VOL. LXIII THE LANCASTER INTELLIGENCER. WISHED EVERY TUESDAY, AT HO. 8 NORTH DUE! BYRBZI, BY GEO. SANDERSON. TEEMS Subscription. —Two Dollars per annum, payable in ad* ▼ance. No subscription discontinued until all arrear ages are paid, unless at tbe option of the Editor. Advbrtiszstents. —Advertisements, not exceeding one square, (12 linea,) 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., Ac., executed with accnracy and on the shortest notice. A COMMON STORY, BY THE AUTHOR OP JOHN HALIFAX. So, the truth’s out. I’ll grasp it like a snake— It will not slay me. My heart shall not break Awhile, if only for the children’s sake. for his too, somewhat. Let him stand unblamed ; None say, he gave me less than honor claimed, Except one trifle scarcely worth being named. The heart. That’s gone. The oormpt deed might be As easily raised up, breathing, fair to see, As he could bring his whole heart book to me. 1 never sought him in coquettish sport, Or courted him as silly maidens oonrt, And wonder when the longed-for prize falls short. I only loved him, any woman would: Hut shut my love up till he came and sued, Then poured it o’er his dry life like a flood. I was so happy 1 could make him blest ! So happy that that I was his first and best, As he mine, when he took me to his breast. Ah me! if only then he had been true ! $ If for one little year, a month or two, He had given me love for love, as was my due! Or bad he told me, ere the deed was done, He only raised me to his heart’s dear throne; Poor substitute! because the queen was gone! Or, had he whispered when his sweetest kiss Was warm upon my mouth in fancied bliss,. He had kissed another woman like to this, It were less hitter! Sometimes I could weep To be cheated, like a child asleep: Were not the anguish far too dry and deep. So I built my house upon another’s ground; Mocked with a heart just caught at the rebound ; A cankered thing that looked so firm and sound. And when that heart grew colder, colder still, I, ignorant, tried all duties to fulfill, Blaming my foolish pain, exaoting will. All, anything but him. It was to be: The full draught others drink up carelessly Was made this bitter Tantalus-cup for me. I say again, he gives me all 1 claimed. I and my children never shall be shamed He is a just man; be will live nnblamed. Only, 0 God, 0 God, to cry for bread, And get a stone 1 Daily to lay my head Upon a bosom where the old love’s dead ! Dead? 'Pool! It never lived. It only stirred Galvanic, like an hour-old corpse. None heard So let me bury it without a word. He’ll keep that other woman from my sight, I know not if her face be foul or bright; I only know that it was his delight— As bis was mine: 1 only know he stands Palo, at the touch of their long severed hands, Then to a flickering smile his Ups commands, Lest 1 should grieve, or jealous anger show. He need not. When the ship’s gone down, I trow, We little reck whatever wind may blow. And so my silent moan begins and ends, No world’s laugh or world’s taunt, no pity of friends Or sneer of foes, with this my torment blends. None knows; none needs. I have a little pride; Enough to stand up, wife-liko, by his side, With the same smile as when I was a bride. TO MY WIFE. ed. J almost repented of my decision. Come to mo dearest —I’m lonely without thee — But the gun rose brightly, and the fields Day time and night time I’m thinking about thee ; t j c . Jr-.S .«. * ■ „ Night time and day time in dreams I behold thee — Were sweet and soft on the third morning, Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee ; and I went Out to See what sort of a home C cZl in Thy Sf,' KTdTo I got. A lonely enough place it was Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, but very finely situated, With noble old Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy! 'trees, and meadows, arid thickets, and Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, brooks, and a fine lake, though a small one, with Ithe remains of a bath-house and a Are oircling my heart with a promise of pleasure. boat in the little Cove. The house was 0 Spring Of my spirit ! 0 May Of my bosom ! rather a stately one of briok, and there Shine out on my soul till it bourgeon and blossom; ~ •'-...1, n The waste of my life has a rose-root within it, were gardens about it that had been hue, And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. an( J plenty of tumble-down pigeon-houses, Figure that moves like a song through the even— ! and pigsties, and poultry-yards,and stables. gSMr&MS SX n a7d simple, i I thought, as I stopped on a hill to look at And opening their eyes from the heart of a dimple— 1 the decaying old place, that ltjhould look 0, thanks to the Saviour, that even by seeming i better in a twelvemonth, Or it should not Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming. . » u . ~ , , j c n r 6 ]be my fault. 1 gathered hands full of ; ! flowers, for it was early summer, and for- Onr hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, j getting myself, I went humming a tune As ootave to octave and rhyme unto rhyme, love. i through the hall. That was one of I cannot but weep but your tears will be flowing; . © ~, , ... , , Yon cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing— j the forbidden things, the housekeeper I would not die without you at my side, love, , gently told me. Mr. Arthur had not been Yoa will not linger when I will have died, love. j * Me bear singing for several years . She Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow; wa s just arranging his breakfast ; and after Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow, . J , Strong, swift, and fond as the words whioh I speak:,, j 1 watching the disposition ot the Viands upon love, , \ a tray, I put a few of the dewy flowers in With a song on your Up, and a smrle on your cheek, | # orowded them ; nto ono 00rner . Come, for my heart in your absence is weary — 4 Mr. Arthur can’t bear flowers, 5 I was Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary; \ . n Come to the arms which alone Bhould caress thee, i lOAa * T . . T Come to the heart whioh is throbbing to press thee- <■ 4 Never mind, put them m, and say 1 - • sent them, and I will take the the respon j sibility,’ I said. |i I found afterward that she was obliged ito throw them out of the window. I ex ) peoted all that day a summons to call upon 5 the invalid in his room, for I had not yet i; seen him, exoept during the funeral service, I when he was muffled all np and half lifted I into a carriage, but I heard nothing from .him, exoept the fretfnl jingling of his bell once or twioe, and the monotonous reading of the ‘ companion,’ whose voice sounded | nrach like the drone of a spinning-wheel, j She was reading a work on moral philoso | phy, for 1 was mean enough to stop on the j stairs and listen long enough to oatoh a j sentence. The family physioian called { that day, and I had a ohat with him. ; ‘ls Mr. Watkins really a confirmed in j valid V I asked. I ‘No more than any person need be, who has shut himself np for ten years,’ was the reply. ‘ Wouldn’t a good bit of beef or mutton be better for him than all his broths and messes V I inquired. ‘ Much better,’ said the doctor, l if he could only be persuaded to take a little exercise.’ < Would a little fresh air, or a little noise, or the smell of a flower annihilate him ?’ / asked. ‘ Nothing better for him than all these, if he could only be interested in them,’ said the doctor smiling. ‘ Only they must be administered with discretion.’ ‘ But if he thinks I am going to wait six months for permission to pay my re spects to him, he’s somewhat mistaken,’ / said, smiling in turn, as he bowed himself out. The next morning, ‘ an estry from Para dise,’ as balmy and bright, musically still HOW I CURED MR. WATKINS. 1 was turned of thirty (not ashamed of my age, either,) and, excepting my loneli ness sometimes, when I thought I had neither kith nor kin, and the little pinohing made necessary by my small salary, was getting along very happily and prosperous ly as a village schoolmistress, when the whole current of my life took a sudden turn. I was sitting one day, after school*,i mending my shoes for the fourth time (for j the quarter’s salary was not quite due)* 5 when Mr. Wells walked in with his little j hurried knock, that leaves no one time to ,j get suspicious work out of the way, andi i with an ‘ Ahem—good morning, dear—l’ve .j got some important intelligence for yeu, r ] stood just inside of the door. | ‘ You’d better sit down then, while yon disburden yourself of it, sir,’ I said, laugh ing, aB I put on my shoe. What a dear, good, slow old man he is! And did he ever have important intelli gence, I wonder ! He sat down, took ont his glasses, rubbed them three times, put them on wrong, then right, and finally took the letter from his pooket, opened it, smoothed the wrinkles, with another ‘ ahem !’ looked over the glasses at me, as if I was some curious speoimen of natural history. . ‘My dear sir,’ I said, ‘ I am under the' deepest obligation to you, and I love you like a father j but it won’t be safe for you to keep me waiting much longer.’ T ‘ Spoken like yourself, my dear,’ said he, ‘ and I won’t keep you in suspense ; but I was only looking at your eyes to find some thing there that a friend has seen more plainly than myself.’ And he proceeded to read the letter he held. It would take too long to relate the as mornings there must be, I think—l conversation and all the particulars of the went out after breakfast, and taking a long history, as he gave them to me, but I will 'walk, came baok with my hands full. of make them plain in as few words as possible, flowers, and feeling quite tired. The Miss Watkins, an old school friend of his windows and blinds of Mr. Watkins’ room wife’s, was dying, and would leave an only ' we . re dosed, but his ' parlor door stood brother in a very peculiar state of nervons slightly open. I stepped up, and tapped disease, with no relative, or friend even, softly. whose presence he could bear, encumbered ‘ Come in, Margery,’ said a faint voice, with quite a valuable property in the conn- ‘ It’s not Margery, sir, but myself, come try, which he had neither sense nor will to ; to ' nf l u * re f° r y° ur health, and bring you control, and, heavier burden still,,a load of 1 80me fl° wera >’ I said, walking into the room unoooupied days, and weeks, and years, | in front of a pale, listless man, half re without even the stimulus of severe disease I °hning on a sofa, and looking at a volume to give them a tone. He was much younger i before him aa if it had been a wild beast than his sister, being no more than thirty- S ready to, devour him. He started, turned five, and it had been her sole business for! re d; fben pale, and pointing to a seat, tenyears to nurse andhmuse him. Now, ji sftnk back) helplessly, andjdpyed with the whensudden disease hadlaid herlow,her 1 hoverof the hide distrees. earthly thought was for him, and where in 2 ‘dt’s so'warm,“and suoh weajry, walking all theworld the person eoiald be found who) U P the hill,’ I said oarelessly, though I *Ti' • :’i-T had the courage, the cheerfulness, the self- I denial, to take such a oharge upon her, and ' who, at the same time, had no qther ties to stand in the way. Why she thonghtof me, ‘ I do'not know, and how she found out all the remarkable traits In me that I have never been able to perceive before or sinoe, : I don’t know either, unless it may be that i people always see what they look for very j earnestly ; but the tenor of the twd letters i to Mr. Wells and myself was that, if I i would take so great a charge upon myself, ! I should have such a legacy as would make me independent for the reat of my life, and j would confer jpon a dying woman the ; greatest possible oonsolation. Hooked at : Mr. Wells when I had finished reading iny i letter. ‘ 4 What do you think of ir?’ I asked: j 4 I think Providence give's you ah oppor ! tunity to do a great, deal.of good,’ he an ] swered. ‘ You are well fitted for such a j place, and there can. be no r impropriety in ; it, since Miss Watkins’ companion and | servants would still remain, and it would j materially better your prospects (glancing lat my shoe). But you will want a few ! hours for consideration.’ i 4 Notan hour,’ I said. 4 You are a good man, you always counsel me right. What ! ought I to do V i 4 1 think you ought at least to try,’ he said. ‘Then I will try,’ I answered, ‘if you oan get some one to fill my place here without difficulty. But I will have nothing to do with the legacy—no bribes for me. She may pay me just what I reoeive here, and I will do the best I can, provided I can give up the oharge when 1 think I oan no longer do any good.’ 4 1 think you won’t repent it, and I’m very glad to have suoh a favorable answer to send Miss Watkins ; for I assure you her heart is in it,’ he said, as he went out. If, in the few days that were required to furnish a substitute and prepare my small wardrobe for the change in my for tunes, any secret anxiety or regret as to the step I was about to take crossed my mind, I comforted myself with the reflec tion that I was entirely alone in the world, poor and friendless, excepting the good people who had compassion upon my forlorn childhood, and if they thought 1 had better take this responsibility if I had health, hope, a dear consoienee, and a pretty good stook of patience, what should deter me from giving the new life a trial 1 I pass over the journey whioh I made with Mr Wells in the old ohaise and gray mare that had carried him for twenty years, with all the varied incident and pleasant conversation by the way; the sad greeting of Mrs. Wells, who had been in attendance upon her friend, and dosed her eyes only the night before ; the funeral; the depar ture of my two friends, and the dreary blank of two lonely, rainy days that follow- 53&£A%3<1-blM.>uu 44 THAT OOUHTBY IB THM MOOT LANCASTER CITY, PA;, TUESDAY MORNING, MARCH 11, 1862. felt my own cheek finsh a jlittle; for thip man, effeminate as he was, had the air and look of a gentleman, ‘ You have been very fortunate,’ he said stammeringly, looking at my flowers. ‘Yes, indeed! And yon are very fortunate in having such a fine variety here Mr. Watkins,’ I said. ‘ Those beauti ful wild roses I had some difficulty in get-' ting. They grew in. a very steep place.’ 4 I oame hear losing my life,there onoe,’ he said, speaking more to himself than me. 4 Tell me about it while Y.tie these up,’ I said, shaking'the flowers loose into my lap. ■ / 4 It would scarcely interest you, and if you’ll please exouse me, I should be grate ful,’ he said, in the tone of an abased child. T ' ' ‘ 4 Oh, certainly,’ I said. ‘ Another time will do as well,’ but I coolly continued iny task of arranging the flowers, asking'him' all manner of questions, telling him how thickly the flowers bloomed on a certain; bank, where he mustliave gathered them : many times, (I’m sure he brushed away a tear then,) bow graoefully that beeoh drooped to the lake, and how I meant to sketob it some day, and other things I meant to do, too, if he gave his permission —among the rest, to work in the flower beds in the front garden. 4 0 yes,’ he said, languidly, 1 1 bad his permission to do whatever I chose.’ And he looked so very mueh wearied and bored, that I took my leave,' laying a fresh bonqnet on his book as I went out. I! dare say Margery threw it ont of the win dow when she went in, and I know she was very oarefnl to close the door, and intimate that Mr. Watkins was miserable after my call. But 1 was not to be banlked in that way. Two days afterward, I presented myself again to ask permission about repairing the hen-roost, and get a little advice as to how it was to be done. Mr. Watkins looked excessively annoyed, would leave the whole matter in my hands, and permit me to do just as I pleased. That was hardly fair, I told him. I really thought the repairs ought to be made. I had no experience, and besides, the servants would be so rnuoh more prompt if they were obeying their master’s orders. In short, I made him have Tom the gardener in, and hold qnite a consulta tion, much to that worthy’s astonishment. When the repairs were oompleted, and all swept and garnished about them, I went for him to come and see it. He actually opened his eyes wide with astonishment at the proposal, but I pretended not to see. I insisted that he would be so delighted to see his poultry in suoh a superior habi- tation—l laughed and teasod, and was so determined that he gave up, though with a poor grace, and allowed himself to be conducted out. Onoe there, I introduced him to the hens and chickens with the most ridiculous gravity—l made him feed and count them ; and when he would leave, I persuaded him to go round and tell me the name of a flower that had just bloomed beneath his windows. ‘ It was a favorite flower of my sister’s once,’ he said, ‘ though I have not seen any for a long time.’ He turned away mournfully. 1 asked him if it would disturb him to have me work there f I had already ar ranged the other flower beds. ‘ Not in the least,’ he said, ‘ if I would be good enough not to remove that flower.’ I promised that it should be very oare- fully tended, and the next morning I com menced. I suppose he heard me striking the hoe and spade against the stones (at least I meant he should;) for after I had been a couple of hours at work, he sent Margery to ask if I had not better let the gardener do that hard work. I kept it up every morning for a week, taking care to work pretty hard and make some noise, and at the end of that time I sent him a bouquet of the flowers, and asked if he would not oome out and see my improve ments. I knew he would be ashamed to refuse, and when I got him out, I took pretty good care to fatigue him well. Then 1 wished him to go with me into the sitting room to see the wild flowers I had brought. I sat him down quite as a matter of course, and ringing the bell carelessly, I asked if he would not as lief have his lunoheon there with me. I knew he was annoyed ; for Margery always took in his lunoheon, with the same solemn state, walking on tip toe, as though the breath of a jostle would spoil the whole oontrivance. However, I made him take it there, and he ate much more than usual, too, I saw. And I ate a plate of sandwiohes, and ohatted with all the relish in the world. I told him stories of Mr. and Mrs. Wells, and some of their parishioners, and he smiled two or three times at my descrip tion of some of the droll people. Then I offered to wait on him to his room, and was oareful that he should bear his own weight considerably.. The next day I dragged him out to see about the thinning out the grove at the back of the house, and persuaded him to let me read to him after 1 went in. After that I was regularly installed as reader ; at my own request, or rather demand, it is true ; but I saw my patient grow more and more interested in the volumes I brought him. I oooked his luncheon, too, and in a playful sort of tyranny I made him give up his’ gruel and simple messes, and take more generous food. / soon saw a ohange in him. He liked the morning exeroise that I always proposed, and after much persuasion was induced to let me drive him out sometimes in very pleasant weather. He would criti cise the reading, sometimes ask for an extra cnp of ohoeolate when he was very tired, make me stop the horse while he looked at some view of whioh he had been fond, and relate anecdotes of his youth and the school-fellows who had oome home to spend the vacation with him. He asked me one day if I ever sang.— I told him I was very fond of singing, but only indulged myself in the luxury when I was ont in the woods among the birds. He stammered, colored, said he hoped he hadn’t stood in the way of pleasure. He wished me to do whatever I liked about the house. ‘ Didn’t he dislike singing V I asked. ‘ Not in the least—at any rate, not now,’ he answered. It was twilight, and without another word I opened my month and let the im prisoned songs go free. I had been long ing to sing all day, and I sang to my heart’s content, until the darkness fell, [ and I heard my companion weeping- as. | silently as he could in its shadow. 1 j ‘ Now you are. wearied allxrat with my nonsense, Mr. Watkins, and want td go to man labor ookkaudb thx gmatrst rbward.”—bttcharaic. your own room,’, I said, rising and offering my arm. He took it,,without & word, stopped hi his door to say 4 thank you,’ hesitated as_ if he would have stud something more, .but went on without doing so, and sat down in the window towards his sister’s grave. —?. That wouldn’t do, I knew, so I took inhis tea myself, drew down the blinds, made, the room cheerful, and spent the evening chatting merrily. From that time I sang as mueh as I chose, and Mr. Watkins’ door was always opened quietly when I began.; I, don’t know how he .found . out the ampnnt of my ; salary, , unless, he took the trouble to write ,to. Mr. Wells, who was.his sister’s executor; but one fiay, about a' week after he had seen me turning an old,' mttoh-wom dress, he said .with so muioh embarrassment and effort, that I was some time in comprehending him, that he wished I would accept'* larger stipend, since the one I received must be altogether inade- quate to my wants, and far : below what such a sacrifice as mine required. He would have- added something about his deep obligation to me, but I stopped him at once. He was under no obligation, for I had been as happy there as. ever before. I had no home to leave when I oame there, no friends to regret or long for. If I could do him any good I was more than satisfied. And as to my finanoes, Ltold him : laughingly how much money I had laid up out of my small salary for the last five years. He should see that I was not so poor as-he thought me. ‘ And I have wasted those years,’ was all he said. I knew that his moral nature was roused to a eonsoiousness of the wickedness of snoh a waste. It was what I had wanted, and I watched him day by day as it grew in strength, pushing him before it relent lessly, more and more into the proper life of a man of snoh privileges and responsi bilities. To be sure, he was months in getting a man’s strength and courage, and snoh a burden of listlessness as lay upon him, was not shaken off at the first effort; but the principle of his life was there, and I tended and encouraged it as a mother would a feeble child. But as the summer passed, our relations began to change. From being a nurse, teacher, tyrant, I found myself obliged to settle gradually into a companion and sort of upper servant. Mr. Watkins treated me with all'possible deferenee and atten tion. .He consulted me upon all subjects, and never seemed to be so well pleased as when I was sitting with him reading, or singing, or walking about the grounds.— A sister could not have been more tender- ly considered, more gently oared for ; but he was taking his proper plaoe in the house and without a struggle or effort I fell into mine. I was pleased that it should be so; it was what I had labored and wished for —a remarkably fortunate termination to my mission; and I was proud and thankful that I had won such a man back to his sphere. But there was a lingering dissat isfaction, which I tried hard to root out of my heart, and was most heartily ashamed of; but which nevertheless would not be buried out of sight. I had been first there —most considered of all—the prop on which a gifted man leaned absolutely; and it was hard to find myself nothing more than an esteemed guest among oth ers. For now Mr. Watkins had taken up his manhood again ; old friends and neigh bors crowded around him ; and whether he liked it or not, the house was always full of company and excitement. Onoe in a while we had a quiet morning’s reading or walking, as of old ; but those times grew more and more rare, and 1 could not but feel that some of Mr. Watkins’ guests looked upon me as an inferior. Then my pride rose. I hadn’t believed there was so much in me. 1 was something like the stripped trees I walked among. All the leaves that hacMatmted and rustled about me in that fortunate summer had fallen, and left me but a very scant skeleton of a trunk and a few straggling boughs. I might walk on my faded honors for ever more, with as much impunity as I trampled on the dead leaves now, and nobody would oare. Never mind, it was something to have bloomed onoe, and they should find that my fibre was as tough as any of theirs. I went home from that walk quite hard, and determined to think myself ill-ÜBed, ' paoked my trunk (it didn’t take long,) 1 wrote to Mr. Wells that I was comings an nounced my deparure to the housekeeper, and then walked stiffly into Mr. Watkins’ sitting-room, where he and Mr. Bailey were (Mr. Bailey was always there now,) and told him I should leave the next day, as oarelessly as I would have asked him what sort of a pudding he would have. < Leave !—rand to-morrow, Miss Ray V £e always called me Miss Ray before Mr. ailey, or his sister.) ‘ Yes, sir,’ I answered coolly. ‘My little charges are again without a head, 'Mr. Wells writes me, and they clamor for their old teacher. I must say my heart draws me strongly back there. (/ hope 1 may be forgiven that falsehood.) I think I can be dispensed with now ; and I should have announced my intention before if you had not been so much engaged.’ He followed me into the hall. ‘ You ought to give me the refusal'of a week or two, Esther,’ he said, with a faint smile and a very gentle voice. He would have used that same term with a servant. My proud blood was all up, but t held the reins tightly, and my voioe was calm. < 1 have already stayed from my duties longer than I ought, Mr. Watkins —stayed from my home, I should say; and as winter draws on I feel that I must be there in my own suitable place. In short, if 1 must confess it, I am a little home-sick.’ (Again I must ask forgiveness.) ‘ Then we will not detain yon,’ he Baid, quietly, I almoßt thought a little sadly.— ‘ 1 will take you to the first stage myself, or, if you wish, 1 will go quite there with you.’ ‘ By no means ; and 1 should be quite content if Daniel took me to meet the stage in the gig. If he pleased it would do just as well.’ * It should be as I liked,’ he said, now a little haughtily; and bowing a little stiffly, I went up-stairs. I’ve seen children fling their bakes or toys away to gratify a stubborn pride, and grieve themselves to death for the loss of them. I was just like such a child. I set my teeth hard together, : and would not weep that night; neither when Mr. Wat kjns again in the morning urged me to stay a little longer, nor when in faltering words he pressed his deep obligations, and K _ji tbelifelong friendship! had earned fro nr him. It is a wonder that 1 ! got away- so' mflmly.and they all but heartless ; butMr.Bailey was. there, early ms it was, and he should not see me flinch. I had to-keepnp until Daniel was out- of.sighk, and I; foundunyaelf whirling, over a roeky Toad the only passenger-iff a* erossrcountry coach. How thankful I was -for that solitude! How thankful-for my lonely room at home, and the 'uhexpfedled absence from home of my friends, who had not Ajeived my letter. .1 had time to go dotm to the bottom of my heart, to bury its’-dead, to mourn,, and to be comforted, as those can who feel that they have lived the best Of life, but scorn to walk'less "proudly in the shadow than, when the sun’ shone pleasaatly upon,.them. ; . The.good people of the parsonage were not so much surprised to see me as-I . had expected. They had heard from Mr. Wat kins, of his almost perfect recovery, and had been loobing for me, they said. I was overwhelmed with praises and weloomes, although I thought they seemed a little surprised when I told them that , 1 had eome to my sohool again. Perhaps they thonght I would accept Mr. Watkins’ mnnifioent offer of a large annuity. If so, they misjudged me. I heard from him only once in the next three months, although he wrote a few times to Mr. Wells on business. There was always a kind message to me, and Mr. Wells used to say, in answer to my inquiries, that Mr. Wat kins was quite well, and remarkably atten tive to business. I hope I had nut wished otherwise, but it gave me a pang, to think that he could do so well without,,me. One afternoon—it was late in February, and very snowy—Mrs. Wells sent the boy up to the sohool-house with a note for me to come down to the parsonage to tea; and after the copy-books were all prepared, I put on my bonnet and went slowly along, watohing the heavily-laden trees by the wayside, and the low-lying clouds that promised them a yet heavier burdeu. I stopped so often to look about and think, that it was growing dusk when I Btepped into the hall, but as they drank tea late, I thought it no harm. Mrs. Wells looked out from the dining-room and pointed me to the parlor. ‘You will find an old friend in there,’ she said. * And not an unwelcome one, I hope,’ said a voioe that thrilled me like a light ning shock, and a warm hand held mine, and drew me, I scarcely knew how, into the bright parlor, and pulled off my shawl with a dear, familiar kindness, quite irre sistible to one who had thirsted for it so long. ‘ How very thin you are grown,’ he said. ‘ How you surprised me !’ I answered. ‘ I should never have thought of seeing you.’ ‘ But you are not sorry to see me, I hope,’ he said, with a look and tone that brought the blood into my cheek. ‘ Not exactly sorry,’ I answered. ‘ But are you perfectly well V ‘ Not so well that 1 can live without my physician,’ he said, softly. ‘ Esther, the sohool will do very well without you.’ ‘No, indeed, Mr. Watkins,’ I said, try ing to look indifferent. 1 I’m indispensable here.’ ‘ You are indispensable to me,’ he an swered, ‘ and you promised to stay as long as you were needed. You broke that promise when you went away so suddenly. It was scarcely fair.’ ‘ You had no further need of me,’ I said. ‘ How inexpressibly I have needed you. Esther !’ he exolaimed. ‘ When you went, I lost my physioian, nurse, companion, friend, my very life and soul—you were everything in one. Esther, will you take a life-lease of the plaoe and its master, and come back again ?’ Mrs. Wells said she rung the tea-bell six times, hut I always thought she was joking. However, 1 can only add that in a very short time 1 beoame Mrs. Watkins ; and it all came about, as you may see, through my skill in curing Mr. Watkins. Providence Prospers Honesty, BY MBS. ST. SIMON, A poor boy, about ten years of age, entered the warehouse of a rioh merchant, Samuel Bitoher, in Dantzie, and asked the book-keeper for alms. ‘ You will get nothing here,’ grumbled the man, ‘so be off.’ Weeping bitterly,the boy glided towards the door, and that moment Herr Bitoher entered- ‘ What is the matter here?’ he asked, turning towards the book-keeper. ‘ A worthless beggar boy,’ was the man’s answer, and he seareely looked up from his work. In the meanwhile Herr Bitoher glanced towards the boy, and remarked that, when close to the door, he pioked up something from the ground. ‘ Ha! my little lad, what is that you pioked up ?’ he cried. The weeping boy turned and showed him a needle. ‘ And what will you do with it ?’ asked the other. ‘My jacket has holes in it,’ was the answer. < I will sew up the big ones.’ Herr Hitcher was pleased with the reply, and still more with the boy’s inno cent, handsome faee. ‘ But are you not ashamed,’ he said, in a kind, though serious tone, ‘ you, so young and hearty, to beg ? Can you work?’ ‘ Ah, my dear sir,’ replied the boy, ‘ 1 do not know how, and lam too little yet to thrash or fell wood. My father died three weeks ago, and my poor mother and little brother have eaten nothing these two days. Then / ran out in anguish, and begged for alms. But alas! a single peasant only gave me yesterday a piece of bread since then /have not eaten a morsel!’ ft is quite customary for beggars by trade to contrive tales like this, and thus harden many a heart against the claims of genuine want. But this time the merchant trusted the boy’s honest faoe. He thrust his hand into his pooket, drew forth a pieoe of money, and said : ‘There is a half dollar, go to the baker’s and with half the money buy bread for yourself, your mother and'brothers, but bring the other half to mb.’ ■ The boy took the mondy and ran joy fully away. - * Well,’ said the surly book-keeper, ‘ he will' laugh in his sleeve, and never come baek again.’ - „ ‘ Who Jmows,?’"'feMied. / Herr And'as 'he spike 1 hAheheldtbe Isiy, re turning, running quickly with^alirgeloaf J ot Bi^6 Kl Biiek3 'in J bne : iiknd" and 'koine i: uioney urfhe other.” •• 03 : - c "- ' ‘ There, good sir,’ he oried, almost breathless,' ‘ there is the rest of the money;’ Than- b&g. very hungry, he begged! at onoe for knife to out, off a piece of the : breeds The: book-keeper readied himiin ,§ijenea his pocket-knife. -• sd . . Tljelad put off , a slioe in great hasta, and was about to bite .upon it. But sud denly bethonght himself, laid the bread aside, and folding his hands, rehearsed a silent prayer.' Then he fell to his meal with a hearty .appetite. The merchant was moved by the boy’s unaffected piety.-' He ’ inquired after his family at home, and learned that his father had dived in a village, about four miles -from Dantzie, where: he owned a small house and farm, h Brit his house had been burned to the ground, and much sickness in his family compelled him to sell his farm. He had then hired himself out to a rich neighbor, but before three- weeks were at an end he died, broken down by grief and - excessive toil. - And now his mother, whom sorrow had thrown upon a bed of sioknoss, was, with her four children, Suffering the : bitterest poverty. He, the eldest, had re solved to seek assistance, and had gone at first from village to village, then had struok-. into the high road, and at last, having beg ged:, everywhere in vain, had come to- Dantzie. The merchant’s heart was touched. He had but one child, and the . boy appeared to hiiq as a draft at sight, whioh Providence had drawn upon him as a test of his grat itude'. ‘ Listen, my son,’ he began, ‘ have you then really a wish to learn V ‘Oh, yes; I have, indeed’’ oried the boy, ‘ 1 have read the oatechism already, and I should know a good deal more, bnt at home I had always- my little brother to oarry, for my mother-was siok in bed.’ Herr Bitcher suddenly formed his res olution. ‘ Well, then,’ he said, ‘as you are good, honest and industrious, I will take good oare of you. You shall learn, have meat and drink, and clothing, and in time earn something more. Then you oan support your mother arid brothers also.’ The boy’s eyes flashed with joy. But in a moment he east them to the ground again, and said sadly, ‘ my mother all this while has nothing to eat.’ At this instant, as if sent by Providence an inhabitant of the boy’s native village entered Herr Biteher’s house. The man confirmed the lad’s story, and willingly consented to carry the mother’s tidings of her son (xottleib, and food and a small sum of money from the merohant. At the same time Herr Bitoher directed his book keeper to write a letter to the pastor of the village, oommending the widow to his care, with an additional sum for the poor family, and promised future assistance. As soon as this was done, Herr Bitoher at onoe furnished the boy with deoent olothes, and at noon led him to his wife, whom he accurately informed of little Gottleib’s story, and of the plan he had formed for him. The good woman readily promised her best assistance in the matter, and she faithfully kept her word. During the next four years, Gottleib at tended the schools of the great commercial city;.then his faithful foster father took him into his coanting room, in order to eduoate him for business. Here, as well as there, at the waiting desk, as on the school bench, the ripening youth distinguished himself, not only by his natural oapaoity, but by the faithful industry with which he exer cised it. With all this his heart retained its native innocenoe. Of this weeKly al lowance, he sent the half regularly to his mother until she died, after having sur vived two of his brothers. She had passed the last years of her life, not in wealth, it is true, but by the aid of the noble Bitoher and of her faithful son, in a condition above want. After the death of his beloved mother, there was no dear friend left to Q-ottleib in the world except his benefactor. Out 01 love for him he beoame an active, zealons merchant. He began by applying the superfluity of his allowance, which he could now dispose of at his pleasure, to trade in Hamburg quills. When he had gained about a hundred and twenty dollars, it happened that he found in his native village a considerable quantity of hemp and flax, which was very good and still to be had at a reasonable price. He asked his foster father to advance him two hundred dollars, whioh the latter did with great readiness. And the business prospered so well, that in the third year of his olerkship, Gottleib had already acquired the sum of five hun dred dollars. Without giving up his trade in flax, he” now trafficked also in linen goods, and the two combined made him, in a couple of years, about a thousand dollars richer. This happened during the customary five years of olerkship. At the end of this period, G-ottleib continued to serve his benefaotor five years more, with industry, skill and fidelity;—then he took the place of the book-keeper who died about this time, and three years afterwards he was■ taken by Herr Bitoher as a partner into his business, with a third part of his profits. But it was not God’s will that the pleasant partnership should be of long duration. An insidious disease cast Herr Bitoher upon a bed of siokness, and kept him for two years confined on his couch. All that gratitude could suggest, Gottleib now did to repay his benefactor’s kindness. Bedoubling his exertions, he became the soul of the whole business, and still he watched long nights at the old man’s bed side, with his grieving wife, until, in the sixty-fifth year ofhis age, Herr Bitoher dosed his eyes in death. Before his decease he placed the hand of his only daughter, a. sweet girl of two and’ twenty years," in that ofhis belayed foster. son,* He had long .looked' upon them bothaa his children.. They under stood him; they loved each other; and in. silence yet affectionately, and . earnestly, solemnized their betrothal at the bedside of their dying father. ' r In the year 1828, ten years after Herr Bitoher’s death, the house of Gottleib Bern, late Samuel Bitoher, was one of the most respectable in all Dantzie. It owned three large ships employed in navigating the Baltic and North Seas, and the care of. Providence seemed to” watoh.overr the inter-: ests of their worthy owner; -for worthy he remained.in.hig prosperity. He honored his a son, apdoherished her declining age with ;a®ation, until ..in her and. sey entipihyea>r ..ghd died’ihhis armsj ‘ " As his own marriage proved 'onirdl'ess, he took the eldest son of eaoh of his two remaining brothers, now substantial far mers, into Mb house, and destined them to be his heira. Butin Order to confirm them in their humanity, he often showed them the needle which had proved, such a source of blessing to him, anu bOijueathed it as a perpetual legaoy to the eldest son in the family. . it is but a lew years since this ohild ot poverty, of honesty, industry B“»* fortune, passed in peace from thijl ‘ Mark the perfeot man, and hrbhoti* the npright, for the end of that man is pekoe.' —Psalms xxxcii. POPPING THE QUESTION. F>St Sully and her lover, Met, Oloee bythe fire in sllenoe eat; A dish of apples, rosy-faced, ■ Was ’tween them on the table plaoed In vain poor Mat essayed to speak; While blqshes mantled Sally’s cheek ; , For well she knew what Mat would say, If he ooold only find the way. 'l'o him she oast a.side-long look. Then' from the dish an apple took; And deftly slicing it in twain, ’! She passei half to the aileutewaia'. , : _ Mat then brightened up. Add Said, as he the apple took: “ Now; Sally;’dearest, unto mb,'' At kindas to this.nin&in bn— You’ve halved thn havf me,!*’ THE LANCASTER INTBllililWfiSffefilß -.no. isQstm vv&s bt&bbx, ; j*iNCAgisa> .pa The Jobbing Department. ia, thoroughly funushoa with new and elegant type' of every- description, and U-'tinder thechargeof si practical and experienced Job: Printe©r“ The Proprietor* are pfepared.tp . , v . PRINT OHEOKB, T - ’ • ' :yJ NOTES, LEGALBLANKS - rjcStt.o -.' CARDS AND dRGULABS, BILL HEADS AND HANDBILL?/ ; - :: - J EROGILAMMBS'JANDtPOSTERS, PAPER BOOKS PAMPHLETS, ••• bALL'TICKETkaND INVITATIONS, PRINTING IN OOLORS AND PLAIN PRINTING, .with neatness, apcnracy. and reason a* ble terms, and in a manner nqt excelled by any establish ment in'the city. ’ 1 'I — 1” Orders -ftoin a dlatanoe,. .by mail or otherwise, promptly attended to. Address , * • GEO. BANDEBBO& * SON, • ; Intelligencer Office,, , No. 8 North Duke street, Lancaster, Pa. A OLERICAN LIFE INSiJBANOB &SD A. .. TRUST .COMPANY.. CAPITAL Bto OK , *6 0 0,0 00 Company's Boilding, Walnut street, B.E. cbrnerof Fourth PHILADEL P H I A. ?' LIFE INSURANCE AT THE USUAL MUTUAL RAWS, or at Joint Stock Rates, at about 2D per cent., lessor at Total Abstinence Rates, the lowest in the world. . A. WHILEDtN, President J. C. Sms, Secretary. U. 8. GAEA, Esq., East King street, Agent for Lanoaa ter cftunty , [nulr 2frly 10 Dr .j . t . bake r, . * HOMEOPATHIC PHYSICIAN, 0 9 L. A.SOAI Q r*jr- t - may be consulted professionally, at his Office, at Henry Bear's Hotel, in the Borough of Strasborg, on Thuredayof each week, from 10 o'clock in the morning to .thee?, in. the afternoon. , An opportunity ia thna afforded to residents of Btrashnrg and vicinity to avail themselves of Homoeopathic treatment, and females suffering from chronic.diseases may enjoy the advice of one who has made this class of diseases: a speciality. J. I. BAKER, MjDm; .. Homoeopathic.Physician, oct 22 tf 41J East King street, above Lime, Lancaster. DRESSJLER’S ' BAIR Ji » ELRT STORE, No. 206 North Bth Stbxm abovs Raox, > PHILADELPHIA. On hand and for sale, a choice assortment ol superior patterns, and will plait to order BRACELETS, EAR RINGS, FINGER RINGS, BREAST PINS, CROSSES, NECKLACES, GUARD AND VEST. CHAINS. Orders enoloslug the hair to be plaited may be sent by mail. Give a drawing aa near as yon can on paper, and enclose each amount as you may choose to pay. Costs as follows: Ear Rings $2 to s6—Breast Pips $3 to $7 —Finger Ringß 76 cents to s2.6o—Vest Chains $8 tos7 « Necklaces $2 to $lO. . i 9ST Hair put into Medallons, Box Breast Pins, Rings, Ac. i OLD GOLD AND SILVER BOUGHT AT FAIR RATES. apr 16 ly 14. tr AN I N G E N * 8N T Dfi , V DESIGNERS AND ENGRAVERS ON WOOD, N. E. Corner sth and Chestnut Streets, Execute all kinds of WOOD ENGRAVING, with beauty, correctness and despatch—Original Designs furnished "for fine Rook Illustr&tlona—Persons wishing Cuts, by sending a Photograph or Daguerreotype, can have Tiews of COLLEGES, CHURCHES, COTTAGES, STORE FRONTS, PORTRAITS, MACHINES, STOVES, PATENTS, do. Engraved as well as on personal application. FANCY ENVELOPES, LABELS, BILL HEADINGS, SHOW BILLS, VISITING, BUSINESS and ptber CARDS, engraved'iu the highest style of the Art, and at the lowest prices. 1 For Specimens of Pine Engraving, see the Illustrated Works of J. B. LIPPINOOTT A Co., E. H. BUTLER 4 Op* 4c., Ac. foot 28 ly 41’ Seasonable dry-good,s A t SAGER & BROTHERS,, i NEW STYLES LADIES’ DRESS GOODS. PLAIN VELOURS AND OTTOMANS. BROCHA AND PRINTED REPS. - PRINTED CASHMERES AND MERINOES. RICH AND NEAT DELAINES. ‘ PLAIN AND HIGH COLORED FRENCH MERUTOEB. NEAT AND BRIGHT SAXONY PLAIDS. SACKING FLANNELS in Plain and Bright Colors and Plaids. -* White Shaker Flannels—Ballard Vale Flannels—Welsh Flannels—Red, Plain and- Drilled Flannels—Black, Brown and White Lancaster County Flannels, BALMORAL AND HOOPED SKIRTS. ‘ BLANKETS BLANKETS BLANKETS. nov 26 tf 40 JJ OLI D A Y GIFTS! WARE! SILVER WA REIT PIE, CAKE AND BUTTER KNIVES. SUGAR, CREAM AND OYSTER BPOONB. . SOUP AND OYBTER LADLES, ' SPOONS, FORKS, 4a, 4a Latest Styles and Best Worxmahbhtp. . SILVER-PLATED WARE t SILVER-PLATED WARE*!! BASKETS, CASTORS, PITCHERS, MUGS, * SPOONS, FORKS, 40., 4a, Just frou the Fact 0 * us. WATCHES! WATCHESJJ WATOHESJU WARRANTED TIME-KEEPERS. CHEAP! CHEAP II CHEAP 11 CLOCKS! CLOCKS!! CLOCKS!!! gilt, ooluhn Aim plain frosts. JEWELRY! JEWELRYII JEWS IB YU! LATZBT BTTLIB AND BIST QUALITT. RHOADS 4 GILLESPIE, , 2 West Kino Btk 11 *, Between Cooper’s Hotel and J. G. Gets’s Dry Goods Store; doc 17 tf 49 gOMB THIBIG N B' W HIGHLY IMPORTANT TO THE LADIES. DOWNER’S PATENT AND SHIELD, JOB HAND SEWING. Ib pronounced by all who hare used it “just the thing ” for those using the needle, as It completely protects the finger, and makes a neat and-uniform hem while the opera tor is sewing. One-half the labor of sewing is saved by using this' ' RF.MARK ART.Y SIMPLE AND NOVEL INVENTION. No lady should be without it. It is also’“just the thing ” for girls to use learning to sew.: • Its remarkable cheapness brings it within reach of the million. Sample sent by mail on receipt of the price. * TWENTY-FIVE CENTS. , Descriptive Circniars furnished on application. A LIBERAL DISCOUNT TO THE TRADE. .~o Enterprising Agents (wanted in every town and eohnty throughout the United States and CamSLa,) wUlflild' meet profitable employment in selling this useful article, as. it meets with ready sales wherever offered—has no competi tion—and profits are very large. - . r $l5O PER MONTH CAN BE REALIZED. Address, A. H. DOWNER, 442 Broadway, New York, : Patentee and Sole Proprietors N. B.—General and exclusive Agencies will be granted on the most liberal terms:- {dec 24 Sm-60 JJU* GOODS AT O L DPRIO ES . WENTZ BROS. Have in store'a large stock of DOMESTIC GOODS, Muslins, Sheetings, Shirtings, Caliooee, 4c., '- * Worthy the attention of all Housekeepers, and thereabout commencing. GOOD CALICOES, 10,-1% 16 and 16 cents. Bleached and Unbleached Sheetings and Shirting?, with a large asscrtment of HOUSEKEEPING GOODS, Many of them purchased before the advance in prices. ' Consequently selling at Old Priest. JUST OPENED: ' ° NEW LOT OP BALMORAL SKIRTS, c Beautiful Purple.—MjurnptA—Onx;n Scarlet—Blue, 1 CASE RICH NEW STILE DELAINES. 2 1 Selling at the Old Prise, 25 cent*. ; THE WHOLE STOCK Of • PRESS GOODS ~ SELLING OFF AT REDUCED PRICES*.-;::* i. To miks room for Spring Stodfc. ■ WENTZ BROS* -Ha 6 But King street. febl&tf «J I I'C OHPOH A TED,. I 9‘M I bastford hue insurance company,* OP HARTEORD, OONN. _ - j OATITAL ANP V. C. Ailtw, Secretary. • .;:s *nU l!/t • Policies issued and renewed; .loeaee • equitably adjusted and paid 1 immediately, upon satiaftctory rr6dft,''6» New Yorfcfmdx* by the undersigned, theDULxAUTHaEUED T s,a.a. e baa to a /•«* Noa IWuoisr North 4eoll,’oOt&S} - ~ *•
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers