TERMS OF PUBLICATION.
The lltPoßTEjjis published every Thursday Mor
i.ios, by E. 0. GOODRICH, at $2 per annum, in ad
vance.
\ DVEIITISEMENTS exceeding fifteen lines are
h erted at TEN CENTS per line for first insertion,
:D FIVE CENTS per line for subsequent insertions
Special notices inserted before Marriages and
If aths, will be charged FIFTEEN CENT, per line for
• .u-li insertion All resolutions of Associations ;
communications of limited or individual interest,
and notices of Marriages and Deaths exceeding five
lines, are charged TEN CENTS par line.
1 Year. 6 mo. 3 mo.
One Column, $75 s<lo S3O
i 10 25 15
One Square, 10 7£ 5
Estray, Caution, Lost and Found, and oth
er advertisements, not exceeding 15 lines,
three weeks, or less $1 50
Administrator's and Executor's Notices... 200
Auditor's Notices 2 50
Business Cards, five lines, (per year) 5 00
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will be charged S2O. They will be entitled to 4
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Advertising m all cases exclusive of sub
scripiiou to the paper.
r OB PRINTING of every kind in Plain andFan
c, colors, doue with neatness and dispatch. Hand
bills, Blanks, Cards, Pamphlets, Ac., of every va
ritv and style, printed at the shortest notice. The
REPORTER OI FICE has just been re-fitted with Power
Presses, and every thing in the Printing line can
be executed iu tbe most artistic manner and at the
.owest rates. TERMS INVARIABLY CASH.
(Carfcs.
THOMAS J. INGHAM, ATTORNEY
AT LAW, LAPORTE, Sullivan County, Pa.
/ " EORGE D. MONTANYE, ATTOR
\E &EY AT /.A IT— Office iu Union Block,former
ly occupied by JAS.MA RI.ASE.
\\f T. DAVIES, Attorney at Law, To
-5 1 WANDA, Pa, Office with WM. Watkins, Esq.
Particular attention paid to Orphans' Court business
and settlement ol decedents estates. 25-42.
\ I ERCUK & MORROW, Attorneys at Lair,
I'L Towanda, Penn'a,
The undersigned having associated themselvas togeth
er iu the practice of Law, offer their professional ser
vices to the public.
ULYSSES MERCUR, P. D. MORROW.
March L>, 1565.
I>ATRICK & FECK, ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
Offices In Union Block, Towanda, Pa., formerly
occupied by Hon. Wm. Elwell, and iu Patrick's block,
Athens, Pa. They may be consulted at either place.
11. W. PATRICK, aplld W. A. PECK.
nli. McKEAN, ATTORNEYS COUN
• SELL OR AT LAW, Towanda, Pa. Par
ticular attention paid to business iu the Orphans' Court.
July 20, 1866.
UENRY FEET, Attorney at Laic, Towan
la, Pa. juu'JA. 66.
\\ T 11. CA ENOCH AN, ATTORNEY
• • • AT LA IT, Troy, Pa. Special attention given
!• • .ißccting claims against the Government lor Bounty,
I . K Pay and Pensions. Office with E. B. Parsons. Esq.
J me 12,1866.
LMIWAKD OVERTON Jr., Attorney at
L.ai t .TP, Towanda, Pa. Office in Montanyes Block,
over Frost's Store July 13th, 1865
| OIL N N. C A LIFE, ATTORNEY AT
VI LAIT, Towanda, Pa. Also, Government Agent
or tbe collection ol Pensions, Back Pay and Bounty.
A-R No charge unless successful. Office over the
Po<t Office aud News Room. Dec. 1, 1864.
UENRY A. RECORD, M. D, Physician
tihil Surgeon, having permanantly located in Mill
view, Sullivan Co., Pa., would respectfully offer his pro-
H s-ioual services to the citizens of the place a vicinity.
Jan. 30, '<>o.
Oil BTLLES, M. I)., Physician and Sur- J
• gton, would announce to the people ol Rom- Bo- J
rough and vicini y, that he has permanently locate I at |
I tbe place formerly occupied by Dr. G W. Stone, for the I
practice of his p ofession. Particular attention given
to the treatuieut of women and children, as also to the
; pi. OLIVE of operative aud minor surgery. Oct. 2 ,'66.
i tit. PRATT has removed to State street
AJ (first above B. S. Russell & Co'S Bank). Persons
HUM a distance desirous A con.-ultiug him, will be most
I likely to find him on Saturday OI each week. Especial
attention will be given to surgical cases, and the extrae
ti nof teeth. Gas or Ether administered when desired.
| July is, is.;,;. D. 8. PRATT, M. D.
s |\OCTOR CHAS. F. PAlNE.—Oiliee in
x/ GUKK'S Drug Store, Towanda, Pa, Calls proaipt
| ly attended to at all bona. Nov 28, "66.
1) W A Rl> MEEK S—AUCTIO NEER.—
JL-J All letters addressed to him at Sugar Run, Brad-
I ford Co., Pa., WFFL receive prompt attention, May"'6otf,
TEHRAN CIS E. I'OST, Painter, Towanda,
I A I'U, with 10 years experience, is confident he can
give the best satisfaction iu Painting, Graining, Stain
itjg, Glazing. Papering, Ac. AS* Particular attention
| paid to Jobbing in tbe country. April 9, '66.
I J. NEWE LL ,
I *
COUNTY SURVEYOR,
1
Ii irwell, Bradford Co. , Pa„ will promptly attend to all
business in his line. Particular attention given to run
ning and establishing old or disputed lines. Also to
surveying ot ailunpittented lands as soon as warrant
are obtained.
May 17, 1*66.
Dentistrp.
RPWENTY-FIVE YEARS EXPERIENCE
X IN DENTISTRY J. S. SMITH, M. D„ would re
oecltully inlorm the inhabitants of Bradford County
that be is permanantly located in Waverly, N.Y., where
I H has been in the practice of his profession for the past
lour years. He would say that from his long and suc-
CT -tul practice of 25 years duration, he is familiar with
I vii the different styles of work done in any and all Deu
: i establishments iu city or country, and is better pre
pared than any other Dental operator iu the vicinity to
do work the best adapted to the many aud different
•.sue that present themselves oltentimes to the Dentist.,
•< he understands the art of making his own artificial
!• th, and has tacilities tor doing the same. To those
quiring undersets of teeth he would call attention to
- new kind ol work which consists oi porcelain for
both plate and teeth, and torining a continuous gum. It
is more durable, more natural in appearance , and much
o tter adapted to the gum than any other kind of work.
| 1 bose iu need of the same are invited to call and exam-
I.IE specimens. Teeth tilled to last for years and otten
t mes for life. Chloroform, ether, and "Afttrous oxide"
■ administered with perfect safety, as over tour hundred
I. ent.s within the last four years can testify.
1 will be in Towanda from the 15th to 30th of every
Imonih, at the office of W.K. TAYLOR, (formerly oc
e ;iiil by Dr. O. H. Woodruff. ) Having made arrange
• its with Mr. Taylor, 1 am prepared to do all work in
T ie very best style, at his office.
N0v.27,1865. yl.
[Yll 11. WESTON, DENTIST. Office
AJ IN Pattou's Block, over Barstow A Gore's Drug
and Cheal< al Eiors. Ijano6
A 21 ERI CA N HOTEL,
T O WANDA, PA.,
Having purchased this well known Hotel oa Bridge
Street, I have refurnished and refitted it with every
. faience for the accommodation ot all who may pat
r r.lze me. No pains will lie spared to make all pleas
IT aud agreeable. J. s. PATTERSON, Prop.
May 3, '66. — tf.
YLTARD HOUSE, TOWANDA, PENN'A
On Main Street, near the Court House.
C. T. SMITH, Proprietor.
Oct. 8, 1866.
DER HOUSE, ;i four story brick ed-
KJ- ifice near the depot, with large airy rooms, elegant
I: lor- . newly furnished. has a recess in new a ddition
lor Ladies use, aud is the most convenient and only
iclass hotel at Waverly, N. Y. It is the princi pal
e tor stages south aud express. Also for sale ot
-tern Tickets, and in Canada, on Grand Trunk Rail
way, tare to Detroit from Buffalo, $4, is cheaper than
_• oilier route. A pply for tickets as above to
C. WAREORD.
tf stabling and care of Horses at reasonable rates.
Waverly N. Y., Oct . 26, 1866 -3M. C. W.
GROCERIES AND PROVISIONS,
WHOLLSAI.E AND KETAIL,
J0 H N MERID ET H,
•lain st. , first door south of Rail Road House, Towanda,
is just received a large addition to his stock of
GROCERIES AND PROVISIONS
•'• oich will be sold at wholesale and retail, at the very
west rates.
U mer s Produce of all kinds, bought and sold,
IJE public attention is respectlully invited to my
A which will he found to be Kresh. bought at low
i as and will be sold at correspondingly low rate.s
fo wand >, July 17,1866.
AND TOILET SOAPS, FOR
sale cheap at the NEWS ROOM.
E. O. GOODRICH, Publisher.
VOLUME XXVII.
(From Dickens' Christmas Story.)
THE ENGINEER.
His name, sir, was Matthew Price ; mine
is Benjamin Hardy. We were born with
in a few days of each other ; bred up in
the same village ; taught at the same
school. I cannot remember the time when
we were not close friends. Even as boys,
we never knew what it was to quarrel.
We had not a thought, we had not a pos
session, that was not in common. We
would have stood by each other, fearlessly
to the death. It was such a friendship as
one reads about sometimes in books : fast
aud firm as the great Tors upon our native
moorlands, true as the sun in the heavens.
j The name of our village was Chadleigh.
Lifted high above the pasture fiats which
stretched away at our feet like a measure
less green lake aud melted into mist on the
farthest horizon, it nestled, a tiny stone
built hamlet, in a sheltered hollow about
midway between the plain and the plateau.
Above us, rising ridge beyoud ridge, slope
beyond slope, spread the mountainous moor
country, bare and bleak for the most part,
with here and there a patch of cultivated
field or hardy plantation, and crowned
highest of all with masses of huge gray
crag, abrupt, isolated, hoary, and older,
than the deluge. These were the Tors, —
Druids' Tor, King's Tor, Castle Tor, and
the like ; sacred places, as I have heard,
in the ancient time, where crownings, burn
ings, human sacrifices, and all kinds cf
bloody heathen rites were performed. Bones,
too, had been found there, and arrow-heads,
aud ornaments of gold and glass. I had a
vague awe of the Tors, in those boyish
days, and would not have gone near them
alt. r dark for the heaviest bribe.
I have said that we were born in the
same village. He was the son of a small
farmer, named William Price, and the eld
est of a family of seven ; I was the only
child of Ephraim Hardy, the Chadleigh
blacksmith—a well-known man in those
parts, whose memory is not forgotten to
this day. Just so far as a farmer is sup
posed to be a bigger man than a black
smith, Mat's father might be said to have a
better standing than mine ; but William
Price, with his small holding aud his seven
boys, was, in fact, as poor as many a day
laborer ; whiist the blacksmith, well-to-do,
bustling, popular, and open handed, was a
person of some importance in the place.—
All this, however, had nothing to do with
Mat and myself It never occurred to eith
er of us that his jacket was out at elbows,
or that our mutual funds came altogether
from my pocket. It was enough for us
that we sat or the same school-bench, con
ned our tasks from toe same primer, fought
each other's battles, screened each other's
faults, fished, nutted, played truant, robbed
orchards and birds' nests together, and
spent every half-honr, authorized or stolen,
in each other's society. It was a happy
time; but it could not go on forever. My
father, being prosperous,resolvdd to put me
forward in the world. I must know more,
and do better, than himself. The forge was
not good enough, the little world of Chad
leigh not wide enough, for me. Thus it
happened that I was still swinging the
satchel when Mat was whistling at the
plough, and that at last, when my future
course was shaped out, we were separated,
as it then seemed to us, for life. For,
blacksmith's son as I was, furnace and
forge, iu some form or other, pleased me
best, and I chose to be a working engineer.
So my father by and by apprenticed me to
a Birmingham iron-master ; and, having
bidden .farewell to Mat aud Chadleigh, and
the gray old Tors in the shadow of which
I had spent all the days of my life, I turn
ed my lace northward, and went over into
" the Black country."
I am not going to dwell on this part of
my story. How I worked out the term of
my apprenticeship ; how, when I had serv
ed my full time aud become a skilled work
man, I took Mat from the plough aud
brought him over to the Black Country,
shilling with him lodging, wages, experi
ence, —all, in short, that I had to give ;
how he, naturally quick to learn and brim
ful of quiet energy, worked his way up a
step at a time, and came by and by to be a
" first hand" in his own department ; how,
during all thes ; years of change, and trial,
and effort, the old boyish afiection never
wavered or weakened, but went on, grow
ing with our growth and strengthening
with our strength—are facts which I need
do no more than outline in this place.
About this time—it will remembered that
I speak ot the days when Mat and I were
on the bright side of thirty—it happened
that our firm contracted to supply six first
class locomotives to run on the new line,
then in process of construction, between
Turin and Genoa. It was the first Italian
order we had takeu. We had had dealings
with France, Holland, Belgium, Germany ;
but never with Italy. The connection,
therefore, was new and valuable, —all the
more valuable because our Transalpine
neighbors had but lately begun to lay down
the iron roads, and would be safe to need
more of our good English work as they
went on. So the Birmingham firm set them
selves to the contract with a will, length
ened our working hours, increased our wa
ges, took on fresh hands, and determined,
if energy and promptitude could do it, to
place themselves at the head oi the Italian
labor-market and stay there. They deserv
ed and achieved success. The six locomo
tives were not only turned out to time, but
were shipped, despatched, and delivered
with a promptitude that fairly amazed our
Piedmontese consignee. I was not a iittle
proud, you may be sure, when I found my
self appointed to superintend the transport
of the engines. Being allowed a couple of
assistants, I contrived that Mat should be
one ol them ; and thus we enjoyed togeth
er the first great holiday of our lives.
It was a wonderful change for two Bir
mingham operatives fresh from the Black
Country. The fairy city, with its crescent
background of Alps ; the port crowded
with strange shipping ; the marvellous blue
sky and bluer sea ; the painted houses on
the (juays ; the quaint cathedral, faced with
black and white marble ; th street of jew
ellers, like an Arabian Nights' bazaar ; the
street of palaces, with its Moorish court
yards, its fountains and orange-trees ; the
women veiled like brides ; the galley-slaves
chained two and two ; the processions ol
priests and friars ; the everlasting clangor
TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., DECEMBER 20,1866.
ol bells ; the babel of a strange tongue ;
the singular lightness and brightness of
the climate, —made, altogether, such a com
bination of wonders that we wander about
the lirst day, in a kind of bewildered dream,
like children at a fair. Before that week
was ended, being tempted by the beauty of
the place and the liberality of the pay, we
had agreed to take service with the Turin
and Genoa Railway Company, and to turn
our backs upon Birmingham forever.
Then began a new life, —a life so active
and healthy, so steeped in fresh air and
sunshine, that we sometimes marvelled how
we could have endured the gloom of the
Black Country. We were constantly up
an ! down the line : now at Genoa, now at
Turin, taking trial trips with the locomo
tives, and placing our old experiences at
the service of our new employers.
Iu the mean while we made Genoa our
head-quarters, and hired a couple of rooms
over a small shop in a by street sloping
down to the quays. Such a busy little
street, —so steep and winding that no ve
hicles could pass through it, and so narrow
that the sky looked like a mere strip of
deep-blue riobon overhead ! Every house
iu it, however, was a shop, where the goods
encroached on the footway, or were piled
about the door, or hung like tapestry from
the balconies ; and all day long, from dawn
to dusk, an incessant stream of passers-by
poured up and down between the port and
the upper quarter of the city.
Our landlady was the widow of a silver
worker, and lived by the sale of filigree or
naments, cheap jewelry, combs, fans, and
toys iu ivory and jet. She bad an only
daughter named Gianetta, who served in
the shop, and was simply the most beauti
ful woman I ever beheld. Looking back
across this weary chasm of years, and
bringing her image before me (as I can do)
with all the vividness of life, I am unable,
even now, to detect a Haw in her beauty.—
Ido not attempt to describe her. Ido not
believe there is a poet living who could find
the words to do it ; but I once saw a pic
ture that was somewhat like her (not half
so lovely, but still like her), and, for aught
1 know, that picture is still hanging where
I last looked at it, —upon the walls of the
Louvre. It represented a woman with
brown eyes and golden hair, looking over
her shoulder into a circular mirror held by
a bearded man in the background. In this
man, as I then understood, the artist had
painted his own portrait; in her, the por
trait of the woman he loved. No picture
that 1 ever saw was half so beautiful, and
yet it was not worthy to be named in the
same breath with Gianetta Coneglia.
You may be certain tbe widow's shop did
not want for customers. All Genoa knew
how fair a face was to be seen behind that
dingy little counter ; and Giannetta, flirt as
she was, had more lovers than she cared to
remember, even by name. Gentle and sim
ple, rich and poor, from the red-capped sail
or buying his earrings or his amulet, to the
nobleman carelessly purchasing half the
filigrees in the window, she treated them
all alike, —encouraged them, laughed at
them, led them on and turned them off at
her pleasure. She had no more heart than
a marble statue, as Mat and I discovered
by and by, to our bitter cost.
I cannot tell to this day bow it came
about, or what first led me to suspect how
things were going with us both ; but long
before the waning of that autumn a cold
ness had sprung up between my friend and
myself. It was nothing that could have
beei' put into words. It was nothing that
either of us could have explained or justi
fied, to save his life. We lodged together,
ate together, worked together, exactly as
before ; we even took our loug evening's
walk together, when the day's labor was
ended ; and except, perhaps, that we were
more silent than of old, no mere looker-on
could have detected a shadow of change.
Yet there it was, silent aud subtle, widen
ing the gulf between us every day.
it was not his fault. He was too true
aud gentle-hearted to have willingly bro't
about such a state of things betweeu us.—
Neither do I believe—fiery as my nature is
- that it was ming. It was all hers—hers
from first to last—the sin, and the shame,
and the sorrow.
If she had shown a fair and open prefer
ence for either of us, no real harm could
have come of it. 1 would have put any con
straint upon myse f, and, Heaven knows !
have borne any suffering, to see Mat really
happy. I know that he would have done
the same, and more if he could, for me.
But Gianetta cared uot one sou for either.
She never meant to choose between us. It
gratified her vanity to divide us; it amused
her to play with us. It would pass my pow
er to tell how, by a thousand imperceptible
shades of coquetry, —by the lingering of a
glauce, the substitution of a word, the Hit
ting of a smile, —she contrived to turn our
heads, and torture our hearts, aud lead us
on to love her. She deceived us both. She
buoyed us both up with hope ; she madden
ed us with jealousy; she crushed us with
despair. For my part, when I seemed to
wake to a sudden seuse of the ruin that
was about our path, and I saw how the
truest friendship that ever bound two lives
together was drifting on to wreck and ruin,
I asked myself whether any woman in the
world was worth what Mat had been to me
and I to. him. But this was not often. I
was readier to shut my eyes upon the truth
thau to face it ; and so lived on, wilfully,
in a dream. *
Thus the autumn passed away, and win
ter came, —the strange, treacherous Geno
ese winter, green with olive and ilex, bril
liant with sunshine, and bitter with storm.
Still, rivals at heart and friends on the sur
face, Mat and I lingered on in our lodging
in the Vicolo Balba. Still Gianetta held us
with her fatal wiles and her still more fatal
beauty. At length there came a day when
I felt I could bear the horrible misery and
suspense of it no longer. The sun, I vow
ed, should not go down before I knew my
sentence. She must choose between us.—
She must either take me or let me go. I
was reckless. I was desperate. I was de
termined to know the worst, or the best.
If the worst, I would at once turn my back
upon Genoa, upon her, upon all the pur
suits and purposes of my past life, and be
gin the world anew. This I told her, pas
sionately and sternly, standing before her
II the little parlor at the back of the shop,
one bleak December morning.
"If it's Mat whom you care for most,"
I said, " tell me so in one word, and I will
never trouble you again. He is better
worth your love. lam jealous and exact-
REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER.
[ ing ; b* is as trusting and unselfish as a
woman. Speak, Gianetta ; am Ito bid you
good by for ever and ever, or am I to write
home to my mother iu Eugland, bidding her
pray to God to bless the woman who has
promised to be my wife ?"
" You plead your friend's cause well,"
she replied haughtily. "Matteo ought to
be grateful. This is more than he ever did
for you."
" Give me my answer, for pity's sake," I
exclaimed, "aud let me go !"
" You are free to go or stay, Signor In
glese," she replied. "I am not your jail
or."
" Do you bid me leave you ?"
" Beata Madre ! not I."
" Will ) ou marry me if I stay ?"
She laughed aloud, —such a merry, mock
ing, musical laugh, like a chime of silver
bells!
" Y'ou ask too much," she said.
" Only what you have led me to hope
these five or six mouths past !"
"That is just Matteo says. How tire
some you both are I"
"0 Gianetta?' I said, passionately, "be
serious for one moment ! I am a rough
fellow, it is true, —not half good enough or
clever enough for you ; but I love you with
my whole heart, and an Emperor could do
uo more."
" I am glad of it," she replied ; " I do
uot want you to love me less."
" Then you cannot wish to make me
wretched ! Will you promise me ?"
" I promise nothing," said she, with an
other burst of laughter, "except that I will
not marry Matteo !"
Except that she would not marry Matteo!
Only that. Not a word of hope for my
self. Nothing hut my friend's condemna
tion. I might get comfort, and selfish tri
umph, and sotne sort of base assurance out
of that, it I could. And so, to my shame,
1 did. I grasped at the vain encourage
ment, and, fool that I was ! let her put me
off again unanswered. From that day, I
gave up all effort at self-control, aud let
myself drift bliudly on—to destruction.
At length tilings became so bad between
Mat and myself that it seemed as if an
open rupture must be at hand. We avoid
ed each otiier, scarcely exchanged a dozen
sentences in a day, and fell away from our
old familiar habits. At this time—l shad
der to remember it!—there were moments
when I felt that I hated him.
Thus, with the trouble deepening and
widening betweeu us day by day, another
month or five weeks went by ; aud Febru
ary came ; and, with February, the Carni
val. They said in Genoa that it was a par
ticularly dull carnival : and so it must have
been ; for, save a flag or two hung out in
some of the principal streets, and a sort of
festa look about the women, there were no
special indications of the season. It was,
I think, the second day, when, having been
on the line all the morning, I returned to
Genoa at dusk, and, to my surprise, found
Mat I'rice on the platform. He came up to
me, and laid his hand ou my arm.
" You are ill late," he said. " I have beeu
waiting for you three quarters of an hour.
Shall we dine together to-day ?"
Impulsive as I am, this evidence of re
turning good-will at uuce called up my bet
ter feelings.
" With all my heart, Mat," I replied ;
" shall we go to Gozzoli's ?"
" No, no," he said, hurriedly. " Some
quieter place,—some place where we can
talk. I have something to say to you "
I noticed now that he looked pale and
agitated, and an uneasy sense of appre
hension stole upon me. We decided on the
" Fescatore," a little out-of-the way trat
toria, down near the Molo Vecchio. There,
in a dingy salon, frequented chiefly by sea
men, and redolent of tobacco, we ordered
our simple dinner. Mat scarcely swallow
ed a morsel, but, calling presently for a
bottle of Sicilian wine, drank eagerly.
" Well, Mat," I said, as the last dish was
placed on the table, " what news have you?'
'• Bad."
" I guessed that from your face."
" Bad for you,—bad for me. Gianetta."
" What of Gianetta ?"
He passed his hand nervously across his
lips.
" Gianetta is false, —worse than false,"
he said, iu a hoarse voice. " She values an
honest man's heart just as she values a
flower for her hair, —wears it for a day,
then throws it aside forever. Hhe has
cruelly wronged us both."
"In what way? Good Heavens, speak
out !"
"In the worst way that a woman can
wrong those who love her. She has sold
herself to the Marchese Loredano."
The blood rushed to my head and face in
a burning torrent. I could scarcely see,
aud dared not trust myself to speak.
" I saw her going towards the cathe
dral," he went ou, hurriedly. "It was
about three hours ago. I thought she
might be going to confession, so I hung
back and followed her at a distance. When
she got inside, however, she went straight
to the back of the pulpit, where this man
was waiting for her. You remember him,
—an. old man who used ty haunt the shop
a month or two back. Well, seeing how
deep iu conversation they were, and how
they stood close under the pulpit with their
backs towards the church, 1 fell into a pas
sion ot anger and went straight up the
aisle, intending to say or do something, I
scarcely knew what, but, at all events, to
draw ber arm througli mine, and take her
home. When I came within a few feet,
however, and found only a big pillar be
tween myself and them, I paused. They
could not see me, nor I them ;• but I could
hear their voices distinctly, and—and I
listened."
" Well, and you heard—"
" The terms of a shameful bargain—
beauty on the one side, gold on the other ;
so many thousand francs a year ; a villa
near Xaplcs—Pah! it makes me sick to
repeat it."
And, with a shudder, he poured out an
other glass of wine and drank it at a
draught.
" After that," he said, presently, " I made
no effort to bring her away. The whole
thing was so cold-blooded, so deliberate, so
shameful, that I felt I had only to wipe her
out of my memory, and leave her to her
fate. I stole out of the cathedral, and
walked about here by the sea for ever so
long, trying to get my thoughts straight.
Then I remembered you, Ben ; and the re
collection of how this wanton had come
between us and broken up our lives drove
ine wild. So I went up to the station and
waited for you. I felt you ought to know
it all ; aud—and I thought, perhaps, that
we might go back to Eugland together."
" The Marchese Loredano !"
It was all that I could say ; all that I
could think. As Mat had just said of him
self, I felt "like one stunned."
" There is one thing I may as well tell
you," he added, reluctantly, " if only to
show you how false a woman can be. We
—we were to have been married next
month."
"We ? Who ? What do you mean ?"
" I mean that we were to have been mar
ried, —Gianetta and I."
A sudden storm of rage, of scorn, of in
credulity, swept over me at this, and seem
ed to carry my senses away.
" You /" I cried. " Gianetta marry you 1
I dou't believe it."
" I wish I had uot believed it," he re
plied, looking up as if puzzled by my ve
hemence. " But she promised me ; and I
thought, when she promised it, she meant
it."
" She told me, weeks ago, that she would
never be your wife 1"
His color rose, his brow darkened ; but
when his answer came, it was as calm as
the last.
" Indeed 1" he said. " Then it is only
one baseness more. She told me that she
had refused you •; and that was why we
kept our engagement secret."
" Tell the truth, Mat Price," I said, well
nigh beside myself with suspicion. " Con
fess that every word of this is false ! Con
fess that Gianetta will not listen to you,
and that you are afraid I may succeed
where you have failed. As perhaps I shall
—as perhaps I shall, after all 1"
" Are you mad ?" he exclaimed. " What
do you mean ?"
" That I believe it's just a trick to get
me away to England,—that I dou't credit
a syllable of your story. You're a liar,
and I hate you !"
He rose, aud, laying one hand on the
back of his chair, looked me sternly in the
face.
" If you were not Benjamin Hardy," he
said, deliberately, " I would thrash you
within an inch of your life."
The words had no sooner passed his lips
than I sprang at him. I have uever been
able distinctly to remember what followed.
A curse, —a blow, —a struggle,—a momeut
of blind fury,—a cry,—a confusion of ton
gues,—a circle of strange faces. Then I
see Mat lyiug back in the arms of a by
stander ; myself trembling and bewilder
ed, —the knife dropped from my grasp ;
blood upon the floor ; blood upon my hands;
blood upon his shirt. And then I hear those
dreadful words, —
" 0 Beu, you have murdered me !"
He did not die, —at least, not there and
then. He was carried to the nearest hos
pital, aud lay for some weeks between life
and death. His case, they said, was diffi
cult and dangerous. The knife had gone
iu just below the collar bone, and pierced
down into the lungs. He was not allowed
to speak or turn, —scarcely to breathe with
freedom. He might not even lift his head
to drink. I sat by him day and night all
through that sorrowful time. I gave up
my situation ou the railway ; I quitted my
lodging in the Vicolo Balba ; I tried to for
get that such a wouiau as Gianetta Coneg
lia had ever drawn breath. I lived only
for Mat ; and he tried to live more, I be
lieve, for my sake than his own. Thus, in
the bitter silent hours of pain and peni
tence, when no hand but mine approached
his lips or smoothed his pillow, the old
friendship carne back with even more than
its old trust and laithfuluess. He forgave
me, fully aud freely ; and I would thank
fully have giveu uiv life for him.
At length there came one bright spring
morning, when, dismissed as convalescent,
he tottered out through the hospital gates,
leaning on my arm, aud feeble as an infant.
He was not cured ; neither, as I then learn
ed to my horror aud anguish, was it possi
ble that he ever could be cured. He might
live, with care, for some years ; but the
luugs were injured beyond hope of remedy,
and a strong or healthy man he could uever
be again. These,spoken aside to me, were
the parting words of the chief physician,
who advised me to take him farther south
without delay.
I took bim to a little coast-town called
Rocco, some thirty miles beyond Genoa,— a
sheltered lonely place along the Riviera,
where the sea was even bluer than the sky,
and the cliffs were green with strange trop
ical plants,—cacti, and aloes, and Egyptian
palms. Here we lodged in the house of a
small tradesman ; and Mat, to use his own
wordV'set to work at getting well in good
earnest." But, alas ! it was a work which
no earnestness could forward. Day after
day he went do wn to the beach, and sat for
hours drinking the sea-air and watching the
sails that came and went in the offing. By
and by he could go no farther than the gar
den of the house in which we lived. A lit
tle later, and he spent his days on a couch
beside tire open window, waiting patiently
for the end. Ay, for the end ! It had come
to that. He was fading last, waning with
the waning summer,conscious that the Rea
per was at hand. His whole aim now was
to solten the agony of my remorse,and pre
pare me for w hat must shortly come.
"I would not live longer, if I could," he
said, lying on his couch one summer even
ing, and looking up to the stars. "If 1 had
my choice at this moment, I would ask to
go. I should like Gianetta to know that I
forgave her."
"She shall know it," I said, trembling
suddenly from head to foot.
He pressed my hand.
"And you'll write to father ?"
"1 will."
I had draws a little back, that he might
not see the tears raining down my cheeks ;
but lie raised himself on his elbow,and look
ed round.
"Don't fret, Ben," he whispered, laid his
head bick wearily upon the pillow,—and
so died.
And this was the end of it. This was the
end of all that made life to me. I buried
him there,in hearing of the wash of a strange
sea on a strange shore. I stayed by the
grave till the priest and the bystanders
were gone. I saw the earth filled in to the
last sod,and the gravedigger stamp it down
with his feet. Then, and not till then, I felt
that I had lost him forever, —the friend I
loved, and hated, and slain. Then, and not
till then, I knew that all rest, and joy, and
#3 per Annum, in Advance.
' hope were over for me. From that moment
j my heart hardened within me, and my life
j was filled with loathing. Day and night,
i land and sea, labor and rest,food and sleep,
were alike hateful to me. It was the curse
j of Cain, and that my brother had pardoned
jme made it lie none the lighter. Peaee on
| earth was for me no more, aud good-will
J towards men was dead in my heart forever.
Remorse softens some natures ; but it pois
oned mine. I hated all mankind ; but above
all mankind I hated the woman who had
come between us two, and ruined both our
lives.
He had bidden rue seek her out, and be
the messenger of his forgiveness. I had
sooner have gone down to the port of Genoa
and taken upon me the serge cap and shot
ted chain of any galley-slave at his toil in
the public works ; but, for all that, I did
my best to obey him. I went back, alone
and on foot. I went back, intending to say
to her, "Gianetta Coneglia.he forgave yoir;j
but God never will." But she was gone.—
The little shop was let to a fresh occupant;
and the neighbors only knew that mother
and daughter had left the place quite sud
denly, and that Gianetta was supposed to
be under the "protection" of the Marchese
Loreffano. How I made inquiries here and
there, —how I heard that they had gone to
Naples,—and how, being restless and reck
less of my time, I worked my passage in a
French steamer, and followed her, —bow,
having found the sumptuous villa that was
now hers, I learned that she had left there
some ten days aud gone to Paris, where the
Marchese was ambassador for the Two Sic
ilies, —how,working my passage back again
to Marseilles, and tlience, in part by the
river aud in part by the rail, I made my
way to Paris,—how, day after day I paced
the streets and the parks, watched at the
ambassador's gates, followed his carriage,
and, at last, after weeks of waiting, discov
ered her address, —how, having written to
request au interview, her servants spurned
me from her door and flung my letter in my
face,--how, looking up at her windows, I
then, instead of forgiving, solemnly cursed
her with the bitterest curses my tongue
could devise, —and how, this done, 1 shook
the dust of Paris from my feet, and became
a wanderer upon the face of the earth, are
facts which I have now no space to tell.
The next six or eight years of my life
were shifting aud unsettled enough. A
morose aud restless mau, I took employ
ment here and there,as opportunity offered,
turning my hand to many things,and caring
little what I earned, so long as the work
was hard and the change incessant. First
of all, I engaged myself as chief engineer
in one of the French steamers plying be
tween Marseilles and Constantinople. At
Constantinople I changed to one of the Aus
trian Lloyd's boats, and worked for some
time to and from Alexandria,Jaffa,and those
parts. After that, I fell in with a party of
Mr. Layard's men at Cairo, aud so went up
the Nile and took a turn at the excavations
of the mound of Nimrod. Then I became
a working engineer on the new desert line
between Alexandria and Suez ; and by and
by I worked my passage out to Bombay,aud
took service as an engine-fitter on one of
the great Indian railways. I stayed along
time in India ; that is to say,l stayed near
ly two years, which was a long time for me ;
and I might not even have left so soon, but
for the war that was declared just then with
Russia. That tempted me. For I loved
danger and hardship as other men love safe
ty and ease ; and as for my life,l had soon
er have parted from it than kept it,any day.
So I came straight back to England ; be
took myself to Portsmouth, where my testi
monials at once procured me the sort of
berth I wanted. I went out to the Crimea
in the engine-room of one of her Majesty's
war steamers.
I served with the fleet, of course, while
the war lasted, and when it was over, went
wandering off again, rejoicing in my liber
ty. This time I went to Canada, and, after
working on a railway then in progress near
the American frontier, I presently passed
over into the States ; journeyed from north
to south ; crossed the Rocky Mountains ;
tried a month or two of life in the gold coun
try ; and then, being seized with a sudden,
aching, anaccountable longing to re-visit
that solitary grave so far away on the Ital
ian coast, I turned my face once more to
wards Europe.
Poor little grave 1 I found it rank with
weeds, the cross half shattered, the inscrip
tion half effaced. It was as if no oue had
loved him or remembered him. I went
back to the house in which we had lodged
together. The same people were still liv
ing there, and made me kindly welcome.
1 stayed with them for some weeks. I
weeded, and planted, and trimmed the
grave willi my own hands, and set up a
fresh cross in pure white marble. It was
the first season of rest that I had known
since I laid him there ; and when at last T
shouldered my knapsack and set forth
again to battle with the world, I promised
myself that, God willing, I would creep
back to Rocca, when my days drew near to
ending, and be buried by his side.
From hence, being perhaps, a little less
inclined than formerly for very distant
parts, aud willing to keep within reach of
that grave, I went no farther than Mantau,
where I engaged myself as an engine-driv
er on the line, then uot long completed, be
tween that city and Venice. Somehow,al
though I had been trained to the working
engineering, I preferred in these days to
earn my bread by driving. I liked the ex
citement of it the sense of power, the rush
of the air, the roar of the fire, the flitting
of the landscape. Above all, I enjoyed to
drive a night express. The worse the
weather, the better it suited with my sul
len temper. For I was as hard, and hard
er than ever. The years had done nothing
to soften me. They had only confirmed all
that was blackest and bitterest in my heart.
I continued pretty faithful to the Mantua
line, aud had beeen working on it steadily!
for more than seven months, when that j
which I am about to relate took place.
It was in the month of March. The
weather had been unsettled for some days
past, and the nights stormy ; and at one
point along the line, near Ponte di Breuta,
the waters had risen ard swept away some
seventy yards of embankme it. Since this
accident, the trains had all been obliged to
stop at a certain spot between Padua and
Ponte di Brenta, and the passengers, with
their luggage, had thence to be transported
in all kinds of vehicles, by a circuitous
j country road, to the nearest station on the
other side of the gap, where another train
and engine awaited them.
This, of course, caused great confusion
and annoyance, put ai! our time-tables
wrong, and subjected the public to a large
amount of inconvenience, in the mean
while an army of navvies was drafted to
the Bpot, aud worked day and night to re
pair the damage. At this time I was driv
ing two through trains each day ; namely,
one from Mantua to Venice in the early
morning, and a return train from Venice to
Mantua in the afternoon, —a tolerably full
day's work, covering about one hundred
and ninety miles of ground, aud occupying
between ten and eleven hours. I was
therefore not best pleased, when, on the
third or fourth day after the accident,l was
informed, that, in addition to my regular
allowance of work, I should that evening
be required to drive a special train to Ven
ice. This special train, consisting of hn
engine, a single carriage, and a break-van,
was to leave the Mantua platform at elev
en ; at Padua the passengers were to alight
and find post-chaises waiting to convey
them to Ponte di Brenta ; at Ponte di Bren
ta another engine, carriage, and break-van
were to be in readiness I was charged to
accompany them throughout.
" Corpo di Bacco," said the clerk who
gave me my orders, "you need not look so
black, man. You are certain of a baud
some gratuity. Do you know who goes
with you ?"
NUMBER 30.
"Not I."
" Not you, indeed 1 Why, it's the Duca
Loredano, the Neapolitan ambassador."
" Loredano 1" I stammered, " What
Loredano ? There was a Marchese—"
"Certo. He was the Marchese Loredano
j some years ago ; but he has come into his
dukedom since then."
"He must be a very old man by this
time."
" Yea, he is old ; but what of that ? He
is as hale, and bright, and stately as ever.
You have seen him before ?"
"Yes," I said, turning away; "I have
seen him, —years ago."
" You have heard of his marriage ?"
I shook my head.
The clerk chuckled, rubbed his hands,
and shrugged his shoulders.
"An extraordinary atluiiy' he said.—
"Made a tremenduous esclaudre at the
time. He married his mistress—quite a
common, vulgar girl—a Genoese—very
handsome ; but uot received, of course,
j Nobody vi its her."
" Married her !" I exclaimed. "Impos
sible."
" True, I assure you."
I put my hand to my head. I felt as if I
had had a fall or a blow.
" Does she—does she go to-night ?" I
faltered.
" O dear, yes—goes everywhere with
him—never lets him out of her sight. You'll
see her—la bella Duchcssa !"
With this my informant laughed, and
rubbed his hands again, and went back to
his office.
The day went by, I scarcely know how,
except that my whole sole was in a tumult
of rage and bitterness. I returned from
my afternoon's work about 7.25, and at
10.30 I was once again at the station. I
had examined the engine ; given instruc
tions to the Fochista, or stoker, about the
fire ; seen to the supply of oil : and got all
in readiness, when, just as I was about to
compare my watch with the clock in the
ticket-office, a hand was laid upon my arm,
and a voice in my ear said, —
" Are you the engine-driver who is gu
. ing on with this special train ?"
1 had never seen the speaker before. He
was a small, dark man, muffled up about
the throat, with blue glasses, a large black
beard, and his hat drawn low upon hiseyes.
" You are a poor man, I suppose," he
said, in a quick, eager whisper, "and, like
other poor men, would not object to be
better off. Would you like to earn a couple
of thousand florins ?"
"In what way ?"
" Hush! You are to stop at Padua, arc
3 r ou not, aud to go on again at Ponte di
Brenta ?"
1 nodded.
" Suppose you did nothing of the kind.
Suppose, instead of turning off the steam,
you jump off the engine, aud let the train
run on ?"
" Impossible. There are seventy yards
of embankment gone, and—"
" Basta ! I know that. Save yourseli,
and let the train run on. It would he noth
ing but au accideut."
I turned hot and cold ;~I trembled ; my
heart beat fast, and my breath failed.
" Why do you tempt me ?" I faltered.
" For Italy's sake," lie whispered ; " for
liberty's sake. I know you are no Italian;
but, for all that, you may be a friend. This
Loredano is one of his country's bitterest
enemies. Stay, here are the two thousand
florins." *
I thrust his hand back fiercely.
" No, —no !" I said. "No blood-money.
If I do it, I do it neither rt>r Italy nor for
money ; but for vengeance."
" For vengeance !" he repeated.
At this moment the signal was given for
backing up to the platform. I sprang to
my place upon the engine without another
word. When I again looked towards the
spot where he had been standing, the stran
ger was gone.
I saw them take their places,—duke :t'; I
duchess, secretary and priest, valet aud
maid. I saw the station-master bow them
into the carriage, and stand, bareheade .
beside the door. I could not distinguisu
their faces ; the platform was too dusk,
and the glare from the engine-fire f>
strong ; but I recognized her stately figure
and the pose of her head. Had I not b en
told who she was, I should have known her
by those traits alone. Then the guard's
whistle shrilled out, and the station-master
made his last bow ; I turned the steam on;
aud we started.
My blood was on fire. Ino longer trem
bled or hesitated. I felt as if every nerve
was iron, and every pulse "instinct with
deadly purpose. She was in my power,
and 1 would bo revenged. She should die.
—she, for whom I had stained my soul v. i.ii
my friend's blood ! She should die, in the
plenitude of her wealth and her beauty, and
no power upon earth should save her !
The statious flew past. 1 put on more
steam ; I bade the fireman heap iu the coke
and stir the blazing mass. I would have
outstripped the wind, had it been possible
Faster and faster—hedges and trees, bridg
es and stations, flashing past—villages no
sooner seen than gone—telegraph wires
twisting, and dipping, and twining them
selves in one, with the awful swiftness of
our pace ! Faster aud faster, till the tire
man at my side looks white and scared, and
refuses to add more fuel to the furnace.
Faster and faster, till the wind rushes iu
our faces and drives the breath back upon
our lips.
I would have scorned to save myself. 1
meant to die with the rest. Mad us 1 was,
—aud I believe from my very soul that 1
was utterly mad for the time,—l felt a pas
sing pang of pity for the old man and his
suite. 1 would have spared the poor fellow
at my side, too, if I could ; but the pace at
which we were going made escape imposi
ble.
Viceusa was passed—a mere contused