VOL. LVIII. THE EXILE’S FAREWELL. BT J. W. WELCH. Good bye, dear friends, good bye, Tbe proud ship waits for me, The gallant bark in which I go Far o’er the rolling sea. 1 ne’er shall roam again Beneath my native sky— So take my last and sad farewell, • Good bye, dear friends; good bye. Good bye, old home, good bye, I ne’er shall see thee more ; Ne’er play again as I have played Around thy vine wreathed door. I go from hence to dwell Beneath a foreign skr, Then take my last and sad farewell, Good bye, old home, good bye. Good bye, dear one, good bye, We part to meet no more, Until wo meet all free from pain Upon a better shore. My weary heart is sad — . The tear drop dims mine eye, Thy hand —one kiss —and so farewell, Good bye, dear one, good bye. Good bye, dear friends, good bye, The breeze blows off the shore, The ship’s unmoored, horisails are set, She rides the wave once more. The daylight fades away, Bright stars shine from on high, My native land fades from my sight, Homo, friends, dear one, good bye. COLUMBUS ON FIRST BEHOLDING AMERICA. God of my sires! o’er ocean’s brim Yon bounteous land appears at ld&t; Kaise, comrades ! raise your holiest hymn For now our toils are past. See o’er tho bosom of the deep She gaily lifts her summer charms, As if at last sho longed to leap From dark oblivion’s arms. What forms, what lordly scenes may be Secluded in thy flow’ry breast; Pure is thy sea and oalm thy sky, Thou garden of the West; Around qach solitary hill A richimagnificenco is hurl’d, Thy youthful face seems wearing still The first fresh fragrance of the world. We come with hope, our beaoon bright, Like Noah drifting o’er the wave, To claim a world —tho ocean's might Has shrouded like the grave; And, Oh! the dwellers of the Ark Ne’er pined with fonder hearts to see The bird of hope regain tbeir bark Than I have long'd for thee. > Around me was the boundless flood, O’jer which no mortal over pass'd ; AboVo me was a solitude As measureless and vast; Yet in the air and on the sea The voice of the eternal one Breathed forth the song of hope to me, And bade me journey on. PLEASANTON’S FIRST LOVE. KITTY I cannot remember tbe time when I was not in love with Kitty Pleasanton. It must have-been when we were both babies. lam sure I loved her as we sat together by the road-side soaking our dandelin stems to make them curl. My passion was in no wise abated, when somewhat later I climbed cherry trees at her bid ding ; nor later yet, when at dancing school I awkwardly made my new learnt bow, and asked her to be my partner ; nor, I am sure, was my boyish passion at all damped, when on my return from collego I found my sweet little Kitty changed, by some undefinable alteration, from a lovely child to a bewitching young woman. She was almost the same as when I parted from her three years before—the woman was very like the child—there was the same ,rosy cheeks, the same pouting, innocent mouth the same curling hair, but some charm, grace or sentiment was added, which made my heart thrill with new emo tion as I gazed at her. ‘ Kitty,’ said I to her one day, after I had been at home a week or two, and I found I could restrain myself no longer, ‘Kitty, I’m very much in love with you, as you know as well as I do. I’ve always been in love with you, and I fancy you are in love with me; but now I want you to promise to marry me.” I paused, Kitty made no answer, and I said : ‘You like me, Kitty, don’t you.’ ‘ First tell me,’ said Kitty, with an odd mixture of delight and bashfulness in her face, ‘if you’ve made what is called an offer?’ ‘To be sure I have my darling.’ I re plied ; ‘an offer which I trust and hope you will accept.’ ‘Dont be too sure of that,’ said Kitty de murely. ‘Kitty, you love me !’ I exclaimed. ‘That’s my secret,’ replied the provok ing little thing, ‘but at any rate,’ she con tinued, ‘I should not posssbly think of accepting the very first offer, I ever re received—l should be mortified all the rest of my life if I did. No, indeed ;no girl of spirit would dream of accepting her first offer, as if she was afraid she should never have another. Excuse me, James, I can’t possibly accept you till I’ve had at least one other offer.’ ‘ But my dearest Kitty,’ I began. ‘Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!’ she exclaimed ; will Mr Brant learn to call me by my proper name ? I confess I did hope that on receiving my ‘first offer,’ the person making it would address me with proper courtesy, and in a manner befitting the occasion, giving me my name of Katharine; but now you’ve gone and spoiled it all.’ V' ‘Oh, I suppose you want a stiff, eererno ffious proposal in form” I observed ; ‘ but I-’m no Sir Charles Grandison, Kitty— Katherine, I would say; therefore don’t be foolish ; be content to know in plain words that my whole heart is yours ; and have the good sense to accept your first offer, since your second may not be so good.’ ±sut in vain were my arguments and reasonings. . Kitty was determined not to accept her first offer, and finding her reso lute I changed my tone, and acquiescing in her views, confessed that 1 tool had a cer tain pride on that point, and should be rather mortified to know that my wife had never had any offer but that I had .myself made her ; and so I promised to suspend my suit till Kitty should be so -fortunate as to receive an offer from sonic other q uar ter. Now, not far from where Kitty dwelt, there was a favorite dell, or bower or something of that kind, to which she daily repaired with some chosen volume to sit and read. All my endeavors to persuade her to allow me to accompany her thither had always been quite in vain. | Kitty was firm in preferring her undisturbed solitude, and I was daily doomed to an tour or two of the mopes during her romantic woodland visit. \ In pdrsuance with this custom, Kitty set out ioon after the conversation I have sketched', declining as usual my offer of companionship. Not mete than half an hour had elapsed after she had reached her favorite seat, ere her attention was attracted by a young gen tleman who was fishing in the brook which flowed near her. Kitty drew back a little on seeing him, bnt her curious eye occa sionally wandered towards the stranger. The latter no sooner perceived his fair observer than he bowed with an air of po liteness, and advancing a few steps, ven tured to address a few words of common place greeting. The young man’s words were indeed common-place, but his eyes Were far more eloquent than his tongue — they plainly informed the fair Kitty that she had found another admirer. Kitty, highly flattered, received the stranger’s advances graciously, and the youth being by no means bashful, half an hour found them chatting easily and gladly on various topics of interest. Kitty’s stay in the woods was something longer than usual that afternoon. ‘What is the matter ?’ I asked on meet ing her soon after her return home. ‘Your eyes sparkle, and you look as pleased as though you had met a fairy in your after noon ramble.’ ‘lt is better than a fairy,’ cried Kitty, breathlessly, ‘lt’s a young man.’ ‘ Indeed!’ I ejaculated, whistle. ‘ Yes, .James,’ she replied, ‘ and he is so handsome—so agreeable—so delightful, that I can’t say how things might go if he were to make me one of these days my second offer.’ ‘ You can’t impose on mo in that way, sweet Kitty, so don’t attempt ft,’ 1 ex claimed. ‘ I’ll be bound the impudent fellow, whom I won’t object to speaking a bit of my mind to, is not handsomer or more enfertaing than I ap myself. Kitty laughed in derision. ‘ He’s a thousand times handsomer than you are,’ she cried, scornfully, ‘ and as much more agreeable than he is more handsome.’ ‘ Come, Kitty, don’t be too cutting, too cruel,’ I began, but Kitty drew herself up with dignity. ‘ They call me Katherine, who do speak to me, sir,’ she said. ‘Katherine, fiddlesticks!' I oried. — Kitty is the prettiest and sweetest name in the world, and comes more natural to me —don’t bother me with your Katharines.’ ‘ I -dare say you may like it,’ said Kitty, pouting half angrily, ‘ but I don’t. It’s too free. llow would you like it if I per sisted in calling you Jim ? 1 declare I’ll call you Jim, if you go on calling me Kitty.’ ‘Do so, if you like,’ I replied, ‘ and it will soon sound to me like the sweetest name in the world. But may I presume to beg from my fair and gracious Lady Katherine a description of this wood-Adon is she has been encountering ?’ ‘ lie is tall,’ began Kitty. ‘Taller than I?’ I interrupted. Kitty almost annihilated me with a look. ‘ By at least a foot—and of an elegant figure,’ she continued with marked empha sis. ‘He was dressed in fishing costume, which greatly became him.’ ‘ I have an old fishing blouse up stairs, I muttered sotto voice, 1 think I’ll get it out.’ ‘ The young man’s manners were un commonly easy and gentlemanly, and with al perfectly respectful and deferential,’ continued Kitty. ‘ Having ascertained my name,Jne never once forgot himself so far as to abbreviate it, his conduct con trasted favorably in that respect with some of my friends.’ ‘ Well Kitty,’said/, ‘what other per fections has your hero, or have you ex hausted your list?’ “Far from it,’ said Kitty indignantly. !‘ He wears his hair parted down in the middle like a poet, or that charming Sig nor Pozzolini in the part of the Edgardo’ ‘ Or a Methodist person,’ I observed. ‘ And besides all that,’ continued Kitty, ‘ He has a mustache.’ ‘A last best gift,’ said I; but Kitty, that perfection, I hope will not be very difficult of achievement. I’ll begin to morrow. Let me see—tall—handsome— agreeable—good manners—elegant figure, and a mustache !' On the whole, Kitty, I think I’m very much afraid of my rival.’ ‘You have cause,’ Kitty- replied, with ■grave dignity. The next day when Kitty reached her little retreat, she found the stranger again in its neighborhood; I must do the little coquette the justice of confessing that she did look startled, and indeed vexed, when she saw him, but perhaps thinking it too late to retreat, she advanced timidly. The youth met her with many apologies, and a plausible pretence for his intrusion, which she oould not gainsay, while some thing flattering in his manner made her blushingly divine that the hope of again seeing her had been the true cause of his re-appearance. Be that as it might, the stranger, perhaps to give Kitty time to recover her confidence, immediately saun tered off in pursuit of his sport, and Kitty, fancying she had seen the last of the new admirer, drew forth her book, and settling herself in a mossy corner began to read. She, however, had scarcely succeeded in fixing her attention on its pages before the pertinacious stranger re-appeared, and declaring that fishing was dull work, and the fish would not bite, he composedly seated himself at Kitty’s feet, and begged to know the name of the book she was reading. ‘Tennyson’s Princess,’ replied Kitty, curtly. The impcrturable stranger declared the book a great-favorite of his, and began to entertainingly of books and authors, that Kitty, warmed by the subject, forgot to be dignified, and an animated' discourse of favorite authors ensued. Afterward the youog man begged permission to read her a few passages he had selected, which were the very ones Kitty loved best; he read them well, too, and Kitty’s bright eyes sparkled with delight as she listened.— Turning at last to the exquisite concluding interview between Ida and the young prince, the stranger's voice became more and\m6ru'"£Srnest as he read, till coming to thWvords— Indeed I love thee; come Yield thyself up: mine hopes and thine are one Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself— Lay thy sweet hands in mine, and trust to mfr— he suddenly flung the book aside, ex claiming. “What words ! what words ! What would I not give for oourage to utter them to the being I love best on the earth!” The stranger paused a moment, “THAT COUNTRY IS THE MOST PROSPEROUS WHKRE LABOR COMMANDS THE GREATEST REWARD.”- LANCASTER CITY, PA., TUESDAY MORNING, MARCH 10, 1857. and then broke forth impetuously : “This forced silence is all in vain—the words I would repress will come. In vain have I striven to be prudent —cautious—to allow yon time—not to startle yon—you are yourself the object of my secret adoration —to whom I would say much if I dared,” and thereupon the youth rather melodra matically fell on one knee, and forthwith proceeded to make Kitty a very plain offer of his hand. Meanwhile Kitty had risen from her seat, and, recovering from her astonish ment, she drew herself up with dignity and replied, “I hardly know, Sir, what you mean by your very strange conduct. The liberty you have taken has made me very sensible of my own imprudence in having allowed the advanoes of a stranger so presuming—an error I shall be careful not to repeat.’ So saying my proud little Kitty (never had she looked so handsome) turned from the stranger with a distant bow, and walked directly home. I did not see Kitty till some time after her return; perhaps she was recovering her spirits in her room, for when I met her she was as full of mischief as ever. ‘Well, James, why don’t you ask me about my adventures to-day ?’ she in quired. , ‘Because,’ I replied, ‘I didn’t suppose you would be so imprudent as to go again to-day where you would be likely to en counter the insolent puppy who presumed to address you yesterday.’ ‘I didn’t'in the least expect him to be there,’ said Kitty, blushing and somewhat confused, ‘but he was there.’ ‘Of course,’ I replied gruffly. ‘Well, was your Adonis as handsome and agree able as ever V ‘More so !’cried Kitty, recovering her composure; ‘he looked more Massaniello like than ever in his fishing dress, and for entertainment he first read me all the finest part of Tennyson’s .Princess, and then made a marriage proposal, and 1 don’t think any man could be expected to do more in one afternoon.’ ‘I should think not, indeed,’ said I; ‘pray what reply did you make to the ras cal ?—that you had a friend at home who would be happy to kick him well for his insolence V ‘Far from it,’ said Kitty, ‘what my re ply was is my secret—and his ; but for you, my poor James, I’m sorry for you— its all over with you, and your offer.’ \ ‘Why, you good -for nothing little de ceitful puss !’oried I, losing all patience, there never wa's a more arrant dissembler living. Behold, how plain a tale shall put you! for 10, I myself, disguised merely by a little paint, a fishing blouse, a false moustache, and a change in the arrange ment of my hair, was in my own person this elegant, captivating, handsome, agree able stranger whose praises you have been so lavishly\sounding.’ Poor Kitty was confounded. ‘How could I have been so stupid V she mur mured, and the voice, too, which sounded so familiar all the time!’ ‘Yes, Kitty, you’re caught,’ said I, ‘and to punish you for attempting to palm a wicked falsehood upon me, I shall impose a twofold fine. First, you shall kiss me; and then fix our wedding day, which must be very shortly, for I’m goiog to Paris in a month, and you must go with me.’ ■Kitty gave a little scream, and declared that she could not think of submitting to either of my penalties; but in vain she struggled and protested—l had her in my arms, and finding at last all her efforts to release herself fruitless, 1 her jests and laughter suddenly changed to earnest tenderness, and closing her arms around me, she said, “As you will dear—dearest Jamie !” ‘One month from to-day then, my own, sweet, darling Kitty, I began—” ‘Katharine!’ whispered Kitty. ‘Katharine !’ I repeated, smiling at her pertinacity on this point, “one month from to-day my Katharine—” ‘You never put any adjectives before Katharine,” murmured Kitty, evasively, hiding her blushing and pouting face. ‘My own dear, gracious, winning, be witching, most kissable Katharine,’ said I, ‘shall it be as I say V ‘lf mamma chooses,’ whispered Kitty. And so I persuaded the sweetest and prettiest girl in the country to accept her' first and only lover; and though to this day my merry little wife often complains that I defrauded her, by my tricks, of her nat ural, womanly right of breaking two or three hearts at least, ere she made one mau supremely blest, till she generally concludes her reproaches in a manner most flattering vanity, by declaring that she had two offers after all, and that each of them was worth a thousand common ones. A Soft Pillow.—Whitfield and a companion were much annoyed one night at a public house by a set of gamblers in the room adjoining where they slept. Their noisy clamor and horrid blasphemy so ex cited Whitfield’s abhorrence, and pious sympathy that he could not rest. “ I will go to them and reprove their wickedness,” said he. His companion remonstrated in vain.— He went. His words of reproof were ap parently powerless upon them. Returning he laid down to sleep. His oompanion asked him, rather abruptly : “ What did you gain by it V’ “ A soft pillow,” said he patiently, and soon fell asleep. “ Yes, a soft pillow,” is the reward of fidelity—the companion of a clear con science. It is a sufficient remuneration for doing right in the absence of all other reward. And none knew more truly the value of a soft pillow than those parents whose anxiety for wayward children is en hanced by a conciousness of neglect.— Those who faithfully rebuke, and properly restrain them by their Christian deport ment and religious counsels can sleep qui etly in the day of trial. A Good One.—The following is re ported as having happened in Bristol coun ty: A witty Clergyman, acoosted by an old acquaintaece of the name of Cobb, replied: “ I don’t know you sir.” “My name is Cobb,” rejoined tbe man, who was about half seas over. “ Ah, sir,” replied the Clergyman, “yon have so much of the corn oh you that I did not see the cob.” o \ZF~ Jack, did you carry that umbrella home that I borrowed yesterday ?’ ‘ No father ; you have often told me to lay up something for a rainy day, and as I thought it would rain before long, I have laid the umbrella up.” AN UNWELCOME PASSENGER. THE PEDLAR’S STORY. A cold winter’s night, several years since, found a stage load of travelers gathered around the warm fire of a tavern bar room, in a New England village. Shortly after we arrived, a pedlar drove up and ordered that his horse should be stabled for the night. After we had eaten supper, we repaired to the bar room, and as soon as the iee was broken, the conver sation flowed freely. Several anecdotes had been related, and finally the pedlar was asked to give us a story, as men of his profession were generally full of adventures and anecdotes. He was a short thick set man, evidently of great physical strength. He gave his name as Lemuel Viney; and his home was in Dover, New Hampshire. “ Well gentlemen,” he commenced, knocking the ashes from his pipe and put ting it into his pocket, “ suppose I tell you about tho last thing of any consequence that happened to me. You see, lam now right from the far West, and on my way home for winter quarters. It was during the early part of last spring, one .pleasant evening, I pulled up at the door of a small village tavern in Hancock county, Indiana. I said it was pleasant, I meant it warm, but it was cloudy, and likely to be very dark. I went in and called for supper, and had my horse taken care of; after I had eaten I sat down in the bar room. It began to rain about 8 o’clock, and for awhile it poured down good, and it was very dark out doors. “ Now I wanted to be in Jackson early the next morning, for I expected a load of goods there for me, which I intended to dispose of on my way home. The moon would rise about midnight, and I knew if it did not rain I could get along very com fortably through the mud after that. So I asked the landlord if ho could not see that my horse was fed about midnight, as I wished to be off before two. . He expressed some surprise, and asked me why I did not stop for breakfast, I told him I had sold my last load about out, and that a new lot of goods was waiting for me at Jack son, and I wanted to be there before the express agent in the morning. There was a number of people sitting around while I told this, but 1 took little notice of them—one only arrested my attention. I had seen that week notices for the detec tion of a notorious robber. The bills gave a description of his person, and the man before me answered the description very well to it. He was a tall, well formed man, rather slight in frame and had the appearance of a gentleman, save that his face bore those hard marks which an ob serving man cannot mistake for anything but the index to a villainous disposition. “ When I went to my chamber I asked the landlord who that man was, describing the suspicious individual. He said he did not know him ; he had come there this af ternoon, and intended to leave the next day. The host asked why I wished to know, and I simply told him that the man’s countenance was familiar, and I merely wished to know if 1 was ever acquainted with him. I resolved not to let the land lord into the secret, but to hurry on to Jackson, and then give information to the Gheriff, and perhaps he might reach the inn before the villian left—lor I had no doubts with regard to his identity: “ I had an alarm watch, and having set it to give the alarm at one o’clock, I went to sleep. I was aroused at the proper time, and immediately got up and dressed myself. When I reached the yard I found the olouds all passed away, and the moon was shiniDg brightly. The hostler was easily aroused, and by two o’clock I was on the road. The mud was deep and my horse could not travel very fast. .»“ However on we went, and in the course of half an hour I was clear of the village. At a short distance ahead, lay a large tract of forest, mostly of great pines. The road lay directly through this wood; as near as I could remember, the distance was twelve miles. Yet the moon was in the east, and as the road ran nearly west, I thought I should have light enough. I had entered the woods and had gone about half a mile, when my wagon wheels settled with a bump and a jerk, into a deep hole. I uttered an exclamation of astonishment, but that was all. I heard another excla mation from another source. “ What could it be 1 I looked quickly around; but could see nothing. Yet I knew that the sound I heard was very close to me. As the hind wheels oame up, I felt the jerk of the hole. I heard some thing tumble from one side to the other of my wagon ; and I oould also feel the jar occasioned by the movement. It was sim ply a man in my cart I 1 knew this on the instant. Of course I felt puzzled.— At first I imagined some poor fellow had taken this method to obtain a ride ; but I soon gave this up, for I knew that any decent man would have asked me for a ride. My next idea was that somebody had got in to sleep ; this passed away as quickly as it came, for no man would have broken in my cart for that purpose. And that thought, gentlemen, opened my eyes. Whoever was in there, had broken in. “My next thoughts were of the suspi cious individual I saw at the tavern. He heard me say that my load was all sold out, and of course he supposed I had some money with me. In this he was right, for I had over two thousand dollars. I thought he meant to leave the cart when he sup posed I had reached a safe place, and then either creep over and shoot me, or knock me down. All this passed through my mind by the time I had got a rod from the hole. “In a very few moments my resolution was formed. My horse was knee deep in the mud, and I know I could slip off with out noise. So I drew my pistol, and hav ing twined the reins about the whipstock, I carefully slipped down in the mud,- and as the cart passed on, I went behind it and examined the hasp. “ The door of the cart lets down, and is fastened by a hasp, which slips over a sta ple, and then is secured by a padlock.— The padlock was gone, and the hasp was secured in its place by a bit of pine, so that a slight force from within could break it. My wheel wrench - hung in a leather bucket on the side of the cart, and I quick ly took it out and slipped it into the staple, the iron handle just sliding down. “Now I had him. My eart was.almost new, made in a stout frame of white oak, and made on purpose for hard usage. I did not believe any ordinary man could break out. I got on my car a 3 noiselessly as I got off,"and then urged my horse on, still keeping my pistol handy; for I knew that at the distance of half a mile farther, ’ —BUCHANAN, I should come to a good hard road, and so I allowed my horse to pick his own‘way through the mad. About ten minutes af ter this, I heard a motion in the oart, fol lowed by a grinding noise, as though some heavy force were being applied to the door. I said nothing, but the idea struck me that the villian might judge where I sat and shoot up through the top of the oart at me, so I sat down on the foot board. “ Of course I knew that my unexpected passenger was a villian, for he must have been awake ever since I started, and noth ing in the world but absolute villiany would have caused him to remain quiet so long, and then siart up in this peculiar place.— The thumping and pushing grew louder and loader, and pretty soon I heard a hu man voice. “ Let me out of this,” he cried, and he yelled pretty loud. “ I lifted up my head so as to make him think I was sitting in my usual place, and then asked him what he was doing there. “Let me out and I’ll tell you,” he re plied. “ Tell me what you are iu there for,” said I. “ I got in here to sleep on your rags,” he answered. “ How did you get in ?” -I asked. “ Let me out or I’ll shoot you thro’ the head,” he yelled. “ Just at that moment, my horse’s feet struck the hard road, and I knew that the rest of . the route from Jackson would be good going. The distance was twelve miles. I slipped back on the foot board and took the whip. In fifteen minutes we cleared the wood, and away we went at a keen jump. The chap inside kept yelling let me out. “ Finally he stopped, and in a few min utes came the report of a pistol, one, two, three, four, one right after the other, and I heard the balls whiz over my head. If I had been on my seat, one of these balls, if not two of them, would have gone through me. 1 popped up my head again and gave a yell and a deep groan, and then I said, “0 God save me, I’m a dead man !” Then I made a shuffling noise, as though I were falling off, and finally settled down on the foot-hoard again. I now urged up the old mare by giving an occasional poke with the but of. my stock, and she peeled it faster than ever. The man called out to me twice more, pretty soon after this, and as he got no re ply he made some trfemendous endeavors to break the door open, and this failed him he made several attempts upon the top. But I had no fear of his doing anything there, for the top of the oart is framed with dovetails, and each sleeper bolted to the posts, with Iron bolts. I had made it so I could carry heavy loads there. By the by, after all else had failed, the scamp commenced to halloa “whoa” to the horse, and kept it up until he became quite hoarse. All this time I kept perfectly quiot, holding the reins firmly, and kept poking the beast with the whip stock. “ We were not an hour in going that dozen miles—not a bit of it. I had’nt muuh fear, perhaps I might tell the truth and say that I had none, for I had a good pistol, and more than that my passenger was safe ; yet I was glad when I came to the old flour barrel factory that stands at the edge of Jaoksou village, and in ten minutes hauled up iu front of the tavern, and found a couple of men in the barn cleaning down some stage horses. “ Well, old fellgr,” says I, as I got down and went round to the back of the wagon, “you have had a good ride, hav’nt ye?” “ Who are you ?” he cried, and he kind of swore a little, too, as he asked the ques tion. “ I’m the man you tried to shoot!” I replied. “Where am I? Let me out!” he yelled. '4 “ Look here, we’ve come to a safe stop ping place, and mind ye, my pistol is ready for ye the moment you show yourself. Now lay quiet.” “ By this time the two hostlers had come up to see what was the matter; and I ex plained it all to them. After this, I got one of them to run and rout out the sheriff, and tell what I believed I’d got for him. The first streaks of daylight were just com ing up, and in half an hour it would be broad daylight. In less than that time the Sheriff came, and two men with him.— I told the whole in a few words, and then he made for the cart. He told the chap inside who he was, and if be made the least resistance he’d be a dead man. Then I slipped the wrench out, and as I let the door down the fellow made a spring; I caught him by the ankle and he came down on his face, and in a moment more the officer had him. It was now daylight, and the moment I saw the chap I recognized him. He was marched off to the lockup, and I told the Sheriff I should re main in town all day. “ After breakfast the sheriff came down to the tavern and told me that I had caught the very bird, and that if I would remain un-til the next morning, I should have the reward of two hundred dollars which had been ofiered. I found my goods all safe,, paid the ex press agent for bringing them from Indian opolis, and then went to work to stow them away into my cart. The bullet holes were found in the top of my vehicle just as I expected. They were in a line about five inches .apart, and had I been where I usu ally sit, two of them would have hit me somewhare in the small of the hack and passed upward, for they were sent with a heavy charge of powder,- and his pistols were heavy ones. On the next morning, the sheriff called upon me and paid me two hundred dollars in gold, for he had made himself sure that he’d got the villain. I afterwards found a letter in the post office in Portsmouth for me from the sheriff of Hancock county and he informed me that the fellow who had tried to kill and rob me had been sent to prison for life. Never marry for a fortune. We overheard a poor unfortunate get thq fol lowing sookdolager, the other day, from his better half: ' “You good for nothing fellow, what would you be had I not married you 1 Whose was the baking kiver, whose the frying pan and the iron-hooped bucket, but mine, when you married me ?” 05?* Hood never made a better pun than of Hook, who was walking with a friend, when they came to a toll bridge. <• Do you know who built this bridge,” said he to Hook. “jNo,” replied Hook j “but if you oross over you’ll be tolled 1” A SHORT STORY WITH A MORAL. “ Honor thy father and thy mother,” is the first commandment with promise— promise as beautiful in its exemplifications, as glorious in its conception. A mother’s lips first breathed into our ears those words of Holy writ, and explained their general import; and from the time when the story of gray haired Elijah and his youthful mockers first excited my young imagination, the respect then inspired for white hairs of age, has grown with my growth and strengthened with my strength. We sigh when we think of the days when the young were wont to bow before the hoary head, and by gentle uncalled-for as siduities strew roses in the old man’s tot tering path. But those kindly customs have passed away. The world grows selfish as it grows old ; and age-dimmed eyes must turn homeward for stays to their trembling hands and. tottering limbs. Here they shall find fulfillment of their first command ment with promise. No true womanly soul ever withdrew her gentle hand from her poor old father and mother; no manly heart ever forgot the home loves of his wayward childhood, or ceased to hear the echoes of a fond mother’s prayer. Often the eares of this world and the deoeitfulness of riches may choke up the inborn affections of narrow souls; but few and far between is the fondly loved child, who can be so untrue to himself or his Maker as wholly to forget the mother who bore him. Yet qven with the holiest dictates of our reasons and souls, as with the wider application of the commandment, has Fash ion insinuated her poisonousriufluence ; and the son, perchance, who left his fond pa rent’s home reluctantly and tearfully, to make his way in the world, forgets, when fortune favors, to welcome his rustic moth er to his own luxury with the same cordial embrace with which he left her in his childhood home. Her dim old eyes, per haps, do not catch readily the meaningless courtesies of life, but they look none the less lovingly upon her child, than when they watched over his helpless infancy.— Her withered hand may be large and bony, and never had known a jewel, but none the less gently did they smooth the weary pillow, or bathed the heated brow, in the dependent days of boyhood. Ah! she’s the same fond mother still—her aged and work-bent form, clad in rustic garb, con ceals a heart full.of never dying love, and ready for a new Sacrifice. And, thanks to the Great Being who gave us the commandment with promise, and now and then there stands up a noble man, true to his inborn nature, who throws off the trammels of Fashion, however wide the gulf which separates, iu the world’s eye, from the humblest poverty of his boy hood—who is not ashamed Fto love, before his fellows, the humble mother who gave him birth. “ My Mother . permit me to present her to you,” said an elegantly dressed, noble looking young man to a friend, for whom he had crossed a crowded drawing room, with his aged parent leaning on his arm.— There was a dead silence for full five minutes. The moral beauty of the picture pervad ed every soul, and melted away the frost work of world-word hearts. ’Twas tho old foreground of a fashionable summer resort, whither hosts had come, with all their sel fish passions to seek iu vain for health and pleasure. But here was variation—a bit of truth to nature—in the motley mingling of colors. From a little brown farm house, pent in the forest, away up in the Granite State, that young man had gone forth with brave heart and stalwart arm-—strong, like his native hills he had already mtide a name for himself. fPolished circles opened for him, and gentle lips bade him welcome.— Yet none the less carefully did his manly arm support his homely, tottering old mother; none the less softly and tenderly did he call her, queer though she looked, “my mother,” amongst the proud beauties who had striven for his favor. Her dress was antiquated, for the gifts of her- son had been mutilated by rustio hands ; yet only one heartless girl tittered, despite the broad filled cap and well kept shawl. Her voice was rough, and often her expressions coarse and inelegant. Used to the social mug at home, she asked for her neighbor’s goblet at the table, and was guilty of many vulgarities. She was an uninteresting woman, save in her vigorous age, and her beautiful love for her son. Yet, for a week, the son watched over that mother, and gained for her kindness and deference, in the very face of fashion ; walked with her, drove with her, helped her, like an infant, up a difficult mountain side of twenty miles, humored her every caprice, and each day found some new friend, whose heart he might thrill by those gentle words “my mother.” To him she was the gentle mother who rocked him to sleep in childhood; and, true to the com mandments she had taught him, he was making the path smooth to her dependent years. One there was in the gay throng, whose eye flashed haughtily, as they Tested on the homely, toil-worn woman, but she was a noble soul, and truth and right gained an instant victory over life long prejudices.— Quickly and elegantly she crossed the room laid her hand with such a gentle, thrilling touch on the arm of her lover, whispered a word in his ear. Will she ever forget the look of love triumph in his eyes, or the smiling gentle ness of his tones, as he presented his beau tiful high-bred betrothed to his gray haired doting mother. A Good One. —A respectable but poor young widow was recommended to ihe at tention of a fashionable would-be charita ble lady, and at a benevolent meeting, of which the lady was President the poor widow was introduced. The lady threw a hurried glance at her, and asked— “ How many children have you V’ “ Three, madam.” The president turned to talk to some of her fellow members, and forgot the waiting applicant. About a quarter of an hour afterwards she turned suddenly and asked “ have you many children V’ The woman looked at her a moment and replied— “ Madam, sometime ago I had the honor of informing you that I had three, and since that time no more have been born to my knowledge ” And with a polite, but indignant bow, the woman quitted the room, leaving the lady patroness horxor-strioken at her bold ness CEP* Occupation ! what a glorious thing it is for the human heart. Those who work hard seldom yield themselves entirely up to fancied or real sorrow. When grief sits down, folds its hands, and mournfully feeds upon its own tears, weaving the dim shadows that, little exertion might sweep away, into a funeral-pall, the strong spirit is shorn of its might, and sorrow becomes our master. When troubles flow upon you dark and heavy, toil not with the waves— wrestle not with the torrent! —rather seek, by occupation, to divert the dark waters that threaten to overwhelm you, into a thousand channels which the duties of life always present. Before you dream of it, those waters will fertilize the present, and give birth to fresh flowers that may bright en the future—flowers that will become pure and holy, in the sunshine which pen etrates to the path of duty, in spite of every obstacle. Grief, after all is but a selfish feeling : and most selfish is the man who yields himself to the indulgence of any passion which brings no joy to his fellow man. 05?“ “Have you,” said a young lady, entering a musio store in which we were standing and leaning over the counter, and addressing the young man—“have you heart that loves me only V’ “Yes, Miss,” was the reply, “and here is A Health to thee, Mary.” Mary took the songs, and was leaving the store, when suddenly she returned. “Oh, I forgot! I want One sweet kiss before we part.” We left and can’t say whether she ob tained it or not. CARDS. Dr. John. M’CaUa, DENTIST—OffIi»-No 4 East King street. Lancaster, l*a. (apl 18 tf-13 JUNIUS B. KAUFMAN, ATTORNEY AT LAW, has removed his office to his residence, in Duka stroot, first door south of the Farmers' Rank’ near the Court House, ap 1 _ ly U T)E3IOVAL.—WILLIAM S. AMWEG, ATTORNEY JCi/AT LAW, has removed his Office from his former place, into North Duke street opposite the uow Coart Iloase. aprS _ tfl2 Dr. s. welchens, surgeon den- TIS T.—Office, Krninph's Buildings, Becond Door, North hast corner of North Queen and Orange streets, Lancas* ter . Jan 20 tf 1 Newton ligiitner, attorney AT LAW, has' removed his Office to North Duke stroot, to the room recently occupied by IXon.'J. E. Hiestor. Lancaster, apr 1 ' tfll T>emoval.—lSAAC K. lllESTER—Attorney at Law. XV Has removed to au Office in North Duke Btreet, nearly pposite the new Court House, Lancaster, Pa, apl Aldus J. Neff, Attorney ai Law.— Office with B-A. ShinfTer, Esq., south-west cornerofCentre Square, next door to Wafer’s Wina Store, Lancaster, Pa. may 15, 1555 Jesse .Landis, —Attorney at Law. Office one dooi east of Lechler's Hotel, 10. King St., Lancaster Pa. All kinds of Screening—such as writing Wills, De>*ds, Mortgages. Accounts, &e., will be attended to with oorrectness and despatch. may 15, *55 tf-17 WILLIAM WHITESIDE, SURGEON DENTIST.—OfIIco in North Queen street, 8d door from Orange, and directly orer Sprengor & Westhaoffer’i Bonk Storo. Lancaster, may 27, 185 G. Removal. —WILI.AM B. FORDNEY, Attorney at Law has removed his office from X. Queen gt. to the building in the South East corner of' Centre Square, for* merly known as Jlubley’s Hotel. Lancaster, april 10 Dr. J. T. Baker } Llomepathic Physician, successor to Dr. M’Allister. Office iu E. Orange St., nearly opposite the First Qer* man Reformed Church. Lancaster, April 17 TYailroad House, European style Hotel JLVind Restaurant, No. 4-8 Commercial and No. 8 7 Clay Streets, SAN FRANCISCO. EALEY & THOMPSON, Proprietors. jin 2 ir-so James Black.—Attorney at Law. Office in B. King street, two doors east of Lechler’s Hotel, Lan caster, Pa. All business connected with his profession, and all kinds of writing, such as preparing Deeds, Mortgages, Wills, Stating Accounts, Ac., promptly attended to. OAMUEL H. REYNOLDS, Attorney at O Law, Real Estate Agent and CoU&jyancer. Office, No. 4 North Duke street, opposite tho Court House. REFERS TO Ex-Gov. W. F. Johnston, Pittsburg, “ William Bigler, Philadelphia, lion, (h W. Woodward, “ “ Alex. Jordan, Smbary. Peter McCall, Esq., Phuwi-Iphla. Joshua W. Comly, Esq., Danville. Hon. James T. Hale, Bellfonte. Henry BrockerbofT, “ LANCASTER COUNTY EXCHANGE AND DEPOSIT OFFICE. Corner of East King and Duke Streets, BET. TIIE COURT HOUSE AND SPRECHER’S HOTEL, Lancaster City. JOHN K. REED A CO. pay interest on deposits at the fol lowing rates: 5% per cent for one year and longer, ft dn. “ 30 days do. J®“Also, buy and sell Real Estate and Stocks on com mission, negotiate loans, collect claims, Ac., Ac.