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VOL. LXI.
THE LANCASTER INTELLIGENCES
nrinaggiD may ToiErDAY, ATIIO. 8 NOVI% DMCZ MUT,
BY GEO. SANDERSON.
TERMS
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Stniscairrion.—Two Dollars per annum, payable In ad
Vance. No subscription discontinued until all arrear
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ages are paid, unlms at the option of the Editor.
daysanisamvta.—Advertmements, not exceeding one
square. 0.2 will 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 as Hand Bills, Posters, Pamphlets,
Blanks, Labels, &c , executed with accuracy and on
the shortest notice.
For The intelligeneer
ORIGINAL-T 6 C. J. D
Yes, thou wart a lovely vision
In a night of gloom and pin,
Lemling and through scenes Elysian
Buck to joyous youth again.
But the glorious dream has faded,
Faded from my aching sight,
And has left my spirit sbsded
In a cloud of deeper night,
Like a cloud of snowy whiteness
That above me came and passed,
Angel-featured in its brightness,—
Yet its form a shadow cast;
Dimming in my path the gladness
Of the yet unclouded day,
Le lying there a deeper sadness
When its beauty passed away.
Better that I had not met thee.—
titrangely chanced it that we met;
Better for could I forget thee,
All these idle dreams forget ;
For the brigh'est dreams on waking
Saddest to the memory are; •
As the strongest cords in breaking
Leave behind the deepest scar.
We have parted, aye! forever;
I no mere may see thy fare,
I must strive my heart to sever
From its memory every trace.
Fare thee well, may peace attend thee
In the distant home where thou,
Heedless of the prayer I send thee,
Spirit-guarded, slumherest now.
SOMEBODY'S BOY
MIME@
Snmebady's sun was out last night
Bruising about the town;
And. if I mistake not, he was tight,
"Tight as u Derby clown."
I know he's cons . dered a moral youth,
Above suspicion—but that
Is no reason why, to tell the truth,
He hadn't a brick in his hat."
Daylight morality often takes
Sirange fancies into his head,
And o plays the d—l," or "jumps up snakes
When the public eye is in bed."
"illy son can't dance," Somebody said,
•• For never a lesson took he "
But he d-inned last night while you were in bed
And Twilight was there to see.
You may call it dancing, or nnt, ns you feel,
Though, for half an hour or more,
He danced or "jigged" a "tangle foot reel,"
In front of my office door.
44 My sou can't sing," Somebody swears,
But he sung lust night, 1 know,
As hellish a song as a demon dares
Ts Lug in the regions below.
‘ , ./fly son don't imbibe," Somebody thinks,
11 eli, maybe be don't, but then,
Tbat be acts very much like one who drinks,
Gan be proved by a hundred men.
Yet something was tight, yes, drunk, last night,
Su drunk it could scarcely crawl—
Perhaps 'twos the brim of a erownless hat,
That I found by my garden wall.
So, for fear .E am wrong. and Somebody's right,
My hasty words I recall,
And say that the thing I saw last night
Was nobody's son—that's all !
THE OLD OAK CHEST.
CHAMFER I
It was about four o'clock in the after
noon on a cold, gloomy day at the end of
January, in the year 1829, when a fair
Soung girl stood at a cottage window,
watching with tearful eyes the retreating
form of one who had just bidden her fare
well for an indefinite period. She had gone
throngs the leave-taking bravely, trying
to lighten his heart with cheering words
though her own . was full of heaviness, but
when she had lost sight of his. tall figure
amid the increasing darkness, she- came
back to her place by the fireside, and said
in a sorrowful tone—
Oh, mother, it will be-a weary summer,
and he away.'
Yes, my dear child; but let us remem
ber that it is fur his good, and it may not
be for long, after all. Perhaps, Mary,
even before this time neat year, we may
have him back with us again.'
Mary tried to feel hopeful, but a strange
foreboding of evil weighed down her spirits
to the lowest ebb, and despite all her own
efforts and her mother's kind and gentle
reasoning, she could not shake it off.
Mary Archer was the only child of a
lady whose husband had been an officer in
the army, and whose sole means of support
were now derived from the small pension
allowed to a captain's widow. She was in
very delicate health, and had been lame
for reveral years in consequence of an ac
cident, so that she was wholly dependent
on her daughter for the cares of a nurse,
as well as for the management of her little
household ; and Mary discharged all these
duties so lovingly and faithfully that, ow
ing to her economy and industry, the in
-valid was afforded many comforts out of
their slender income that, with a less care
ful housekeeper, she could not have had,
and the house, though humble, was always
so neat and nice that it was more pleasant
to look upon than many a grander dwelling.
And who was be from whom Mary
Archer had just parted? He was but her
lever—her betrothed; but he was as poor
as herself in worldly wealth, and was going
to Germany with the Baron Steinbach, in
the capacity of tutor to that gentleman's
two sons.
Going to Germany thirty years ago was
not quite so simple an affair as it is now,
and in the mind of Mary Archer the jour
ney, was fraught with a thousand perils
and dangers that affrighted her, and when
she had received his last embrace she felt
as if they were being separated forever.
He had accepted the appointment be
cause he .could get nothing more eligible
for the time being, but he bad a better
prospect in the distance, which made his
difficulties light to bear, and had it not
been for leaving his beloved, he would
have had no objection to a temporary so
journ in a foreign country..
Left an orphan and penniless at an early
age, he was admitted into the school of
Christ's Hospital through the interest of
an old lady who had kn , •wn his mother
friim her childhood. At 18 he gained an
examination for Oxford, where he studied
with a view in • due time of entering the
church, and in due time was ordained.—
Then his kind benefactress, who had con
tinued to befriend him, put a crowning
hand to her good work by purchasing-for
him the reversion of a living worth from
four to five hundred a year, the incumbent
Tof which was an old man, and shortly after
,this she died.
_ Everard Newton had now to struggle
0111 as best he might until the benefice
should become vacant—and having vainly
attempted to secure a curacy or ajunior
mastership in one of the public schools, he
accepted the office' of private tutor to the
sons of Baron Steinbach, who was about
to visit Germany.
Mary Archer had long been the chosen
of his heart, and he knew that his love was
reciprocated—bat he did not know, for
Mary had carefully concealed that circum
stance prom him, that he had a rival in the
lord of the manor, Mr. Lousdale, a little,
grey-headed, old man, somewhat deformed
in person, but enormously rich, and re
markable for his refined and polite man
ners.
It was hut two years since he had come
from Italy to take possession of the large
property that had devolved on him in con
sequence of the death of his brother,.so
that he was but little known in the coun
try where his estate was situated, but he
stood well with the neighboring gentry,
and also with his tenantry, taking care to
propitiate the former by his courteous de
meanor, and the latter by his liberality.—
lle always spoke in a gentle tone, never
using harsh words even when angry, and
there was generally a bland smile on his
countenance that gained him the reputa
tion of being a benevolent, kind-hearted
man.
The youth and extreme beaiity of Mary
Archer had first drawn his notice towards
her, and these attractions being heighten
ed by the amiable disposition displayed in
her affectionate,attentions to her suffering
parent, had induced him to offer her his
hand, in the full belief that the magic in
fluence of wealth would counterbalance the
objections of age and infirmity.
Mary said she felt grateful for the pre
ference with which he had honored her,
but that her heart had long been given to
souther; and then she candidly told him
what was her lover's actual position—she
spoke of his present straightened circum
stances, as well as of his future prospects,
and gracefully but decidedly declined the
offer of riches and splendor now laid at
her feet; on which the disappointed wooer,
with many expressions of deep regret,
withdrew his suit, and departed.
Mary bad said nothing about this pro
posal to Everard, fearing it might make
him uneasy to know that, while he was far
away, there was a lover so near, who had
the power of holding out many temptations
to induce her to break her faith. •
And so he bade her adieu in happy ig
norance of a danger that certainly would
have caused him much anxiety and dis-
quietude.
He had a full mile to walk to meet the
coach that was to convey him to London,
and part of his way lay over a dreary com
mon, at some distance from the high road,
but as he had gone the same way at night
several times before, he felt no fear of be
ing molested, but walked on at a brisk
pace, thinking of the lovely girl he had
just left, when, in passing a clump of trees,
he was suddenly seized,by the arms, and,
before he had time to make any resistance,
was thrown to the ground, while the thick
stick be carried for protection, and a car
pet bag containing some apparel, were
wrested from his grasp.
He endeavored to call for help, but his
voice was stifled by something -that was
pressed upon his face; he, felt a sensation
as if he were being suffocated—then a
death-like stupor seemed to steal over his
senses, and he knew no more.
The first moment of returning conscious
ness was like the awakening from a long
tratiA.. It appeared to him as if ages had
passed away since last he looked upon the
earth and sky. He felt that something
extraordinary had happened, but could not
remember what it was. His mind was
confused, and he gazed with wonder on the
unfamiliar objects that surrounded him.
He was lying on a low pallet in one
corner of a large gloomy, ill-furnished
apartment, dimly lighted by a single lamp
that stood on a clumsy oaken table. In
another corner of the room was a great
wooden chest, and against the wall were
three or four heavy, high-backed chairs,
and that was all the place contained.
Everard sat up on the wretched couch,
which was nothing but a hard matrass laid
on the floor, and tried to recall the events
that had brought him into this strange sit
uation. By degrees he recollected how
he had been attacked on the common, and
as his senses became more clear, he was
convinced that some powerful opiate had
been employed to throw him into a.deep,
unnatural sleep, but how long that had
lasted he could not tell.
He was dressed the same as when he
left Mrs. Archer's cottage, but his watch
and purse were gone. A faint glimthering
.of daylight was just beginning to appear
from above, and he now observed there
was no window in the dungeon-like room,
except a small skylight in the middle of a
lofty roof formed of
_rough timbers.
It was -ome time before he could dis
cover any door, and when he did, he found
it fastened on the outside. Then came
the question—was he a prisoner, or had
he been brought here by some good
Samaritan who - had found him by the way
side 1
The• men who assaulted him were no
doubt robbers, who had probably been
interrupted before they had completed the
work of spoliation, since they had not
" stripped him of his raiment," and this
was the more fortunate, as he had taken
the precaution to secure some bank notes
by sewing them within the lining of his
coat.
At length he beard the sound of ap
proaching footsteps; then there was a
creaking noise as of heavy bolts being
withdrawn ; the door was opened,'and, to
his infinite horror and dismay, two men in
black masks, each carrying a pistol in his
belt, entered the room, one- bearing a load
of figgots, which he threw down on the
hearth, the other a can of some hot liquid
and a covered basket:
All the horrors of the inquisition rose
up before the excited imagination of the
prisoner, for , so he now deemed himself to
be. He was, acquainted, too, with the
history of the secret tribunals once so
formidable in Germany, and asked him
self, 4‘ Was it possible that such existed
I still I Was the Baron Steinbach a mem
ber of some dread fraternity, and were
these men, who looked • more like fiends
than any thing human, sent to put him to
the torture 3
All these terrible ideas rushed like
lightning through his still bewildered
brain, and starting to his feet he demanded
fiercely—
' What place is this? and why am I
brought - here I'
It is a very good plade; answered one
of the fellows, in a gruff voioe, 4 and you
are brought here to be taken care of ; so
gd THAT COUNTRY IS TEC MOST PROEM MOUS WHIST LABOR COMMANDS THE OBSATIBT BZWARD."—+-BINILINAN.'
LANCASTER CITY, PA., TUESDAY MORNING, AUGUSTI4, 1860.
now you know all about it, and you may
as well have your breakfast.'
As he spoke he placed on the table the
smoking cauldron, the contents of which
proved nothing worse than hot coffee,
while from the basket, instead of instru
ments of torture, he produced a loaf and
a dish of broiled bacon.
Everard was thus relieved from his fears
of immediate bodily harm, but he said—
, I shall take nothing till I know by
whose authority r am detained here and
for what purpose.
Then you'll keep a pretty long fast, I
guess,' replied the man, with a laugh ;
s but I shall leave the prop at any rate.
Perhaps you'll change your mind.'
At least tell me—am I in England
Why, what can it matter to you
whether you are in England or not? You
won't .see much of the country through
these four walls, and that peep-hole '—
pointing to the skylight— , is oat of reach.'
It now, for the first time, struck Everard
that he was taken for somebody else ; who
on earth could have the least interest in
his imprisonment? The instant this
thought crossed his mind, he said, in a
calmer tone—
My good friend; kni have certainly
mistaken your game. I cannot be the
person you meant to capture. For whom
do you take toe ?'
Just for who you are, I suppose ; the
tutor that was engaged by his Excellency
the Baron Steinbach.'
Then it was he who caused me to be
arrested 1' exclaimed Everard, now feeling
sure he was in Germany, perhaps in one of
the Baron's own castles.
Perhaps it may be, and perhaps it
mayn't,' said the man doggedly; then
pointing to the hearth, he observed,
There's plenty of wood and a match-box.
You can make a fire when you want it. I
shall come again in two hours.'
And so saying, he was about to quit
the apartment, when Everard, with a sud
den impulse, made a spring toward the
door ; but the man, perceiving his design,
gave a loud whistle, on which his comrade
who had mad his exit after throwing down
the wood, appeared at the entry with his
pistol presented.
6No go, you see,' said the other. Our
business is to keep you safe, and we mean
to do it. You'll be treated like a prince,
and may have any thing in reason to pass
away the time. There's a lot of books in
that old chest—they are all
,foreigners,
but as you are a scholar, I suppose you
can make 'em out.'
He then withdrew, and the harsh grat
ing of the rusty bolts told the captive
there was no hope of liberation.
Sick at heart, and tormented by a
thousand vain conjectures, he paced to and
fro, examining closely ever corner of his
prison _ house ; but there was not the
slightest sign of any aperture that might
promise a chance of escape.
After spending some time in this un
profitable pursuit, he began to think he
might as well have some breakfast, for it
is beneficently ordained that men shall
have a propensity to eat and drink under
all circumstances, and so he made a toler
able meal. Then he set about kindling a
fire, which, in some measure, dissipated
the gloom, and gave a cheerful aspect even
to that dismal place of confinement.
At the end of about two hours the two
jailers returned, masked and armed as
before, and one kept guard at the door
while the other went in. lie had brought
a heap of blankets and a coverlet for the
bed, and laughed heartily as he looked at
the remnants of the repast.
All right,' he said ; I knew you'd
think better of the fasting system. That
never answers for long together.'
Everard again tried to elicit some infor
mation as to.where he was, and the object
of his incarceration ; but on these points
his strange attendant was impenetrable,
intimating that every thing requisite for the
prisoner's comfort would be supplied, but
no questions answered.
When he had gone, Everard opened the
great wooden chest, which was half filled
with old volumes, chiefly French and Ger
man. They were in a very dilapidated
state, but to him they proved an inestima
ble treasure, which served to beguile the
weary hours of a captivity that continued
week after week,
.without any apparent
prospect of coming to an end. Threats
and entreaties were alike unavailing to
obtain any clue to the motive of the out
rage or the instigator of it ; and as the
agents of this secret enemy never came
singly or without fire-arms, nothing could
be effected by force, and at length the un
happy captive resigned himself to his fate,
trusting that time would solve the mystery.
CHAPTER II
Mary waited day after day in anxious
expectation of hearing from her lover, who
had promised to write to her before he left
England, and tell her to what part of Ger
many he was going, for he did not himsel
know where the Baron's domain was situ
ated.
The days went by, still no letter came,
and when three weeks had passed away
without bringing any tidings, her uneasi
ness grew beyond her power of conceal
ment.
You distress yourself heedlessly, my
child,' said her mother; ' the letter has,
no doubt, been lost ; he will write again
as soon as he reaches his destination.'
But if an accident has happened to
him, dear mother, in this long journey ;
and across the sea, too, in such stormy
weather! I dread to think of it.'
These are imaginary troubles, Mary.
He is, as we all are, under the protection
of Providence, and on that Providence you
must rely. 'Be patient, my child, and all
will be well.'
Mary tried to be patient; but as time
wore on and no news came of the absentee,
her heart grew very sad, the bright bloom
faded from her cheeks, and the tears would
often rush unbidden to her eyes, as her
thoughts wandered back to the happy days
that were gone.
And" so the spring-time arrived, and
with it came another sore trouble, for Mrs.
Archer began to exhibit symptoms of a
rapid decline, and then Mary thought less
of her other sorrows, so terrible was the
fear of losing this dear and cherished
parent.
It was in the midst of this affliction that
Mr. Lonsdale renewed his visits at the
cottage, and expressed his sorrow on ob
serving the lady's increasing, debility, at
the same time requesting permission to
send his own physician to see her, a pro
posal she most gratefully accepted.
The doctor came. He said elle required
good wine and strengthening diet; bnt,
alas ! the remedies he prescribed were
beyond her means to obtain ; and then
the rich man saw his advantage, for he
knew that Mary had never once heard
from her absent lover since his departure,
and he thought he now saw his way to win
the treasure he had so long coveted.
He sent the richest wines from his own
cellar, and the choicest game from his pre
serves, and many costly delicacies to
tempt the appetite that turned from ordi
nary food; and the beneficial effects of
such nutriment were soon visible in the
improved looks and returning strength of
the invalid.
Mary guessed but too well the motive
for these attentions, and the reward that
would be asked ; yet she could not but
feel grateful^ for kindness that had, in all
probability, saved'her beloved parent from
•
the grave.
At length the dread offer was made.—
Mr. Lonsdale pleaded that Everard's
silence was a proof of his inconstancy ;
that he had most likely formed some other
engagement ; and that, at all events, his
neglect was sufficient to absolve Mary from
her plighted vows. These arguments had
no effect on her.
She did not believe he was faithless.—
It was easier to imagine his death than
his falsehood ; and if he were dead, what
could she do but mourn his loss forever.
Again, therefore, she rejected the
proffered hand of her aged suitor, who did
not as before withdraw his pretensions,-
but continued to urge them with a perse
verance that was truly distressing to the
heartbroken girl, especially as her mother,
who regarded the wealthy old man as her
benefactor, and even as the savior of her
life, was won over to espouse his cause.
My dear Mary,' she said, ' it would be
a great happiness to me if you could but
make up your mind to marry Mr. Lonsdale.
My life hangs upon a thread, and what
would become of you if I should die?'
Think not of_that dearest mother. I
have no fears for myself; and oh, do not
ask me to marry while I am uncertain as
to Everard's fate. If I were sure that he
was dead or false to me., I then, perhaps,
should not care what my future lot might
be.'
Thus passed the summer and the
autumn the trees were beginning to shed
their leaves, the wintry winds to blow, and
Mary would often sit and listen to their
melancholy wailing till she fancied that
they were singing the dirge of her depart
ed lover.
One day when , alone, and absorbed in
such meditations, she was aroused by the
entrance of Mr. Lonsdale, whose counten
ance was graver than usual, as he took her
hand and said in a hesitating voice—
'Miss Archer, I can scarcely hope to
be a welcome visitor this morning, for I
am the bearer of ill news.'
She gazed at him in terror.
Oh, sir, what is the matter? What
have you heard
Nothing more than I anticipated. I
have heard tidings of Mr. Newton.
Is he dead V shrieked the affrighted
girl, clasping her hands with intense
agitation.
No, no, far better, far, than ,that, as
concerns himself. He is married.'
I do not believe it !' she exclaimed
wildly. Who told you this, Mr. Lons
dale? You cannot think it true
I can have no doubt of it, my dear
young lady, here is my authority !'
And he drew a newspaper from his
pocket, and pointed out the following
paragraph :
On the 16th of September was married,
at Aix la Chapelle, 11ev. Everard Newton,
late of Oxford, to Maria Urieslar, the rich
widow of Cologne. The bridegroom . is 26
the bride verging on 70; but as charity
covereth a multitude of sins,, so we pre
sume gold covereth a multitude of wrin
kles. The 'happy pair are making a tour
of the chief continental cities, but it is
understood their permanent residence will
be at Cologne.'
This was a stunning blow for poor Mary.
The paper dropped from her trembling
hands, the blood forsook her cheeks and
quivering lips, the light faded from her
eyes, a faintness, came over her, and she
would have fallen to the ground, but Mr.
Lonadale caught her in his arms and seat
ed her gently on the sofa.
Dear Mary,' he said, in the softest
accents, This young man is unworthy of
such emotions. What you have got to do
is to resent, and not to grieve.'
And then he added, as if speaking to
himself, How degraded must be the mind
of that man who could throw away so
priceless a pearl as this !'
Mary had struggled hard to keep her
self from fainting, and she succeeded.—
Her bursting heart found relief in a
flood of tears ; but the would was a desert
now, it had no more joys for her, for the
light of hope was extinguished, and all
before her was dark and dreary.
The old man touched her hand tenderly
but respectfully with his lips and she did
not recoil, for sympathy with sorrow is
very sweet, let it come from whom it may,
and he saw with great exultation that a
step was gained towards the object he had
in view.
The winter was now approaching with ,
rapid strides. The first snow had fallen,
and the frost glittered in the beams of the
rising sun. Mr. L. came every day to - the
cottage, and people began to talk of Mary
as his future bride. One day her mother
said to her
-4 I am afraid, dear Mary, this winter
will try me very severely. If I could but
feel that you were provided for, my mind
would be at rest.'
4 Oh, mother, mother, I cannot bear to
hear you talk so ! Think how much better
you are than you were some months ago.
And why should you trouble yourself
about me ? I am able to provide for
myself, if need be ; but now that you are
so well, what is there to fear?'
. There is this to fear, Mary. I have
been kept alive, by the kindness of Mr.
Lonsdale ; but all that he has done is for
your sake, and in the hope of - making you
his wife. If that cannot be—and I would
not have you sacrifice your happiness on
my account—we must not expect that his
friendship will be continued. I only
wonder it has lasted so long.'
Mary hoped otherwise. She .thought it
would be at ntinued, but she sown found
that was a vain delusion. Mr. Lonsdale
declared that if Mary persisted in refusing
him, he would return to Italy without
delay; but that if
.she consented to be his
, wife, he would remain in England, and
his house should be her mother's home.
'For her sake, dear Mary,' he urged,
g Think well of thii l / 4 " "You say you never
can, love again! Well, be 'it so. I shall
be content with your esteem, and perhaps
that is all I have a right to expect of
one so young and lovely. Your mother
shall live with us, Mary, and I will be the
friend and protector of you both. -
Mary listened in silent sadness ; she
began to think it was wrong and selfish to
consult her own feelings alone. Besides,
what had she to care for in this world but
the beloved mother.who, should their only
friend forsake them, would droop and die.
And so the beautiful girl of eighteen
consented to -marry .the little, deformed,
greyheaded old gentleman of, sixty-five,
and everybody said what a fortunate girl
Mary Archer was, and what an excellent
match she had made. Bridal presents
were lavished upon her, but they afforded
her no pleasure. She felt more like a
victim destined for sacrifice than a maiden
awaiting her nuptial hour; nor could any
persuasions induce her to become a bride
till the anniver -ary of the day of Everard's
departure was past.
Mother,' said she, let me give that
one day to mournful remembrance, and it
shall be the last.'
CHAPTER m.
Everard had languished for many weeks
in his mysteribus prison without a prospect
of release, but how' long he had been
there he knew not, for he had taken no
account of time, nor could he draw from
Wolfe, his keeper, a single word to en
lighten 'him as to what month it was, or
even what - day of. the week.
He perceived by the change of temper
ature that the winter had passed away, -
awl by the increasing warmth of the sun's
rays, as they penetrated through the sky
light fora brief space each day, that the
summer was advancing. Beyond this he
had nothing to guide him, and but for the
hope of being soon liberated, he would
have sunk into a state of utter despon-
deney.
One thought tormented him incessantly.
His Mary—what would she think of his
long silence? Would she believe he had
deserted her, and if she doubted him,
would she still remain true
The vigilance of his two masked gaolers
was unabated, and if he asked any ques
tion as to the termination of his captivity,
the only answer he could obtain was-- .
You are just one day nearer to it than
you were yesterday.
Wolfe, who was a tall, powerful fellow,
was inclined to be jocose in speech, and
after a while Everard began to look upon
his visits as a relief from the monotony of
silence and solitude- Nor was the man
unmindful of his comforts. He brought
his meals regularly, and supplied him with
a sufficient change of apparel, as also
with the means of making his toilet, which
he did cot neglect, thinking that, if he
should be suddenly set at liberty, it would
be as well not to re-enter society look
ing like a wild man of the woods.
But no such chance presented itself,
and the summer was wearing away, for
the days began to look gloomy, and the
nights grew lona b and cold. Again the
fire blazed on the hearth, the sun ceased
to send his light into that dreary cham
ber, and Everard felt that the winter was
near.
His fortitude was fast deserting him, he
began to give himself up to despair. The
only source of enjoyment left open to him
was the old chest with its store
of time-worn volumes, far more precious
in his eyes than gold and jewels would
have been. The chest itself, too, had
become an object of interest, for it was
carved with grotesque figures, which he
sometimes fancifully endued with life, and
held with them imaginary conversations.
- One night, far on in the winter, and, as
it seemed to him, about midnigtt, he
retired to his pallet bed, leaving the fire
still brightly burning on the hearth. His
eyes rested as they often did, on the old
oak chest in the opposite corner, on which
the red glare of the embers, threw a bril
liant light, so that the figures on the front
were seen with remarkable. distinctness.
Among these was one to which he had
taken a particular fancy. It was a dwarf
monster, with a misshapen body, a huge
head, and ugly, uncouth features, but
pleasant-looking withal, exhibiting more
of mirth than mischief in its strange,
unearthly countenance. He had so often
gazed on this fantastic object, that it had
assumed the character of a familiar ac
quamtanee, almost a friend, and he had
frequently amused himself by fancying
that it smiled benignantly at him and
seemed disposed to be upon quite intimate
terms. On the night in question this
impression was stronger than usual, and
he kept his eyes fixed on the image as if
fascinated by some irresistable spell, and
as the light of the fire glowed on the
dwarf's face, he could almost have sworn
that the lips moved and the eyes rolled in
the head.
He looked more intently, and presently
the arms stirred, then the feet—then the
whole figure becoming animated, stepped
forth into the room, where it appeared
about three times the size of the. carved
image, which was only a foot in height.
Who and what are you demanded
Everard, who felt neither surprise nor fear
at this extraordinary phenomenon.
lam the guardian of this chest,'
replied the dwarf. For three hundred
years I have kept watch over it, and have
rescued from imprisonment and death
many a wretched victim of oppression by
disclosing its secrets. Do you think, oh
foolish young man, that it contains nothing
better than the worm-eaten books you
have been poring over for the last twelve
months ?'
I have often looked into it,' said
Everard. I have taken out all the books
many times, but can find nothing else.'
Seek farther,' answered the dwarf ;
the search will reward your pains.'
6 Then,' returned Everard, ' since you
seem so well disposed towards me, can
you not tell me what this treasure is, and
how I am to find it 1'
No, no. He who would benefit by the
discovery must have wit enough to make
it for himself.'
And so saying, the strange apparition
dwindled down to its original dimensions,
and went back to its place, where it
resumed the immobility of a wooden
Everard lay in a state of dreamy
bewilderment, the vision, as it were, still
floating before him, till daylight began to
appear through the window above, and
then he roused himself, and 10148 d-int on
the apartment, wondering T whether the
adventure of the night was a reality or
only a dream. Reason told him it was
nothing but a creation of the brain daring
sleep, yet it dwelt powerfully on his mind.
--. As soon as Wolfe had left him, after
his customary visit that mining, he took
oat aßthe booki from the chest; and got
in "to see if he could find any spring or
crevice where there might be some secret
opening. But he had not enough light
for a very close inspection, as Wolfe had
taken away the lamp with him, so after
feeling every part with his hands, and
finding nothing, he set about examining
the outside, and made an effort to move
the chest from its place, but it was fitted
into the corner as firm as a rock, and then
it struck him that it was no moveable
piece of furnitdre, but part of the room
itself, and on rapping with his knuckles
on the two aides that were against the
wall, he found that one sounded more
hollow than the other, and- concluded
there was an opening behind it.
That side of the. chest then might possi
bly be moved if he could possibly find 'out
the way, and after trying in vain to slide
it right and left, he thought of pressing it
downwards, when, oh joy unspeakable ! it
yielded at last, and disclosed an aperture
that looked like a secret passag e, but of
this he could not be sure till he had a
light to explore it.
Elated with this discovery, which
corresponded so miraculously with his
night vision, he drew up the artfully con
trived door again, replaced the books, and
closed the lid of the chest, just as the
man came with his dinner.
He was too much excited-to eat, so he
complained 'of not feeling well; and this
ruse did him some service, inasmuch as it
procured him about half a pint of brandy,
which, in case of a nocturnal enterprise,
he knew would be a very good assistant.
never had any day appeared so long as
this ; but it came to an end at last. The
lamp was lighted, his supper was brought
in, and he was left alone for the night.
He lost not a moment in beginning the
work before him. He felt as if his liberty
was already regained; and having taken
the books out of the chest and opened the
sliding_door, he deposited the meat and
bread left for supper, together with the
small bottle of brandy, in his pockets,
put onhis travelling cloak and cap which
fortunately had been restored to him, and
placing the lamp in a lantern, so that the
wind would not blow out the light, he
passed through the opening and drew up
the door, finding that he could open it on
that side as well as the other, and thus
the chest would, in the room, present its
ordinary appearance.
The narrow passage he had entered
seemed to run between two stone walls,
and at the end of about a hundred yards
was terminated by a flight of rough stone
steps, leading to a spacioUs vault. Here,
on the opposite side, was a low archway,
that proved to be the entrance to a long
subterranean passage, extremely damp,
but from which the free air was not
altogether excluded, for Everard could
now and then feel it blowing fresh and
cold in his face.
After walking on, as he supposed,
about a quarter of a mile, he came at
length into a cave, that seemed to be
hewn out of a rock ; and the only means
of egress from this was a hole, so small
that it scarcely admitted of his crawling
through upon his hands and knees. To
accomplish this he was obliged to divest
himself of his cloak and coat, which he
put through first, with his lantern, and
then he followed with some difficulty, and
found himself once more standing in the
open air, free to go where he pleased.
His joy knew no bounds, and he uttered
a fervent thanksgiving to the Great
Power that had sent him so wonderful a
deliverance.
The moon was shining brightly, and
the frost was crisp on the ground.
He looked around, but could see no
signs of the building ho had left, and,
from the appearance of the scene, as far as
he could judge by the moonlight, he
thought he must be in a forest ; but he
oared not, for any place where he was at
liberty would have seemed a paradise to
him.
The cold was intense, but he fortified
himself against it by taking some of his
brandy, and then he set forward briskly
along a narrow path that, in about an
hour,. brought him to the verge of the
wood.
He was now upon a wide heath, which
he traversed without meeting with a sin
gle human being, and the first inhabited
place he came to was a small hamlet ; but
as no one was stirring there, he still went
on, though he was by this time very much
fatigued.
At length he descried a solitary farm
'house, with some outbuildings, where he
thought he might find shelter for a few I
hours ; nor was he disappointed, for a barn
door stood invitingly open, and inside he
found a truss of straw that served him for
a bed, and he slept there until the dawn.
He was awakened by the barking of the
dogs, and not wishing to be observed,
again set forth, rested and refreshed, for
he had eaten some of the food he had
brought with him, and now that he could
see the country he felt satisfied• that he
was not out of England--an opinion that
was soon confirmed by .his arrival at a
.large village, where he learned that he
was about five miles from the city of York.
To York then he determined to go, and
he reached the market place just as the
clock 'was striking ten.
His first care was to secure a place by
the earliest coach for London, which he
was told would start from the inn at
twelve o'clock, and then he ordered some
breakfast and a newspaper, intending by
means of the latter to find out without
asking the question, what was the month
and the day, for he was still ignorant on
these necessary points.
'l'm afraid we have no paper later than
Monday, sir,' said the waiter.
'Very well, bring me that. Lot me see,
this is Thursday.'
No,sir, Wednesday.'
6 Ab yes,
Wednesday. Never mind,
let me have Monday's paper.'
The paper was brought and he discover
ed that Monday was the 19th of January,
consequently this was the 21st; therefore
he might yet be with Mary on the anniver
sary of his departure, which was . the
twenty-seventh:
But he found some intelligence in this
paper of even more importance than the
date,. It was the death of the . Yiosr of .
Springfield; and the announcement of his
. _
own snecession - to the bet:title& '• This *as s
unexpected news indeed. He was now
comparatively a rich man, end there was'
nothing to prevent his immediate - 11111On
with her he had so long and fondly- loved - .
Joyfully and with a grateful heart he com
menced his journey, and being amply sup.. •
plied with money for triveling expenses in
consequence of his own prudent - foresight
in having secreted his banknotes, and on
reaching London hironly staid to take the
necessary steps with regard to the transfer
of the living ; and then proceeded with
all speed to Woodstock, for it was near
that the Archers resided. -,
It was the 27th of January, 1830, late
in the evening. -Mary was sitting opposite
the fire with some work in her hand, but
gazing pensively on the showers of bright
sparks ascending the wide chimney, 'and
thinking of him who, on that same evening,
the previous year, had sat by her side',
painting with hope&l spirits their happy
future, when marriage bliss shoald crown
their youthful love and constancy.
;I am sorry to see you 'so thoughtful,
Mary,' said her mother, closing the book
she had been reading; It looks as if you
were unhappy, - my child.
c I will try to feel differently after to
morrow, dear mother; but I cannot help
thinking how this day was last year spent.
Oh, how happy I Was then:.
At this moment there was a gentle rap
at the door. Mary started up—her heart
beat wildly. It was so like his knock.
Then a voice was heard.
c It is he !' she exclaimed, and the next
instant she was clasped in his arms.
All remembrance of his seeming incon
stancy and his reported marriage was lcist
in the ecstasy for this unlooked for meet
ing.
Mary !'
Everard !'
The Imam of each was all that either of
hem for awhile could utter.
. -
But Mrs. Archer did not lose sigh". of
the condemning circumstances that should
have restrained the young girl's joy, and
she said with an air of severity not natural
to her :-
4 Mary, you forget what is due to your
self and what is due to your future hus
band. Mr. Newton, you must be aware
that this visit is totally unexpected. Your
marriage broke all the ties between us, and
though .I. presume from your rooming here
that your wife is no more, it does not alter
our present relations. My daughter is no
longer free.'
Aly marriage ! my wife !' repeated the
astonished young man. What can you
mean V
I It was not true, then 1' said Mary.
You are not married.
Oh, no ! no ! Who has poisoned your
mind with such a falsehood 3 Since the
night I left you till three days ago I have
been kept a close prisoner—l do not know
by whom or for what—but Lhave escaped
and have come here to claim my promised
bride, for I am now Vicar of Springfield:
Thank God!' Mary ejaculated fervent
ly, it is not too late.'
Everything was now told, and a new
light broke in upon Everard's mind.
I see it all now,' he said. Mr. Lens
dale is a villain. It is he who has con
trived the whole of this plot to take you
from me.'
And when the first emotions of surprise
were in some degree abated, and they
were able to talk composedly of the events
that had taken place, all were agreed that
the bland old gentleman, who appeared so
mild and amiable, was a detestable hypo
crite at heart, and capable of any wicked-
He had gone to London to make ar
rangements in contemplation of his mar
riage with Mary, but he never returned,
for he heard of Everard's escape, and;
moreover, that police officers were sent
into Yorkshire to search out the place of
his confinement and take the people they
would find there into custody. Thus he
knew that all mast be discovered, so he
placed his estate in the hands of an agent
and went back to Italy.
It was not long before the information
was sent to Mr. Newton that the man who
called himself Wolfe, was safely lodgzd in
York jail, and was willing to confess to
his late prisoner who it was that had em
ployed him, and with what intent.
Everard went down immediately, and
the man, with_ many expressions of contri
tion, told him a long story, the substance
of hich was this : He and his wife had
been left, by a :nobleman who had gone
abroad, in charge of an old mansion house
in the north of Yorkshire. Mr. Lonsdale
came there, and tempted him with a sum
of money to assist in waylaying Mr. New
ton when he left _Woodstock, and convey
ing him to that obscure plaoe, where he
was to be detained a prisoner till orders
were sent to release him.
Wolfe's accomplice was an, Italian be
longing to Mr. Loasdale's household, and
was the principal actor in the drams. It
was he who administered the opiate that
produced the insensibility which enabled
them to execute their scheme. '
and the
same means were to be resorted to at the
time of his liberation, when ha was to be
conveyed, while in a state of unconscious
ness, to a distant part of the country, so
that he would never know where he hid
been imprisoned, consequently no discov
ery could take place.
Everard granted the man his forgive
ness, and as no one appeared against him
he was set free.
The lovers were soon united, and Mrs.
Archer went to reside with them at the
young vicar's new abode. They often
talked of his miraculous escape, and
though Mary and her mother were both of
the opinion that what he had seen that
night was only 'a dream, he could never
quite overcome a certain degree of.super
stitions feeling respecting the dwarf of
the old oak chest. '
ANIKING 11013 Sid -00 READ, 'HEN.
BDEMON 00.—On the 28th of MARCH. , instant,
the undersigned, under the firm of REED,,HENDERSON
d 00., will commence the Baukng Business, in Its nettal
branches at the oftice hitherto occupied by John K. wed
& Co, at the corner of East King and Duke streets, be
tween the Wirt House and Sprecher's Hotel, Lancaster, Pa:
They will pay interest on deposits attire following rates.
5% per cent. for 6 months and longer..
5 4, 4 ,
80 days and longer.
They will bny and sell Stocks and Beat Estate on Som.
mission, negotiate Loans for others. purchase and sell Bills
of Exchange, Promissory Notes, Drafts, do., de, 'dia . :.
The undersigned will be individually liable to the extent,
of their means, for all, deposits and other obligations ,Of"
REED, iIi.ADMON d C0. J0H51,K.. 11101 A ,
ABIOS S. - HENDERSON,
ISAAO E. lUESTER. .
mar 20 tflol
.
. ~ _ .. .
DR U 0 AND 0 WIC DLIOAIs-SVORID. -
The subetriber having:removed his store-to. theneW.
building nearly opposite his old stand; and direCtly Oppoidi '
the Cross Keys Hotel, has now on:tould WtSilli Wu*
stook of articles belonging to the Drag business, ochaliting.
in part Of Oils, Arlda, -- tipiceS;;Eleeds — Al •hal, Puwdered
ArticbtaDarasparillas,4o.,- ka t t 0 whb3h,the.altentitoM4
.. . .
country raepshants, physicians and cobltiniers lir
bi inVitad.. :,... . 'WOW ~,,S.,
b 9 tf 4 West afiejitieet,
MEE
NO: 31.