fancaimr g«WW®fiK«r, Published xvxbt Wednesday bt H. ©. SMITH (t 00. H. G. Smith, TERMS—Two Dollars per annum, payable lu all cosos In ndvaooe. THE LA.WOASTBB DAILY INTXLLIOXWCSB IS published every ovening, Sunday excepted, at $5 per Annum In advance. OFFICE—SOUTHWEST 00 BOTH OT OKHTBS Burr abb. THE KOCBXEB A Li MODE. .-I B ! >w her last nlgnat a party, (The beauiitul party at Mead’s,) And lopking remarkably hearty, For a widow so young in her weeds; Ye> I know she was suffering sorrow Too deep for longue to express— Or why bad she chosen to borrow So much Irom the language of dreßs ? Her shawl war ns sableasnight; And her gloves were dark as hershawl, And berjewelH— that dashed lu the light Were black as a fnn-ral pall; Her robe had 1 be hue of the rest— (How nicely it fl'ted her shape!) And the grief that, was heaving her breatt Boiled over In billows of crape. What tears of vicarious woe, That. eli»e might havesuliled her face, Were kindly permitted to flow In ripples of ebony lace! While oven her fun in its play H»d quite u lugubrious scope, And seemed to bo wavlnu sway The ghost of the angel of Hope! Yet. rich or the robes ofa Queen Was the sombre apparel she wore; i’m certain I never hud seen Much a sumptuous sorrow before; And I couldn’t helpthlnklng the beauty, In mourning the loved and the lost, Was doing her cot Jugal duty Altogether regardless of cost! One surely would say a devotion, Performed at so vast an expense, Betrayed an ot cess of emotion That was really something Immense; And yet as I viewed at my leisure Thosf tokens of tender regard, I thought: iLiH.scarce without measure, The sorrow ilia' goes by the yard! Ah ! grl*f Is a curious passion ; AnUyoms—l am so:pnf aid— The very next phase of the fashion Will find It beginning to fade; Though dark are the shadows of grief, Thu morning will lollow the night; Hall lints will > etoken relief, Till Joy shall be cymbaled lu white ! Ah! well-U. were Idle to quarrel With fashion or aught she may do And so I eoueludo with a moral Ami metaphor—warranted new; When mtmulea come handsomely out, The pall* nils mmst. they say; A ml I be sorrow Is mildest no doubt, Tlml works In a similar way ! Ah children, when we i sed lo play Upon Up* beach lu mu-hn fiocks, An tunned u tangled disarray Of soalung shoes and taUered socks ; When nur-e was driven l<> eomplMn, A ml kind mam ina »<► gently chid, Pegging you neb r lo err again, You mud you wouldn’t—but you did. When Petty, whom you worked so hard, And yet. wild loved you none the less. Was prayed, so urgently, In guard A secret from your governess; You i eoolicui her pu7./.lcd look, W I suing t‘o do as mil' w.w bid, And voice of had ■ v feigmvt rer-uke. Wide i vowo’i h)i- wouldn’t—but she did, That, enrden party ! far the best. <h tiny I have e’er enj ij ed ; We sal together, whl lo the r«-nt (Barn chance!| were otherwise employed Though your mumma had talked ror hours, And veniured Ilrmly to firiild A tete-a-tete among the dowers; You said you wouldn’t—but you did. The things that happened’nealh the shado ' M rienial Is 1 hutcluslered fair. The tilings we looltetl, ami Huugbl, ’and said, Ami hoped. utv neither heio nor there. I know no. ll tli** dav was tine, Or ’iieai h t h" clonds t In* sun was hid 1 Itn w to on., request, or mine Y’uii Kiihl you wouldn't—mu you did. iUiSfrtlancousi. A Djlng Mini’s Confession “ What o’clock is it, .James ?” “Nearly Lw< Ive, sir,” “ lieavetis! I thought it was near .sunrise. How lung the hours are. Give me some v.ine, .lames 1 am getting weak.” The old servant filled, a wine-glass and handed it to his dying master, who quaffed it fervenjly, and then fell back upon his pillow with a long, shudder itig immii, “If itiu morning would come! If the morning would,only come!” “Try io sleep, M;r. Krrold,” said the attendant, soothingly. “Sleep!” gasped the sick man. “I slitill never know sleep agaiu upon the eurth. i am dying .Juines, aud my conscience will keep me awake until death speaks to my sou 11 How dark it is! Turn up the light—l—l can’t see your face. There! Now sit down be side me ; but first give me more wine ; I will need strength. I am going to make a confession. I am going to tell you the dark secret whose horror' lias never left me hy night or day for thirty-live years. The bright, soft light’of the astral lamp fell upon John Errnld’s face, fully revealing to the frightened guze of the servant the awful anguish of the white, trembling lips, the unnatural glare of the eyes, and the quick, tierce dilating of the no-trils. “I Hold my b ml to the devil for gpld— do you lieur, man? There is blood upon my hands, innocent blood, the blood of a little child—my baby brother —I murdered him just thirty-five years ago to-night.” "You are raving,” said the old man, trembling ; “tliirty-liyo years ago you \s’ere a child yourself.” “So I was, James—so l was, a boy of ten years, but no less a murderer. Listen! 1 am not as you know, an American by birth, but an Englishman. J was born at Newcastle-upon-Tyne.— My mother died in giving me birth. Eight years after my father took a sec ond wife, a young East ludiau heiress, daughter of the Turnons Col. 1) , of the —til regiment. She was an orphan; hei’fortune was at her own disposal: she was the sole inheritrix of sixty thousand pounds. When my father died, which he did in a year after the marriage, my young mother fell into a rapid decline, brought on by the vio lence of her grief. In three months after mv father’s death, she, too, was at rest. Her will bequeathed her entire fortune with the exception of five thou sand pounds to myself, and five to her only living relative, a cousin, a barris ter ’iu London, to her infant son Percy ; in the event of whose death the bulk of the fortune was to be divided equally between this aforesaid cousin and my self. Our appointed guardian wasa Dr. N\, a famous Londou divine, to whose home Percy and I were removed in a few weeks afLer the decease of my step mother. “James,! was accursed with a preco cious rniud. At leu years of age I was not a child, hut a brooding, dreamy man—with all a man’s longiug for power and riches with all of man’s innate, iu tense ambition for honor and fame. I held aloof from companions suited to my age, preferring rather the society of grave, elderly men, and I read the works of lto>seau, Montesquieu, Hume, and other profound aud daugerous writers, with an eagerness and understanding which seems almost iucredible to me uow as I loyk back upon that period of my life, which was childhood in nought save yearn. “After my stepmother’s death, I brooded incessantly upon the thought, Unit were it not for hersickly, orphaned babe, I should he the inheritor of a splendid fortune ; and 1 grew at last to hate the little creature who stood be tween me aud the wealth for which I felt au embryo miser’s longiug. “ I told you that I was accursed with a precocious mind: aye, aud with an evil nature—a nature wholly devoid of nobility, and peculiarly susceptible to every species of temptation. “Cue night Satau eutered into my soul; swift, sileut and strong big evil power thrilled through my veiiis. My little brother was iu my arms, a rare occurrence, for the child feared and dis liked me, butjdiis night our guardian’s wife had requested me to carry him up stairs to his nurse, which request I was obeying ut the time. “At the head of the stair-case I paused and and looked down. During my asceut I had been thinking, think ing, thinking. “Twenty high stops lay beneath me —solid marble. “It was very dark; the lamps had not yet been lit iD the hall. No one was. near. The child clung to me in fear; his little arms were clasped tight ly around my neck, his baby face buried upon my shoulder. “What followed then ; I unloosed his arms—l held him over the stone -stair case, and, simultaneously with his shriek of terror, I dashed him down the steps; his little body rolled, rolled, and fell with a sickening thud upon : the lower landing. “ A frenzied horror and remorse came over me—-my brain whirled—my limbs refused to support my body; one awful scream issued from my lips, and then consciousness forsook me. Theawaken ing from the swoon was the beginnings of the tortured, haunted life, which has been mineever since. From the moment in which I said ‘I tripped and fell, and he slipped from my arms,’ my young soul, shuddering at the ghastly lie, took up its burden of guilt and remorse, and turned away from the bitterness of the A. *j. srxmHAir VOLUME 70 world into a darkness self-created and hopeless as despair itself. “At twenty-five years of age I left England, and came to America with the 111-gotten gains which became mine upon attaining my majority. “ I hoped in the change from the Old to the New World, to find a pleasure and excitement which might serve to deaden the remorse.which gnawed in cessantly at my heart. “In vain! The awful shadow of guilt fell across my footsteps, let me go where I would. I began to hate my life —for that which brings oblivion to the accursed —to pray God to let me die. “ Then I met her, Lucia, whom you know as my loving and beloved wife. God took her from me ere we had been five years married ; it was better so. I did not grieve for her—l had found in her noble, trusting love less of happiness than anguished self-reproach. “ After that, the years weDt by ling eringly, and the death for which I prayed seemed to retreat from me mock ingly as I stretched out my yearning arms toward it. “•It Jibs come at last —for this, thank God, it is meant that I should die upon the anniversary of the night when “God have mercy upon me! Come close to me James, closer—closer. How pale you are, and your hands are icy cold. It was a horrible story, wasn’t it ? A Cain at ten years of age. 1 have guarded my secret well—thirty-five years—thirty-five years— The servantshuddered anddrewback from the dying clutch of Errold’s fing ers. “I will ring the bell,” he said in a fearful, husky voice, “and send some one for Doctor .” Ere the physician’s name passed bis lips, the death rattle sounded in bis master’s throat; the head fell back upou its pillow;, and a weird, flickerlngsmile curved the pallid lips—the guilty man was d^ad —and the old servant, with a suppressed fear, fled away from the still, ghastly presence which bore its white, upturned face) the impress of a lost soul. The Humbled Pharisee. “What was that?” exclaimed Mrs. Andrews to the Jady who was seated next to her, as a single strain of music vibrated for a few moments on the at mosphere. “A violin,! suppose,” was answered. “A violin!” An expression almost of horror came into the countenance of Mrs. Andrews. “It can’t lie possible.” It was possible, however, for the sound came again, prolonged and varied. “What does it mean?” asked Mrs. j Andrews, looking troubled, and mov | ing uneasily in her chair. “ Cotillions, I presume,” was answer ed carelessly. “ Not dancing, surely !” But, even as Mrs. Andrews said this, a man entered, carrying in his hand a violin. There was an instant move ment on the part of several younger members of the company; partners were chosen, and ere the pious Mrs. Andrews had time to collect her sud denly bewildered thoughts, the music had struck up, ancj the dancers were in motion. “I can’t remain here. It’s an out rage!” said Mrs. Andrews, making a motion to rise. ' The lady by whom she was sitting comprehended now more clearly her state ot mind, and, laying a hand on her arm. gently restrained her. “ Why not remain? What is an out rage, Mrs. Andrews?” she asked. “ Mrs. Burdick, knew very well that I was a member of the church.” The lady’s manner was indignant. “ All your friends knew that Mrs. An- , drews,” replied the lady. A third per- j eon might have detected in her toue a lurking sarcasm, but this was not per ceived by the individual addressed.— “But what is wrong?” “Wrong! Isn’t that wrong?” And she glanced towards the muzy wreath of human figures already circling the floor. “I could not have believed it of Mrs. Burdick; and sho knew that I was a professor of religion.” “She does not expect you to dance, tore. Andrcvra,’* said vUe Vady. “But she expects me to countenance the sin aud folly by my presence.” “Sin and folly are strong terms. Mrs. Andrews.” “I know they are, and I use them advisedly. I hold it a sin to dunce.” “1 know wise and good people who hold a different opinion.” “Wise and good!” Mrs. Andrews spoke with strong disgust. “I wouldn’t give much for their wisdom and good ness—not I!” “ The true qualities of men and wo mem are best seen at home. When people go abroad they generally change their attire—mental as well as bodily. Now, I have seen the home life of cer tain,ladies who do not think it a sin to dance, jand it was full of the heart’s warm sunshine; and I have seen the home life of certain ladies who held dancing to be sinful, aud I have said to myself, halfshudderingly : ‘ What child can breathe that atmosphere for years, and not grow up with a clouded spirit, and a fountain of bitterness in the heart? ’ ” “And so you mean to say,” Mrs. Andrews spoke with some asperity of manner, “ that dancing makes people better —is, in fact, a means of grace,” “ No; I say no such thing.” “ Then what do you mean to say ? I draw the only conclusion I can make.” “ One may grow better or worse from dancing,” said the lady. “ All will de pend on the spirit in which tlft recrea tion is indulged. In itself the act is innoceDt.” Mrs. Andrews shook her head. “ In what does its sin consist?” “ It is air idle waste of time.” “ Can you say nothing more of it!” “I could, but delicacy keeps me silent.” “ Did you ever dance?” “Me? What a question ! No!” “ I have danced often ; and, let me say, your inference on the score of in delicacy as altogether an assumption. “Why, everybody admits that.” " Not by any means.” “If the descriptions of some of the midnight balls and assemblies that I have heard of, the waltzing and all that, he true, nothing could be more indeli cate—nothing more injurious to the young and the innocent,” “ All good things become evil in their perverseness,” said the lady. “And I will readily agree with you that danc ing is perverted, and its use as a means of social recreation, most sadly changed into What is injurious. The same may be of church-going.” “ You shock me,” said Mrs. Andrews. “Excuse me, but you are profane.” “I trust not. For true religion—for the holy things of the church—l trust that I have the most profound rever ence. But let me prove what I say, that even church-going may become evil. “ I am all attention,” said the incred ulous Mrs. Andrews. “ You can bear pla s n speakiDg ?” “Me!” The church member looked surprised. “Yes you.” “Certainly I can. But why do you ask me?” “To put you on your guard—nothing more.” “Don’t fear but what I cau bear all the plain speaking you may venture upon. As to church-going being an evil I am ready to prove the negative against any allegations you can ad vance. So speak on.” After a alight pause, to collect her thoughts, the lady said: “Ttiere has been a protracted meet ing in Mr. B » 8 church.” "I know it. And a blessed time it has been.” j'You attended?” "Yes. every day; and greatly was my soul refreshed ana strengthened.” “Did you see Mrs. Eldridge there?” “Mrs. Eldridge? No indeed, except on Sunday. She's too worldly-minded for that?” “ She has a pew in your church.” “Yes; and comes every Sunday morning because it is fashionable and respectable to go to church. As for her religion, it isn’t worth much, and will hardly stand her at the last day.” “Why, Mrs. Andrews! You shock me! Have you seen into her heart? Do you know her purposes? Judge not, that ye be not judged, is the divine injunction.” “ A tree is known by its fruit,” said Mrs. Andrews, who felt the rebuke, and slightly colored. “True; and by their fruits shall ye know them,” replied the lady. “But come, there are too many around us in 6 *°* this earnest conversation. We wUI taka a quarter of an hour to our sl)c I'ancastcr fntdluu'iutt: selves in one of the less crowded rooms. No one will observe oar absence, and you be freed from the annoyance of these dances.” The fwe ladies quietly Tetlred from the drawing rooms. As soon as they were more alone, the last speaker re sumed. “By their fruits shall ye know them. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles ? Let me relate what I saw and heard in the family of two ladles during this protracted meeting. One of those ladles was Mrs Eldridge. I was passing in her neighborhood about four o’clock, and as I owed her a call, thought the opportunity a good one for returning it. On entering, my ears caught the blended musicof apiano and children’s happy voices. From the front parlor, through the partly opened door, a sight, beautiful to my eyes, was revealed. Mrs. Eldridge was seated at the instrument, her sweet babe asleep on one arm, while, with a single hand, she WEs-touching the notes of a fami liar air, to whicn four children were dancing. A more innocent, loving hap py groupe I have never seen. For near ly ten minutes I gazed upon them un observed, so interested that I forgot the questionable propriety of my conduct HDd during that time not an unkind word was uttered by one of the child ren, nor did anyting occur to mar the harmony of the scene. It was a sight on which angels could have looked, nay, did look with pleasure; for when ever heartsareturned to good affections, angels, are present. The music was suspended, aud the dancing ceased as I presented myself. The mother greeted me with a happy smile, and each of the children spoke to her visitor with an air at once polite and respectful.” “ I’ve turned nurse for the afternoon, you see,’’said Mrs. Eldridge, cheerfully. “ It’s Alice’s day to go out, and I never like to trust our little ones with the chambermaid, who isn’t over fond of children. We generally have a good time on these occasions, for I give my self up to them entirely. They've read, and played, and told stories until tired, and now I’ve just brightened them up, body and mind, with a dance.” “And bright and liapny they all looked.” “Now run up into the nursery for a little while, and build block houses.” said she, “ while I have a little pleasant talk with my friend. That’s good chil dren. And I want you to he very quiet, for dear little Eddie is fast asleep, and I’m going to lay him in his crib.” Away went the children, and I heard j nomnreofthem for thebalfhourduring : which I staid. With the child in her arms, Mrs. Eldridge went with them. As she was laying him in the crib, I took from the mautel a small porcelain figure of a kneeling child, and was ex* Jamming it when she turned to me. | “Very beautiful,” said I. “It is,” she ; replied. “We call it our Eddie saying his prayers. There is a history attached to it. Early I teach my little ones to say an evening prayer. First impressions Are never effaced ; I therefore seek to : implant, in the very dawning of thought j an ideauf God, and our dependence on I him for life and all our blessings, know ing that, if duly fixed, this will ever remain, and be the vessel, in after years, for the reception of truth flowing down from the great source of all truth. Strangely enough, my little Eddie so sweet in temper as he was, steadily refused to say bis prayers. I tried in every way that I could think of to induce him to kDeel with the other children, and repeat a few simple words; but no, his aversion thereto was unconquerable. I at last grew really troubled about it. There seemed to be a vein in his character that argued no good. One day I saw this kneeling child in a stole. With the Eight of it came the thought of how I might use it. I bought the figure, and did not show it to Eudie until he was about going to bed. The effect was all I had hoped to produce. He looked at it for some moments earnestly, then dropped on his little knees, clasped his white hands, and murmured the prayer 1 had so long and so vainly strove to make him repeat.” “ Tears were in the eyes of Mrs. Eld ritl K p o« aho uttered the closing words I felt thatshe wasa true mother,ana loved her children with a high and holy love. And now, let me describe you a picture that strongly contrasts with this. Not fur from Mrs. Eldridge resides a lady who is remarkable for her devotion to the church, aud, I am compelled to say, waut of charity towards all who happen to differ with her—more particularly if the difference involves church matters. It was after sundown ; still, being in the neighborhood, I embraced the opportu nity to make a call. On ringing the bell, I heard immediately a clatter of feet down the stairs and along the pas sage, accompanied by children’s voices, loud and boisterous. It was some time before the door was opened, for each of the four children, wishing to perform the office, resisted the others’ attempts to admit the visitor. Angry acclama tions, rude outcries, ill names and strug gles for the advantage continued, until the cook, attracted from the kitchen by the noise, arrived at the scene of con tention, and, after jerking the children so roughly as to set the two youngest crying, swung it open, and I entered. On gaining the parlor, I asked for the mother of these children. “ She isn’t at home?” said the cook. “ She’s gone to church,” said the old est of the children. “ I wish she’d stay at home,” remark ed the cook In a very disrespectful way, and with a manner that showed her to be much fretted iu her mind. “It’s Mary's day out, and she knows I can’t do anything with the children. Such children I never saw! They don’t mind a word you say, and quarrel so amoDg themselves, that it makes me sick to hear them.” “At this moment a headless doll struck against the side of my neck. It had been thrown by one child at an other; missing her aim, she gave me the benefit of her evil intention. At this the cook lost all patience, and seiz ing the ofleudiug little one, boxed her soundly before I could interfere. The language used by that child as she es caped from the cook’s hands, was shock ing. It made my flesh creep!” “Did I understand you to say that your mother had gone to church?” I asked of the oldest. “Yes ma’am,” was answered, “She’s been every day this week. Ttfere’s a protracted meeting.” “Give me that book!” screamed a child, at this moment. Glancingacross the room, I saw two of the little ones contending for possession of a large family Bible, which lay upon a small table. Before I could reach them, fori started forward, from an impulse of the moment, the table was thrown over, the marble top broken, and the cover torn fiorn the sacred volume. -The face of Mrs. Andrews became in stantly of a deep crimson. Not seeming to notice this, her friend continued : “ As the table fell, it came within an inch of striking another child on the head, who had seated himself on the tioor. Had it doue so, a fractured skull, perhaps instant death, would have been the consequence.” Mrs. Andrews caught her breath, and grew very pale. The other continued. “In the midst of the confusion that followed, the father came home. “ Where is your mother?” he asked of one of the children. “Gone to church,” was replied. “O dear!” I can hear his voice now, with its tone of hopelessness—“ This church going mania is dreadful I tell my wife that it is all wrong. TBat her best service to God is to bring up her children in the loveof what is good and true—in filial obedience and fraternal affection. But it avails not.” “And now, Mrs. Andrews,” con tinued the lady, notin the least appear ing to notice the distress and confusion of her over-pious friend, whom she had placed upon the rack. “ When God comes to make'up his jewels, and says to Mrs. Eldrige, and also to this mother who thought more of church-going than of her precious little ones. "Where are the children I gave you? 1 which do you think will be most likely to say, ‘ Hear they are, not one is lost ?” “ Have I not clearly shown you that even church going may be perverted into an evil ? That piety may attain an ordinary growth, while charity is dead at the root? Spiritual pride, a vain conceit of superior goodness because of the observance of certain forms and ceremonies, is the error into which two many devout religionists fall. But God sees not as man seeth. He looks into the heart, and judgeß his creatures by the motives that rule them.” And, as sh§* said this she rose, the silent and rebuked Mrs. Andrews, whose owh picture had been drawn. LANCASTER PA WEDNESDAY MORNING JANUARY 27 1569 followed her down to the gay drawing room. Many a purer heart than that of the humble Pharisee beat there beneath the bosoms of happy maidens, even though their feet were rising and falling in time to witching melodies. The Tower of London, Who that has a human heart does not shrink and grow pale at the sound of that name? Within those wails what scenes have been enacted! How many souls have endured martyrdom there, while waiting for the less horrible mar tyrdom of the body! Could its history be written, truthfully and without pre judice, what a volumeit would be! But no English pen ever did, ever could treat the subject faithfully, and none but Englishmen know its horrors, • The bright sun of an October day was j shining over London, in the year 1553. The young KiDg Edward wasdying, in the very flower of his youth, and at the moment of his death, she who after wards attained’ to the terrible and most unwomanly titles of Bloody Mary and Scarlet Queen, was on her way to take his place as reigning sovereign. One chance in many brought about the re sult she so much desired; and she passed onward to the throne which she stained by her after deeds. The few good acta which she performed stand out brightly from the dark back ground of herreigu like stars from a midnight sky. The daughter of Henry VIII must needs have within her a reckless and selfish disregard of others, save in a few in stances. She did not belie her parent age. Mary had a triumphal entry into the tower, which was then tho gloomy abode of Gardiner, Bonner and TonstalJ. The three bishops were allowed to meet her on Tower green and implore her grace and protection. They were then, with others, restored to liberty. There was another inmate there—a bright eyed youth, whose handsome face brought a strong throb to the heart ofthe unlovely queen, whose own youth had long since passed away. This was the youngJCourtney,Bon of the attainted Marquis of Exeter, whose childhood, pure and guiltless as it was, had known no other shelter. As be knelt beside the venerable bishop, Mary forgot that she might have been his mother, so great was the discrepancy iu their ages—for got everything save that she was Queen of Eoglaud and might be also Queen of Hearts. was not only released from confinement but raised to honors at once. He was created Earl of Devon. At court he was distinguished for grace aud accomplishments, as well as for the perfection of that manly beauty that had so Bpeedily touched the heart of his sovereign. One would have deemed that he had always breathed the charmed atmosphere of a court instead of that of a prison. Mary was proud of the treasure she had rescued. Alas ! she could not reach that youthful ht art. There was another attraction in her train—her young and beautiful sister, inheriting the spirit of her father and the beauty of her unfortunate mother ; and to her the young earl turned as naturally as the suDfiower to his god The queen sat in her own apartment, somewhat apart from her ladies. Her sallow face ill accorded with the rich apparel she wore, and which, though superb in material, was tasteless in form and coloring. The pearls she wore were in strong contrast to tho yellow and withered neck. By a curtained window, in whose deep shadow one might have been easily screened from an observation less keen, Mary had caught' a glimpse, now of a fair white neck shaded by golden tresses, now of a beautiful arm gleaming through its transparent hang ing sleeve. Beside her own chair, which was raised by a single step from*the floor, knelt Courtney, Earl of Devon. Her penetratingjeye marked the wishful glance that was so often directed to the fair girl at the window, and her whole soul kindled with ill-suppressed iudig nation. Within a brief half hour she had whispered words that, bad they fallen from Elizabeth’s lips, would have made that youDg heart’s pulse quiver with delight. He had heard ana understood them, but he had beeu wise enough to conceal his knowledge ; and Mary, half vexed that she could not make him ap predate the honor which she would gladly bestow upon him, and half mad with rage that he should prefer, as he evidently did, the princess to the queen, suddenly dismissed him from her pres ence. The look which passed between the two as he passed out was not observed by the jealous queen. Elizabeth craved permission to withdraw, but was refused with a Hash of the eye that spoke the daughter of Heury VIII. She bade her draw nigh, and then and there she ad ministered a volley of invectives to the young princess which vied in quality with those that Elizabeth so often after wards bestowed upon all who awakened her frequeut jealousies. She did not spare her any more than she would have spared the meanest of her attendants. Even then the young princess bad within her the germ of that strong and bitter sarcasm, that ungovernable thirst for love, and that passion for coquetry that distinguished her after years. She replied wittily and saucily to the jeal ous sister, forgetting for the moment that she was her queen ; and Mary, who bad ever hated the daughter of Anne Boleyn, resolved that, henceforth, she would exclude her from those inter views which she had intended should take place with the young earl and her self. Elizabeth’s life was therefore oue of perpetual restraint. She was sedulous ly kept from seeing Courtney, except for a few hurried chance meetings in the galleries or upon the staircase of the royal abode. Then, indeed, the rup turous love of the two fond hearts found amends for absence in the pressure of hands or the thrillingkisseswhichthey contrived to give when the atteudauts were called another way, and which, had Mary seen orsuspected, would have caused not only banishment, but per haps death. Once indeed they met, and, strangely enough, their interview was neither watched nor forbidden. At the eDd of a long gallery there was a deeply arched window, over which the drapery hung so heavily as to exclude the light al most entirely. Within its deep shadow three or four persons might have- been utterly hidden from observation ; and it was to this windowthatCourtney led the golden-haired princess, both tremb ling at the unwonted good fortune that gave them the opportunity to meet un molested. “ I have strange news for your ear, fair princess,” said the young earl. The kind eyes beamed lovingly upon him as he told her the tale of the Em peror of Spain having planned a match between the queen and his own son Philip, and that Mary hacLseriously in clined to accept his proposals. “ I hope I shall be freed from her too palpable hints,” said the young ear], speaking louder than was altogether safe in a spot where echo was busy. “Hush!” said his alarmed 4compan ion. “Remember walls have ears in this detestable court.” “ No danger, now that the queen has a prospect of marriage, ladybird,” he answered gayly. “And is this Spanish wooer old or young?” “ Just twenty-seven. A widower, too. and eleven years younger than her majesty, who adores young men.” “Shameful!” cried Elizabeth. “Has she the folly to believe that he will re main true to one who has outgrown even the charm of youth, which, truth to say was all the charm my royal sister ever possessed ?” The white hand was more tenderly pressed, the red, moist lips more linger ingly touched, as tbeyoungearl breathed out nis own love anew. “We will not vex ourselves with these matters,” he whispered, “solong as we have youth and health—and beauty, too, my princess, although it lies all with you.” “ Nay, Courtney, the court damsels say differently. They give you the palm for being the handsomest knight at court. Of course Ido not agree with them,” she continued, coquettishly, “ as you know I consider old Cardinal Pole second to no man for beauty, al though his years would make him a more suitable lover for the queen than for myself.” She added this last sentence because she fancied a jealous flush had risen to the noble brow on which she was gazing so earnestly, thinking, perhaps, how well his massive beauty would become a crown. Visions of the future flashed aorosa the young girl’s mind. There was but the one weak and diseased life of Mary between her and royalty, and woqld not Courtney be a king before whoin Philip of Spain might hide hia diminished head? She looked upon the ! swayingcurls, and wondered if her hand j might not one day cover them with a ' regal coronet. Yes, truly she ought to. I be the queen. No one would marry Mary for love. But she,— O, she could win a man’s heart out of him by her grace and beauty, and then—O, what joy to crown him a king! Such were hermeditatione, until Courtney tooehed the small white hand that lay caressing* ly on his arm, and said: “ Of what is my princess dreaming ? ” She started and blushed as she an* swered: “ Of the future king of England.” “O, of Philip. Well, I do not envy him. He may be king, but I only as ; pire to be king of one little heart.” . Elizabeth give him a curious look. Had he divined her thoughts, that he was thus depreciating the honor that she would fain haye bestowed? No. His whole soul was in his eyes, and they were gazing upon her beautiful face. There were no ambitious hopes beaming from their crystal depths, save those which pointed to the accomplish ment of his marriage with Elizabeth Tudor. Of her right of succession to the throne of England, he never thought. Courtney was not worldly. The child hood and youth spent in prison, cruel and wrong as it might be in his oppres sor and the oppressor of hf 3 father, had yet its unmeant kindness for the boy, that bad penetrated into the inner depths of his manhood, and saved him from the curse of that sin by which the angels fell. Little dreamed the young and noble lovers that this was their last interview. The Spanish match, insisted on by Charles V., not from any good or Doble motive, but for a hope of benefitting himself from the coffers of England— the match, consented toby Philip with out a feeling towards the royal bride chosen by his father, save of utter and supreme indifference, that match be came a source of unutterable strife be tween the maiden queen and her sub jects. Sir Thomas Wyatt, the poet lover of Anne Boleyn, Sir Peter Carow, the Duke of Suffolk, Lord Thomas Gray and others, headed the revolt and made I determined resistance to the union of j their queen a Spaniard and a Cath | olio. The insurrection failed in its object, ; and Wyatt and many of hia followers : were executed. During its existence, ' the queeu had strenuously resolved to ; identify with it the twobeings who had ; thwarted her ridiculous love scheme.— She had sent the young earl to Eother ingay Castle, and placed Elizabeth at Woodstock, under the strictest surveil ance, aud, during this state of things, the detested match had goneon and the royal pair had removed to Windsor to spend a honeymoon of which there was i only the weakest and most absurd fond- I ness on the part of thetoomafure bride, and the merest -indifference on that of the bridegroom. Not only the gentle Wyatt, but Lord Thomas Gray and the 3 Duke of Suffolk wero executed for their share in the re volt. To the prisoners some show of mercy was exhibited. To Elizabeth she offered a release, on condition of her becoming the wife of the Duke of Savoy, hoping by this plan to rid herself and the kingdom of her presence. She was mistaken, Elizabeth's eyes were opened by Mary's own conduct. England hud refused to Mary what tney had granted to Henry Vlll—the right to name a successor to the throne—aud the prin cess now learned the fact that Phillip's adherents had hoped to prove her ille gitimacy in order to press his right <d descent from the house of Lancaster to constitute him the heir of Mary. Ad ded to these rumors were tender remem brances of him whose youDg life was again waisting in a prison, and under all these circumstances, Elizabeth de cided wisely to,.bid her time. Philip did not even succeed iu being crowned, as was,bisown and Mary's re solve, but determining to lessen his ex cessive unpopularity with the nation, he went 10 the extent of proclaiming the release of several distinguished prisoners, of whom Elizabeth was the most illustrious, and also of protect ing the latter fronralary’s pretty aud annoying spite. The Earl of Devon was included among those who were released, but his freedom was accompanied by a signifi cant permission to go abroad, so that the lovers were prevented from ever again meeting. At the earl was seized with symptomsthatleft nodoubt of poison, and rumor ascribed the cruel murder to the imperialists. Who can tell how powerfully this uuhappy love passage, occurring in the first flush of Elizabeth’s girlhood, and rendered deeper and more lasting per haps by opposition, might have tinged her afterlife? And may not some of the very waywardness and strangeness that has been laid to her charge in all her affairs of the heart, be traced back to this cruel blighting of a young heart’s first romance ? A True Marriage. I believe there are few thoughtful men who have not come to regard as one of the least explicable among the great riddles of the earthly economy the rarity of well-assorted marriages. It might be so different, one cannot help thinking. The adaptations for harmony so wonderful! The elements of happi ness so manifold ! Yet how often —how miserably sometimes—it all miscarries! The waters of Paradise turned to fountains of bitterness —the gifts of Heaven perverted to curses upon earth! I do not meau that there are few unions yielding reasonable comfort, friendly relations, a life free from open quarrel or secret heart-burning; but I speak of very marriage, without flaw or jar—a mating alike of the material, with itsintaugible affinities and its wondrous magnetisms, and of the immaterial principle within that survives the death change. I speak of a heart home per vaded by harmony not only unbroken —immutable as that of thespberes; felt to be so by those whom it blesses, calms, satisfies; a social state to which, when man and woman attain, there remains uothing in the way of earthly need or acquisition, save daily bread, to be coveted or prayed for. Some think that, in this trial-phase of our existence, no such state of harm ony arid happiness is to be'found. Among the few who do find it none of these skeptics will have place. No entrance into that temple except for those who believe ! Without faith in the Good and the Beautiful—the Good that is felt, not seen—the Beautiful that must be con ceived before it is realized—a man is shutout from the highest enjoyment. And such a man can do little to meliorate the world or elevate his race.—“ Beyond the Breakers,” in Feb. No. of Lip pincott'B Magazine. Anecdote of General Washington, Washington had accepted an invita tion from Arnold to breakfast with him at West Point on the very day the plot was discovered, but was prevented from keeping his engagement by what men call chance —by the earnest request, namely, of an old officer, near whose station they passed, to spend the night there and inspect some-works in the neighborhood. Next day, while Wash ington, with his staff, including La Fayette, were seated at a table at this officer’s quarters, a despatch was brought to the American general, which he im mediately opened and read, then laid it down without comment. No alteration was visible in his countenance, but he remained perfectly silent. Conversa tion dropped among his suite; and, after some minutes, the general beckon ing La Fayette to follow him, pass ed to an inner apartment, turned to his young friend without uttering a syllable, placed the fatal despatch in his hands, and then, giving way to an ungovernable burst of feeling, fell on his neok and sobbed aloud. The effect produced on the young French marquis, accustomed to regard his general (cold and dignified in his usual manner) as devoid of the usual weakness of hu manity, may be imagined. “I believe,” said La Fayette in .relating this anec dote, “that this was the only occasion, throughout that long and sometimes hopeless struggle, that Washington ever gave way, even for a moment, under a reverse of fortune; and perhaps I was the only human being who ever wit nessed in him an exhibition of feeling so foreign to his temperament. As it was, he recovered himself before I had perused the communication that had given rise to hiß emotion; and when we returned to his staff not a trace re mained on his countenance either of grief or despondency.”—“ Beyond the j Another Sleklea-Key Case--The Parties Breakers,” in Feb. No. of LippincotVs * Movißg In High Life. Magazine . * Dow Thermometers Are Made. BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE. “ What is this?” said Lawrence, pick ing up a piece of glass from the floor. “It looks like a broken thermometer tube.” “It was blown for one,” said the gaffer. “ Blown ?- Lawrence. ‘ ?—so small!” exclaimed “I can’t find any hole in “ It has a hole—or bore , as we call it —of the usual size; but it is flat. That is tQ make a very little mercury look to be a good deal.; Do you see a narrow white stripe running the length of the tube?” Lawrence saw it, and said he bad often observed the stripe in the backs of thermometers, but had never learn ed what it was for. “ It is a background to-see the mer cury against. Would you like to see such a tube made? Come hero. Watch this man.” With delight and curiosity Lawrence watched. The man was gathering a lump of metal from one of the pots.— He blew intoitgently, and shaped it on a marver, flattening it uutii it resembled in form and size that part of a sword hilt that is grasped by the haDd. “In flattening it,” said the gaffer, “he flattened the bubble of air he had blown into it.” Lawrence looked, and n could see the bubble, about as broad as his finger, extending through the glass. “That is to be the bore of the thermom eter —though of itself it is now larger than two or three thermometer tubes. Now they are going to put on the stripe.” A bov brought a lump of melted opaque, while glass on a pouty. It was touched to the now hardened sword hilt, and druwn from eud to end along the flat side, leaving a stripe about as broad as a lady’s finger. The sword hilt, with the stripe carefully pressed down and hardpued upon it, was now plunged into a pot of melted glass, and : thickly coated; the soft exterior was j rounded ou a marver, until the eutire ! body of glass, enclosing the stripe and j the flattened bore, was in size and shape j a little longer and considerably larger ; than a bauaua. This was now slowly heated to a melting state. Then came forward a bey with a ponty, bearing on its end a piece of glass resembling an inverted conical inkstand. This he set upright on the ground, the bottom of the ink stand uppermost. Tlie blower, with the melting lump, now advanced, aud held it over the ponty, until the soft mass drooped dowu and touched the bottom of the iukstand, to which it Ad hered. The man and the boy held the lump a moment between them ; then, at a word of command, the boy shouldered his ponty*, like a very large staff with a very small bundle ou the end of it, and set out to travel. As he ran in one di rection, into a work-room, the Tnau backed off in the other, the glowing lump stretching between them like some miraculous kind of spruce gum. Iu a minute they were seventy or eighty feetapart, with a gleaming cord of glass, smaller than a pipe-stem, sagging be tween them. This was presently low ered, laid out at its full length upon the ground, and broken from whSt was left of the lump at the ends. Even the Doctor, who had hitherto said little, now expressed his astonish ment and admiration, exclaiming, It is marvellous ! it is truly marvellous ! ” “Of course,” the gaffer, “the bore stretches with the tube, and keeps its flattened shape. So does the stripe.” “ But what keeps the tube of uniform size? Why don’t it break? ” said Law rence. “The reason is this. As the glass runs out thin, It cools, and atopsstretch iDg, while it continues to draw out the soft glass from the thicker parts at the ends. If we wish to make a small tube, we stretch it quick, without giving it much time to cool. To make a large tube, we stretch slower. Here is a piece of barometer tubing, stretched in the same way ; so is this lot of boon copath ic medicine vials.” The “vials” were a smE.ll stack of hollow glass canes, about five feet in length, standing in a corner of the w’ork-romn, into which the visi tors had followed the boy. “Though, of course,” added the gaffer, “ to make them, we don’t flatten the bore, butonly blow it larger.” “Then how are vials made out of these tubes?” “ They are cut into pieces of the right length, then tbebottoms are melted and closed in by means of a common blow pipe, such as chemists use.” Lawrence was about to ask a similar question with regard to the thermome ters, when a man came along, and, stooping, commenced cutting the long tube into uniform lengths of about five feet, and packing them together into a narrow, long box. “ These,” said the gaffer, “he sends to his shop in Boston, —for he is a ther mometer maker; there they are cut up into tubes of the right lengtii; an end of each one is melted und blown out into a bulb, —the tube itself serving as a very kmall blowing-pipe. To avoid getting'moisture into the bulb, instead of breach from the mouth, air from a small inllia-rubber bag is used. As the bag is squeezed at one end, the bulb swells at the other.” “Then how is the mecury put in? So small a bore?” said Lawrence, try ing to find it with a pin point. “The glass is heated, and that ex pands the air in it, and expels the greater part of ff. As the air that is left cools aud contracts, it is made to suck in the mercury. To expel the rest of the air, the mercury is boiled in the tube. When there is enough mercury in the tube to fill it, at as high a degree of tem perature as it is expected ever to go, the end is softened, bentover,and closed up. As the mercury cools and contracts, it leaves a vacuum at the upper part of the tube.’’— Our Young Folks for February. Tutting his Mark on Iler, One of the real old Mayo gentry, six feetfourinches high,stoutm proportion, rugged as one of his own mouutaiu bulls, aud proud as a Breton, had attained the age of forty and was still unmarried. He was a constant visitor at the house of three ladies, not overburdened with money or blood, but the youDgest of whom was possessed of beauty audskili in retort. Every one said it would be a match ; but years rolled away, and the decisive words were uotspokeu, though other suitors were warned off by signi ficant hints from the formidable but undecided Mr. Blake. One.evening he called in returning from the fair of Cas tlebar, and he found the ladies were having a few friends and an impromptu dance. There were some officers lately arrived from India, whose regiment was at Castlebar, and a certain Captaiu Graham had Mr. Blake’s lady, as she \/a9 generally styled, fast locked in that halfembracethescottiscbep. rmils The captaiu was an adept at “building up,” which Irish and a great many other ladies consider a partner’s bouuden duty. Blake’s idea of waltzing was as preju diced as Byron’s ; and he had an ugly scowl on his brow that would have frightened many men, as the lady passed him with a slight nod ; however the captain only pressed his partner the closer. “I am sure you will like the captain, for Dear Mabel’s sake; and we reJy on you to make it pleasaut for him while here,” said the eldest sister. Mr. Blake was standing with his back to the fire, and drawing from his pocket a small branding iron used for putting initials on the horns of cattle by the purchaser, he gave the turf a quiet poke, and left the lettered end in the hot ashes. “ Your'honor’slost her,” whispered Pat Casey, the old servant of the house, as he handed negus round-; the captain’s les9 tadious than your honor in love making.” “ Well, Blake, you’re done,” said Mr. Browne. “ Waited too long, my boy ; and the captain there will carry off the finest girl in Mayo.” “By heaven, then, he shall find my mark on her!” cried Blake; and, as the waltzere passed, he drew the brand from the fire and clapped the red hot letters on the shoulder of Miss Mabel, just above the low dress. Of course there was a deal of screaming and fuss, but the lady recovered sufficiently to become Mrs. Blake, and I hear, never regretted the event which at last com pelled her lover to speak his mind. A friend of mine told me, some time since, that he had been staying with the Blakes, and he could aver that Mrs- Blake still wore high dresses on all oc« easions. [From Chicago rribune, January 14.1 About eight years ago, a young man ; from Dutchess county, New York, came , out West to visit his brother, then liv , ing on a farm near Naperville, in Du | Page county. His name was Chauacey ■Bailey. While at his brotner’s house i he became acquainted with a Miss I Thompson, daughter of a farmer whose ■ land adjoined his brother’s. She was ; a comely woman, fair to look upon, 1 young and fresh as her nativo prairie. I She had suitors, as all young girls have, ; and, like them, too, looked upon one I with much favor. To him she gave what heart she had, aud to him her troth was plighted. It was at this junc ture that the new comer appeared upon the scene. He entered the lists and sought to win the prize. The prize, however, was averse, and rather re pelled than encouraged his attempts. He was reinforced, however, by the parents of the maiden, who saw not with her eyes, but with the obstinate perversity that too often makes the conduct of parents in matters of the kiud, aud insisted upon her rejecting the man she loved, and aeceptiug the choice of their hearts, and not of here 1 Iu an evil raomeut she did so. They married and the foundation of a tragedy was laid. The father bought them a farm, whero they lived for two years, heariug with each other as they might. About this time a child was born—born to sorrow and shame. AX ELOI’E.UE.NT | The scene changes to another farm nearer to Wheaton than the one from which they bail removed. Here they were visited by the pastor of the Uni verbalist Church at Wheaton, of whose congregation they were members. He came as every pastor should who is so* j lieitous for the spiritual welfare of his | flock. He was untiring in his devotion ito the family. His anxiety about the : so::ls of its inmates made his visits to life hi use many and oft. It wassur prising how desirous he was to bring up I tout family in the way they should go. j His teachiug was mainly confined to j Mrs. Bailey, to whom he became very ! much attached, although he had a wife ! and family of his own, residing at Sycu* | more. That was not enough for him, i so he wooed and won Mrs Bailey. Her : husband suspected nothing, having ini* | plieit confidence in the honor and' in ; tegrity of a minister of the Gospel, uu exponent of the seventh commandment, j One day, however, he lost bis faith in I the ministers. His wife was missing, and so was the pastor. It was a 1 strange coincidence that both should i suddenly and simultaneously disappear. I Then he saw why ttie pastor was so de | voted to his wife. The fact was that, ! hy a preconcerted arrangement they embarked at different stations on the .same train, and, after some searching ! she was found at his house, ostensibly j visiting his family. Whether there had been any criminal intercourse between them is known to themselves and to God. Anyway, it is pretty certain that tiie deserted husband avowed his inten* tion to shoot the miuister, but did not get a favorable opportunity. Thus it i was that a man, clad, or, rather, djs j guised in thehoJy garb of religion, pros- I tituted his high office to base purposes, ; j robbed a woman of her honor, a bus | band of his peace of mind, destroyed ! the happiuess of a family, and sowed , seed that has born bloody fruit. The husbaud wenttoSycamore, and brought ! back the mother of his child, though it i seems that at this time his faith in her I was shaken. She was no longer his ■ wife in the full sense of that beautiful word. Her mind had been poisoued by insinuations infused therein by the wicked pastor. He made her discon tented with her home and her sur roundings.” It was not likely that under these circumstances she would remain at home contented with hercomparatively humble lot and with her rather un handsome husband. So it proved. It would be impossible to record the mis eries of that household, where peace never resided, and where that domestic bliss, of which the poet sings in verses Sweet, Was never unknown. They parted, and the husband went to lowa to attend to business. The wife remained behind. Again the scene changes. This time it is laid in a nouse in Naperville, where Mrs. Bailey went to board. An other ami a prominent actor now makes his debut, aud begins to perform his part in this strauge and eventful drama. He was James Laird, a young mar. of some thirty years, who was board i- ; at this house when Mrs. Bailey wenttl. re. He was handsome, straight as an eim, and towered to a height of six feet three. He was a gallaut man, too; one who was known on the frontiers as brave among the bravest. He was then on a visit to the scenes of his child hood, and had little else to do but make love. That would have been very natural aud very well, had he con fined himself to unmarried women. It was not to be, however. Mrs. Bailey came, saw and conquered. Her vivacity, prettiness, and tact captivated the heart of the rough frontiersman, aud he was lost. Their acquaintance ripened into intimacy, their intimacy into something resembling crime. She invited him to her room, where he spent his evenings in her fascinating presence. Proximity is said to be the soul of love, and they were ever near other. Finally, their conduct was noticed and begun to be talked about. Scandal went abroad aud the reputation of the house was In dangerof beingcompromised, when the landlord insisted that one or both should leave forthwith. With true aud unsel fish generosity Laird, at the time, de fended the character of Mrs. Bailey, saying he cared nothing for hituseif, hut her name and fame should not be tarnished. He was suspiciously tenacious on this point. The result was that at the end of four months, when j Bailey returned from lowa, his wife! went back to him, aud Laird returped to the frontier. Well for him would it j have been had he never seen the wo man’s face again. Out. in Wyoming he } filled the office of Deputy Uuiled States Marshal, aud SherilTuf Laramie Coun ty, which is larger than the whole Stale of Illinois. In his official capacity lie was a terror to all thehorse thieves and desperadoes that prowled within the boundaries of his jurisdiction. Many j tales are told of his daring, and the 1 number of scoundrels he made bite the ! dust. His life was varied and full of! vicissitude. He began his career as a printer; at one time set type iu the Tribune office; afterwards edited a local paper at Naperville, and when he went West, had charge of the /Enterprise , published at Virginia City, Nevada Territory. His intelligence, enterprise, and well-tried courage, recommended him for the offices he filled at the time of his death, and would have secured hisappointmentas Marshal had he liveil to go back. In the month of July last he was ou a train on the Union Pacific Railroad when it was smashed up by a collision,and his jaw was broken. He im mediately came home to Naperville to get well,an J was in thehabltofcomiugto Chicago several timesa week to consult doctors. Ou his return bo renewed his j acquaintance with Mrs. Bailey, who was then living with her husband, wheu-. ever he was at home which was not often, as his business in lowa kept him away considerable. Such was the state of alFairs on Tuesday morning, wheu Bailey told his wife that he was going to Elgin, and would not be back before Wednesday night. HeMid not go fur* tberthan theGalenaJunction,however, j and returned to the town some time before nine o’clock on Tuesday night. Some persons believe he did not leave the town at all. Anyway, at nine o’clock he went to his house, and, look ing through the blinds of the parlor window, saw a sight that aroused the demon in him. His wife sat in Laird’s lap aud Laird was amusing himself taking off her shoes and indulging in other familiarities which it is notproper to specify. Bailey waited aud watched, jealousy the meanwhile burning into his very soul. Finally the pair arose and went Into the bedroom. Maddened with rage the outraged husband burst in the outer door, rushed in, and the next thing Laird heard was the whizz of a bullet. " —ltwaaabnell Th 't summoned him to Heaven or hell.” Bailey met him at the door of the bed room, and immediately fired, when Laird exclaimed: “Ob, God! Bailey, you've killed me!” Bailey fired two more shots at him and two at his wife, but without effect. The wife hung on to Laird, and tried to save him from her husband’s wrath. He managed to walk about two rods out through tbe gate, and down tbe sidewalk, when he fell, and hla life blood flowed oat, staining NUMBER 4 the snow, so white and pure, in con trast with the blackcrimethat had been committed. While lying there, Bailey followed him outand cowardly shot him again. The womau streamed, aud at tracted the atteuiiou of the neighbors, who came flocking in to witness the sanguinary spectacle. At first they were afraid toapproach thehouse,on account of the firing. In the meautime the murderer walked off to thehouseof William Laird, cousin of the murdered man, and informed him that he hud killed “ Jim,” and he had better take care of the body, telliug him where it was' to be found. He then went to Mr. Thomas Finley’s house and found that gentleman In bed. He said he had killed Laird, and asked Finley to get up, and go with him. While Finley w&s dressing, Bailey busied himself reloading his revolver, the six chambers of which had been empthd , He told Finley that if he had had ! another ball in the revolver he would | have shotUiis wife. As it was, he made : several attempts to do so. Mr. Wm. Laird, horrified at the news, dressed himself hurriedly and obtaining tbe assistance of Mr. Naper, found the body. Mrs. Bailey cauie out aud begged them to bring the remains into tne house, which they did. There he lay, stiff in death, where but a few minutes before he was.warm with life and lust, and his blood tingling with fiery pas sion. What a sad tale, aud what a moral may be drawn therefrom ! His iniquity had overtaken him. Dr H. C. Daniels, the best aud oldest physician in Naper ville, was immediately called in. liis skill was of no avail; the spirit hud made its exit through the hole mmle by the ball in the middle of the breast near the heart. Such was the miserable lute of the man who had faced death a hun dred times, aud had seen danger in every form. The man who had tracked criminals through the w i Ids of tne Wot, and whose name was fearful in the eats of unhanged rutfians, fell at the hands of n man wlie J e home ho had invaded, and whose holier was wiped out in lit blood. It is but Just to say that until his unfortunate attachment to tbi-t woman, no man breathed unythiug i against his character but, on the oilier , hand, he was regarded as an open hearted, honest, whole-souled fellow. He was unmarried, and seems no- to have ever been under the conservalh o iufiueuce of ati honorable love. All this while Bailey and Mr. Finley areapproaching the hou-e. They enter, and Bailey goes to a cupboard, ami, takingout a bottle of poison, puts it in to the tire, and calls upon Fin ley to tiear witness to tbe act. It is supposed that he kept the poison for self-dcstrijotinn. but had not the courage to take himself ofl*. He next went into the room where liis child lay sleeping, uncoiisriuti* of tbe awful calamity that had fallen on her innocent bead, lie waub dto take the child to the house of his mother, who lived next door, but hi-, wife claimed the child, and succeeded in her claim. Tbe child selected to stay wi ll her mother. Boor child. Sue (the wife) was fearful her hu-bnml would shoot her, and several times called upon the men present, to protect her. Mrs. Bailey told Dr. Daniels that wheu the whole story was told persons would not blame her so much. She sent for a lady friend of hers, who stayed with her all night. Dr. Daniels remark ed to Bailey that it was bud business, or something to that ellect, when he re plied “ Gentlemen, you'd have done the same thing.” Soon after (‘-instable George Strabler came in and arrested him. He resigned himself to his fate, and quietly gave up his revolver. — ’Squire John Haight empanelled a jury on the spot and held an inquest, when a verdict was returned iu accordance with the facts in the case. Mr. Bailey is not a popular man, by any means. — He was not neighborly, and hud the character of being morose, stingy, and tormented with the devil of jealousy. Events seem to have j ustilied tlie latter Iu business he hail been successful, ami by sagacious speculations has accumu lated a comfortable fortune. Heis worth about $l!0 000. He has lately been in terested iu some mills in lowa. iSlrs. Bailey, as was said before, is a woman of many personal charms, and of winning ways; too winning. H-r face does not indicate libidousness, nor is it a bad face. It would seem that she despised her husband, aud longed after other men, not so much for their own merits, hut in consequence of tiie tie merits of the man she married, was a victim to disappointed love. Her character was unstable and had not the elements that keep a woman pure and virtuous iu spite of circumstances. She is now like Gain, with an indelible brand upon Her brow—banished from her home; from peace aud from hap piness. Old Maids. There is a stigma of reproach cast upon the term “old maid ” —too often justly so, I admit. But where does tiie fault lie? I know two woiueu wiio may be classed iu this category—unmarried, forty years old, or Lhereabmits. Both are of good family, tiie daughters of wealthy men. The one, some dozen years ago, fi uding, as no sensible woman can fail to find, that fashionable life had nothing in it to satisfy her, made a stand for herself. She told herfatnily thati-he must have a life of her own. She hud no especial gifts, except a remarkable aptitude for business inherited from her father. Jn a quite way she had turned her attention to fruit growing, a brunch of ludustry offering many attrac tious t.o Her, and into that busi ness she determined to enter, for tunately, she had sufiicienl money, left her by her grandfather, to be able to carry out her plans, despite the sneers of her fashionable acquaintance, aud the objections and obstacles raised by tiie home circle. She established her self ou a fruit farm in tiie western part of this .State. Her work prospered. Now she is the owner of several hun dred acres, aud has constant ami remu nerative occupation of a kind ugreeu ble lo her. After a few yeuis hei father died, ami, instead of the rich man he was estimated, he was found to be bank rupt. This daughter had a comfortable home ami support to oiler her mother and iuvalid bister. .She has quite a set tlement of work people, men and women, to whom she and her sister miuister in various ways. In fact, she lives a life which is useful to others ami develops her own powers, ami in the consciousness of that she finds happi ness and peace. —“Ni:w Wink in Old BoTTLKS,” in J-Vb. Xo. of Lippincott'a Mnyazine, The blur of ihe Magi What was the Star of the -Magi ? is a seasonable question ; hut it is a difficult one to answer, because the little infor mation we have abrtut the phenomenon will not tally with the only theories that can be offered to explain it. The length of time that we are to Infer the star remained visible precludes the sup position that it was a meteoric appear auce, aud the recorded motion of it goes fur to invalidate the evidence that it was a celestial one. Feeling the want of a physical explanation, many have Jallen back upon the belief that theapparition was a miracle. But if a star appeared, it must have shone in accordance with natural laws ; and it must be accounted for by a rational hypothesis. We can hardly accept as such that which re ferred the bright body to au angel clothed in luminous vestments —the ex position offered by an old divine. The more reasonable solutions are those pre ferred by the astronomers, the Magi of our time, who have suggested that the star may have been u comet, or the bursting forth of a new fixed star, or a conjunction of the brighter planets, Jupiter and tiaturn, or a luminous meteor, a shooting star or belide. The planetary conjunction theory was that which found most adher ents, til! a late Secretary of the Royal Astronomical Society proved it unten able. The meteor explanation, as I have said, appears fallible, because no atmospheric light or meteoric body has ever been knowa to last as long as the star in question is judged to have re mained visible. New stars have beeu known to appear for a season, and then fadeaway. Only two years ago, a tiny slur suddenly blazed forth with the brightuessof one of thesecond magni tude, aud declined in a few days toils former insignificance. So the new fixed star theory comes well within the limits of probability, only the movemeut of the wise men’s guide is au impediment to it. Perhaps, after all, a comet, best satisfies the conditions; but the com pilers of comet catalogues have hesi tated to set down the date of the Sav iour’s birth as tbe jrear of a comet’s appearance. In other words, they have not felt justified In oalllng the strange KAT£ Of 1 AUVKttnUaU- Business ADVKRTxsuuurra, $l2 » year per dn&re of ten lines; $8 per year for each ad ditional square. Real Estate ADTOrnsnra, 10 centra line for tbe drat, ahd Scents for eaoh subsequent in sertion. QgygßAt. advertising 7 cents a lino for the hrst, and 1 cents for each subsequent Inser tion. Special Notices Inserted in Local -CuJfcmn 16 cents per line. Special Notices preoedlng marriages and deaths, 10 cents per line for first Insertion and 6 cents for every subsequent Insertion* Legal and oth i- a notices— Executors’ .otlcea. * ISO Administrators’ noting* 2JO Assignees’ notices,. 2J50 Auditors’ n0tice5........ 2.00 Other "Notices, ’ten lines, or leas* Z three times, .. ijjo star a comet. If, however, any future body of ihia class should visit us, whose orbit, when it comes to bo computed, indicates au apparition at or about the accepted atiuus domlui, the cometary theory, if it bo not completely estab lished, will at least be rendered highly probable. £egal Wot titt. A (.'IIiTOH'S KOTlt'K-t.SoIUXKI) KS- Into of Hiinm H. ICeudig uud SVlfe.of l*-o« valence town hlr, LunciiMer c-muiy. Iho undersigned Auditor, appointed to dnlrP'Ulo o.e balance remain tne lu ' he luii-dx of Henry K Kuubund Minim Peoples, Administrator* of John K Kuuh, dec’d , AaMvme, to ami lho.se h-ually ei-l u ed lu the sam--, will Ml lor that purp >*o on Fill i -a V. KKHKI'AKY 5 h, at 2 o'clock. P. M., iu ihe Ltbmry Room of ;hii I’outt House, In the civ of Lancaster, where ullp- rauiia 1 uteio-ted in mild d Mi lbU lion mn> alleu-l. \V. A \YII.-uN J.inlS itw 2 Auditor. \ssiii x i:i» km at of (•KoiKu: w. Kllid, oi Ha sbury township, L-u.auver C'UUlly Ueoige W. Kic«, ol '-ud-buty t wa sh ip, huvimi dt ed of Voluntary assign nient, -In e-i J XCA KI l , Iti ‘J. i.ss'gm d and i ninn l.-rrnl all 111- est-t** mid eft-(Mato Hie under .*•gi_ed. for Do boa* ft of the it* dinws of ' lie said Ut W. Rigg. In- IheielO’ c gives not ice to ah prisons indebted to said mss'ciio-, to make payment lo Hie uude-sigued wnlioui de lay, and i b-ise having claims to present ihrm to' WII.LIaM HuRLAND, Ass'gnee Kejldlog iu Midsimry l wuslnp Jn'O tilwfl KHI'PT AO’l'K I K. In tin- District Court ol 11 1 * i U a Ued .-dan-s lor the iviKt-lln Haukruplcy. era IH Ariel of P. im'a. j At. l.»n aster, Hu* llth day el JANUARY, A. n, i vii). TO \\ Ho.M IT M VY COVCKKV; The nvdor- Mj*ned her- by gives miloe of lus -pp-dn uietit as aSsljiher - f John 11. Ur-uS‘, of lire Tuwu -n.p of Kphrut.i, 1- the i'nit iv ol Lancaster, ami stni,. oi Pennsylvania wit In said dis irlct, wti'. ha- been adjudged a BaiiUiUj-l upon ihe petl l ion of creditors, hv the Ids - rif- (. onri ol s.iid list; Id. 1). U.'K-H I.KM aN, 3d No- th Duke Lancaster. DlViltll r (cl UT #ll ini: HMTHI sl’ATl- • DUiTHK l-AsT b*• D 1 TMOr ; - !•' PKN sSYI.V AM A.-.1.-lin W. Cross Hit. It nipl,of P phi aOi, 111 Ihe l.’nii nly of l.anca-I.T, IVni.S'.'lVitl.ls, haVIM" pet! l--r Ills ills -dm ije, a meet I u-» i.f c - •*■' l lors i' 111 be held on Km I i-.v X , I e Mn «h»v -d KKIHtUA KV, I Ml, at \ i oV’.-i-, V M.. hi tim • nice -fine It.MMer. >. utu Q'l'-en street, t .a-.-as' er ell v. t.ti-1 -lie I A .mi alien of s l - Bankrupt mnv he tlniM), -I. - Will 1.1-o If had Oil FI-.BiO AKY Bib, IS '.i, ai .u o erne A. M,b« f >ro Hie s-i d i rt, w 11 en pa rt U s i nt*-rested min show caii-o woy ihe s..id Hniihrupl should not tf uls- —•—„ V/p ness t ho lion. John Cadwaln-'o* '.v.-i, .lu-li-f of nil-1 Coii-l. .i 11-l ' he seal < ) i ~ereof. ut Phll.ulelphi.i. -1)0 l.'Utl dl J ’.i jui.iiiiry. ■>#::#. O. K roX, tleru. A M..-I : A Mas MI. WJtAKEII, Kf|;isler. I oi vo ;tLw:i IlooUanil’s ©rrraan j OOFI.AMVS UKKHAN nooF/.A av/.v arkmax toxic. The Great KomUlh's for all Olscases of Uio 1.l M O.U A< jl, OK niUFNTIYE OIUiAXS. (lOuFLAND'S (} KltM AN HITTKKS •Is i-i.iu |...sed ol I tie pure ju i-es p-r, w- they aro I)ie<ll-Ji:iail> termed, 11 l-xtrui-tt) ol lio.-s, 11 er Os ami Barks. H run a prepara tion. highly - oncnnlniteil, and entliely jrrr. from (linthi)lir (ulm.aui r •>! an;/ HOC) FLi A ND’S GERM A N TON IF, Ji, a comlutiHdon of all (lit* imiredlenls of l ie Hillers, with the purest f| nnlxty of .Vo/d-t Cruz hum, 11111110-. Ac., -naklnh one of t..e m.ist pi.-Hsiuil and HKuei.lno remedtqa ever (dier«:u t-- Hie pohlic. Those prel'int)!: a ''i-tl.dm> tree !;cni Alco holic admixture, will use HOOFLANDhS GEKMAN hi ITERS. Those who havo uo obj-adioii to Uiecoiuju nat ion of the Hi item, a-s si at- il. v\ 11l u-i- HOOFLAND’S german tonig. They are both equally good, and eonialn the same medicinal \lrtues, the choice between tbe t wo ta Inn a men* matter ol mate, the Toni* belli" the most palatable. Ti-e-touiacb, Irom 11 variety of causes, such ns Imlaj.-sliou, Dyspepsia. Nervou. Debility, ele., is vm ,y apt o have H s lu net ions der. nine-1. 1a e Diver, sympa / \ thl/.ing os ciusidy as It does wlHi tiie .Stomach, then be corm s atfectei), the result of which Is Unit (lie pat leul sutlers from several or mure ol the lol* owing diseases : Cuiisiipallou Klatnlence, Inward Plica, Fc 1 ne>« of Blood lo the Hea Acldtly o! the Htonmch, Nausea, Elearihuru, DihijiihL for Food, Kului-ss ol Weigh lu the Hloiuach, sxiur Krm tat lons, sinking or Fluit-eimg at the Pit of the stum-ell swimming ot UlO Head, Hurra-dor Dilhcull BreaU.- .‘lug, F'Ullterlng at the Heurt, Choking or Siidocntlug HeusullooM when in a Ly ln« P- -slure, Dim - ness of Vision, Dots or Webs be fore the Sight. Dull Pam lu Die Head, 1 icllcieiicv of For-pirulluu, Yekluwuebs of the skin ami Ly-*, i’ain In Um **nle, Buck, Coest, Limb*, etc., Sudileii Flushes oJ Heat, lu the Fb-sU. t'uii*taiii of Kvii, and Ureat Deprea.Mim nt spirits. The siill'eier f rniu these tllsei-Men sin.uid ex orcise Hie greahjst ciuil.lnii In Li e select 101 l ol remedy fur Ills casu, puieli .slug -ml liml wmtli lie is assured / k from In.-. Invesiiga tio s .uid iiiqinnos v/ pusseshes true rneril, Is nit 11 fully compounded, 1- tree H orn Injurious Ingredients, a-.d has established f-r Itsell a re ulalloli for (he cure ot these diseases. In tills cunueetlni; wo would submit those Well knowu remedies— HOOFLAND’IS GERMAN BITTERS, AND HOOFLAND’S GERMAN TONIC FIILFAKKD HY 1>»-. M. J VMiSO.N, J'HILA DKLdt] A, f‘A Tweuly-two years since they were llrsl In trudu d Into tins cnuulr> fioru tin in inv.dui luy which tlm- they have undoubtedly per* fo mejJ more cures, aud Ueuelltted sunerin" Humanity Lo a urealer ex ten l, limn any other remedies known L-> tne public. Tlii-b reined lea will utleelually cure Liver i.'naipla:ni,.Jauudice, I,' Djm-epsia, l hroiiic or Nervous Dlarrucija U Dlse.vsc ol the Kid aeys, and all Diseases arising Iroui a Disor dered i.lver. Si iiiiiudi or i rites tines. i) t: n / l j r y , U(HiiUlii|f from any Ciiunc Hludovrr l*tlO I«AHO.\ OF Tilt: NINIKII, iiiUneed l>y S vero Labor, llard- Hhl|m, KK|Hiiuir(‘, levers, Ac. There is no medicine «iutm -qualm Lues# remedies in such eases, a tune un 1 vigor b -1111 ]-aned pi the whole system, Ibu is Ktreu«th.-lied, loud ts ••uJo> eil, the slurnaeli J.ge-is promptly, the blood Is purified, th-* complexion become* sound and bead by. the yellow UukC Is eradleatei fuan the eyes, a Di-jfan Is ,pveij to die cbeeks, and the Weak and net vous Invalid becomes a strong uud neulti > !.<•!. y FKItHM>M AIJVaM'KI) IN’ LIFE. \nd leelliiK tbe hand ut lime wvlgl.iuu lie 'VI ly Up-)I1 I hem. with all Its ult*-tn!unl His, will find lh the use o: Inis HlTTKiirt, or the I'-j.N Uj, au el 1 1 el that Will lUslilii. W hie Into '.heir vein-, resiore In a in .uiure the i-uergy uu-1 anlor ut inure youthful dn)s. h.nld up iheir -Mr*;Xlk.-u roims, and give u-aitti uud hiijipl. ueiis to Lhctr remaining > 0-111, N U T I U !• Jt is a Well-* Mai.nsl.ed .act that fu Ily one halt ol the - limit poril-m -dour population are seldom lu the en I Joy ui en 5 of gijod health; or U< use |_j m n n,■ \pr--*siou “ never leel well.” llir> un- Unigm-l, -leVuJd of au eiiLf,;;., eali eiuely nervous, aud have i;o appellle. do Lilts class ol persons the BITTIeR*. or tne I'lNl- , Is-ispeelahj, i»- urnnieimed. -VKAK aNIi DKI.H'a TJ-; (:ll! I.j) Are mail*- s: 1..1 g 1 y 1 i.e .is.* -u - itu*-x of the .0 reui.-di *•. rii.-> W) 1 cur- every ease u .'-lAit- A.-.M U - w itno.it lull. Thou-an-ls o! eeriihe.itc* have accumulated 111 Ihe tm 11 -Is ol the pr- ipriet, .r, mil space will al nw -.1 Ihe puidic-ti ion of tml Jew. I’hose, it will h«. ohs*-r o..,are m« 11 -»f non' and u! standing LliiiL lliev iikim he helleVed. T KSTiiluN I ALN. HUN. Ui'.h. W. WuUDWA'tD, Chirf Ju.itirt: t/J thr rjurr 0/ P'i. s \vx I ;«is PUitmli'lfiliin, .larch H>. “ I Un-l 1 HooQiuid's (>ei man Bitu-rs' ts aijuuJ tome, u-etul In dis- a ease*of thcdluc-livo orguns, and of great j\_ heuetlt lu c-ses of debiJny, and want oi uervuus ac'.loti lu tiio system. Yours, truly, Geo. W. '.Voodwaud.’i HUN. JAMEH THUMI*S()N Judge uj Ike hujircme tjjurt uj /'cniuylv<i>ii(i. lk-Jii'te!i>kt<i, April '2s, INiU. *' I consider ' Hoofluud's Uermui Hltteis ' u valuable medunnr iu case of uttiurks of ludlges* tlon or Dysf-ep-ia. J caiu certify tills from tny experience ul It. Yours, with lespect, James lnoMiiiON.” FKOM Kkv. JUSKFH H. K.KNNAHD, D, J' Ptutor 0/ the 1 truth Huptwl t'tmrch, FhiUutclphia Ur. Jfickatm —Dear -'ll : 1 have l-een iroqu-.nl ly requested Loe*)'iheet Iny name wliti leeom mendalious of -UMereiil kinds of medlelues, but reyardiug tiie practice as ou of my appio* priate sphere, I nave lu all cases decu lied ; hut with a clear ,»ioot Ju \T various instances and pariieularly iu j.l my own family, of Iho uselumesh of Dr H--oUaud’s Uennan Bit ters, I depart for once Ir-nu uiy u*uai course, to express my full conviction Ihul./or t/merul (lebiltiu bj ttie rytlcm, and erprciully fur Liter Oimptuuit, U is a atfe Und valuable /ircjHirtilu/n. In some cases It rimy lull; but usually, I doubt not, it v/Ul be very ix-ueUclal to ihusu who suf fer from the above causes. Yours, very respectfully, •I. H. Kuskakd l Klgbth, below (Juntos HI. From Uev. p:. i>. FKNDALL. Anzictanl hditor < '/irufum Chronicle, phiUidc'phia I liave-Kriveij decided itenehl from the use of Hootlland'K W-t'-kl Him. rs, and (eel ll my pri v I lege to recommend them a* a must va lim ine tonic, loud who are sutler in« from general debldiy nr from diseases ariM ug irom derange rneul ol the liver, i.»ufa truly. fc. D. h ES’DAIA-,3 CAUT I o N Hoofland's German Hemedli.s are counter feited. See that Ihe J \ slkiialnra or (J. M. JACKsuN B- on the LJ wrapper of each bot tle. Ali others arc counterfeit. Principal uiHcefind Manufactory at theUor nma Mt-diciue >lore, .No. au AKCH (Street Philadelphia Hu. UHAKhk.S M. ZVANS, Proprietor, Formerly C. M. Jackson a. Co. PR I C EX Hoo3:id<l'B German Bittors, per bottie, ** " “ half dozen..;... S.CG Houlland's German Tonic, pul up In quart but ties, 51 50 per hottie, or u naif dozen tor $7.50, ft- Do not orqt-L loexumint well tbe article you buy. In or er to get tbe genuine. For sale uv IDufv- e.ts and Dealers tu Mtdl d ten ever> vt b v-i *■, an 21 g 51. SCtIAEJ-'FER, WHOLESALE AND RETAIL OADDLKRJ NOB 1 AND 2 EAST KING BTH&BT Jan 10 LAN tftr ni r t ms,
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