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AND, JANUARY 8, 1868.

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NO. i2.

ratxrxn AND I'UILIIHID It'll! WI'EDNIHIAY XOINIIO it! E!) WARD REILLY, uni-ron Aitn raerniaroa. at his Ol‘ce.\Queen Street.

name sort run "humus." For 1 year, paid in advance. £0 9 O ” “ “ half-yearlyinadvance.0 10 0

...——

Advsrtisoinents inserted at the usinl rates.

JOB PRINTING

0! every description. performed with neatness and despatcli a id on moderate terms. at the Banana Office.

antimth FOR 7 JANUARY. noon it cause. First Quarter, 2nd day, llli. 50m., even. E. Full Moon. 9th day. 6h. 40m.. even.. E.

Last Quarter. l6tli day. 0h. 51m.. cvon., E. New Moon.24lh day, 3h. 6m.. even . S. W.

‘ sun IIigh Moon‘ 6 5 E '2 I DAY WEEK. :§ ‘ is! i riseslsefs Water sets._o‘§ «, ~h mli mih ml h mih in I Wednesday 7 494 19‘ 3 8 ll 128 30 2 Thursday 49 19 4 4morn. 30 3 Friday 49 20 4 45 0 14 31 4 Saturday 49, 21 5 28‘ 1 l9 32| 5 Sunday 49; 22 6 39 2 20! 38‘ ii Monday 48; 23 7 33‘ 3 20 35 7 Tuesday 48, 25 8 34 4 37 37 8 \Vednesday 48! 26 9 36 5 44 38 9 Thursday 48. 27 10 35, rises 39. I0 Friday 47: 2811 34’ 6 4 41; 11 Saturday 47‘ 29 even. 217 42 12 [Sunday 47‘ 30l l 9; 8 29‘ 48 13 ‘liIonday 46 all 2 2g 9 39. 45 14 Tuesday 45 33, 2 48,10 40 If) Wednesday 45 31' 3 57,“ 52 16 Thursday 45 36l 4 32gmorn. 50 l7 Fridin 4-4, 37‘ 5 96 0 56 58 ‘3 ,Saturday 43 39 G 23. l 54 10 Sunday | 42‘ 40 7 81 2 55 58 239 lMonduy 41, 41 8 3 3 59, 59 21 Tuesday to, 42 9 2i 4 409 22 whammy 4c ti 9 55 5 MI 4 2: Thursday 39: 4510 3%, 6 20] 24 'Frid ; 38 «16 ii 4 m. 25 Sat l 37' 481155‘6 9 26 Sunday . so! so morn. 7 7 27 Monday 35i 5i 0 30, 8 (il 28 I'I‘ucsday \ 34 51 1 3. o t; is 29 Wednesday I 33 53 l 5810 4! 20 30 Thursday 32 55 2 2711 6 2i 81 Friday i all 57: 3 olmorn. 23

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CIIARIOT'IIJOWN. January 8. l868.

Provisions.

llcrf. (small) pcr lb. 4d to 7d

lit) by this quarter. :ill to 5d

l'ork. (Pitches) 3“ to led

llo (small) (it! to 6d

Mutton, pi-r 1b.. .‘ld to (id

I. mil) pcr ii), iii to 5d

Veal, pi-r lb , 3d told tl

lluni. per “1.. .‘d in d

liuftor, (rl‘i'oll) Is to li 3d Do by the tub, lid to is

(linear, per lb.. iii to 5d

Tallow, lit-r ll).. {ill to NM

Lard. pcr lli.. lid to (3d

Flour. ier lb.. .‘td to 3id

()atmea . per 100 1116-. We to 183

Eggs, per dozen. Is to Is 3d

Grain llarlt‘y. per bushel. 3s (id to is Outs per do.. 236;] Vegetables.

l’cas. per quart 2a to 2s 3d

Potatoes. per bushel. 25 to 1. 9d

‘ ' Poultry.

(vccsc. 2s to 2s 6d

'l‘urkcys, each. is to 7. 6d

Fowls. each. Is to Is tid

Chickens per pair.

Ducks. . 1s 3a to la cal

Fish.

Codfish. pcr qtl.. 90a to 3!),

llcrrings. per barrel. 25. to 403 -

Mackerel, per dozen. l

Lumber.

Boards (llcmloek) 49 Do (Spruce) 4s to 5s “0 (“D”) To to 9.!

Shingles. per M. 13. to 13.1

Sundries.

lily. per ton. 7.5: to 85s

nti'nw. pcr cart is (id to 2: ‘

'I‘imothy Snell. .

ttlover SVt‘II. per lli..

Homespun, per yard, 4. to 6

Calfskius. per 1b.. . lid to 0d

Hides. per lb., (Id

‘VOOI. Is to is «id

Sheepskins, A plea. per doz. I’El‘tridgcs. ’

2s (id to 33

Is to is 3d GEORGE LEWIS. Market Clerk.

:.....,, . ..

A. HERMANS, (s U N-S M I T H. ecu-mean AND rut-smut.

EGS to Inform lilo friends. and the public generally,

that he has again commenced llusuns on Dominic-

tcr Street. next our to the Reading Room Building.

where he is prepared to execute all orders in his line with neatness and despatch.

on "arm.

A neat assortment of Tinware. Kitchen Utensils. to. On.

Including the stunt Bow Tow Conan For. which re- ooivod tho Go d Medal Prise. at the Paris Exposition of 1867. Also. 'BON TON LANTERNS. which will surpass everything in the Market. and suitable for either For. use or on board Vessels.

A few Warn Conan” on hand. which together with e'lxgo variety of other Stock will be sold cheap for

nil. usauansi. sit for sawvsn's cavern. BLUE. a new. cocoons cal and superior article used in rushing; pherioghsbrvlag ot' coat is guano} . a or w o to so t tron Laundry fluids. be. m p‘ m o

(Ii‘towa. July at. 1801. i o

CHARIIOTrETOWu, w‘r

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Wyn- s... on “Hm. VWW-M.M . _. v . .A,‘_‘Am.,.Am~ow a

Till-J ANGEL 0i" SLEEP.

lIc drops his pluiuy. snow soft wings. lIe waves his balmy hand. And wide the gate of‘ silence swings Thstgusrds the shadowy land, Forgot is time. the sentinel That stands outside the door: The gloomy train of cares as well That clogged our steps before; 0 river of oblivion ! Tliy drafts are sweet and deep. For Memory slunibors on her throne

Rocked by the angel sleep.

There is a face whose loveliness Is marred by hues of care; But sloop hath swept it with a kiss. And made it smooth and fair. There is a worn and Weary brain 'l‘lint rests until the morn; There is a heart which bears with pain. That feels no more forlorn. ‘ 0 Death‘s fair brother! how divine Must that slumber deep. More sweet. more calm, more free than thine. , When his beloved sleep. g c l

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i BEETIIOVEN AND THE BLIND GIRL.

I Some months ago I was at Boon. the birth place of Beethoven. I metthere an old musician who had known the illustrious composer intimately; and r from him I received the following anecdote :—

You know, said he. that Beethoven was born in a .liouse in the Rliein Strauss (Rhine Street;) but at the time I became acquainted with him he lodged over an humble little shop in Reomerplatz. He was iihcn very poor, so poor that he only went out to i walk at night. because of the dilapidated slate of his Iclothiug. Nevertheless, he had a piano, pens, paper, link and books; notwithstanding his privatioos, lie lpasscd some happy moments there. He Was yet

81 not deaf, and could enjoy the harmony of his own

leompositions. In later years, even this consolation Was denied him.

One winter evening I called upon him. hoping to persuade him to take a walk and return with me to supper. Ifound him sitting at the window in the moonlight. without fire or candle. his face concealed in his hands. and his whole frame shivering with cold. for it was freezing hard. I drew him from his lethargy, persuaded himto acccmpsn me, and ex- horted him to shake off his sadness. Ie came out | with me, but was dark and despairing on that cvon~ log. and refused nil consolation.

‘ I hate the world.‘ said he with a passion. ‘I hate myself. No one understands me or cares about me ; I have a genius and am treated like a parish ; I have a heart, and no one to love. Iain complete- ly miserable."

I made no reply. It was useless to dispute with Beethoven. and I let him continue in the same strain. He did not cease till wu rue-entered the city, and then l he relapsed into a and silence. We crossed a dark, Enarrow street, near the gate of Coblcnts. All at } once he stopped.

l ' Hush l ’ said he ; ‘ what is that noise?‘ I listened. and heard the faint tones of an old lpiano issuing from some house ata little distance. It

i was a plaintive melody in triple time, and. notwith- standing the poverty of the instrument, the perform- :cr gave this piece great tenderness of expression.

1 Beethoven looked at me with sparkling eyes. ‘ It lis taken from my symphony in F,’ said he ; here is ithc house. Listen ; how well it is played.’

l The house was poor and humble, and a light ‘glimmcrcd through the chinks of the shutter. IIe

Istopped to listen. In the middle of the finals there

is lid to 3s I was a sudden interruption, silence for a moment pre~

veiled and than a stifled voice was heard.

‘ I cannot go on.’ said a female voice. no further this evening.‘

t Why. sister '8'

‘ I scarcely know. unless it is because the com- position is so beautiful that I feel incapable of do- iiig justice to it. I am so fond of music. Oli ! What would I not give to hear that piece played by some one who could do it justice l ‘ .

‘ Ali, dear sister,“ said Frederick. sigliing. ‘ one must be rich to procure that eujo merit. What is the use of regretting when there is no help for it? We can scarcely pay our rcuf ; why think of things far beyond our reach ? '

‘ You are right, Frederick: and yet when I am playing. I long once in my life to hear good music well executed. But it is useless! it is useless i

There was something singularly touching in the tone and repetition of the last words.

Beethoven looked at me. ‘ Let us enter ? ’said he abruptly.

‘ Enter l ' said I. ‘ why should we enter P '

‘ I will play to her,’ replied be with vivacity. 'Shs has feeling. genius. intelligence : I will play to her. and she will appreciate too.” And before I could prevent him. his hand was on the door. It was not locked. and opened immediately. I followed him harass a dark corridor. towards a half-opened door at the right. He pushed it. and we found ourselves in a poor destitute room. with a little stove at one end. and some coarse furniture. A pale young man was seated at a table. working at a shoe. Near him. bending in a manner over an old piano. was a young girl. Both were cleanly, but very poorly dressed; they rose and turned towards us as we on- tore .

‘ Pardon mo.’ said Beethoven. somewhat embar- rassed. ' pardon me. but I heard music and was tempted to enter. ‘ I am a musician l '

The girl blushed. and the you. man assumed a grave. almost severe manner.

‘ I board also some of your words.‘ continued my friend. You would wish to hour—that is you would like—lo short. you would like me to play to you i' There was something so strange. so abrupt, so

‘I can go

conical, ,iu the whole alair. and something so

1 . RINCIL EDWARD ISL agreeable and eccentric in the manners of him who had spoken, that the ice was broken in an instant, and all involuntarily smiled.

“Thank you.‘ said the young shoemaker—J but our piano is bad. and then we have no music! '

‘ No musicl ’ repeated my friend; ‘ how then did Madcmoiselle—' He stopped and colored; for the younn girl had just turned towards him. and by her sad veiled eyes he saw that she was blind.

‘ I—I cntreat you to pardon mc,’ staminerod he; ‘bnt I did not remark at first. You play from memory ? ’

‘ Entirely.’ _

‘ And where have you board this music before? '

‘ I heard a lady who was a neighbor at Brulial. two years ago. During the summer ovenin 5 her window was always open. and I walked bsfo e the ;‘ house to hear her.’

' ‘ And you have never hoard any other music i ’ ’ Never, excepting the music in the street.’ She seemed frightened; so Beethoven did not add

[another word but quietly seated himself at the in-

strument. and commenced to play. He had not touched many notes when I guessed what would follow ; and how sublime he would be that evening; and I was not deceived. Never, never, during the many years I knew him. did I hear him play as on this day for the young blind girl and her brother. Never did I hear such energy, such passionate tenderness. such gradations of melody and modula- tion. From the moment his fingers commenced to move over the piano, the tones of the instrument seemed to soften and become more mind.

We remained sitting, listening to him broathleuly. The brother and sister were dumb with astonishment, as if paralyzed. The former had laid aside bs Wit-k; the latter. her head slightly inclined. had spgrcached the instrument. her two hands were claspc on her breast. as if she feared the beating of her heart might interrupt those accents of“ magic sweetness. It seemed as if we were the subjects of a strange dream. and our only fear was to wake too soon.

Suddenly the flame of the solitary candle flickered. the wick. consumed to the and. fell. and was extin- guished. Beethoven stopped; I opened the shutters to let in the rays of the moon. It became almost as light as before i.i the room. and the radian fall more strongly on the musician and the lnsti'umen .

But this incident seemed to have broken the chain of Beethoven‘s ideas. His head dropped on his breast. his hands rested on his knees, and he appeared plunged into a profound meditation.

He remained so for some time. A‘. last the young shoemaker rose. approached him. and said. in a low. . res octfu! voice. ‘ wonderful man. who are you then i' l cethoven raised his hca'd and looked at him abstractcdly. as if he had not comprehended the mean- in of his words.

I‘ho yOung inau re sated the question.

The composer smi ed as only he could smile. such sweetness and kiugly benevolence.

'Listcn.’ said be. And ha played the first move- ment in the F symphony.

A cry of joy escaped from the lips of the brother and sister. 'I‘hey recognised hire, and cried with emotion. ‘ You are then Besthovcn.‘

He rose to go. but our cntreatics succeeded in de- taining him.

‘ Play us once more. just once more.

Ho allowed himself to be led to tho instrument-tits brilliant light of‘ the moon entered the curtainless win- dow. and lighted up his expansive. earnest forehead.

‘ I am 'oillg to improvise n sonata to the moonlight.‘ said be, p nyfull . He contemplated for some minutes the sky besprln 'lcd with stars; when his lingers rest- ed on the piano. and be commenced to play with a low, sad. but wonderfully sweet strain. The harmony is- suetl from the instrument. swuet and even as the rays of‘ the moon spread over the shadows on the ground. The delicious overture was followed by a piece in triple time. lively. light. capricious. a sort of intermediate burles- qpe. like a dance of fairies at midnight on the grass.— ' hen came a rapid agitate finale. a breathless move- ment. trembling. hurrying. describing flight and uuccr~ tainty. inspiring vague and instinctive terror, which bore us onward on its shuddering wings. and left us at last quite agitated with surprise and morcd to tears.

‘Adieu !‘ said Beethoven. abruptly pushing back his chair. and advancing towards the door. ‘Atlicu !’

' You will come sgaiu?‘ asked both at the same time.

He stopped. and regarded the young blind girl with an air of compassion.

‘Yos.’ sniil ho. hurriedly. ‘I will come again. and give some lessons to Mademoiselle. Farewell. I will soon come sgniii.‘

They followed us to the door in silence more ex- pressive than words, and remained standing on the threshold until we were out of sight.

‘ Let us hasten homo.’ said Beethoven to me in the street. Let us hasten that I may note down this sonata while it is in my meinory.’

break.

I still sat. in a listening altitude after the old musi- cian ceased spanking.

' And did Beethoven give lessons afterwards to the blind girl?’ I asked at length.

He smiled and shook his head.

‘ Beethoven never entered that humble house again. \Vith the excitement of the moment his in- forest in the blind girl also passed away ; and though

coming, he thought no more of them. And is it not too often so in life?’

THE C(lURTSlIIl’ 0F NAI’O’

.m _ .._

He entered his room. and wrote till nearly day-'

the brother and sister long an-l patiently waited his; on M. brush

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Josephine. smiled. and even her amiable counter»; manner: ‘I am too good a patriot not to be proud

score. as she fixed her beautiful eyes on this pale. thin little man, whose long. smooth hair fell in tangled disorder on either side of his sallow, hollow cheeks; whose whole sickly and gloomy appearance bore so little resemblance to the majestic figure of tholton to which he had been so often compared after his success of the thirteenth Vendemaic.

once more with blood and horror. You would un- doubtedly have preferred not to be obliged to carry 'out the bloody orders of the affrighted ('onvoution ?'

Bonaparte shrugged his shoulders somewhat.

‘That is very possible.’ said be. perfectly quiet. ‘ But what can you expect, Madame? \Ve mili- tary men are but the automatons which the Govern- ment sets in mition according to its good pleasure ; we know only to obey ; the sections. however, cannot but congratulate themselves that [have spared them so much. Nearly all my causes were loaded only with powder. I wanted to give a lesson to the Parisians. The whole affair was nothing but the impress of my seal on France. Such skirmishes are only the vcsper of my famc.’

Josephine felt irritated, excited by the coldness with which Napoleon spoke of the slaughter of that .day; and her eyes, otherwise so full of gentleness, were now animated with the flashes of anger.

‘ Oh,’ cried she. ‘ if you trust purchase fame at such a price I would sooner you were one of the victims ! ’

Bonaparte looked at her with astonishment. but as be perceived her flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. the sight of her grace and beauty ravished him, and a soft. pleasant smile suddenly illumiued his cotto- tenance. He answered bor violent attack by a light pleasantry. and with gladsoms unaffectedncss he gave to the conversation another turn. The small. pale. gloomy general was at once changed into a young. impassioned. amiable cavalier. whose countenance grew beautiful under the sparkling intelligence which animated it. and whose enchanting eloquence made his conversation attractive and lively, carrying with it the conviction of a superior mind.

After the visitors who had met that morning in Josephiue's drawing room departed. the general still remained. notwithstanding the astonis d and ques- tioning looks of the viscountcss, paying no attention to her remarks about the fine weather, or her in- tention to enjoy a promenade.

With rapid steps and his hands folded behind his back, he paced a few times to and fro the room; then standing before Josephine. be fixed on her face a searching look.

‘ Mndnmolsnid he, suddenly, with akind of rough tone. f I have a proposition to make ; give me your hand. Be my wife? '

Josephine looked at him half-astonished, half-irri- tated. ‘ Is it a joke you are indulging in?’ said she. .

I ‘ I ‘ speak in all carnestncss,‘ said Bonaparte. warmly ‘ Will you do me the honor of giving me your hand? ’

The gravity with which Bonaparte spoke. the deep earnestness imprinted on his features convinced Josephine that the general would not descend to in- dulge in a joke of so unseemly a character. and a lovely blush oversprcad the face of the visconntess.

‘ Sir.’ said she, ‘ who knows if I might not accept your distinguished offer if. unfortunately, fate stood not in the way of your wishes?’

‘ Fate ? ’ said Bonaparte. with animation.

‘ Yes. fate! my general,’ repeated Josephine smil- ing. ‘ But let us speak no more of this. It is enough that late forbids me to be the wife of Gensr~ ul Bonaparte. I can say no more, for you would laugh at me.‘