(£l)c Lancaster ihitdlujciuvu VOL. LX. THE LANCASTER INTELLIGENCER PUBLISHED EVERT TUESDAY, AT NO. 8 NORTH DURE STREET^ C ? fti.4 lUbauat, Al *»w. w BY GEO. SANDERSON 1’ E K M. S Subscription.—Two Dollars per annum, payable iu ad vance. No subscription discontinued until all arr«ai - ages are paid, uulens at the option of the hditor. Advertiesment.-j. Advertisements, not exceeding one square, (1- be inserted three times for one dollar, and twenty-five cents for each additional inser tion. Those of greater length in proportion. Job Printing—Such-ns Uand Bills, Postors, Pamphlets blanks, Labels, Ac , Ac., executed with accuracy and ou the shortest notice. From tho Home Journal DICKIE R K 1 BY JENNY MARSH Oh, Dickie Lee! Oh, Dickie Lee, Of the sunny days gone by ; The bonny lad I called my lover, T’he^bonny lad that loved no other, No other lass but me ! Oh, we were iu hive wheo our years were few, And our hearts were fresh as the morning dew— Six years was I, and seven was ho : And since those days long years have passed— Long years of blossom and of blast; But iu them all there never grew A lovo more sweet, a lovo more true. Than that of Dickie Lee ! I oftou think of Dickits Lee, And the summers long ag >l — the old sohuul-huuse and Lho little brook. With its mossy banks in the shady nook, Where we could tish. ’till the bell did ring, With our ••home-made line'’ of a bonnet string. And a crooked pin that served for a hook. And learned more joy than the spelling-book. But if wo were late, and the teacheqcross, The blow and rebuke I as dross,'’ And during it all, 1 only could see The sparkling dark oye3 of my Dickie Lee ’ 1 wonder now if Dickie Lee Looks back across the year.-, Smiling, perhaps, at the thought, of me. And the funuy times we used to see. In that school-house dim of yore Un the little bench close by the door, The little bench that would hold but four— Janie, Louis, Dickie and me — And the lambs of the Hock were we. 1 wonder now if he over thinks < if the dreadful timo he stolo the piuks And roses rare to give to me - And what befell poor Dickie Leo ' They tell mo that my Dickie Lee is a man of wealth and pride ; That he has ships upon the sea. Titles, too, of a high degree, And that a lady became his bride Very well, so let it be, Fickle have 1 been as he. fis many a year since lie was my lover. Loving me well, and loving no other; ’Tis many a year since ihe barefouted lad lLoinpcd close by my side, making merry and glad ’Tis many a year, ’tis many a year, That seals up the past and brings down a tear— But i think of him yet as a laughing boy. Kuowiug or dreaming of nought but joy. Unless he dreamt of me, And i would not see the man of care, That calls himself Richard Leo ; That has wasted cheeks and thin gray hair, For, oh! he would steal from me Something 1 love and cherish well, An image shrined in a secret cell. And it is dear to me; Though the face is freckled and plain and lean. Yet memory calls it bright and serene, And keepeth the spot of its dwelling green For the sake of Dickie Lee, The little boy that long ago Was really in love with mo |BV request, j SUMMER musing*. BV Ailus SHIRK. Once again, in beauty blooming, Summer’s flowers br-ight appear, And their presonco briogoth gladness, Chasing forms of gloom and sadness. From many hearts grown soTQ, Making life and light and beauty Dawn upon us here ! Gonlle Summer, thou art teeming With blessings ever sweet and now, Aud the golden ray that’s streaming From the setting Sun’s faint beaming. Tells to us in language true That tho mighty God who made it (iavo us Summer too. UlowiDg beauties e'er attend thee, And, like Summer of the heart, AIL beneath thy smile grows brighter. Phantoms vanish, cares are lighter, When thy sunbeams dart — Sent like meteors of the heavens, Illumining each part. .But, sweet Summer, thou art going: As a lover’s dream of bliss Leaves his heart with joy o’erflowing. Like coguetisk zephyrs blowing, Soon thy presence we will miss; Autumn, sad, will soon supplant thee, Aud thy fairest flowers kiss. Bare thee well, thou dying Summer, And bright flowers, faro thee well; Shades of gloom and forms of sadness fill the hearts, now full of gladness. Cause the throbbing breast to swell, "When tho Autumn’s chill winds sighing Chaunt thy dying knell! Soon wo’ll leave thcso friendless portals. God his Angels soon will send, And ’neath wings of snowy whiteness Crowns of gold, and dazzling brightness Heavenly music shall attend Our glad entrance to those mansions, Where God’s Summers never end 1 Hickory Grove, Providenco Twp., 1857. MARIAN DEAN’S STORY. It was many years ago that Mr. Carring ton Bates came to our town to teach a singing-school. He was very good looking, I believe, at least people said he was, but 1 bated him, and with such good cause, that I never dare trust myself to tell what I thought of him. He came so well recom mended by a long list of 1 reverends ’ and < honorablcs,’ and made such a fine appear anee—so gentlemanly and respectable— that every door, was open to him, and every one had / a word of praise for him. He played the violin, and sang divinely, which was enough to set all the sentimental and musical part of the young people half crazy over him. As he had a melancholy air, and a story was soon trumped up that he had been crossed in love, of course all the women were in his favor, and he soon had a list of pupils and patrons that quite astonished the people themselves. J He bore all his honors meekly and well, tak ing their attentions as a matter of course, being nothing more than ho deserved, but in return for them he would he generous enough to teach them twice a week for a c consideration.’ ISo it was decided that every Tuesday and Friday night the village church should he lighted and warmed for him, and on other he was supposed to be engaged in adjoining towns. This talk of the singing-school and the teach&r_had floated by me, and over my head, fol\l thought it was not meant for me until V 1 heard that Philip Southey’s name was on the list if pupils. Then I watched Mr. Carrington Bates as he rode down through the long, lane-liki stieet. that led from the village past the old farm house where 1 lived, and wondered what a singing-school would be like, for I was sure I should go if Philip did. We were not engaged —Philip and 1, at least, not formally, but it was somehow understood that I was to bo mistress of the log huuse he was building ■on his little farm. The farm was all paid for now, which accounted for his extravagance in attending singing school. I was glad of it ill my heart, for there was no music so dear to me as his voice, all untrained as it was ; and as he always taught me the tunes he caught up from others, I was as sure I should go as I had seen my name, Marian, beside his, just as he out them on the bark of the old maple that hung over the spring in Mr. Dean’s orchard. I was an orphan bound-girl—bound to Mr. Dean when quite a child—bound by ties of love and gratitude, as well as by the law. They had no ohildren living, and I was brought up as their own child. | I believe they did everything for me they ! could, and, as they thought, for the best ; • but a child, living alone with two old peo- j pie, must necessarily be, and feel, unlike other children. As I grew np these feel- ; ings kept pace with my years, and I felt ! alone, for 1 could not understand them— only Philip Southey, with bis great, kind heart, and bright, honest face, where one [ could see his thoughts in bis clear eyes — i he came to be to me the type of everything j good and desirable in this world ; and who i shall blame me if in my thoughts 1 gave him a place among the blest in the next 1 j Philip did come, just as I knew he would, I and told me I was to go with him to the j singing-school. Mother Deau looked up , ; at me from under her spectacles when he told me, and said, smiliugly : ! 4 ln my day a young man wou ld-ask a | girl to go.’ | Father Dean patted me on the head . ; and said: 4 Bless her heart, we shall have her singing like the birds, shan’t we, Phil V Philip said : ‘ The birds are good in their kind, and Marian’s singing is good iu its way now— pleasant to my ears always, but I don't be lieve it is perfect, for all that, and if the teacher fulfils halt his promises he’ll help us to get a little nearer perfection.’ So it was settled that we should attend the siuging-school. In what seemed to me the great crowd of singers, I should have felt embarrassed and afraid if Philip had not sat just across the aisle where he could give me an encouragiug, pleasant look now and then. I’ll give Mr. Bates credit, for being a good teacher, and noth ing was heard iu the town but talk of bis sayings and doings, and his goodness. After two or three schools there was a sudden change in the subject of conversa tion. A drover, named Barnard, while riding along a lonely road iu the north part of the town, was knocked from his horse and robbed, and now lay ill at a farm-house near. Of course all the coun try was horrified, and full of flying rumors. Every one had their opinion, and first and foremost in avowing his was Mr. Bates.— It was some one in town, he said, or im plied, in as many ways, and as many times as he possibly could ; and as it was a light evening probably Mr. Barnard could de scribe him, or, at least, rccoguize him. One night Philip was gone to au adjoin ing town, but promised to meet me at the singing-school and take toe home if father would fetch me there. Philip did not come even at the intermission, and as I sat turning over the leaves of a singing-book, and listened to the merry words and laugh ter of a group that surrounded the teacher, a young man, who did not beloug to the school, came in and spoke a few worJs to him. There were hurried excla mations, a few quick glances at me, then, the news; whatever it was, seemed to spread all over the house, and they gathered around the lights under the black-board to look at some small object which the teacher held in his hand. I went up to him, and, touching his arm, asked what it was. He held a small coin up to the light and said, as he looked steadily in my face: 4 A counterfeit quarter that was taken from Mr. Barnard by the robber.’ ‘ The robber ? who had it V ‘ Philip Southey, and he is in jail now. He did'notget oft' as he intended.’ All their eyes were fixed on my face, but I was so sure of Philip’s innocence, in my own mind, that my pride came to my aid, and 1 said, calmly, ‘ I don’t believe it.’ Some said, ‘Shame !’ and Mr. Bates said, with an ofiended air, if I doubted his word I might go and ask the sheriff. I walked back to my seat and sat bolt up right, staring at the chalk notes on the black-board.' It was all a farce, a mistake I felt, and would be explained on the mor row. There must have beeu some strange look on my faoe, for no one came uear me, or spoke to me again ; and as soon as the scholars took their seats the teacher was called out.. He requested them to /stay until he returned, but was gone so' long that we did not sing any more that night. I was surprised to find father at the door waiting for me. He said Philip had sent for him, and he had stayed to go home with me. . ‘ Why did not Philip come V I asked. ‘ Of course it is all explained now.’ ‘ Hush, child,’ he replied. ‘ Well, if it isn’t, why shouldn’t it be V I cried, a little troubled by his manner. • ‘ I hope it will be, but it is a hard ease. There, don’t take on ! I don’t believe him guilty, but one man’s belief or one man’s word won’t do any good while there is an other man to swear against what the other says. It is a hard ease.’ How my heart sank as he went on to tell mo the whole horrible truth. It seems that Philip had that day offered a counter feit coin to the toll-gate keeper, which was marked, and had been described by Mr. Barnard as- being in his purse when he was robbed. The gate keeper took the money, but sent an officer after Philip, who said he took the money from Mr. Bates in change for a bill he gave him to pay for a singing-book. Mr. Bates said he had given no change for books— who bought books bought them in the church, and, besides, Philip had not got a book. This was unfortunately true enough, for Philip had met him in the road, and paid him in advance for a book, which the teacher was to send him. There were no witnesses, and it was indeed a hard case. Sleep did not come to my pillow that night, nor the next, for the next day Mr. Barnard was taken to see Philip, and de clared, that to the best of his belief, he was the man who had robbed him. The cloud that hung over us all was growing darker ; public feeling was against him.— Almost every one was on his side at firsts but now they wondered how he could be such a hypocrite. They insulted him in his prison by professing to believe that there was a gang of robbers in the neigh borhood, and urged him to turn ‘ state’s evidence.’ I believe he bore it all bravely, and like a Christian, but I did not. I had been taught to hide my feelings, but I fretted in secret. Father thought it was best I should continue to attend the sing ing-school, and I did, though it costume more sorrow than he knew of to sing all the evening, within a stone’s throw of the jail, where he, who was my ‘ all in all ’ on earth, lay in trouble and darkness. ‘ There s no knowing what might have happened, little girl, but you are not his wife nor his sweetheart,’ father said, ‘ and there’s no use in making people talk.’ « THAT country is the MOST PROSPEROUS WHKUS labor commands the greatest reward.”- LANCASTER CITY, PA., TUESDAY MORNING, AUGUST 30, 1859. How heartily I wished that 1 were I either, or anything to him—had any claim ; on him that I could name so that I might go to him, to comfort him, or mourn over ; him in the face of the world. I might i send him messages by father, but wbat [ could I say to him 1 I believed him in- ; noeent, but be knew that. So I crushed ] down my heart, and went J 'to the singing- | school just as I had done before. i Every night i heard the teacher and j pupils talking over the robbery, but they i were either very merciful to me or afraid, I for they never mentioned Philip’s name iu mv hearing. One night father had some business in the village, so he went early, auJ left me to wait at the hotel until the church was opened When I entered the little sitting-room of the hotel, Mr. Barnard was lying on the sofa talking with a friend who sat near him. He had just taken off his cravat and was showing his throat to his friend, I looked, too, and saw three greenish brown spots, two near together, and one just above them. ‘ Odd,’ said his friend, carelessly. ‘lt looks as if the baud that made those marks had lost the middle finger.’ Then they went, on talking on different subjects, until a sleigh drove up to the door. It was Mr. Carrington Bates. Mr. Barnard’s frieud weut out, and through the open door 1 saw the fine sleigh, with the light, from the hall lanterns shining . down on the bear skin robes and gilded j harness. Mr. Bates had a friend with him, : a Mr. Congreve, who, he had promised, j would visit the school, and sing for the scholars. 1 watched the two tall figures, ; muffled iu furs, laughing and talking mer j rily with the landlord, and thought of dear : Philip in his prison. Mr. Barnard rose to , shut the door, and then settled himself on 1 the sofa for a nap. I turned to a book of bound.,magazines that lay on the table, but j I could not interest myself in them, for imy eyes were continually turning to the ! little pale man ou the sofa, whose words had worked so much miserv for me. 1 heard, as in a dream, the door of the next room open and shut, a clinking of glasses on the table, aud a confused mur mur of voices. There was a large hole in ihe wall where the stove-pipe once had passed through, aud was now merely pa pered over, so conversation in one room was ueard plainly in the next. Whoever were in the next room, were talking very low and guardedly—but after the glasses had clinked a fov{ times, the voices rose. It was Mr. Bates and his friend. I knew his voice, though it was very unlike the one used in the church; and such words ! mingled with the most -horrid oaths and blasphemy. I knew it was wrong for me td listen, but I could not help it. I read, and looked at the engravings, to make sure I was not dreaming. I walked about the floor, aud rustled the paper's on the table, to let them know the parlor was not empty ; but they did not hear me.— Mr. Barnard was sound asleep, and breathing softly. If it had been any one else, I would have wakened him, for an inexpressible feeling of loneliness and fear came over me. I held my hands over my ears, but I could not shut out their hor rible talk. ‘ Bah 1’ I heard Mr. Bates say, with a laugh, ‘ I went to see the old fool, and ad vised him to put a meat poultice on his neck—the old whimperer!’ ‘ By .Jove!’ cried Mr. Congreve,admir ingly, ‘ you’re a bold one, Carr, and could always come the respectable dodge better than I. Blast your eyes! you’ll get nab bed yet.’ ‘ Nab your grandmother !’ said Mr. Bates, angrily. ‘lt takes a rogue—you uuderstand, and these people are all fools, so they pitched upon the biggest fool among them.’ The church bell rang just then, and the two men, to my great relief, left the room. Their conversation had no meaning for me, but was simply disgusting and horrible ; so much so, that I could hardly bear to take my old seat in the.church, when they two were standing before the pulpit.— Their faces were a little reddened, hut they wore both perfectly cool and gentle manly. A glee class had been formed, and, at father’s request, I had joined it.— Mr. Bates was to go around that night, aud try their voices separately, so that he might class and seat them as he liked. 1 sat far back from the front, and dreaded his approach, not so much because I was afraid to sing alone, but because I loathed him. I noticed, as he came up the aisle, that he was about Philip's height and size, and I hated him for it. Ue came at last and leaned over the pew door, so that 1 felt his hot breath on my cheek. ‘ Now, Marian, bird,’ said he, holding the bow on the strings of his violin, ready to accompany me. 1 was startled by his familiarity, and glanced scornfully up at him, and at the white ha'ud which held the bow. The middle finger of his right hand, to the second joint, was gone ! It flashed upon me. 1 did not sing.’’ I sprang to my feet, and seized his arm, while my voice rang shrilly through the house. ‘Robber! murderer! your hand, your hand!’ His face whitened, but he shook me off, as coolly as he would a spider that had dropped on his sleeve, and, with a grasp that was in reality like iron, but seemed gentle as a woman’s thrust me, back into my seat. I struggled fiercely, and shriek ed out my charges against him, and my sorrow for Philip, for my feelings had been too long pent up and hidden, to stop for anything now. Some of the timid ones fled, and the curious gathered about me. They almost suffocated me. ‘ She is mad, poor thing,’ said Mr. Bates, as I leaned back in the pew, gasping for breath. I was not mad ; I saw Mr. Congreve's pale frightened face in the background, and cried out to him, that if he was a man, he would tell the truth, and not let the law do doable murder. Mr. Congreve cowered down out of.sight; and Mr. Bates said his friend was so tender-hearted he was not fit to live in this hard world, and he had better go'right off to his hotel. His coolness baffled .me, and turned everything that was in my favor against me. He was so full of pity and forgive ness for me, his accuser, that they looked upon him as almost a demi-god. If he had let me alone—if they had not growded about me so, I should have grown calm, but he kept near me, and talked to me,"and about me, until it seemed that I should go mad in reality. When they brought a sleigh to the door to take me home, he got in too, and with his most devilish cunning kept me in a perfect fever of terror and hate all the way. It was easy enough then to cheat father Dean with his story, for he had never seen his quiet little Marian in such a mood before They added so much to my behavior in the church, and Mr. Bates was so respect able, and so melancholy about it, that every one took it for granted I was crazy; and the children in the streets called me ‘ crazy Marian.’ I was not crazy, though I may have seemed so, for I always talked of what was uppermost in my mind, in the vain hope that some one would believe me ; and people said, ‘ ’twas all for love, : and ’twas a pity I should set my heart on j such a hardened villain as Philip Southey.’ It was for love, but it was also for justice, and what I would have done for any innocent soul, suffering wrongfully. Philip’s trial was put off until the early j fall. The trial was a mockery; I say it in the face of the world. Friendless, ! without money or influence, he was kept ; in the jail of his native village, within sight and hearing of the places where his : ohildhood was spent, was kept to pine, and to weary himself out with hopeless wishes, [ while his enemies were getting stronger j proof against him. The truth was bad j enough—and may God forgive those who ; lied about him. He had, on the night of i the robbery, traveled over that same road j —and although father swore that he had called at his house at half-past uine, that j was nothing in his favor, as Mr. Barnard j could not tell what time in the evening be was robbed, and the horse Philip rode was a very swift one. His case was hopeless; he was tried and found guilty. In cbn sideration of his youth, his previous good character, aud his repentance, he was only sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment, with hard labor. Only tea of his best years, and his whole life made miserable by the shame and degradation of the prison. Father said it was uDjust-*-and some of them hinted that he had helped secrete the money, which had never been found. In one week, Philip was to be removed to the prison. I knew it was of no use to appeal to father, or any one else, for the privilege of seeing him ; so, late in the evening, I stole up to my little room, opened the drawer, and took from their many wrappings, my mother’s gold beads. This was the one golden link that bound me to that mother whom I could not remember. I waited until father and mother Dean were asleep, and then stole out, along the lonesome street, to the village. I hurried past the lighted stores j and offices—the windows, where I could see such dear glimpses of homes—and past the church, which I hated because I had there first seen Carrington Bates. Past all these, to the great dismal jail, 1 found the jailor, and put my precious beads iu his hands. I don’t know what I said to him, but he threw them back, as though they had been a serpent and had bitten him, and took me along the cold stone corridors, to the room where I found Philip. I thought 1 had come to comfort him, but he was braver than I. All his wrongs could not break his noble spirit, nor bow it down, so long as he could feel that he was innocent. He had fretted at first, for my sake, and because it was unjust, but he was resigned now. It was almost the resignation of despair, but I would not disturb his calmness by telling him what 1 heard m the hotel. I would not add one'drop to the bitteruess of his cup, nor to the bitter thoughts he must have iu his lonely life. 1 told him I believed him innocent. ‘lknow it,’ be said calmly, ‘I have known it all along, and it has helped me to look my accusers iu the face. It is better to be wronged, than to do wrong, and ten years are not much, Marian.’ There in that prison room, 1 promised, that, at the end of ten years, if txod spared both our lives, I would be his wife —that I would love aud remember him through all those ten years ; and at the end, we would begin life together, anew. The jailor came for me, and he bade me ‘ good bye,’ cheerfully ; but when I looked back in the doorway, he had covered his face with his manacled hands. I fear his spirit was not so calm as his words. Five years of the ten had nearly passed away, and 1 was working at a farmer’s, many miles from my old home. Father and mother were both dead, and 1 was alone in the world. We had almost starved on the little farm; and when it was sold and the debts were paid, there was jnst nothing coming to me. I did not care, for 1 was young and strong, and had something to work for. I laid up all my little earnings, so that we, Philip and I, would have enough to take us away from that place, and make a beginniug some where else. By some flaw in the deed, or quibbling of the lawyers, his little farm had gone back to its former owner, long before his trial, and now ran to common. And the house, that was to have been our happy home, still stood, four logs high, just as he had left it. I grew faint and siek even now, when 1 think how I looked forward to the day when I could say. ‘ The time is half gone ; only five years more, and Philip will be free!’ Five years! Would Philip still love me ? I looked in the glass, and noticed the sharp outlines of my face. Five years more, and the brown hair he praised would be streaked with silver. I was sorry, for his sake, that I was not growing beautiful; that he might be proud of me, and say, ‘ Look at her ; she trusted me when all the world thought me guilty, and loved and oherished me through all my degradation.’ This did not trouble me, for 1 believed he could judge me by my heart. Near the close of the fifth year, a letter was brought me, written in a strange hand, and post-marked at my native village. It contained only this : ‘ If Marian Dean will be at ihe hotel in this village, at noon, on the 10th of this month, she may hear of something to her advantage. ‘ L. Rankin, Postmaster.’ What could it mean ? What could be of advantage to me, but to hear good news from- Philip ? It was a mystery, but people advised me to go on, and as it was already the 8 th, I had no time to lose, so the next day I took the stage, and, at the appointed hour entered the sitting-room of the hotel, where my first trouble in life began. What was my surprise on finding there Mr. Barnard. He caught both my hands in his, and said, solemnly, ‘ Miss Dean, I ask your forgiveness. On my honor, I believe he' was innocent.’ He sat down on the sofa,! oovered his face with his hands, and began to sob. 1 could not comprehend it. I felt as if I was in the same half-wake state I was ou ’ —BUCHANAN. that horrid night when he lay asleep on the same sofa. I stood before him without speaking, only trying to think. At length he looked up. ‘ I’ll make all the reparation in my power,’ he said, beseechingly. ‘ Dou’t look at me so ; I tell you it was au awful mistake. You kuow they were uearly of a size, aud—well, 1 was frightened, aud it was dark. I dou’t doubt but what you can tell the same story now, eh V Was the man mad, or was I ! I could not tell; ‘ You’ll come over to the jail and see him now, won’t you !’ ‘ See who V 1 asked. ‘ Carr. It is the strangest thing 1 Everybody thought him so respectable until he was caught iu this last robbery, and he has boasted of so mauy crimes ■ since he has found that he cannot escape, that I thought perhaps —’ 1 < Who is Carr V I cried, for a light ! seemed breaking in upon me. j ‘He was known here as Carrington ' Bates, aud followed the profess.on oi teacher of singing,” he replied, beginning to teel ofi his sentences, just as he read them from the handbills that had been j scattered about, offering a reward for his apprehension. 1 did not hear any more, for my mind was filled with one thought. Justice would be done at last, though we had waited so long for it. It was hard to believe that it was so near, but 1 hardly trembled as I stood there, for 1 had schooled myself to be calm, since the time when I spoiled Philip’s last chance for liberty by my wildness. I believe Mr. Barnard thought I was not glad, for he looked at me strangely. ‘ You think you can tell the story right straight along, don’t you V he asked. 1 This running about, and jumping across a story, don’t do any good, and won't pass in law, you know.’ ' 1 did not know anything about law, but 1 knew that I was resolved to help Philip, and that all the cunning of Carrington Bates should not baffle me. After 1 had iistened as patiently as I could to Mr. Barnard s story of the strange chance by which he had been detected, and how curious it was that he should be taken there for trial and everything should happen so strangely, we went over to the jail. How well I remembered the chill still ness of the stone corridors, aud shuddered when the jaiior opened for us the same door he opened for me the last time I saw Philip 1 But the loud, derisive laugh that greeted us put all thoughts of that time out of my miud. There sat Carring ton Bates. Not the elegant and refined teacher of music, but reckless and harden ed iu appearance and words, the Car rington Bates I"had heard talking in tho private parlor of the hotel. ‘ Have you come to tell me that I seut Philip Southey to prison V he cried.— •That’s uo news to me. But wasn’t it well done, though !’ He threw himsq|| back aud laughed, while Mr. Barnard leaked at him as though horror-stricken. ‘ I’m much obliged to you, I’m sure,’ he continued, c and the adorable Philip, too, tor he has kept me five years more a gentleman, ahem 1 II they hadn't all been fools, though, he couldn’t have done it; so I suppose 1 must thank them, too. But you —the devil ! how like a little tigress you sprang at me ! How I’d liked to have throttled you —and you played eavesdropper, too, eh V lie clenched his handsome hands, and skdok them, as though he imagined he had me by the throat. Mr. Barnard walked to the door. ‘Hal ha!’ he cried after him, ‘you know how it feels, don’t you 1 But what do you want here, old buzzard V ‘ 1 want to repair a wrong i have done,’ replied Mr. Barnard, with more courage than he had shown before. ‘ You robbed me— ’ ‘ J know that, old boy,’ he said, coolly, and began humming a tune which he had taught us in the pleasant old days before a cloud hid my sunshine. I pitied the man, so fihrdened and fallen, so different from what he might have beeu, if he had not degraded the many good gifts which God gave him. He seemed perfectly conscious that his race was run, and gave up with a kind of reckless despair that was pitiful to see. ‘ Little fool!’ he said, scornfully, ‘ what are you crying fori Don’t you think I’ll give the devil his due, and myself credit, for all the smart things 1 have done 1 Go home, will you 1 I want a prettier picture in my room than your little pinched lace. As for you,’ he continued, after a short pause, turning to Mr. Barnard, ‘ you like my company, don’t you 1 You are ready to die, almost, now, because you must tear yourself away from me. Eli, my little man 1’ Mr. Barnard stepped over the threshold, to make sure that he was out of the reach of those cruel hands, and said, in a low voice, ‘ 1 can forgive you for robbing me, but 1 can’t forgive you for making me your tool.” The prisoner answered, with a low bow : ‘ I beg your pardon, my most venerable and worthy cat! but your paw is not the only one I have burned while poking my chestnuts about. Save your breath to blow your burns, and don’t come round, me with your holy indignation. I’m tired of you, stupid.’ Mr. Barnard beckoned to me, and we silently left him. He was as good as his word. He told the whole story, boastingly, and cleared Philip from all blame. He confessed that he had given him the marked coin, and had managed everything so as to throw suspicion on him. 1 don’t like to think now of the anxious days that passed bfcfore 1 got the precious papers that would free my darling, and was on my way to meet him. Hours seem ed like years to me, but they soon passed by, as, God be thanked! all troublous times will; and I did thank Him when I saw. my brave, sober-faeed Philip—when I threw my arms about him, over his prison dress,' and could say, ‘ Husband, you are free and innocent in the eyes of the world, aB you have always been in mine.’ We were married there by the chaplain of the prison, and together we journeyed back to my old home. With what a sober kind of joy my Philip rejoiced in his free dom, and whispered to me again, ‘lt is better to be wronged than to do wrong, Marian. I never knew howbeau tiful the world was before.’ Mr. Barnard bought Philip’s little farm back for us, and we were to pay him in small sums, as we got able ; and my savings stooked it, and helped to build a new house, where the old walls, four logs high, lay orumbliug. We were both still young, stout-hearted, and stout-handed, and have been very happy since—soberly and gratefully happy. Of Carrington Bates I have not heard since he was imprisoned for life ; he is dead to the world and to me, only his memory haunts me sometimes in my dreams. A Good Soke. This is a great country for jokes, and we have just had one that is too good to keep. Early this morning there were added to our company of travelers a pair who looked very much like runaways—tfie gentleman a very tall, raw-boned specilnen of the “half-horse, half-alligator” class, and the lady a fair match for him. Among the passengers, from Napoleon, ■•Ark., is a solemn-looking gentleman who all along has been taken for a preacher. — About nine o’clock this evening I was conversing with this “reverend” individ ual when a young man stepped up and, addressing him, remarked — “We’re going to have a wedding, and would like to have you officiate.” “All right, sir,” he replied laughingly, and we stepped into the ladies’ cabin, where,' sure enough, the couple stood waiting. j There had beeD some kissing games and several mock marriages gone through with during the evening, and 1 supposed this was merely a continuance of the sport ; and so thought the “preacher,” who, I could see, had a good deal of humor in him, and was inclined to promote general 1 good feeling and merriment. The couple stood up before him, (a good deal more solemn than was necessary in a mock marriage I thought,) and the “preacher” asked the necessary questions, and then, proceeding in the usual way, pronounced them “husband and wife.” There was a good deal of fun afterward, and when it was over I left the cabin— and so did the “preacher,” who remarked to me that he liked to see the young folks enjoy themselves, and took a great deal of pleasure in contributing to their fuu ; but he did not understand why they should select him to act the preacher. Just then some one called me aside, aud the old gentleman stepped iuto bis state room, which was next to m ne. When I re turned the doofcstood open,and the ‘preach er” stood just '’inside, with his coat aud vest off and one boot iu his hand, talking with the gentleman who had played the “at tendant,’’ and who, as [ came up, remarked— “Well, if that’s the ease it is a good joke, for they are in dead earnest, aud have both retired to the same sfate-room.” The old gentleman raised both hands as be exclaimed^- “ Gopd heavens ! you dou’t tell me so 1” and rushing, just as he was, boot in hand, to the state room indicated, commenced an assault upon the door as if be would batter it down, exclaiming at each lick— “ For heaven’s sake, don’t , 1 ain’t a preacher The whole cabin was aroused, every state room door flying open with a slam, when the door opened and the Arkansas traveler, poking out. his head, coolly re remarked— “ Old hoss, you’re too late son ( Ky.) Democrat. CARDS. DK.JOII9I lU'CAMcA, DES’ffsr'.—Ofllce No. 4 Mast Kiu? street. Residence Walnut strict. fi-x-i'iHl door West of Duke. Lancaster, P.i. teprlS tf 13 \LDUS J. NEFF, Attorney at Law.-.. Office with D. A. Shietfer. Esq., south-wt-nt rumer of (Vnlre Square. Lancaster. may IS, V.S ly 17 MAMFEL H. REYNOLDS, Attorney at O Da"’. Office, Nti. 14 North Duke street, opposite the Court House. may 5 tf hi A BEAM SHANK, iV A T T 0 K N K Y AT LA W . with l). G. Hsulkman. Esq. No. 'hi North Duke St. LAX<:A S T E R . 1‘ A mar 22 ly l! 1C JESSE LANDIS, Attorney at Law.—Of fice one door wwt of Lechl«r’s Hotel, East Kin# street, Lancaster. l‘u. All kinds of S-Tivenin^—such as writing Wills, Deeds, Mortgages, Accounts. £>•., will ,bo attended to with correctness and despatch. may lf>, ’55 tf-17 iTDWAItD M’GOVERN, { j ATT 0 R N K Y A T L A W , No. 3 .-jouth Queen street, in Reed, Kelly «fc Co.'s Banking Building, Lancaster, Pa. apr 6 tf 12 \TEWTON lightner, attorney AT LAW, has his Office iu North Duke street, nearly opposite the Court House. Lancaster, apr 1 tfll Removal.— william b. fordney, Attorney at Law, has removed his office from North Queen street to the buildim* in tho south-east corner of Centro Square, formerly knowu as liubley’s Hotel. Lancaster, uprll 10 Removal.— dr. .t. t. baker, iiom- IEPATIUO PHYSICIAN, has removed his office to No. iiy East King street, next door aboro King’s Grocery. Reference —Professor W. A. Gardner, Philadelphia. Calls fiom the conutry will bo promptly attended to. apr fi tf 12 WT. McPHAIL, . ATTORNEY AT LAW, mar3l ly 11 N’o. 11 N\ Duke st„ Lancaster. Pa REMOVAL.— H. B.‘ SWARR, Attorney at Law, has removed his office to No. 13 North Duke street, nearly opposite his former location, nud a lew doors north of the Court lloubo. apr 5 3m 12 r' IM O N P. EB Y , O ATTORNEY AT LAW, OFFICE:—Xo. 3S Xurth Duke xtrest, may 11 ly 17j Lancaster. Penna. Frederick s. pyfer, ATTORNEY AT LA W . OFFICE —No. 11 North Duke street, (west side.) Lan caster, Pa. apr 20 tf 14 RE MO V AL.—WILLIAM S. AMWEG, Attorney at Law, has removed his office from his former place Into South Duke street, nearly opposite the Trinity Lutheran Church. apr 3 tf 12 JOHN F. BRINTON, A TT 0 K N K Y A T L A W PHILADELPHIA, Pa., Has removed his office to No. 240 South oth Street, above Spruce. Refers bv permiswinu to lion. 11. 0. IiUNG, 11 A. L. Haves, “ Fbrrrk Brinton, DOT *24 ly* 45 “ TeADDECS STEVENS. JAMES BLACK, Attorney at Law—Of fice iu East King street, two doors east ofLechler’s Hotel, Laucnater. Pa. All business connected with his profession, and all kinds of writing, such as preparing Deeds, Mortgages, Wills, Stating Accounts, Ac., promptly attended to. may 15. tf-17 WENTZ WENTZ WENTZ. WENTZ WENTZ WENTZ, WENTZ WENTZ WENTZ. Puraaols and Sun Umbrellas, Parasols and Sun Umbrellas, Parasols and Sun Umbrellas, . At greatly reduced prices, At greatly reduced prices. Lawns and Bereges—Bereges and Lawus, Lawns aud Bereges—-Bareges and Lawns, more of those 7 cent Lawns, Still more of those 7 cent Lawns, At Wentz Wentz Bros., At Wentz Bros., Wentz Bros., East King and Centre Square, aug 4 tf 3l) East King and Ceotro Square. f'PICES) &c—Cinnamon, Cloves, Sala- O RATUS, BAKING SODA, CREAM TARTAR, NUT MEGS, Ac., For sale at THOMAS ELLMAKER’S Drag k flhomirAi Store, West King street, L&ne'r. feb 9 tf 4 PETER D. MYERS, SEAL ESTATE AGENT, PHILADELPHIA, will attend to the Rentlug of Houses, Collecting House aod Ground Routs, 4c. Agencies entrusted to Ills ears will be thankfully received, and carefully attended to.— Satisfactory reference given. Office N. B. corner of SEVENTH and 3ANSOM streets, Second Floor, No. 10. feb IT ly 6 Brooks 4 pug h , FORWARDING if COMMISSION MERCHANTS, No. 1731 Market Street, Philadelphia, Exclusively Commission FOR THE SALK Or “JgEH” FLOUR, CHAIN, WHISKEY, SEEDS AND uoUNTKY PRODUCE. Forwarders of Freight, per A. K. WITMNK’H Cars to Paradise, Lancaster county. MUSS ELMAN, HERR 4 CO’S. Cars to Strasburg, do. july 5 1y25 CAROLINA YELLO w PINE FLOOR ING BOARDS. 5 0,000 Feet Carolina Yellow Pine Dressed Flooring Boards. 30,000 Feet Do. Undressed. 50,000 CYPRESS SHINGLES, No. 1 and 2. 50,000 BANGOR PLASTERING LATHS, Just received and for sale at ClraelFs Landing, on tbi Couestogn. Apply to GEO CALDER 1 00., Gtflra East Orange at., uoar N. QufleD flt., Lancaster «j3O 8 Drug and chemical store. The subscriber having removed his store to the new building nearly opposite Mb old stand, and directly opposle the Cross Keys Hotel, has now on hand a well selected stock of articles belonging to the Drug business, consisting in part of Oils, Acids, Spices, .Beed«, Alcohol, Powdered Article?. Sarsaparilla*. 4c., Ac., to which the attention of couutrv merchants, physicians and consumers In genoral i rt invited THOMAS KLLMAKEK, l r tt '.mm West King street, Lan. \\f ATCHES, jewelry and VV s i l v e a ir a.m u . via would respectfully Inform our friends, patrons and the public generally, tliut we have just opened our NEW WATCH, JEWELRY. SILVER AND PLATED fOQ WARE ESTABLISHMENT, at No. 022 MARKET STREET, where we offer Wholesale and Retail, at the lowest c.vsu prills, a large and ve>y choice QmIB slock of every description of goods usually kept In a first class Watch aud Jewelry Store. We hope by uulinug efforts to accommodate and please not ouly to retain ail our toruier patrons, but merit and secure alargu accession to the same. Every description ot Di \Mo.\D Work und other JBWILRT, made to order at short notice. £&- All goods warranted to be as repr/seuted. Ifcti Pai 10-ular atteutioii giveu to the repairing of Watch.•> and Jewelry of every description. STAUFFER 4 lIARLEY, No >,JJ Market Street, South side, Philadelphia. N. ». We will con ll uin* our Old Store, No. 148 North Second Street, t.-r a short time only. [aug 2 3m 29 IMPROVED MAGIC DUPLICATING 1 AND PREMIUM IMPRESSION PAPER, MANUFACTURED li Y C. A. STItOH. A principle of wnling without Pena or luk. It is a beautilul article, with which to write a letter and write a copy at the same time, without pen aud ink, and, if necessary, to write four letters at the same time with a common stick. The wiiting warranted indelible. To mark ciothiug ot any nptiou, liueu, cotton, woolen, or silk. To write or transl. r any plan, deaigu or ornament, on Kii.j.l, >toue, cloth, metal or paper. To take the exact impression ufnuv ieat, plaut or Uower. Done In a moment's time most .beautifully. To copy embioidery, patterns, music, pictures, 4c. it hu* ouly to ho used to bo appreci ated by nil. No pens, ink or paint required, nothing but a common slick cr hour. Try it. For sale wholesale and retail at JOHN i-11 h aFFEK’c Cheap Book Store, ang 1 1 . tf 31 JA M E S II . BARNES, KANO AND WINDSOR CHAIR MAKER, iYm. i* i*»j. East King street, Lancaster , Take* plen.-uiv in inviting the public to call at his VVare roouiP. and e\uuiino bis UEAUi'IM L ASSORTMENT OF CHALKS OF VARIOUS PATTERNS U'> J UU>K''.S received atnl promptly atteuded to at the shoVu-st mai-e. None but the b.-st workmenuro employed in this establishment, consequently Chairs purchased at thin house ate lully equal to any article sold iu the Eastern Ciy-s Call and examine tor yourselves, [aug 10 ly 81 \\ T IIITESIDE &, ItI.FE, yyaenr i s r s , fulfil Wts-I LoKN.lt -Noil II! IB'ELN IND OKANUII STKEKTS, IANCA'I' E R . I’ A . J£j)- Lu11:...1V Ihinl a. ol NoillUol Gtllllgo. jmie 14 ... ,iui r- . , TEREOSCOPEn J--T lime wonderful o and universally admite-l pictures, which appear as ..und in a solid as sculptured marble, are taken dally at JOHNSTON'S SKY-LIGHT GALLERY, eoriiur ot North Mueeu aud Orange uts. • pes every sex- and style, takeu t« tn« : .. -..i-.-i prices. v **<#o YOL'Kl* LA.UIES’ ACAUEMV OF I'UE riS/TA t / o -V , YKK 1> I; It !C K CIT Y . Ml). 'i'lm ,mui>o «;t lliia Institution will be resumed on the !ir>l Monday in September. Co.ird ami I'uitiou fur the subolastir >uar, with ;lu' French Language, vif desired.) Stationery. Washing, Meiuliug. IW, bedding, Uortm-V Fee and Medicine, W UO ,Mu>ic. I'uiiiluig ami Drawing, with the Latin, Italian, Spuii-li and < iertnau Languages, lorm extra cbargu.i. I’upLs ol all denomination* are received at auy time durni-' i lie s e;u l.i\ iug only from date of aDti aace. Hlli r, • 41*31) lailMTUllE OF EVERY DESCIiIP- H ii..u warranted as good an the best, and cheaper than uTe cheapest—at li ETCiI A M’S, North QUEEN STREET, op puMte Mu-tik'H National House. 1-ancaster. N D To any nuu purchasing $,50 woi lh before the tlrat ol ViHi-mlx-r next, U‘ per cent, will be allowed for Cwh. . CRIVEXIMr 6i, CONVEYANCING, 0 Tbe undersigned respectfully auuoun.n to thojmbllc Ui:lt lie liu Uivttli tlio «illc-0 Ululy occupied y Joqd A. Iltestau J; Esq , where be will be pleased Wlr . -, MCt all business nmuected with :he above profession that may be pUcrd in his bauds. No. ii* Xiirtli Duke street, Lancaster, I’a. U. E. HAYES, City Regulator. '— Hendcr- T> KM OVAL, —Wo nave ttola day re- J\,to our ii«w Banking H-use, iu EAST KING ST., where the Banking Busings in «n Its-varied branches will re reive our best attentlou. Int«r*fl on deposit* will bo allowed as heretofore. Drafts ou Now York, Philadelphia and Baltimore con stantly for aalo. Stock, Bonds, and other securities bought and sold in Philadelphia and Now York— aud information givon aa to their relalive value and prospect*. Unenrrent Bank Notes bought and sold, and premium allowed on old America!] coin. Persons entrusting any business to us, whether money on deposit, or for purchase or sale of Bonds or Stocks, may depend upon prompt and faithful ponormance of all con- The’members of the firm are Individually liable for all its obligation:!. JOHN GYGLit, 4 00 rout. Ci.vitKfluN.Cashier. ® Hr * 7 x, ATIOA AL POLICE GAZIgXTB*-- I Till* jsi Oreat Journal of Crime and CrlminaJfl Ib in ltd Thir teenth year, ami is widely circulated throughout the coun try It irt the first paper of the kind published in the United States, and is distinctive in its character. It h&B lately passed into the hands of Geo. W. Motsell 4 Co., by whom it will hereafter be conducted. Mr. Matsell was formerly Chief of l'olice of New York City, and he will no doubt render it one of the moat Interesting papers In the country. Its editorials ar. forcibly written,und of »char acter that should comma .1 for the paper universal sup- sif- Subscriptions, $2 per auuum ; $1 for Six Months, to be remitted by Subscribers, (who shouldwrite theirnames and the town, county and state whore thoy reside plainly,) GKO. W. MATSBLL 4 CO., Kditors and Proprietors of the National Police Gazette, New York City. ixrt‘27 tt 41 NJEW SPUING BONNETS. The subscriber culls your attention to the new and w«u selected stock of SPRING BONNKTB and all kinds of UILLINKKY HOODS, including LIGHT and DAItK STitAW BONNETS, FLATS, fIATS and SHAKERS, Frames to lit everybody, RIBBONS in irreat quantities, Tat Rushes, French and American FLOWERS, STitAW LACK aud OIUP, gtw; Black and White Silk Loco and Edging, Jean Blond. Xartle tuu Cap Net, Crownlining, Wire, Shlnille, Hair Dresses, Ready-made uud Trimmed Bonnets of all Kinds, Dry Goods, Carpets, Notions, liolsery. Dress Trimmings, and a great many articles too numerous to mention, which he Will sell at the lowest market prices, either in wholesale or lie defies competition in qualify or price. Call andseefor yourSelTos belore purchasing elsewhere. L. BAUM, No :;i -North Queeu street,oue door north ot theNatlon al House. * mar22Ulo SEND 4 STAMPS FOII A SPECIMEN OF • • X K W S FROM HOME." A complete summary of the latest Intelligent received irom England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales and the British Possessions i i every part of tbo World, and devoted to Politics Literature, Science, Art, History, Ac., Ac. ENGLISHMEN, SCOTCHMEN, WELSHMEN, support your own family paper, and welcome the NEWS FROM UOME, which is published every THURSDAY and forwarded jiostnge free for Two Dollars for one year. One Dollar for six mouths. Fifty cents for three months. Parties getting up clubs are allowed per cent, for their trouble. .. . , Postmasters aud ostablii<hed-Nowß Dealers are authorised to act qh Agents. TOWNDRON A DAY, Editors and Proprietors, New York mar 29 11 niAN OSIPIANOSI PIANOS! V GOLD MEDALS IN THREE SUCCESSIVE TEARS At the Maryland Institute,"“boeßies premiums at Fairs In Philadelphia, Washington and Richmond. TESTIMONIALS OP EXCULIROt FROM THALBERO, and 0. SATTJSB. As olbo from some of the moat eminent Professors and Amateurs in the country. WM. KXAtiliS A CO., No. 1,3, 6 and 7, North Eutaw street, and No. 2ffl between Charles and Light streets, would respectfully In vite the attention of the public to their well assorted “ took GRAND AND. SQUARE PIANO-FORTES, which for beauty offluUti, power,and sweetness or tone and elasticity ot touch, have been, by Jadges, pronounced unrivalled. Every Piano guarantied for fire years, ana » privilege of exchange granted at any time wlutin su mouths, if not entirely satisfactory. .. ..^ Thus Luremu.. A c»ll is respectfully solicited before purchasing elsewhere. A liberal discount made to thy Olerg, ana to Schoole. A Urge assortment ot. Melodeont L(J pi;cnos taken In escbnogo, hired, tuned an(l Jan 18 tf 1] WM. KNARK t CO. 11 o R EBNT .—An excellent Frame * Weather-Boarded STABLE, situate on tttft Alley be tw’eon South Queen and Prince street*, and near Wert Tine street, will be leased for one year at a mndeate rent. «a» There is a Carriage House with the Stable. . Enquire of the Editor of the Ihtelilgene4ri - mar3o . i'T V BAI NO 33. IRISHMEN. BTHAKOSCU,
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers