool: she better mind he: own business, I reckon." " And then what !" g 4 Then John, he ax'd daddy, if le moughtn't have mc; and daddy, he got hind u'llustricated, too, and sed yes, too— t, That's the sort of daddy," ses the galls, rabbit* their bands. "Then mummy, she went to town, and got a white frock, for me, and white gloves, to put on my hands, for me to be married to John. Item, fool! she better be married to him herself, I reckon." " Well," sea the galls—" go on Becky!" .Shaw, now I aint a gwine to tell you no more about it, so I nint." "Oh yes, Becky, do go on Oh, do tell us all about the weddin, Becky ?—that's a good soul !" Oh, hush, galls, bout sick nonsense." " Oh, do, now, that's a good soul." "Nell, bitneby, the preacher man, he cum to ower house, and, a whole heap of people to marry ,no. Fools! they great deal better staid home, I reckon. Gracious knows, I didn't want to see 'cm" " Never mind, Becky—go on." 4 , Well, then, John, he, cum to take me up to the preacher-man, fur to be married. Ford! I never did feel so mad—and then Oh, shaw, galls, I can't tell any more." "Oh, yes, go on, Becky." " Well, then, the preaeher.man, be, wed me, if I, would have, John, to be, my lawful husband. Hem, fool! better have him, his self, I reckon. And then—Shaw galls, I won't tell you any more." " Oh, do, Becky. Now, you'r jest. enmin to the interest part. Oh, do tell us the rest, Becky 7" "Well, I never sed nothin, and the preacher•man, he, sod, I must have John, to be, my husband, when he was sick, and when he was well, and when he was better, or worser, and rich and poor, end love him, and stick to him, and mind him, and Lord only knows what a heap of things; and then he sed, people whst ho put together, it was again the law, for any body to take a part; and so I was married, hard and fast, the rust thing I kuow'd, to John." 4 , Well, what then, Becky?" sea the galls, pain more and muee interested all the time. " Why, then, the preacher.man, lie, went home, and then, 01l the fellers, cum a pullin, and hallin me, and kissin me, and squezzin me, and sick other carryins on, as they did cut up. Fools! they great deal better kissed their own selves, I reckon." "Go on, Becky—tell us all about it 7" scs the galls. 4 , Well, then, after they all went away, John, he, --Oh, shaw !" ses she " I aint gwinc to tell you not another word more. When you get married yourselves, you'll know all about it, I reckon."— Western Continent. NN~III~~~ Da irrwoon Joussov.—A very strange occurrence took place some years since in the flourishing city of Cincinnati, and is yet fresh in the minds of many of the residents there, not by any means as the oldest inhabitants," who know all things. It is still told of winter's night around a cheerful fire.sido to many a wondering youngster, and the moral instilled into their young minds with greater force from the circumstance of its. •• being as true as gospel." The hero of the talc was an old man named Johnson, who had lived from a boy in the place, and followed a curious trade for a livelihood. Early and late ho was seen down at the river's vide collecting driftwood, ar.d toiling at it so inces. santly, day after day, and year after year, th.it it at last became whispered about that old Driftwood Johnson was making money; that be had invested his earnings well and had realized large sums by fortunate speculations: but still he clung to his old 81,50 AT SIX MONTHS. [WHOLE 'NUMBER, 923; business. He was mean in dress and very saving— all the•money he ever spent, except for the merest necessaries of life, being for the education of a most lovely daughter, fur the old man had a wife and child. At lust Driftwood bought a very large brick house, or hdilt one; and, much to the surprise of every body, furnished it elegantly and brought his daughter some from school to be belle of his mansion. It was a good way out of town, but ho said the city would grow to it, and so it has. There was always something mysterious about the old man's family; and his wife, who was a very amiable woman, had a core.worn, anxious look that. no one could account for. The beauty and accom plishmentsofthe da ugh tcrsoon brought her plenty of lovers, who sighed and pined for her hand; but the favored of all was a young merchant's clerk, con nected with one of the most flourishing establish ments in Cincinnati, and eoon to become a partner. His suit prospered, and ho hoped to make tho daughter of Driftwood his wife. He used to thio's it. a very odd circumstance that during alibis even ing visits, which were far from being '• few and far between," lie never could meet the man, and all his inquiries after him failed to elicit any satisfac tory replies, but knowing that the old man was what is generally termed "an odd fish," he never troubled himself much about the matter. On returning to hit nialit. after a visit to his lady.love, 4 I,rr the door at finding th „r ghd of a man, a strange from the second or t' and been killed almc called in and the p watch-house, and a body. Ile had been dead tour imuuN cu t was nothing Jell but ta endeavor to find out who the man was, and hold an inquest over his body. There was no trace or sign about him that could possibly lead to a recognition—no paper, no mark on his clothes, and a bunch of skeleton key., a box of matches, and a small dark lantern were all that he had about bins; so the jnquost was held the next morning, a verdict in accordance with the facts rendered, and the body buried. The next evening, upon visiting his intended, the lover found the family uneasy at the continued absence of old Driftwood, but he persuaded them that he had suddenly been called away on business, and would soon return. Advertisements were put in the papers, but no clue to him could be obtained, and the people at last believed that lie had either been murdered or carried down the Mississippi while gathering driftwood and drowned. In his house there wcrp a number of rooms which had nlways been locked, and the keys of which old Driftwood had always kept, and when it. became necessary to settle his affairs these rooms-wero forced open and found to contain goods to a largo nmount of all sorts and descriptions; silks, satins, broadcloth., linens, shawls, watches, jewelry, mid in short all sorts of goods and valuables of every description—which have been stolen in Cincinnati from diticrent places, at various times, for years. The secret was out. Old Millwood had for years employed pedlars to sell goods through the %Vest. ern country, sent them down in flat boats to pointa on the Mississippi below Cincinnati, and all of them he had himself, unaided by any accomplice, stolen. The man who was found by_the clerk a bleeding corpse was old Driftwoo..l Johnson. The clerk, however, convinced that the daughter of the old und_unaware that her father had ing, marrieu her, and ca To i•IV a " ,, stzr.....v-re.... rounded by a numerous family. Truth is stranger, than fiction.—,\. O. Pwayrine. A WESTERN MALE. Our friend, Re Sims, came in from the Upper Merrimack, yesterday, to examine tho city. Ho says that they are beginning to talk so loud up in his diggins about telegraphs, stone dykes, and such "Yankee doings," that he concluded to come down and look at the place, see for himself, and report accordingly. lice is a "manifest destiny" man— ilas been all bis life waiting for St. Louis to moves up the Merrimack; but, us it kept. up considerablo fuss down here, and didn't "come along" his way, he concluded at length to come and see tt. lie had on a woollen cap, decorated with two red tassels, and, if we ain't much mistaken, a new copperas suit—it may have been newly dyed—at all events, it looked bright ns a" Fourth of duly." In wandering round the city, Ilia run against the Post Office, and after counting every one of the boxes, he called a clerk to the window, and offered to bet him a peck of oats ho could tell the ' 'lust tick" the entire and " lull" amount of them. At this moment the clerk was called away by Sr. inquiry for a letter, and as soon as he passed it to the person on the out side, Ike transferred his at tention to the recipient. The latter immediately opened his missive, and commenced reading its contents. They Inippend to be of no pleasing character, for be bit his lip, knit his bruw, and muttered a smothered curse upon its contents. Ike, all this time, was watching him with intense in terest, was swaying his body to and fro with sym. patliy, and trying to discover from the owner's mo tions "what." it hurt him; at length when the lat ter stamped his loot, Ike could contain himself no longer— he yelled right out : "Rip the consumed thing into chitlins, don't you see how its Iturtin' your face to look qt it!" The person he had taken such a deep interest in, stared wildly at him, coolly folded up his letter, and remarked. "Yorere a fool 1" "Weil, militia I am," says Ike," but I never seed a crazy fellar make wuss mouths than you did jcs now." The man departed, and instantly a young Mies' came slowly from the Lidice window, perusing an epistle, every line of which wreathed her face in a succession of delightful smiles. Ike caught the infection and smiled out in a loud snigger. Look. ing over the lady's shoulder, he remarked : " You got a rail good one—didn't you !" Placing the precious messenger hurriedly in her bosom—no doubt it trizigitd of love, and that was, therefore, the proper r lyl for it—she fled from Ike as if she thought he to seize the tree sure, "Off like a bird, by jingo," says Ike—"they sold her the tight kind of n one." A citizen now walked away with a bundle of papers and letters. Ike followed him a few steps to see if he knew him, hut lie shook his head— " Taint him," said ho, "but it looks des'prate like him—lie must be a candidate, though, of I know anythin", cause Una allays carry the papers." Peeping, through the window again, he accosted the clerk this time, with the inquiry: " Here, you, what'll you just sell a squar pile of them papers for, and lump the hull IMP "The eastern mail is in sir," says the clerk at the same time closing the window. Ike felt offend cd at being thus thrust aside for an eastern "feller." as he supposed, so stepping out into the street, and slapping his Merrimack thumpers together, lie yelled oat to the cleric: Yur is a western male kin jest put yon eastern Collar through, and show him sights—hey tokoop.e!" The clerk quietly muttered to himself's.* ha as. sorted the letters inside : Put it through—Gsvc Johnson—see sights—it would—eastern :nail—better get a =Er:mt."— Rereille. nr:el ".: I -I y 14!4•... .0%.711 • lint: ;Tway, tv:ach .vcre tatscr. L, the ^ r tr, =o=
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers