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OVER THE RIVER Over the river they beckon to me— Loved ones, who've crossed to the further side ; The gleam of their snowy robes I see, And their voices are drowned in the rushing tide There's one with the ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes, the reflection of heaven's own blue ; He crossed in twilight grey and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal view; We saw nut the angels who met him there; The gate of the city we could not see; Over the river, over the river, My brother stands waiting to welcome me ! Over the river the boatman pale Otirried another—the household pet: Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale— Darling Minnie, 1 see her yet, She crossed on her bosom her dimpled bands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; We watched it glide from the silver sands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the further side, Where all the ransomed and angels be; Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me! For none return from those quiet shores, Who cross with the boatman cold and pale, We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail,— And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts; They cross the stream, and are gone for aye, We may not sunder the veil apart, That hides from our vision the gates of day ; We only know that their barks no more May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, They watch, and beckon, and wait for me ! And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold Is flushing river and bill and shore, I shall one day stand by the water cold, And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; I shall hear the beat as it gains the strand; I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale To the better shore of the spirit land; I shall know the loved who hare gone before, And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river, The angel of death will carry me ! A DOUBLE CHANGE A grave Professor, much renowned For classic learning deep and sound, But not a Master of the Arts Which most prevail with female hearts,— Once tact a spinster, it is said, Whom, bluntly, he proposed to wed: But, proper modesty to show, The lady promptly answered '•\o." Soon, from his silence, she began To fear that she had snubbed the man. And, the first chance that she could find, Remarked that she had •'changed her mind!" When calmly thus he made reply : "Most worthy madam,—so have IP' " LITTLE MRS. HAYNES." It was an eventful era in my young life, when my father announced his intention of renting the light, airy southern cham ber of our old brown house to a young portrait painter, who was about becoming a resident in our village during a few weeks of the summer. Never before had an event so stirring and exciting in its ten dency broken over the monotony of my existence. Never before had my chidish imagination been furnished with so wide a field of action, or my little heart throbbed and palpitated with such a strange mix ture of wonder and delight. A portrait painter under our own roof, within the walls of my own home!—what a rare chance for my inquisitive eyes to draw in a new field of knowledge ! What ,an ob ject of envy I should be to my little mates, and how daintily would I mete out to them what I learned from day to day of the wondrous man of the wondrous em ployment ! I had beard of portrait painters before, it is true, but only, as I had heard and read of fairies in my little story books, or listened to my father as he talked of kings and courtiers in the great world afar off. Upon our parlor walls, from my earliest remembrance, had hung portraits of my grandfathers and grandmothers, but I had no idea how their faces came stamped upon the dark-canvas, or when or by whom their shadows had been fixed within the heavy gilt frames. Like the trees that waved by the door, and the lilacs that blossomed every year by the old gate, they had to me always been so. But now my eyes were to rest upon the face of one whose existence had been like a myth, a fable ! What a wonderful per sonage he would be ! What a dark visage he would boast, and what a monstrous, giant-like form ! Flow entirely unlike every person that I had ever seen or known, would be this portrait painter ! While these speculations were at their height in my busy brain, the hero made his appearance, scattering them mercilessly to the four winds. Their was nothing gaunt like iu the lithe, graceful figure that sprang from the village coach, or dark in the pleasant, boyish face, shaded by soft masses of brown hair, and lit up by a merry pair of blue eyes, running over with mirth and mischief. His name, too, quite like the generality of names, had nothing wonderful or striking by which to characterize it. He was simply Frank Haynes, nothing more or less, and when, with a pleasant, easy grace, he sought to win my childish favor, I should have been quiet at home, had not the stunning knowledge of his art overpowered me. It was a strange freak for a child of ten summers, but somehow it crept into my baby-brain that I must, not like him,.al- though the while, in spite of myself, a preference for his opinions, ways and looks, grew up strong within me. If he spoke to me when any one was observing him, I was silent and shrank away from him timidly, but when we were alone, I chatted and chirruped like a young robin. I think he must have noticed this, and froth it taken into his head the boyish idea of teasing me. To him, he said, I was little Phebe Lester no longer, now that he knew how much I cared for him. For the future he should call me Mrs. Haynes—little Mrs. Haynes, and should be very angry if anybody in the house did not follow his example. I must not ever have any little beaux among the schoolboys now that my name was changed ; but I must be prim and proper like any married woman who was faithful to her husband. Would I agree to this 1' he. asked.' I glanced up from the hem of my white muslin apron, which I had been twisting about my fingers, to meet my, mother's eye fixed laughingly upon my face. In a mo ment my lips were closed resolutely, while he, seeing at once the cause of my silence, reached out of the window and plucked a rose from a running vine that crept nearly to the mossy eaves. 'Little Mrs. Haynes must wear the rose,' he said. It would never do for her to toss her head and throw his gifts carelessly by. All married women wore flowers which their husbands gave them.- 11 I wear the rose?' I glanced about the room again. My mother was no where to be seen, and so I said that I would wear it if he wanted me to. And would I consent to be called Little Mrs. Haynes?' Yes, I would consent.' Then all was right. He would never look about for a wife, nor I should never look about for a husband. We were Mr. and Mrs. Haynes. Did that snit me?' Oh, yes, that suited me ! I liked that !' Well, then, he should have to buy me a little gold ring to wear upon my third finger, to let folks know that some one owned me.' ' No, I didn't want a ring!' Tut, tut, tut! That would never do. People who were engaged to be married always gave such pledges. He should speak to father about it, so that it would be all right. If he was willing, would .1 wear the ring ?' No, I didn't like rings !' Wouldn't- I like a ring that he would buy ?' ' No—l wouldn't like a ring at any rate.' During his stay, which was protracted to months instead of weeks, he strove in every way to change my determination about the engagement ring, as he termed it. I was inexorable. A ring I would nut wear. Not even when he made ready for his departure, and told me that in a few weeks he should be a thonsand miles away from me, nor when he piled up be fore me pictures that he had drawn at his leisure, during the long summer hours that hung heavily upon his hands, would I revoke my decision. I would take the finely executed drawings, the prettily framed portrait of himself, but I would have no rings. At last he went away from us. I shall never forget the morning, or how cold, dull and cheerless it seemed to me. How dreary and desolate every thing looked, because he was going away. It was no every day grief that bore down upon my heart, no childish promise that assured him, as he kissed my quivering lips, that I would never forget him, and that I would always be his little Mrs. Haynes. Would I write to him and sign that name ?' 'Boston Post. g Yes, I would.' I was a good girl, then, and he would never forget me. Good bye !' Good bye !' My voice trembled and fluttered upon the words. In my short life they were the hardest I bad found to speak. During the next two year no lady-love could have been more faithful to her ab sent knight than 1 was to Frank Haynes. The brightest moments of my life circled abQut the reception of his letters, the greatest joy of life was in answerin ,, them. Among my schoolmates I had no childish love, no juveniles to wait upon me to sleigh rides and parties, that the children in the neighborhood delighted in. If I could not go and come alone, I would remain at home, whatever might be the inducements offered to tempt me from my unswering course. I was little Mrs. Haynes, and little Mrs. Haynes I was bent upon re maining. But while I was in the very midst of my heroic devotion, a terrific rumor reach ed my ears, a rumor that Frank Haynes, my self-appointed lord and master was en gaged to a young and beautiful lady in the city. It was a dreadful blow to my precious hopes and plans, though for a long time I battled against crediting the report. Hadn't Frank told me that he would never look abotit for a wife ? that I was the only little lady who should bear his name ? Didn't he write me regularly every fortnight, commencing his letters, Dear little Mrs. Haynes,' and telling me to be faithful to him ? And—and—would he do this if he was engaged? No, not a bit of it ! Some one had maliciously lied about him, had manufactured the story from their own wicked imagination. would not believe it, though the wide world stood up before . me and testified to its truth. As if to reward me for my faith, and set my prejudiced little mind to rights, the next coach set Frank down at our door.— .He thought he must come and see his lit tle wife once more, he said, as I went timidly forward to meet him, though he thought it very bad taste in me to grow at such a rapid rate. He was afraid Pd grow out of my eng,agement ; he should have to put a loaf of hot bread upon my head to keep me within bounds. We had been engaged two years; I was twelve years old, and a head taller than I was at ten. He was going to Europe to stay three or four years ; what would I be when he returned He did not dare to think. He believed I would be as tall as he was by that time. Wouldn't I ? 6 I hope so,' I answergd, tartly, think ing the while of the story of his engage ment. Whew ! You are taking on the airs of a fine young lady, already, my little Phe be,' he answered, laughing heartily. You wouldn't give me one of your brown curls to-day, if my heart should break for it, would you?' No, I haie none to spare.' Not one ?' No.' 'Wh y ?' Cause—' Cause what r Because she has heard strange reports of you, Frank,' broke in my mother, mis chievously. She hasn't, any idea of let ting you rob her of her curls while she doubts your sincere allegiance to her.— She is a lady of spirit, you see.' On my faith; she is !' he exclaimed gaily, fixing his blue eyes upon my face. And I trow I'm in love with her for it. Never mind reports, my little lady.' I answered only by a curl of my lips, while he reached out his hand to draw me to a seat upon his knee. No, I wouldn't sit there !' I cried, pushing away his hand, while the tears, which had been crowding there way into my eyes, gave a sudden dash down my burning cheeks. € I'll never sit there again,.;never!!' , 1 dear little Phebe • There was a real pathos in his rich, manly voice, a quiok,, penetrating,. sur prised"Toolc,in.his clear, blue e.os,.as he utteredthese , words,- followed :by a rapid, . . •.-. " THAT 001INTRY IS THE MOST PRORPRBOUS WHIRR LABOR COMMANDS THE ORRATRET RXSTARD.Y..r-BUCHASTAIL. LANCASTER CITY, PA., TUESDAY MORNING, MAY 28, 1861. wondering expression of tenderness, as he repeated them. gMy dear little Phebe ! May God bless you!' I stole quietly away from him out of the house, with that fervent benediction lying fresh and deep upon my childish heart, and threw myself down in the shade of the old orchard trees, and sobbed out the heaviness that pressed upon my spirits. For hours I lay there in the mellow Sep tember sunshine, brooding over the little romance that had so silently and strangely grown into the woof of my almost baby life. I wept before my time for the delicious griefs that forever cling to a sweet, con scious womanhood. When I returned to the house, Frank had taken his leave, but in my work-basket he left a small pearl box, which contained a plain gold ring ! Did I wear it I Are you a woman, reader and ask it ? Phebe, Phebe ! mother Bays come down stairs ! There is a gentleman in the parlor who wishes to see you.' The words broke harshly into my pleas ant dreams, which I had been weaving all the long golden July afternoon, in the un broken stillness of my little chamber. At my feet, upon the carpet, with its leaves rumpled and crushed, lay my neglected Virgil in close proximity to a huge Latin dictionary, while upon my lap, in a wrinkled condition, my sewing was lying, with the needle hanging by a low line of thread, nearly to the floor, as if escaped luckily from a round of monotonous hemming, which, as yet, boasted but two or three stitches at its commencement. Who can it be that wishes to see me V I exclaimed, rising hastily and calling after my little six year old brother. ' Who is it, Charlie Don't know ; it's somebody. Mother says come down.' WhO can it be V An hour since I had seen a gentleman with a heavily bearded face come up the walk, but I was too busy with my dreams to notice him very particu_ larly. Still, as I recalled • his face and figure, and his quick springing step, there seemed something strangely familiar in them. Who could it be l My heart beat rapidly. Surely I had seen that face and form before, and a name that was singular ly dear to me trembled upon my lips— i THE - CirJaDO - VAT - Frank Haynes !' But I could not go down to meet him, OR, though 1 was summoned a thousand times. THE JEW BROKER'S SECRET, I did not wish to see him ; why should I 1 He looked like an old clothesman, but, There was no occasion for it. I was not he was only a broker—a broker with a bad the fooli-h little girl of twelve summers character, and what that must have been, he had left five Years ago in short frocks when it was bad for a broker, we leave to and curls, but a full-grown woman instead. imagination and Johnson to define. He No, I was not the same. I would not go was reputed the hardest man of his trade; down. Besides, a sudden headache was and, as men of that trade are popularly nearly blindin. , b me. Mother could not ask supposed to be mere electrical machines, it of ice whent was hardly able to sit up. , worked by flints, not hearts, a supremacy But what would he think? Would he care / of flintiness must have left him a fearful \Vould he still remember, tenderly, the conglomerate. He was a withered old little Mrs. Haynes of five years ago ? 4 'man now, almost double with age and Little ! 1 repeated the word as I stood rheumatism, with a hooked nose, and light before the long mirror which gave back to brown eyes, red round the lids, and a me an accurate picture of myself. A strange mixture of surliness and suspicion slender, passable form ; a dark, clear cow- in his face. He looked a cross between a plexion ; large gimy eyes ; a mouth whose mastiff and a weasel, which he was, in redness seemed to have robbed my checks character as well as countenance No one of their color ; white teeth ; a forehead bad a good word to say to him. The pub broad, but not high ; large, heavy braids lican at the corner was sure there was of chestnut-brown hair, was the likeness something queer in a man who did not framed before my eyes. I turned away take an honest glass like the rest, and the with a sigh, and glanced down to my hand. baker looked down on him because he ate Upon the third finger of the left was a 'seconds' on principle. If a distress was plain gold circlet.. The hot blood rushed to be put on miles round the neighborhood, up into niy cheeks as I looked at it. I they prayed that it might not be by old would wear it no longer. H should never Joe Mappin, of Holborn Buildings. One know that I had worn it at all. Just then woman said she'd as leave have the Em my brother came again to the door of my peror of Roosha' as. him; her daughter said . _ room, crying out a new mes.age Mother says little Mrs. Haynes is wanted down stairs,' 4 I have a terrible headache, Charlie. Please tell mother so ;' and I sank down upon a chair close by the window, and leaned my head upon a chair handle. 4 Dear, dear ! if they would but forget me !' I murmured to myself, as the hum of their conversation came clearly to my ears. An hour passed away, and I heard a sound of voices in the hall, then steps in the walk below. I did not glance eagerly from the window, or peer carefully from the half closed shutters, but clasped my hands tightly over my eyes till the sound of foot steps died away in the distance, then I crept stealthily down stairs and stepped softly into the silent parlor, where so lately he had been. I was half across the room before I noticed that I was not alone, and then, before I could make a hasty retreat, a glad, merry voice rich with its golden music, exclaimed : cMy own dear little Mrs. Haynes, as I live ! How happy lam to see you!' and a hand clasped mine tightly, while a pair of bearded lips were bent down to mine. I drew my head back haughtily. I was a little child no longer. I would not accept, even from him, the caresses that he had bestowed upon me five years before. Ah, Mr. Haynes,' I said, bowing in a dignified way, ' 1 am pleased to see you.' My manner chilled at once his warm, genial nature. Stepping back from me and releasing my hand, he said, with a curl of his finely cut lips, Your pardon, Miss Lester; I had , quite forgotten that you had grown to be a fine lady. I bowed him back a reply, flashing a quick, impetuous glance upon him as 1 did so. But there was no pleasantry attempted on his part, and when my mother entered the room, a few moments after, and refer red, laughingly, to our old engagement, he answered her in a few evasive words, as though the subject was not an agreeable one to him. Affairs had taken an unhappy turn, but it was too late to remedy them, and day after day passed away, leaving Mr. Haynes as.cold and distant as he had been from the moment I first repulsed him. 1 would have given worlds to have recalled my un lucky words, yet, since they were spoken, I would not unbend a moment from my calm, cool dignity, though I was as miser able and wretched as I could well be, and knew that Mr. Haynes shared my wretched ness. Alt the time that I could spend in my chamber, without being absolutely rude, was passed there, till my strange, unusual appearance was noticed by my father and mother, and my mood commented freely upon before our guest. • You appear, strangely, Phebe,' said my mother, one morning, I really do not know how to understand you. I'm afraid -that Mr. Haynes will think you are not pleased to see him. Every chance that -occurs you resolutely avoid him, as though he•Nas the veriest monster, instead of a -dear friend. What is the matter?' Nothing. The strangeness of my ap pearance is but a reflection. I cannot help it. Mr. Haynes hates and despises me now,' I said, burying my tearful eyes in my hands. Phebe !' My mother's voice was stern and re proachful, but I did not heed . it. He does hate me, mother ! hates me with —" 'Your pardon, little Phebe—Miss Lester —but he does not!' broke in the clear, rich voice of Mr. Haynes. Of all persons in the world—' He paused, and in a moment more I . heard my • mother step lightly from the room. ' I am not cold, haughty and proud,' I said excitedly, looking up into his face, 'and I do like you just as well—as well—' ' What, little Phebe r he asked eagerly, a quick expression of joy lighting up his blue eyes. - As well as ever I did!' I faltered. And how well is that? So well that during all these weary years you have not cherished a dream of the future that did not encircle me 1 So well that every strong, passionate hope of your womanly nature has reached out constantly to me ? ./is well as 1 have liked, ay loved you—till every pulse in your heart beats for me As well as this, Phebe ?' I covered my face that he might not read the whole expression of my love in my tell-tale eyes, and be shocked that it had grown to be so near a wild, passionate idolatry. 4 Will you become Mrs. Haynes in truth, in earnest, Phebe V he asked, drawing me to my old seat upon his knee. Yes.' And will at last wear the ring ?' I held up my finger before his eyes. My own darling little wife ; at last Arty little Mrs. Haynes, in good faith,' he ex claimed, covering my lips with kisses. That night there were sly looks and glances oast toward me at every tarn, and at the supper table my father quite forgot himself and called me little Mrs. Haynes ' again. Reader, I have been a happy wife for some three blessed, sunshiny years, and, as you may have already conjectured, my name is Haynes !' she'd liefer: The very children were afraid of him, and screamed if he came near them, unless they were impudent and 'mocked him. But to the little ones he was the District Bogle ; and Old Joe Mappin ' stood in Holborn Buildings, scaring the riotous. small fry of the gutters, for the black man' of more civilized nurseries. Everybody said the man had a secret.— Some thought he was a coiner, and others that he had committed murder, and went to look at the body or grave. Others again said he had a mad wife locked up in the garret, on straw; but none knew ex actly what they thought, exceXing the broad fact that there was a secret some how ; and of course, if belonging to him, a disgraceful one ; 'he could have nothing but villainy to conceal,' said the inspector to Policeman X, 82. Why the report arose of his having a secret in his life was, because evening after evening, he was seen stealing in the dusk from his garret along Holborn towards the' West End. No one knew where he went to, though more than one lounger had set out to follow him ; but somehow the old man always contrived to escape, doubling through the streets in such a quick and unexpected manner, that how ever it was done he invariably got away. All sorts of plans had been made to track him, but they all failed, every one of them; and the broker's secret was a secret still. Little Teddy, his landlord's, boy came the nearest to the discovery, but he lost him at last somewhere up in the New Road, near Regent's Park, though that was a good measure to have taken, too. More over, he saw that Joe was decently dressed beneath his shabby old sloak—a thing no one else would wear • and from that time the report had got about that it was a love affair, with some mysterious celebrity, and that Joe was buying a wife with his gold ; for the had a (Jaliforney-worth,' said his landlord's little boy Teddy. One evening Joe set out as usual, with his shabby old cloak and battered old hat, but well enough beneath. He walked cautiously at first, hobbling as was natural to him now, with his rheumatics so bad, but after he passed through his particular quarter, turning round constantly, as if to cough but in reality to see if any one were folloWing, he walked briskly on, cutting through all sorts of queer alleys and bye places, winding and doubling like a fox ; the best topographer in London could not have followed him. At last be came tc pretty hotise in Regent's Park—a house evidently inhabited by a gentlewoman of fortune, as well as of taste ! for all the appointments were in such perfect' keeping, and there was such a wealth of costly simplicity about it as could only belong to both of these conditions. The broker looked up at the window as he came be neath it, and a little girl of fourteen or fifteen—but slight of her age—leaning out from among the geraniums, cried, in ans wer to his look, 'why, Joe, how late you are to-night !' That sweet voice ! The old man need to say himself, that he would not exchange its Joe !' for a good fippure note ! He nodded to her affectionately, and" carefully scraping his shoes, went in with the air of a man who knows that he . will be welcome. He took off his ha and Cloak and put them away in a dark corner, and then clean and respectable looking, he - went - up stairs to the drawing room. A lady, still beautiful and still young-- . young at least for the mother of a ehileof fifteen—was sitting there embroidering. Surrounded with every beauty and every luxury—nestled in that lonely home, like a bird in a golden cage—how strange the chance which had thrown together any thing so graceful as that lady and the old Jew broker. Yet they were well acquaint ed; they were even friends ; for she rose when he entered, and advanced towards him kindly and shook hands with him, and petted him as a woman only can pet, with out any visible overt act. But all that Joe seemed to wish for was to sit a little, and watch her as she bent over-her em broidery, and to hear again that she was contented and happy. Are you certain, sure that you want for nothing ? inquired Joe ; nor Miss Margaret neither?' - Nothing, Joe, nothing,' and the sweet ' lady looked up affectionately, as if she had spoken to a father. That's enough, that is all I want,' muttered Joe, and then he went back into the depths of his quiet meditations, watch ing the lady's face, and even now and then glancing round the room, as if to see that all was right, and to find out where he could alter and improve. After this had gone on for a short time, Joe Mappin ask ed for Margaret in an uncouth way, strangely softened, like a mastiff partly mesmerised. The lady rang the bell and Margaret came. It seemed to be the usual way in which she was summoned when the broker was there, for she came at once, without giving the servant time to call her. She also showed the most unaffected gratitude and love for the old man, run ning up to him and taking his hand, call ing him Dear Joe' as if she meant it. And is there nothing that the little lady wants said Joe, patting her head and smoothing down her curls. Has she gowns and bonnets enough, lady? for you know she has but to ask and have.' c Why, Joe, I don't wear such a frock in a week !' said Margaret, laughing ; ' and it was only last Tuesday you gave that beauty, though I hadn't yet half worn my blue silk.' Joe Mappin drew her between his knees, and held•her face in his hands. ' Silver and gold isn't good enough for you both!' he said with almost a passion of fervor in his voice, 6 so never stint yourself for fear of me.' But they both said again that they had all they could require, ' even if they were princesses in a fairy tower,' Margaret ad ded ; and when this assurance had been repeated to almost a wearisome number of times, Joc ISlappin was content, and so rel .pled into silence again. And there he sat till the last rays of the sun had gone and candles had been brought—they were of the finest wax, you may be sure—a pe culiar expression of tenderness on his mas tiff face, as she was reading a sweet chap ter lovingly—listening to a noble song ad miringly. And than when he was quite muffled up in his greasy old cloak, as he had come, he left the house, and hobbled rheumatically when he came near his own quarters. This, then, was the broker's secret, and this was its history. About fifteen years ago Joe Mappin, almost an old man even then, was called to seize the goods of a certain Captain Thornton, living at the West End. The Captain was one of those gay, reckless, loveable men, who, by dint of sheer ani mal magnetism, live for years on credit, and are only brought to account when it becomes a matter of life and death to some of the poorer creditors—those creditors are as sorry for their creditor as if it were themselves going to the Queen's Bench, and accusing themselves bitterly—the ten der-hearted at least—for the trouble they are bringing on him. Joe Mappin, the hardest of his profession, the iron -hearted, grasping broker, who was believed not to have a single human feeling, even he was touched by the gallant frankness and gra cious manner of his viotim, and as for his wife, that noble, patient, glorious woman, with her little one in her arms—something rose up in his heart for her which he had never felt in his life before. It was an infinite yearning worship, suoh as he had read of in the novels of the libraries he had:, seized, but which he always thought trash, and the mere mouthings of author fools. He felt now, for the first time, that there was such a thing in the human heart as Love—the love of beauty, the love of virtue, love for pity's sake. Captain Thornton was carried off to the Queen's Bench, and after a short term of imprisonment died suddenly of apoplexy. He had lived too freely and taken too lit tle exercise ; and being one of those fair haired men of sanguine temperament, whO love idleness and luxury, he had met the fate any medical man would have predict ed. His wife and child were thns left alone in the world and- penniless. The broker had never lost sight of them. Gifts from an unknown hand, money, clothing, and even food, had kept Mrs. Thornton from want—all the more welcome as, by her marriage, she had displeased her rela tives, who were perhaps not sorry now of this excuse to avoid maintaining her.— When the Captain died, then Joe Mappin came forward openly. He told her he had lived an Ishmaelite life, without pity and without love ; he told her how she had roused feelings in him—feelings of rever ence for-humanity, such as he had never known before ; and the old man bowed himself before as to a superior being, and besought of her the privilege of maintain ing her and her child. He wanted noth ing, he said, but to know that they were happy, and sometimes to hear them say so. He had not a relation in the world to whom he could leave his money—not one that they would wrong by taking it; he had hoarded because it was his nature to hoard ; but he never knew to what end he saved. Now he should have saved for Heaven, if she would accept her life on these easy terms. They, were not hard! and if she objected to his going to see her, he would not. Indeed, indeed, it was her happiness, and that sweet baby's—not his own—he cared for, in the offers! What could she do, that gentlewoman without friends or fortune, or the means of her subsistence ? What could she do, but look at her child, hold out both her hands to that strange old man, and burst into tears of gratitude and shame; and sor row, all mixed up together as she faltered out 'Yes,' and took her fate from his hands. She understood the truth of his feelings, and was herself too noble to assume a false dignity which would have been less digni fied than the acceptance of his generosity. She thanked him by her tears, and she kissed his withered hand ; and that touch bound old Joe Mappin as her slave for life: the first, last, and only time a woman's lips had ever touched him • and in this manner their lives had pass ed for the last fifteen years. He took a beautiful little house for the widow and hef child, and furnished it with every luxury, dress, jewelry, furniture, ornaments—whatever it might be that was rare and expensive be bought them. He lavished his money like water and thought nothing eear which would oall forth a smile faom the child. Their pleasure re paid him everything ; it was his Heaven, his life. But the time was coming fast, now, when poor old Joe Mappin, the broker, must face the boundary lines between time and eternity, and learn the great secret.— When the winter had killed Margaret's flowers, had stripped her geraniums of their leaves and bad frozen the songs of the birds, the old man and Death stood face to face. His rheumatism and asthma had been very bad for a long while ; and _living in his niggard and neglected way had not given him the best chance of recovery. He knew he was dying, but he could not die in peace withou't looking once more on those two faces he loved so much—the only two he ever loved through the whole of his long life. They could not come to him, for they did not know his address nor even his surname. He was only Joe' in the beau tiful house in Regent's Park, and the ser vants thought he was ' Missus's queer old uncle—perhaps from ingey or furren parts.' But if they could not come to him, he would go to them—and must—whatever the risk. He could not die happy, he be lieved he could not pass away at all—with out seeing them once more. Though the seal of death was rigidly set on his face, the old mau resolved to make this long and perilous journey. He knew he should hasten the supreme moment, but it would be better even if he did, he said, sadly. H e had done all he could do now; he had established the dear ones, and his death would not deprive them of a farthing, or a single comfort. He had saved enough; let him die! He sent for a neighbor to dress him for the last time, in his decent clothes ; and when this was done—between fainting and long fits of pain—he told her to go for a cab, and bargain with the man for his fair up to Regent's Park. Because he was old and weak, he would not be done even by the biggest ruffian among them, he growled out. When the Woman left the room 'old Joe dragged himself as best he could to a small iron safe he had let into the wall with his own hand. No one knew it was there—not even the landlord, nor those prying eyes of little Teddy.— He unlocked it, and took out a roll of bank notes, railway scrip, and mortgage bonds, and tied them all in a cotton hand kerchief, together with a•parchment tied with red tape, sealed with a big seal, and endorsed 'Joe Mappin's will,' in his own handwriting. He hid the bundle under his greasy old cloak ; and then the woman came back, and found him, panting and pale, and she screamed out that he was dying. But he swore at her between each gasp, and told her to hold her noise and to help him down stairs. And then half stumbling and half carried the old man got down the stairs at last; and so was put into the cab. He gave the man his direction in an undertone, jealously guarding the name from the crowd standing curiously about ; and then he drove out of Holborn forever. As he left his old neighborhood, with all its associations of pitilessness and sorrow of which he had been the instrument, and the heartless cause, a change seemed to come over him. The mastiff face gradu ally grew more softened and humanized. He was passing from the world of men and mammon, into that of love, and death, and the evil influences of his material life faded before the purification of this great baptism. The journey—a long one for a dying man—tired him sadly. He did not care though for the pain it caused him ; his only fear was he should die ere he reached his home—the home of of his spirit, of his better and purer life, but he survived it— in a sad state of suffering and prostration ; and only just survived it; for when car ried by the cabman in his arms as if he had been a child, he was brought to the presence of those loved ones, all that his failing life left him power to do, was to place the package in the widow's lap, and murmur faintly, 4lt is all yours,' to die with her tears falling softly on his face. T HE LANCASTER. INTELLIGENC.ER JOB PRINTING ESTABLISHMENT. No. 8 NORTH DUKE STREET, LANCASTER, PA. The Jobbing Department is thoroughly furnished with now and elegant type of every description ' and is under the charge of a practical and experienced Job Printer.— The Proprietors are preparod to PRINT CHECKS, NOTES, LEGAL BLANKS, CARDS AND CIRCULARS, BILL HEADS AND HANDBILLS, PROGRAMMES AND POSTERS, PAPER BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS, BALL TICKETS AND INVITATIONS, PRINTING IN COLORS AND PLAIN PRINTING, with neatness, accuracy and dispatch, on the most reasona ble terms, and in a manner not excelled by any establish ment in the city. glair- Orders . from a distance by mail or otherwise, promptly attended to. Address GEO. SANDERSON & SON, Intelligencer Office, No.B North Duke street, Lancaster, Pa. 6 6 HO SUNDAY HORNING CEIRONI- M CLE," PUBLISHED AT WASHINGTON, D. C. The Chronkle is publisherton, a large folio sheet, with new _ type, and contains 1. A full weekly record of Military and Naval Movements in Washington and throtighout the country. 2 Original. sketches of New England Celebrities, by an able Northern writer. 3. A series of original sketches of the City of Washington, Its Growth, Public Bgildings and Attractions. 4. Original sketches of the Churches and Clergy in Wash ington—an-account of one church and its pastor appear ing in each issue. 6. Letters from Cotiespondents in all the principal parts of the country. O. Smithsonian Papers, containing accounts of the more recent discoveries in science, in all parts of the world, as reported at the Smithsonian Institution. 7. Essays, Sketches, Tales, and choice gems of Poetry. 8. A weekly record of Removals and Appointments by the Government. LOuil Reports, doings in the city, dro. 9. Editor' aln; by one or the ablest writers in the country Tho object of the publishers of the Chronicle will ever be to render it a high-toned Metropolitan PA3IILT PAPER. The subscription price by mall is $2 per annum, in ad vance, or $I for six incniths. Three copies, live months, S2.EO. Specimen copies forwarded when desired. Address, enclosing subscription, in gold'or par bills, JAMES B. SLISILIDAN A CO.. Publishers, Washington, D. C. /far Editors copying theabove and referring to the paper editorially, will receive the Chronicle one year. may T BEI7 _ - NCORP OFLA. T •II 1 . 8 10 t T HARTFORD FIRE INSURANCE COMPANY, OF HARTFORD, CONN,, • CAPITAL AND ASSETS $4_36.709.00. H:11IINTINOTON, President. P. C. Aura, Secretary. Policiee likened and renewed; losses, equitably adjusted and paid immediately upon satisfactory proofs, in New York fun*, 14 the itadendrued, the MU ADTHORIZSD AGENT; • , JASO IS.LACIIE3 • pet 2111 y 411 AVIA for LArlsutar Oa . . . • frilitADE SALES TBRDE BALES 1 The subscriber, having juisCreturned from the Phlhr delphia Trade Sales, offers-at the lowest prices all kinds of Books, embracing LAW, FICTION, BIXD/O ( AL, RBLIG.• lOUS, BIOGRAPHY, MECHANICAL and any other kinds. , These books will be gold at the lowest prices, as we had the advantage and were the only Bookseller from Lancaster at the Trade Sales, and, as a consequence, we can sell lower than any other Store. A few of the Books' are here men ' tionect: • • Webstees Unabridged Dictionary, Worcester's Unabridged Dictionary, American Christian Record, In and Around Stamboul, • Gotthold's Emblems, European Life, Legend and Lai:tame, Photographic Albums, Notes on Nursing, Soldiers' Text Books, The Bible and Social Reforms, The Days and Ways of the Cocked Eats BIBLES in 'great variety, from Twentydive Cents to Twenty.five Dollars, some of theca having the finest Bind ings -and Illustrations ever received in town. ' SUNDAY SCHOOL BOOKS—Methodist, Lutheran,Epis copal, Presbyterian, American Tract Society , Am erican Sunday School Union. SCHOOL BOOKS----Sanders., Towers', Sargent's. Parker Wateon's Readers. Monteith's, Mitchel's, Warren's, Smith's Geographies. Also, Algebras, Arithmetic& Gram mars, 'Histories, Dictionaries, de.. Stationery, Copy and Composition Books, Cap, Note and Letter Paper. Blank Books, Slates, Lead and Slate Pencils. -Pens sod Holders, Ink and Ink Stands, Rulers, Envelope& Ttie beet Inks to the market are sold here, viz: Maynard L Noyes', Arnold's, Hover's, Laughßugs & Bushtlaid's, Blackwood's, etc. At the Cheap Book Store of JOHN SHEAPPER'B, may 14 tf 18J No. 32 North Queen street, Lancaster. [County papers copy.] `DYER'S SULTANA'S SAUCE. COLD DISHES OF ALL KINDS ie most delicious and appetising ince, invented by the renowned 3oiea" for the London Reform lub, is, since hie decease, menu :tared by the well.known house Case k ihacitortm., London, on the original recipe. It is the write Sauce in England, and on le Continent, with a high and owing reputation among Ameri can Epicures, and Is much approved of as stimulant to the appetite and aid to digestion. OPINIONS OF THE LONDON PRESS. ' We recommend our correspondent to try Mom. Boron's new Sauce, entitled the 'Sultana's fiance.' It ie made after the Turkish recipe; its flavor is excellent, and it affords considerable aid in cases of slow and weak diges tion:*—The Lancet. " - every, Piquant and Spicy, worthy the genius of Sry A most valuable adjunct to Fish, Flesh, and Fowl, and shonld nave a place on every table,"—Atlas. Soie Agents for the United States : GARDNER G. YVELIN, 217 Fulton street, New York. BItA.. .!r. HAYES, 34 Cornhlll, Boston. a'e by Grocers and Fruit Dealers everywhere. Jo , 11 eow ly 1 Cure Chugh, Hoarseness, Influ - OW enza, any Irritation or Swans of the geThroat, Relieve the Hacking Cbugh BRoNcHi c _AL ' 1 .71Pg=r i t.°V27 4 .,tt give strength to the voice of "'OW/ EajBLIG SPEAKERS, and SINGERS. Few are aware of the importance of checking a Cough or "Common Cold" in its first stage; that which In the beginning would yield to a mild remedy, if neglected, soon attacks the Lunge. "Brown's Bronchial Troches," con taining demulcent ingredients, allay Pulmonary and Bronchial Irritation. "That trouble iu my Throat, (for which the are specific) having made me often BMWN'SI" a Z es ch reuhisparer." N. P. WILLIS. TROCHES!. "I recommend Oatir use to Punic SPEAK- BROWS'S Ens- REV. E. 11. CHAPIN. TROCHE proved extremely eerviceable for & "Have .11osIMEN ran" BROWN' REV. HENRY WARD BEECHER. B , "Almost instant relief in the dietresaing mocßEs dabor of breathing peculiar to ASTHMA." REV. A. C. EGGLESTON. Contain no Opium or anything injurioun." BROWN'S DR. A. A. HAYES, TROCIIESIChartist, Boston. "A simple and pleasant combination for BROWN, s IOOI3 GM, So:- TROCIIESi ... .. • . InBRONCHITIS." " nene"cmo " . DR. 3. -F. W. LANE, BROWN'Si Boston. "I have proved them excellent for Waoorito TROCELESIcoum.,, , REV. IL W. WARREN, BROWN'S; Boston. TROCIIEii!. "Beneficial when compelled to speak, suffer l ing from Cow." REV. S. J. P. ANDERSON, BROWN'S ] St. Louis. TROCH ES r ;ELPECrtL removing!T EoaraenirsaNd Ir:t.t,ehroatso.monwthp BROWN'S:eas and SINGERS." PROF 31. STACY JOHNSON, TROCH ESI La Grange, Ga. Teacher of Music, Southern BROWN'S l i "Great beneliwhen takee m n a before lllege andt after TROCllES lF,Tfr el fef:Xec t t h ,7 lart t he u y - w"l"Cormpemr. BROWN, si Manent advantage to me." REV. E. ROWLEY, A. M., i President of Athens College, Tenn. TROCHES I tar Sold by all Druggists at TWENTY FIVE CENTS A BOX. lilll. nov 27 6m 46 W EN T Z BB.OS Call attention to their unrivalled stock of LADIES' DRESS GOODS, The latest styles and fabrics In the market NEW SPRING SIIAWLS, BTELLAS, From $l.OO to $15.00 CLOTHS AND SILK MANTLES AND DUSTERS, PARASOLS AND UMBRELLAS WHITE GOODS OF EVERY VARIETY N. W. Collars and Sleeves New Style Setts, Maltese Lace Collars, &c, &c MEN'S AND BOYS' 'WEAR, ALL AT TUE LOWEST POSSIBLE PRICES, FOR RAPID SALES, apr 30 tt 16] East King and Centre Square BRIGADIER GENERAL'S OFEIOE, Lancaster, April 17, 1881. THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNIT D STATES has leaned his proclamation, calling on differ ent States for 75,000 men—Pennsylvania to furnish 16,000 men. I have been frequently called on to know where men could enrol themselves for service. I would state that this Brigade has six uniformed corn. ponies. viz: Lancaster Fencibles, commanded by Capt. Em len Franklin ; Jackson Rifles. commanded by Capt. Henry A. Ilarnbright ; 31anheim ltifles. commanded by Frederick Ensminger ; Washington Rifles of Mount Joy, commanded by c apt. Jacob Waltman: Maytown Infantry, commanded by Capt. Haines ; Safe Harbor Artillery, commanded by Capt. Goo. EL Ilene. Four new companies are therefore necessary to organized, each of 78 men, to conetitnte a Regiment. It is therefore hoped that our patriotic citizens will at once enrol them selves and trganizo into companies, to be ready to march at any time when required. The time has come when all loyal, true and patriotic citizens should at once respond to the call of their Country and Country's rights. • A roll-book is opened at Fulton Hall, in the hands of Col. D. W. Patterson for all such as may wish to volun teer. I would also add that some of the companion are not full, and on application to the Captains of the several compan• lea they can enrol their names. Any further information may be had by calling at my • IL E : WIT WEB, Brigadier General, 2nd Brigade, 3rd Division, P. M. .Attat : Wm. S. Axwle, Judge Advocate. apr 26 DRESSLER'S HAIR JEWELRY STORE, 210.208 NORTH 810 STREET ABOVE BAH; PHILADELPHIA. On band and for sale, a choice assortment of =parlor patterns, and will plait to order BRACELETS, EAR RINGS, 'FINGER RINGS, BREAST PINS, CROSSES, NECKLACES, GUARD AND; VEST CHAINS. Air Orders enclosing the hair to be plaited may be sent by mail. Give a drawing as near as you can on paper, and enclose such amount as you may choose to pay. Costs as follows: Ear Rings $2 to s6—Breast Pins $3 to s7—Finger Rings 75 cents to s3.so—Vest Chains $6 to $ f- Necklaces $2 to $lO. ItEd — Hair put into Medallons, Box Breast Pins, Rings, Au. OLD GOLD AND SILVER BOUGHT AT NAIR RATES. apr 16 1y 14 LIFE OS mabierlbers take pleasure in announcing that they are now pro-. pared to mail (free) to those who wish it, a copy of an im portant little work, by the late Dr. Brampton,. entitled " THE INVALID'e MEDIOALL CONFIDANT," - published for the benefit, and as a warning to young men and per sons who suffer from Nervous Debility, Premature Decay, &0., to.,supplying Um means of self cure. The reader is irresistily led to compare a useful life with an ignoble death. Reader, lose not a moment, but send your address for a copy of this . little work. s &Dees the Publishers. DR. JOHN B. OGDIIN .t CO., 64 and 66 John Bt., New York. spr 30 3m 16] GRENT DISCOVERY. . I have made a discovery of the utmost Importance to every 'married person of either sex, and will send the full particulars concerning it to any one on reexdpt of a stamp to pay return postage. . Addrees,' DR. J. H. MARTHLL, apr 16 ly 14] . Alfred, Maine. F OR SALE CHEAP .-. A CernAbate': of" -Scholarship (male or female) In the Coaterethallem:' teary. Swink* of the ElatOr , Fallfor of Ithe Inteillmear sus 80 NO. 20. DR. G. F. BIGELOW, Boston WENTZ BROS.,
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers