VOL. LXIY mg LANCASTER INTELLIGENCER ULTIMO NUM TITZSDAT.,II . O. 8 NORTH DOLT STRUT, BY GEO:BANDERSON. TERMS 8 anscatpuoa.—Two Dollars per annum, payable in ad vance. No subscription discontinued until all arrear- Agee are paid, 'Unless at the option of the Editor. ADvxmarsowre.—Advertisements, riot exceeding one square, (12 lines,) will be inserted three times for one dollar, and twenty-five cents for each additional inser tion. Those of greater length in proportion. Jon Ponrrnso—Sush u Hand Bile, Posters, Pamphlets, Blanks, Labels, &c., &c., executed with accuracy and on the shortest notice. TO A SPIRIT. From the far•off Spirit Land, Dost thou hail? For thy thin and shadowy hand, And thy face so wan and bland, And so pale, And thy voice, so faint and lone, And its melancholy tone, Tell the tale. In that far•off land and drear, Do there glide, Mid that voiceless atmosphere; The dim shadows of the dear Who have died— Silent, sad, and lone, Eaoh to each unknown, Side by side? 'Neath that sky Bo low and grey, Like,a cell, Where vaporous twilight-day, Never lifts its veil away, Do they dwell, These funereal crowds, With the grave-damp on their shrouds? Spirit, tell! Would a single shade obey, Should I call? Or, divested of this clay And its passions, do they stray 'Neath that pall, Unhearing and unseeing, With a blank and vacant being, Lifeless all? Of the past do they retain Not a gleam? Or doth a hope remain, They shall ever wake again? Do they dream Of Loye, which o'er the wave Of the Lethe of the grave Caste its beam? Thou art silent. Com'st thou hero To command A mortal to appear, In that world of doubt and fear, Spirit Land, Chang'd to a shade of air, Mid those spectral shadows there Give thy hand ! Remorse I feel not now, Nor shall I feel; There's no brand upon my brow For a brother, that I bow To thy will ; But a self-sustaining trust In the Morey of the Just Arms me still. gone—p mournful shade, As it came ; With its misty robe arrayed, As if smitten and dismayed, And in shame: What power in Mercy lies, When an evil phantom flies At the name! THE VEILED PICTURE ; THE, MYSTERY OF THE LIBRARY No searching eye can pierce the veil That o'er my secret life is thrown; No outward signs reveal its tale, But to my bosom known. Thus like the spark, whose vivid light In the dark flint is hid from sight, It dwells within, alone. —Mrs. Henzans g What have you concealed here ?' said, taking hold of the heavy silk drapery attached to a rosewood cornice, and falling in graceful folds to the floor. Lillian ! Lillian ! don't raise it !' screamed Mrs. Thornton, springing from the easy chair in which she had been re clining with the listlessness of a dreamy child ; and darting to my side, she pressed so heavily against the veil, that I could discern the outline of a picture frame. A picture I exclaimed. 0, I must see it, for I can never rest where there is anything mysterious. s But this you cannot—must not—see.' I did not reply, for having been an in mate of the house only a week, and this being my first visit to the library, I did not give utterance to the thoughts which rushed through my mind. Perhaps Mrs. Thornton divined my thoughts, as, after a moment's silence, she said : You are to have access to this library at all times—every book is at your ser vice, and you are at liberty even to rum mage the drawers and pigeon holes of my desk, if your cariosity demands it; but you must not look beneath the veil that 'hides this picture ;' and her pale lips trembled, her dark, expressive eyes were fixed upon „mine, Just one glance,' I said, pleadingly ; but she moved her head negatively, and I went on : How can I study with that mys tery ever before me ; and, then, too, I shall never sleep soundly again, but dream the livelong night of this mystical veil, and that it , hides some strange, weird image . ; or worse, become a somnambulist, and frighten every servant (who happens to fear ghosts) from the house, by mid night explorations and wanderings.' No eye but mine ever looks upon this veiled picture. It is sacred, for it is the only relic I have preserved of'my past life —all that I have to remind me of happy days too bright to last— of a 'brief period when life's pathway was strewn with flow ers, and I dreampt not that beneath those fair, perfumed flowers' petals, sharp pierc ing thorns were hidden.' Her face was pale as death, and those deep, dark eyes moist with pearly tears. I saw that her heart was deeply pained ; that welling from memory's fount, came painful remembrance, and truly penitent, I said, r Forgive my thoughtless words, and I promise never to raise the veil from this picture, nor pain your heaft by my questions.' An intense smile stole over her pale features, and kissing my cheek, she mur mured, Dear child ; perhaps some day I may lift the veil, and tell you all.' Then turning away to hide her tears, left me standing before the veiled picture. It was rather curious how I came to be a dweller in the house of Mrs. Thornton. Two years before, when but fourteen years old, I came to New Haven to attend school, and soon after my father leaving for Europe, where he expected to remain three years, entrusted me to the guardian ship of Mr. Howe, an old friend of his college days. It was at the house of Mr. Howe that I first became acquainted with Mrs. Thornton. She went but little into society, and my guardian's was one of the few families she visited. Her pale, expressive face attracted me, and then, too, there was an indefinable something in her ,dark, liquid eyes, now so sad, and now glowing witb an intense smile, that woke an answering echo in my young heart.— She always called me to her side to ask me about her studies ; and when a new book was announced which she thought would be suitable for me to read, she placed it in my hand with my name en graven upon the fly-leaf in her own hand writing. Was it strange my heart warmed toward her that her coming wasi looked forward to with pleasure, or that I often beggedLfor the paivilege of visiting her in her quiet, pleasant home My visits there were not very frequent ; and when there, we sat in her boudoir, which was fitted up with artistic taste, and, having never been admitted to the library, I had never seen the veiled picture. I had a pleasant home in Mr. Howe's family; yet it w, a glad surprise when he said I could bt rd with Mrs. Thornton, if I wished, and t., ught that I could be happy there. Mrs. Thornton had pro pose& it, as Mr. Howe's family anticipated being absent from the city most of the summer ; and the followi Saturday I removed to her home. It was my first holiday in my new home, and I had gone to the library with Mrs. Thornton to select a book, when, on pass- ing around, my eyes fell .upon the silk drapery shading the wall in the further corner of the room, and was about to draw it aside, when ber exclamation prevented. I had promised not to look beneath the mysterious folds of that silken veil, yet I was not satisfied ; curiosity prompted me to try to catch a hasty glimpse when Mrs. Thornton was engaged, but honor forbade. Summer and autumn passed, and the long winter evenings were spent in the cosy, cheerful library ; and though I cast many a furtive glance toward the veiled picture, I dared not question Mrs. Thorn ton, and began to despair of the dawning of that day when she would relate the history of the picture. It was a mild evening in Spring, and we were sitting before the grate in the library; I watch ing the fast dimming coals that had burn ed low, while Mrs. Thornton, with closed eyes, sat near in the easy chair. My reverie was broken by the tremulous tones of her voice, saying : 'Lillian, do you remember your mother?' Then I answered, that though I turned leaf after leaf of memory's book, yet I could find no record of a mother's love. She died when I was about two years old, yet my father had been kind, and, as far as possible, filled the place of both father and mother. My childhood had passed happily ; my father was both friend and instructor, and my first great grief had been when I was sent to school and my father sailed for Europe. 6 Was your mother's name Lillian and there was somethirig in the tone of her voice that startled me. Her name was Flora—Flora May.— Was it not a sweet name P Very pretty,' and the glowing intensity of her eye, is I met its gaze, made my heart throb with a strange sensation. I can't tell where she was buried.— Once when I asked my father, he said it was far away, and we would go to the place of my birth when I was older. My father was so lonely after mother's death that he sold his home in New-York, and removed to Ohio. I have no recollection of my first home, but shall ask my father to take me there before we return to Ohio.' And your father loved his wife ? g What a strange question, I said. Yet she appeared to have spoken without thought. If he had not loved her, do you think he would have remained true to her memory fifteen years ?' I have a headache, and shall retire,' Mrs. Thornton said, rising ; and coming to my side, she kissed me tenderly, and with a flushed cheek left the library. For a long time I sat gazing into the dying coals. Were her questions the magic key that had unlocked the casket where the memories of my childhood were stored? I could not tell. Yet there came a dim remembrance of a time when I was playing alone in the garden and a strange face peered into mine, as some one clasped me in her arms and kissed me again and again, while my face was wet with tears. I never knew whence she came or whither. she went, and it seemed strange that dim memory should come back then. It passed, and a bright dream flitted before my wak ing vision—my father would return in a few months; he would meet Mrs. Thorn ton ; she was so gentle and winning that he would not fail to be pleased with her, and I might be permitted to call her mother ! My hand was on the knob to open the door, but I hesitated. It was late, and the house was still. How easy it would be to solve the mystery, and Mrs. Thorn ton never know it. For months that veiled picture had haunted my waking and sleep ing visions, why should I longer perplex my mind with vain conjecture ; and cross ing the library, I placed the lamp so its light would fall directly upon the picture. Was it the rustling of silk or the faint echo of gentle footsteps that startled me but listening intently, I found all silent within and without. Ah ! it was the whis- poring of the still, small voice, and should I heed its promptings She would not know it, curiosity whispered ; so I raised the veil ; but, as my eye caught a glimpse of a gilded frame, the drapery fell from.. my hand. I remembered my promise never to raise that veil, and I turned away won dering why so costly a frame was hidden beneath those dark folds. From that night the mystery of the li brary deepened. 1 had a nervous dread of being left alone with the veiled picture, and my imaginative mind pictured a scene of horror that would thrill every nerve and freeze my heart's blood! My father returned, and when I told him how kind Mrs. Thornton had been, he called to thank her in person ; but she was ill and could not leave her room.— Wondering what could agitate her so, I returned to my father, saying she would be better in a day or two, and he must not leave the city until he had seen her. But he was firm in his decision to leave the next day, and I must accompany him. Then I expressed a wish to visit my mother's grave. He drew me to his side, and with his arm encircling me, and my head resting upon his bosom, he told me of my mother. To him the memory of the past was painful, and I mingled my tears with those of my father, while again - seemed to see that strange face peering into mine. In two hours I would leave my kind friend, and I was going without the mys tery of the library being solved ; so I ven tured to hint that, when I came to visit her the next year, I hoped to see the veiled picture unveiled. She did not re ply, but taking my hand led me to the li brary. She would tell me all, she said— for, perhaps, we might never meet again. Mrs. Thornton told her story briefly.— She was the only child of wealthy parents, and married at the age of nineteen. For three years she was happy in the pleasant "THAT 00IINTRY 18 TIM MOST PROHPBBOIIB WHIRR LABOR OOKIKARDS Tit ORIATIST RIWARD."- -BUCHANAN. LANCASTER CITY, PA., TUESDAY MORNING, JULY 21, 1863. home to which her husband took her ; then a cloud of midnight darkness overshadowed that home. Some one en vying her, circulated reports injurious to her reputation, and these coming to her husband's ears, he, being naturally of a jealous disposition, believed them. The wife loved her husband devotedly, and being innocent, how could she bear pati ently his taunts and uncalled for surveil lance. So she proposed returning to her parental home, and the husband said go, only she must leave her child. She did go, and three years after,. her parents be ing dead, she went to Europe, where she remained eight years. Returning to Amer ica, she came to New Haven, where, under the name of Thornton, she had since re sided. Once she visited the home of her husband during his absence, and bribing the housekeeper by the present of a well filled purse, procured his portrait; and in all her wanderings it had been her com panion, though closely veiled lest some one should recognize it, and thus her early history become food for idle gossip. Then, too, she had seen her child, and for a brief period pressed it to her bosom, but words could not express the agony of her breaking heart as she turned away from her child. 6 Your husband's name,' I said, sinking at her feet and gaping wonderingly into her pale face and the dark liquid eyes bent so loving upon me, for a strange hope made my heart throb wildly. ' I. cannot repeat his name, but you may look upon his counterpart,' she said, rising. Slowly, almost reverently, she put back the folds of that silken veil, while I stood, half-breathless, beside her. Was it a dream, or was it reality There was no mistaking that likeness ; and involuntarily the words, ' My father!' burst from my lips. Then, like a swiftly-moving pano rama, it all passed before my mind, and throwing my arms around her neck, I called her. My mothermy long-lost mother!— My father told me all, yesterday,' I said, when I hdd become more calm. He learned the reports were without founda tion, and hearing you had gone to Europe, for three years has he sought you there and his heart is sad because he can find no trace of you. Will you see him 7' She did not reply, but I read her an swer in the beaming eye, and hastily don ning bonnet and mantle, ran to the hotel, where I surprised my father by rushing breathless to his room. Come with me ; Mrs. Thornton will see you now,' I said, nervously clutching his arm and pulling him toward the door ; but he resisting, asked what had occurred to excite me so ? It was not here that I would explain, so he followed the rapid footsteps along the street and up the shaded walk ; but when I threw open the door to the library he paused. She is here—come,' I said, drawing him into the library. She had risen ; how lovely she looked then—her pale brow, her bright eye, and a crimson spot burning on either cheek. One moment my father stood as though chained to the spot, then advancing, he exclaimed : Flora, my wife Herbert !' was the soft reply, and she was clasped in his arms. Forgive and forget the past,' I heard a manly voice murmur ; and - then my name was repeated in soft accents. I went to my mother's side, and the happy hus band and father pressed his wife and child to his heart, as in reverent tones he im plored God to bless our re-union. ..The veiled picture was unveiled, the mystery of the library solved, and return ing to our Western home once more a happy family group dwelt beneath its roof. A gentle, loving wife and mother was the guiding-star of that home. [I Roswell F—, a Vermont lawyer of distinguished ability, now residing at St. Louis, and in the first rank of the bar of Missouri, had brought a suit in court which was really so plain a case for the plaintiff, that, having submitted the papers and other proofs to the Court, he felt that his client's interest required no more, and ho accordingly sat down, without making the customary opening address. Bat the defendant's counsel, ambitious of rhetori cal display, and at the same time probably conscious that the defence required the best abilities, rose and made a long bar rangue, characterized by an immense flood of pompous words, as was his custom, but destitute of even an attempt at logic or reasoning of any kind. \‘, hen he had done, the plaintiff's counsel, who was expected to make an elaborate speech in reply, rose, and merely said : May it please the Court and the gentlemen of the jury, in this case I shall follow the example of the counsel for the defence, and submit the case with out argument I' GET Esouatt SLEEP. —We have often heard young men remark that four or five hours' sleep was all they wanted, and all that the human system required. The habit of going without sufficient sleep is very injurious. Thousands no doubt, per manently injure their health in this way. We live in a fast age, when every body seems to be trying to pervert the order of nature : if folks will persist in turning night into day, it is not to be wondered that few last the allotted term of life. No matter what be a man's occupation—phys ical or mental, or, like Othello's, gone,' and living in idleness—the constitution cannot last, depend upon it, without a sufficiency of regular and refreshing sleep. Joe Hunter, the great surgeon, died sud denly of spasmodic affection of the heart, a disease greatly encouraged by want of sleep. In a volume just published by a medical man there is one great lesson that hard students and literary men may learn, and that is, that Hunter probably killed himself by taking too little sleep. Four hours' rest at night, and one after dinner cannot be deemed sufficient to recruit the exhausted powers of the body and mind.' Certainly not; and the consequence was, that Hunter died early. If men will in sist in cheating sleep, her twin sister Death' will avenge the insult. Fanny Fern says hoop-skirts will never be dropped, in 'yip of their abuse, eseept at the bedside. 10h Fanny ! ll''Those who walk most are generally the healthiest ; the road of perfeot health is too narrow for wheels. Ilg — An honest man's the noblest work of God—but the edition is small. Becomingly Dressed. That the majority of women prefer being fashionable to becomingly dresßed, is a fact that the universal wearing of high bon nets has tended firmly to establish ; and it is an extraordinary one, since the majority of women are, at the same time, well aware that the eyes of those they dress to glad-. den invariably prefer the " becoming" to he f , faehionible." very woman is—or, if she isn't, she ought to be, fond of being well dressed, and desirous of looking at all times and sea- sons as well as Nature will allow her to look. It is not only justifiable, but abso lutely right and praiseworthy that the aid of art should be called in to assist in ob- taining the desirable result. It is unjus tifiable, wrong and reprehensible to a de gree, that art should be so frequently dis torted, and the result, when achieved, so abominably bad. About a year and a half ago somebody, in an evil hour, decreed that gaunt, kigh bonnets should be the fashion, and fifirth with every feminine face had to be framed n one, or to bravely bear those crushing epithets, dowdy' and ' antique,' which were sure to be uttered with respect to the courageous one by irraverenced younger sisters with round faces, and milliners de sirous of disposing of their lengthy goods. To give it its due, the high bonnet does suit one face in twenty ; it suits a round face, whose breath can not only bear, but requires toning down ; it suits that rarest shape of all, a low-browed, delicate oval— that shape where the oval is formed by the head arching resolutely immediately above the flat brow--that shape, in fact, that we see in profusion in marble, and meet with in real life about once in ten years. But a long face it causes to resemble a horse's, and imparts that appearance which is so essentially disagreeable, of there being as much lady above the shoulders as below. But the intelligent reader will agree with ' me in declaring that it is always the long est faced women who have gone to the heighth of fashion, and the greatest length as regards bonnets. Color-blindness must (judging by the toilets one unfortunately can't avoid see ing) be a much commoner thing than it is generally supposed to bd. In a crowd—in a fashionable richly dressed crowd—every other woman has some error in the color of her costume (unless she's in deep mourn ing) which can only be excused by charit ably supposing her to be afflicted with color blindness. How persistently some pretty women disregard the claims their hair and com plexions have on them. How often we see a brilliant brunette, with deep eyes, and deep, clear crimson roses in her cheeks, arrayed in mauve or violet. How perpet ually our sense of the beautiful is jarred against by the vision of a young lady, with a saffron hue in her complexion, attired in green, because the green is lovely. This new color, biche, has been the means of bringing out decidedly the fact of many faces that were described before as between dark and fair—rather inclining to blonde, in fact—being unmistakably fawn colored. What is that law of Nature which rules that fat women shall insert themselves either into something painfully tight or voluminous ? They always scorn the me dium—the fullest of ' Giralbaldi's,' in the morning and the most compressing of vel vet tiny jackets or vests at night. Noth ing between, nothing that would conceal a little without being puffy in itself. Again. Why do laths—long, flat wo men, with a yard and a half between their ears and the edge of their shoulders—wear garments that give them an appearance of still greater longitude, in their utter ab sence of trimming on the body and sleeves? And why do they make that aforesaid jour ney from the ears to the shoulders, still more terribly long and plain for the eyes of beholders, by doing their hair', up high, and leaving all of the throat vis ible. Fur has been more worn this last winter than it has for many seasons,and the thick est, most enlarging fur has been usually placed upon shoulders already meritorious in their size.. Fur that would render a sylph portly, if draped about her in the accustomed tippet form, is cure to be se lected out of many other kinds by the broadest backed dowager who chances first to see it. There are many piquant paletots in vogue now, and many elegant mantles, and these are severally made in the richest and most beautiful materials ; but after all, a woman, if graceful in herself, is never so becomingly or gracefully dressed for either the carriage or walking, as when wrapped in a large shawl. It must be large—no possible arrange ment can make a small shawl look well ; but provided it is large, and its wearer knows how to walk under its folds, are purer and finer than those of any other form of outside covering. The thing that makes the 'wearing of shawls a failure, as a rule with English and American women is, that they imagine the great and only point to be getting them—and keeping them with—the point symmetrically in the middle behind. This is a mistake.; the shawl is the most flowing of all drapery— if only the wearer knows how manage it ; therefore anything like stiffness should be abstained from in both its adjustment and subsequent arrangement. What pretty hats the milliners have de vised. Velvet hats, half Spanish; half Henry the Third, with just a dash of the sugar loaf, or brigand in them ; and the Prince of Wales's plume in the most airy of snowy feathers in the front. Round, drooping, flat-brimmed, we have them now of every shape, of every texture, and al most of every color. All faces may be suited, if only judgment is used ; hats are in themselves so pretty that it is a hard struggle to get very far wrong with one. The worst and most frequent mistake made with respect to hats, is that of putting one • suited to a child of tiny proportions and tender years, on the top of a visage that has expanded through a series of many moons, into the semblance of a full one. In conclusion, we cannot think a lady becomingly dressed when she is bound in leather, and studded with steel nails like a portmanteau.—./Irthur's Home .Mag azine. 10 — We won't indulge in such horrid anticipations, as the henpecked husband said when the parson told him he would be joined to his wife in another world, never more to be seperated from her.— , Parson, I hope you will not mention that unlucky circumstance again; imid he. Caught in my own Trap. Dora and 1. had been silent fully fifteen minutes—an unusual occurrence for us— when she suddenly broke out with one of her gayest, sweetest peals of laughter.— The oars were going at the rate of forty - . miles an hour, bat Dora's laugh rang out above all their noise and confusion. What is it, Dora, you witch, you V I said, half piqued that she had not first told me what pleased her, and laughed after wards. Nothing, Nell ; only I was thinking of something so funny. Do you see that gen tleman just in front of us, with the beauti ful black whiskers and dreamy eyes Well, he's been watching you behind that book for the last half hour, looking as if he should love to take a bite from the red roses on your cheeks. Don't blush' but he's in love with you ; I'll bet my gold thimble on. I was just thinking of some of the stories I have read, about young la dies mistaking handsome young fellows for their brothers, etc., and thought what fun it would be if you could only manage to mistake that gentleman for your brother Fred.' I was ready for some fun in a moment. I'll tell you what I'll do, Dora,' I broke out, eagerly. You know I haven't seen Fred since I went to school, three years ago, and, of course, he's changal a great deal since then. Well, if that literary gentleman with brown eyes (he is hand some, isn't he Dora ?) should get off the cars at our depot, I'll wait till he gets mixed up with the crowd, see him suddenly, as if for the first time, rush up to him in a flutter of delight, call him brother Fred, and give him such another kissing as he hasn't had since he saw his sweetheart last. Yes, I would, if I were you,' said Dora, sarcastically. You daren't, you know.' Don't I dare to, though I Wait and see!' So I dropped back into the cushion in unbroken silence, till the train stopped at our station. Dora gave me a wicked look, and whis pered that she knew my courage would fail me, for the gentleman was really get ting off. I was not to be triumphed over, though ; and so, as we stepped out on the platform, I saw the crowd, and with a little bound threw myself into his arms and kissed him full in the mouth, hysterically saying— Fred, my dear, dear brother ! how are you? I caught a glimpse of Dora—she NVas in danger of goinc , into convulsions. I ex pected to hear the stranger confusedly say that there was some mistake ; but to my surprise, he gave me a hearty embrace— kissed me two or three times—said he was well—that I had grown a deal ; and then inquired for my little friend Dora, who all this time was exciting the sympathies of the crowd, as they supposed she was insane, judging from her frantic laughter. Father and mother are expecting you, Nellie, and are so impatient they can scarcely wait to see yoll. I was afraid you wouldn,t know me ; but I am really glad that my image has been treasured up so carefully in my little sister's heart.' I was bewildered beyond measure. It really was Fred, then ; and I had not known him. I felt slightly ridiculous, and, while, introducing Dora to my brother, whispered to her to keep quiet in reference to my intended trick. I was too much confused to think of inquiring how he came to be in the oars without seeing me ; so we all went to the carriage that was wait ing for us and rapidly drove home. I had never known Fred to be so affec- tionate. He held my.hand in his own all the time, and kissed me at unnecessarily short intervals ; but, to tell the truth, I had never loved him half so well before— never thought him half so handsome. We reached the gate. Mother kissed me and cried over me all at once ; father repeated it, and, finally, a frank, hearty voice broke out with— , Hallo, sis ! aren't you going to notice your scapegrace of a brother at all V To my astonishment, a handsome fellow I had not seen before gave me a genuine hug, and a kiss that you could have heard across the yard. There is some mistake,' I murmured. Are you my brother Fred 1 I thought that gentleman was,' pointing to the hand- some fellow I had embraced at the depot Why, sis, are you going crazy Of course I'm your brother, and that fellow there is my college chum, Archie Winters, who went half way up the line to meet you. What are you blushing 'at, Nell 1 There wasn't anything in his , going after you, was there ? I didn't have time to go, and let him take your picture with him, so that he would be sure to know you. He's been playing off some of his mad pranks, and passing himself off for me, I'll warrant,' I looked at Archie Winters beseeching ly, and, as they were all going into the house, I whispered to him— For pity's sake' 'don't speak of that mistake. How could it have happened r I overheard you in the oars ; and will promise to keep your secret only on ono condition.' He whispered something to me that made my face flush scarlet ; but.l. was at his mercy, and said I would think of it.— I did think of it, reader and to the delight of the whole family—Dora and Fred in particular—Archie and I were married in less than two months. And Dora said to me, as I bade her good-bye, that it Auld give unspeakable delight to Fred and her self if I would attend their wedding in a month from then—and I did. [t: A Methodist minister, living in Kansas, flying on a small salary, was greatly troubled to get his quarterly in stalment. He at last told the non-paying trustees that he must have money, as he was suffering fcr the necessities of life.— , Money !' replied the trustees ; you preach for money? We thought you preached for the good of souls.' Souls !' responded the reverend ; I can't eat souls —and if I could, it would take a thousand such as yours to make a meal. The Shakers at Lebanon Springs, N. Y., among their rules relating to vis itors, have the following : Married per sons tarrying with us over night, are res peotifully notified that each sex will occu py separate apartments while they remain. This rule will not be departed from under any ciicumstances.' A friend says he was reading this to a married licly, when she innocently ; remarked, How., foolish that is ain't al GODEV +8 LADY'S BOOK FOR 1863. A PARTING KISS—A DARK DrED.— AR . A short time ago a gentleman—a real.- The G p r git T he u r . 1,7 A R e ' y i: s d i r i N ß cTO mi r tha L n i al to that dent of Mad River township—came to last t lth ty h - 249 ,ree lar g er enab n led r. b o bjt a to lr a magazine tbr Urbana one evening in order to take the in America, h. made 3 an arrangenen=e n mosit pz a p n i Y . Lir authoress in this country— night (through accomodation) train for MARION HARLAND, Springfield. Authoress of "Alone," "Hidden Path," "Moss Bide,' " Nemesis," and " Miriam," Finding the car full, he remained stand- who will furnish a story for every number of the Lady's Book er. for po lB in tia t . of T , b i l e s w alre p d lac;s o a t n he La o tot Book in a ing for a time ; becoming tired, he asked a lady the privilege of occupying a part of nhria7 Harland writes ror no:her os t t i l l o e n r . E ihrga the seat belonging to her. (Now it must f irm * r u i throughout year. i tr all cantina.' t° furnish 111166 ' THE BEST I,ADY MA 'S GA IN 4 11111 WORLD, ABB be known to all night travellers that this THE CHE ZI AP NE EST. train—or this car rather—it is dark, that is, illuminated by a dim light only, which doesiPt , shed its lustre thereof' very ex tensive.) Well, a conversation, and it turned to almost everything--weather, politics, etc.—and finally to personal and particular matters. The gentleman inform ed her that he was a widower.; she in re turn, regarked (she was dressed in black) that she was a widow. The , lone woman ' seemed pleased with the widower. Not heeding the immortal advice of the elder Weller to his dutiful son— , Samivel bevare of vidders '—he became moire affectionate in his remarks ; and as the train left Hunt's station, he asked a favor, as they were about to part, that she would bestow a kiss. She at first hesitated, but after wards consented. Ho gallantly asked her to lift her veil ; she was timid and modestly begged him to exercise the privilege him self The train whistled—now was the accep ted time ! He gently raised the veli, when in popped the conductor with a gla ring lamp, and there, dazzling the happy face of the gentleman from Mad River, was the luscious; glistening teeth, extensive nose, white eyes charcoal countenance, and wavy hair of a she Amer ican of African descent! He did not take that kiss. ' What makes this last mentioned fact astonishing is this : The gallant widower is one of the most prominent Republicans in Mad River, and swallows every nigier ism of his party—emancipation proclama tion and all. If be can embrace the whole nigger in his party, why can't he embrace one personally ? Kiss me quick, and go my honey l'—Urbanna (Ohio) Union. WHY MEN REMAIN SINGLE.—In our researches we have found this reason for what young ladies deplore as a lamentable fact : g At the confines between an upper class and a lower there is naturally a scramble. All men of education, now a days,, wish very properly to be regarded as gentlemen, though they may not be in possession of fair estates or valuable prospects. If they are married, they, or at any rate their wives, wish their daughters to rank as ladies, and this coo lition, unfortunately, is thought incompatible with incomes be low a certain amount. Marriage, there fore, is rendered difficult on both sides at once. Mothers are exacting, while suitors are poor. • The father of a family cannot transmit the whole of his saviogs to each of his sons, whereas the mother of a fami ly desires nothing less than this fortune for each of her daughters. As a natural consequence, a young man hesitates before he attempts to make a bargain which he knows will be a hard one, when he can scarcely afford to make any at all.' THE LANCASTER. INTELLIGENCES JOB PRINTING ESTABLISHMENT. No. S NORTH DUKE STAKET, LANCASTER., PA. The Jobbing Department Ia thoroughly furnished with new and elegant typo of every description, and la tinder the charge of a practical and experienced Jub Printer.-- The Proprietors are prepared to PRINT CHECKS, NOTES, LEGAL. BLANKS, CARDS AND CIRCULARS, BILL HEADS AND HANDBILLS, PROD RAM)IES AND POSTERS, PAPER BOORS AND PAMPHLETS, BALL TICKETS AND INVITATIONS, PRINTING IN COLORS AND PLAIN PRINTING, with neatness, accuracy and dispatch, un the most reasona ble terms, and in a manner not excelled by any establish ment in the city. .IVi- Orders from a distance, by mail or otherwise promptly attended to. Address GEO. SANDERSON le' SON, Intelligeneer Office, No. S North Duke street, Lancaster, Pa. WHISKERS!! ! PELATREA lI'S STIMULATING ONGDENT, OR, FRENCH CREAM I I FOR BALD HEADS A-ED BARE FACES!!! This celebrated article is warranted to brio4 out n fail set of Whiskers on the smootbe.t fete, or a tine growth of hair on a Bald head, in less than six weeks, and will in no way stain or injure the skin. The French Cream is man• ufactured by Dr Al. Peletreau , , of Paris, a-ll is rho only reliable article of the kind. "Use no other." Warranted In every ease. the Box will do the work. Price $1.00. Imported and for sale Wholesale and Retail by THOS. F. CHAPILIN, Chemist and Druggist, 831 Broadway, New York. P. - S. A Box of the Ouguent Bent to any address by re. tern mail, on receipt of price and 15 cents for Postage. ..-june 30 4t25 BUILDING SL ATM THE BEST QUALITIES IN THE MARKET. The undersigned, having made arrangements with Mr R. JONES, for all his best quality of PEACH BOTTOM SLATE, for this market; and a similar arrangement with the proprietors of six of the principal and best quarries in York county, he has just received a large lot of these superior quantities of Building Slate, which will be put on by the square, or sold by the ton, on the moot reason able terms. Also, constantly On hand, an EXTRA MO HT PEACH BOTTOM SLATE, intended for Slating on Shingle Roofs. " " ' ' " As these qualities of Slate are THE BEST IN THE MARKET, Builders and others will find it to their interest to call and examine samples, at my