T 7'2 obt 31/4ilittatfct VOL. LXIV PHE, LANCASTER INTELLIGENCER SLISHRD NVelir TozSDALT ' AT NO. 8 NORTH 'DMZ OTI2IIT, BY VEO.-BANDERSON. TER/tIE Simscaretzon.—Two Dollars per annum, payable in ad ,..wance. No subscription discontinued until all smear ages are paid, unless at the option of the Editor. AnYannssansata.—Advertisements, not exceeding one :square, (12 lines,) will be inserted three times for one dollar, and twenty•five cents for each additional sneer; tion. Those of greater length in proportion. JOB PErwrmo—Such as Hand Bills, Posters, Pamphlets, .Blanks, Labels, &c., Ecc., executed with accuracy and on the shortest notice. THE FUTURE MAKES ALL RIGHT From the centre of creation, To where 'tie lost in apace, There is a law of compensation That.pervadeth every place; That reaches every human heart, In accents' sweet and light, Or thunders, as the guilty start— " The future makes all right." Though wrong may rear its horrid form, Though innocence may weep, While mercy flies, amidst the storm, And justice seems to sleep ; Though darkness spreads its sombre fold, And earth be veiled in night, The sun will gild the east with gold— " The future makes all right." All nature, with emphatic speech, Since chaos ceased to reign, ~ .Lias sought mankind this truth to teach, But sought, alas ! in vain ; While history turns its teeming page To man's and nations' sight, And still cries out, from ago to age— " The future makes all right." There ne'er has been an evil deed, - Or governmental crime, That did not retribution speed, And was avenged by time; And low and high, and small and great, In poverty, or might, Have lived to learn, though oft too late— " The future makes all right." Call empires from the misty past, Assyrian and Greek ; Bid Rome resume its limits vast, And let their voices speak; They'll own that, spite of present power, Of seeming triumph spite, The reign of wrong is but an hour— " The future makes all right.". And think not e'en the guiltiest thing Is dead to human weal, Or lost to conscience, or its sting— It may bo forced to feel! The crimson hand may grasp the bowl, The murderer's oye be bright, E'en when the whisper frights his soul— " The future makes all right." As from the couch whereon ho lies, The miscreant will start, The vengeful worm that never dies Keeps gnawing at his heart! ".I.is then, while spectral shadows rise, Lie cowers 'neath the blight, And seems to hear, from earth and skies— " The future makes all right." Then who shall dare avow the creed Eternal goodness scorns— That innocence must ever bleed, While virtue treads on thorns'. That hope, to dry affliction's tears, Ne'er checks its o❑ward flight, Or murmurs in its listless ears— " The future makes all right ?" There is a joy, which, midst all joy, Sits crowned upon a throne; The only one without alloy— .f.t springs from duty done; And he, whose throbbing bosom glows With this supreme delight, Does more than dream, he sees and know The future makes all right." BY AND BY. There's a little mischief maker That is stealing half our bliss, Sketching pictures in a dreamland, Which are never seen in this; Dashing from our lips the pleasure Of the present while we sign— You may know this mischief maker, For his name is "By and by." He is sitting by our hearth stones, With his sly bewitching glance, Whispering of the comi❑g morrow, As the social hours advance; Loitering 'mid our calm reflections, Hiding forms of beauty nigh, He's a smooth, deceitful fellow, This enchanter, "By and by." You may know him by his mincing, By his careless, sportive air, By his sly, obtrusivetpresence That is straying everywhere ; By 'the trophies which he gathers, Where his cheated victims lie, For a bold, determined fellow Is the conqueror, " By and by." When the calls of duty haunt us, And the present seems to be All-of time that ever mortals Snatch from long eternity; Then a fairy hand seems painting Pictures on a distant sky, For a cunning little artist Is the fairy, " By and by." "By and by " the wind is singing, " By and by " the heart replies, But the phantom just before us, Bre we grasp it, ever flies. I..det, not to the idle charmer, Scorn the very specious lie ; Only in the fancy liveth This deceiver, " By and by." THE AMBIIIOUS FRIEND. BY E. ANNA RAWSON One pleasant June evening, we were walking together, my friend Philip Lead: and myself. We had entered the semin ary together ; and I, naturally sensitive and shy, looked upon the proud, talented Philip with great respect, and was proud to feel myself patronized by him. He seemed unusually thoughtful as we strolled along the country road; and when he spoke, it was with a quiet determination I had never seen before. , Which is stronger in you, David, am bition or love P I laughed at the question. Did you ever suppose, Philip, that I was ambitious 1' ' I fancy so. Shy as you are, there's something beneath the exterior. But, David, ambition and love have been rival in my nature ; but now ambition has over come.' ' What do you mean 2 ' I inquired. tell you. You know Carrie Hall ' Well, about six months ago I asked her a certain question, and she said' Yes." I congratulate you—' Wait till lam through. And I have been thinking that it was a foolish step, and that I must break the engagement.' Why must you?' 1 asked. Because lam poor and ambitious. I atp to be a lawyer, you know, and I must be in college for four years, and read law two more before I can begin life. Now, if I burden myself with a wife, poor as I am, I cannot get on ; and so I must quit Carrie. Do you mean that, Philip r I exclaim ed, overcoming the magnetism I usually felt in his presence.' I do,' he replied ; my friends tell me that I have talents, and I believe that I shall yet make my mark in the world ; and to do that must be the ono aim of my existence.' Bat, my extremely modest friend, have you ceased to care for Carrie ?' No,' he exclaimed. ' I love her as well as ever. I remember well the first time I saw her,' he went on, in a musing tone. She was bending over her mother's coffin, I believe. I could have wept with her, so lovely did she look in grief. lam sorry far her ; but I - have wed ambition, alutoantiot take another, bride.' Philip Leeds,' I said, pausing and lay ing niyypiid . npon hie arm, let me warn youitganitethis rash deed'i :do Tlcit stroy the peace of a confiding girl. Car rie will wait for you, and with such a prize in view you will study all the better.-- Love will not impede your progress, be lieve me.' Do you speak from experience ?' he asked, with a smile. No ; from common sense,' I replied. Or rather from sensitive feeling,' he added. I fancy, David,' he continued, that Carrie would suit you better than myself. Well, after to-morrow night she will be free for you to win. But, excuse me, I have an engagement. I shall be in my room at the usual time.' Here he left me, and I sauntered back to the seminary, thinking of Carrie Hall, and wondering how her woman's heart would bear the stroke that was impending. I knew that the beautiful, graceful woman, that in four years she would become, would do honor to as proud a collegian as Philip promised to be. Deeply as I pitied Carrie, I felt that he would be the greater sufferer ; for I knew that hOwever success ful he might be in the world, it cou:d never give him the wealth of her true, loving heart. I did not see Philip the next day after study hours. He seemed to avoid me.— He was absent during the evening, and, as we roomed together, I determined to await his return. Nine o'clock came, and I was fast beginning to hope that he was spending a true lover's evening, when I heard his step in the hall. I had retired, and feigned sleep as he entered. He walked with his usual proud, 'energetic tread ; but, as I glanced furtively at him, I saw that his face was pale and haggard. His hand trembled, too, as he set down the light. He then took a packet of let ters from his pocket, and locked them in a small trunk. I sighed, and went to sleep. Philip was now wholly devoted to his. studies. He seldom walked for 'exercise, and hardly noticed the amusements of the play-ground. One night, about a month after his abandonment of Carrie, I learned that she was dangerously ill of fever. I went im mediately to my room, where Philip was engaged with his Euclid. S'7.), Philip,' I said, ' it seems Carrie Hall has found a bridegroom who will prove more faithful than you were.' Whom" he asked, starting nervously. Death,' I answered. I was watching him closely, and I saw that in spite of his self command his color changed, and the book he held trembled in his grasp. What do you mean ?' he asked, almost fiercely. Dr. Saunders says she cannot live through the day. She is dying of a broken heart, 1 suppose,' I added, in an undertone. Just then the tones of the village bell rang out on the summer air. There, the bell is tolling. It must be for tier,' I said, and I leaned out of the window to catch the sound. The sun was just setting, a fit emblem of the young life gone out into the dim beyond. Seventeen,' I said, as the bell ceased tolling. Poor Carrie, she is gone.— Philip,' I continued, turning to him, Ido not say that your treatment of Carrie has caused her death, but it seems to me that if you had acted a manly part towards her,.you would have less to reproach your self with now.' Do not talk to me,' he replied, I can not bear it ;' and, rising from his seat, he hastily :vent out into the night. The school attended Carrie's funeral.— She had been a member only a short time before, and with sad hearts we followed her to her narrow home. Curious eyes watched Philip besides mine, for many knew of the tender relation existing be tween them, though few knew how rudely it had been sundered. As a member of the senior class, he walked nearest the coffin ; but his proud, calm face betrayed no sign of emotion. Only once did he k , exhibit any fe - ' ; when Carrie's father was led totter rem the grave, his eyes filled with tears; nd he turned and walked hastily away. He was gone the next week. He was not well, he said. I be lieved him, for 1 felt that he Was heart sick. He came back soon, however, and went on with his studies in the old way. The end of the term came at length, and Philip pronounced the valedictory.— Many were the admiring eyes bent upon his graceful figure, and flattering the com pliments bestowed upon his eloquent ad dress. I was in my room, cording my trunk, a few hours later, when he came hastily in. , Well, Dave, old boy, I'm off,' he ex claimed. 'We have seen the last of study hours here. Now, remember, when I um President, I shall make you Secretary of State.' Thank you, Philip. But take care you don't get dizzy up so high in the world. Success to you.' Always croaking. But there's the stage. Good,bye.' fechoed his good bye, and then he hur ried away. It was several years before we again met. Meanwhile I learned that he had graduated from college with high honors, and was studying law with a distinguished barrister. On a sultry summer afternoon, I was sitting on the back piazza of a hotel in Saratoga, when a hand placed lightly upon my shoulder caused me to turn. Philip Leeds !' I exclaimed, is it pos sible you are here 1' My clear fellow '—he was as cordial and friendly as ever—' do you suppose no one has a right to a holiday but yourself 'How long a time is it since we met ?' he continued, seating himself beside me. Not since school days,' I said. ' How has the world used you, Philip ?' Oh ! so, so,' he replied, with a light laugh. I need not ask you the question. Rumor says you will one day be a sue ' cessful author. Ah ! Leland, I used to tell you that you were ambitious in your quiet way.' And you,' I rejoined,