TKRMS OF PUBLICATION. CUE REPOBTEB is published every Thurs , i iv Morning, by E. O. GOODRICH, at $2 per annum, in advuiice. , DVEKTISEMENTS, exceeding fifteen .ues are inserted at TEN CENTS per line for u, t insertion, and FIVE CENTS per line for subsequent insertions. Special notices in i ted before Marriages and Deaths, will 1 charged FIFTEEN CENTS per line for each insertion. All resolutions of Associations ; communications of limited or individual interest, and notices of Marriages or Deaths exceeding five lines, are charged TEN CENTS p.'r line. 1 Year. 0 mo. 3 mo. One Column, $75 S4O S3O Half " 40 25 15 One Square, 10 7i 5 C-;tray,Caution, Lost and Found, andother .advertisements, not exceeding 10 lines, three weeks, or less, $1 50 Administrator's & Executor's Notices. 2 00 Auditor's Notices 2 50 Ku-duess Cards, five lines, (per year). .5 00 Merchants and others, advertising their business, will be charged S2O. They will be entitled to i column, confined exclusive ly to their business, with privilege of change. <3- Advertising in all cases exclusive of subscription to the paper. JOB PRINTING of every kind, in Plain and Fancy colors, done with neatness and dispatch. Handbills, Blanks, Curds, Pam phlets, Ac., of every variety and style, prin ted at the shortest notice. The Reporter ON ICE has just been re-fitted with Power Presses, and every thing in the Printing lino can be executed in the most artistic manner and at the lowest rates. TERMS INVARIABLY CASH. (Eavbs. rpiIOMAS ,1. INGHAM, ATTOR- I XJ-.'Y A I I.Alt', LAI'ORTE, SullivAU < .ti'y.Pa. l EORGE D. MONTANYE, AT- U TURKEY AT LAW— Office in Union B1 >ck, loiincrly occupied by JAMACFARI-ANS. II T. DA VIES, Attorney at Law, ' < • Towanda, Pa. Office with Wm. Wat- Esq. Particular attention paid to 0r ... Court business and settlement of dece deats estates. ,J ERUUR & MORROW, Attorneys I*JL at /-ate, Towanda, Penn'a, The undersigned having associated themselves • gether in the practice of Law, offer their pro -oonal services to the public. I.YSSES MERCUIt, P. D. MORROW. March 9, 1865. . ! RICE & PECK, ATTORNEYS AT L LAW. Offices In Union Block, Towanda, i formerly occupied by Hon. Wm. Elwell.and : i Patrick's block, Athens, Pa. They may be . u-ulted at either place. H. W. rATRICK, apU3 W. A. PECK. j ( B! McKEAN, ATTORNEY'& ] A. COI '.V SEI.LOR AT LA IV, Towan i. Pa. Particular attention paid to business in the Orphans' Court. July 20. 1866. | FENRY FEET, Attorney at Law, J A Towan la. Pa. jun27, 66. IF 11. CARNOCHAX, ATT OR -5 • • XJ'V AT I.AIV, Troy, Pa. Special tention given to collecting claims against the 0 '• erument for Bounty, Back Pay and Pensions. ith E. R. Parsons, Esq. June 12,1865. DWARD OVERTON Jr., Attor zJ >;/ at Laic, Towanda, I'a. Office in Mon .. s Block, over Frost's Store. July 13,1865. JOHN N. C A LIFE, ATTORNEY v ,17' LA IV, Towanda, Pa. Also, Govern . Agent for the collection of Pensions, Back P,:j and Bounty. o" No charge unless successful. Office over Post Office and News Room. Dec. 1, 1864. / i D. STILES, M. D., Physician and V • • Surgeon, would announce to the people ot .. i Borough and vicinity, that he has perma nvtitiy locate at the place formerly occupied by G W. Stone, tor the practice of his pi ofes -1 :i. Particular atteution given to the treat t of women and children, as also to the prac ot operative and minor surgery. Oct. 2,'66. DU. PRATT has removed, to State street, (first above B. S. Russe'! A Co's if - k) Persons from a distance desirous ol con ug him, will be most likely to find him on m' ay if each week. Especial attention will Liven to surgical cases,and the extraction of ; HI. Ga.-, or Ether administered when desired. July 18, 1866. D. S. PRATT, M. D. UUCTOR CHAS. F. PAINE.—Of fice in GORE'S Drug Store, Towanda, Pa. Calls promptly attended to at all hours. Towanda, November 28, 1866. LM)\VT) MEEKS—AUCTIONEER. j 1 i All letters addressed to him at Sugar Run, | ifotJ Co. Pa., will receive prompt attention. CIRAXCIS E. POST, Painter, Tow- j JL 1 itntla. Pa, with 10 years experience, is con t he can give the best satisfaction in Paint- Graining. Staining. Glazing, Papering,.Ac. c-Particular attention paid to Jobbing in the j ttry. April 9, 1866. I J NE W ELL, • COUNTY SURVEYOR, Orveil Bradford Co., Pa,, will promptly attend ! ■ all business in his line. Particular attention ! riven to running and establishing old ordispu- j ed lines. Also to surveying of all unpattented f nils as soon as warrants are obtained, my 17 I*7 HERSEY WATKINS, Notary . 7 • Public is prepared to .take Deposi ng. Acknowledge 'he Execution ot Deeds, N rtgages. Power- of attorney, and all other :-rruments. Affidavits and other pipers may worn to before me. (iff: e opposite the Banking House of B.S. K isseil A Co., a few doors north of the Ward House. Towanda. Pa., Jan. 14, 1867. Dentistrp. . W ENTY-FIYE YEARS EXPERI -L EXCE IN DENTISTBY. I. S. SaiTii, M. D., would respectfully inform inhabitants ol' Bradford County that he is iuantly located in Waverly, N. Y., where o- been in the practice of his profession for .1.: 'oar years. He would say that from his .nJ successful practice of 2o years duration 1- ' .miliar with all the different styles of work : :it' iu any and all Dental establishments in r country, and is better prepared than any Dental operator in the vicinity to do work best adapted to the many and different s that present themselves oftentimes to the .'it, ~s he understands the art of making his > artificial teeth, and has facilities for doing >• cue. To those requiring under sets of be would ail attention to his new kind of k which consists ot porcelain lor both plate 1 teeth, and forming a continuous gum. It is :c durable, more uuturai in appearance, and h tter ispted to the gnm than any other p i f work. Those in need of the same are . ted to call and examine specimens. Teeth led to last for year* and olter.t mes for life.— ■„<ifu. ; titer, and '.\itroux oxiiW' admin -r> d with perfect safety, as over four hundred attests within the last four years can testify. I will be in T .wanda from the loth to 30th of •very month, at the office oi W. K. TAYLOR, formerly occupied by Dr. O. H. Woodruff'. )Hav g made arrangements with Mr. Taylor, I am ■pared to do all work in the very best style, at office. Nov. 27,156">. I)K. 11. WESTON, DENTIST— •*' Office in I'at ton's Block, over Gore's Drag mil Chemical Slors. Ijan66 WARD HOUSE, TO WAX I) A, PA. On Main Street, near the Court House. C. T. SMITH, Proprietor. '•i t. 8, 1S61. \M E RlO A X H OTEL, IOWASDA, PA., 'i ving purchased this well known Hotel os ee Street, I have refurnished and refitted nth every convenience for the accommoda ' all who may patronize me. No pains will ri 1 to make all pleasant and agreeable. May .1, b6.—tf. J. b. I'AT TKRSON, Prop. N YDER HOUSE, a four story brick C- edifice near the depot,with large airy rooms, cant patiors, newly furnished, has a recess in new addition fm Ladies use, and is the most blent and only first class hotel at Waverly. It is the principal office tor stages south xpress. Also foi sale ol Western Tickets, n Canada, on Graud Trunk Rail-way. Fare etroit from tJuffalo, |4, is cheaper than any 1 r route. A ppiy for tickets as above to C. WARFORD. • Mabling and care oi Horses at reasonable rales. W.yprlv N. y . Qct.2K. )Kdi—3m. C. W. pINE ASSORTMENT OF PRAY LR Book-at the NEWSROOM. E. O. GOODRICH, Publisher. VOLUME XXVII. " THERE IS A SPOT." There is a spot to me more dear Than native vale or monntain ; A spot for which affection's tear Springs grateful from its fountain. Tis not where kin Ired souls abound, Though that is almost heaven— Bat where I first my Savior fonnd And felt my sins forgiven. Hard was my toil to reach the shore, Long tossed upon the ocean, Above me was the thunder's roar, Beneath the wave's commotion, 1 Jurkly the pall of night was thrown Around me, taint with terror ; In that dark honr how did my groan Ascend for years of error. Singing und panting as for breath, 1 knew not help was near me— I cried, Oh! save me Lord, from death! Immortal Jesus, hear me! I hen quick as thought I felt him mine— My Savior stood before me! I saw his brightness 'round me shine. And shouted Glory! Glory ! ! O ! sacred hour! O! hallowed spot! I Where love divine first found me, Wherever falls my distant lot, My heart shall linger 'round thee! And when from earth I rise to soar Up to my home in Heaven, Down will I cast my eyes once more Where I was first forgiven. lale. EVELINE'S VISITANT. A GHOST STORY. IT was at a masked ball at the Pa lais Royal that my fatal quarrel with my first cousin Andre de Brisac be gan. The quarrel was about a wo man. The women who followed the footsteps of Philip of Orleans were the cause- of many such disputes ; and there was scarcely one fair head in all that glittering throng which, to a man versed in social histories and nfysteries, might not have seem ed bedabbled with blood. I shall not record the name of her for love of whom Andre de Brissac and I crossed one of the bridges, in the dim August dawn, on our way to the waste ground beyond the church of Saint-Germain des Pres. There were many beautiful vipers in those days, and she was one of them. I can feel the chill breath of that August morning blowing in my face, as I sit in my dismal chamber at my chateau of Puy Verdun to night, alone in the stillness, writing the strange story of my life. I can see the white mist rising from the river, the grim outline of the Chate let, and the square towers of Notre Dame black against the pale gray sky. Even more vividly can I recall Andre's fair young face, as he stood opposite to me with his two friends —scoundrels both, and alike eager for that unnatural fray. We were a strange group to be seen iu a sum mer sunrise, all of us fresh from the heat and clamor of the Regent's sa loons—Andre, in a quaint hunting dress copied from a family portrait at Pay Verdun, I costumed as one of Law's Mississippi Indians ; the oth. er men in like garnish frippery f adorned with broideries and jewels that looked wau in the pale light of dawn. Our quarrel had beeif a fierce one —a quarrel which could have but one result, and that the direst. I had struck him : and the welt raised by my open hand was crimson upon his fair womanish face as he stood oppo site to me. The eastern sun shone on the face presently, and dyed the cruel mark with a deeper red ; but the sting of my owu wrongs was fresh, and 1 had not yet learned to despise myself for that brutal out rage To Andre de Brissac such an in sult was most terrible. He was the favorite of Fortuue, the favorite of women ; and 1 was nothing—-a rough soldier who had doue country good service, but in the boudoir of a Par abere a mannerless boor. We fought, and I wounded him mortally. Life had been very sweet for him ; and I think that a frenzy of despair took possession of him when he felt the life-blood ebbing away. — He beckoned me to him as he lay on the ground. I went, and knelt at his side. " Forgive me, Andre !" I murmur ed. He took no more heed of my words than if that piteous entreaty had been the idle ripple of the river near at band. " Listen to me, Hector de Brissac,'' he said. "I am not one who believes that a man has done with earth be cause his eyes glaze and his jaw stiff ens. They will bury me in the old vault at Puy Verdun ; and you will be master of the chateau. Ah, I know how lightly they take things in these days, and how Dubois will laugh when he hears that Ca has been killed in a duel. They will bury me, and sing masses for my soul ; but you and I have not finish ed our affair yet, my cousin. I will be with you when you least look to see me—l, with this ugly scar upon the face that women have praised and loved. I will come to you wheu your life seems brightest. I will come be tween you aud all tbat you hold fair est and dearest. My ghostly hand shall drop a poison in your cup ol joy. My shadowy form shall shut the sunlight from your life. Men with sach iron will as rniue can do what they please, Hector de Brissac. It is my will to haunt you when I am dead." All this iu short broken sentences he whispered into my ear. I had need to bend my ear close to his dy ing lips ; but the iron will of Andre de Brissac was strong enough to do battle with Death, and I believe he said all he wished to say before his head fell back upon the velvet cloak they had spread beneath him, never to be lifted again. As he lay there you would have fancied him a fragile stripling, too farr and frail for the struggle called life ; but there are those who remem ber the brief manhood ot Andre de Brissac, and who can bear witness to the terrible force of that proud na ture. I stood looking down at the young face with that foul mark upon it, and God knows I was sorry for what I had done. Of those blasphemous threats which he had whispered in my ear I took no heed. 1 was a soldier, and a believer. There was nothing abso lutely dreadful to me in the thought that I had killed this man. I had killed many men on the battle-field ; and this one had done me cruel wrong. My friends would have me cross the frontier to escape the consequen ces of my act ; but I was ready to face those consequences, aud I re mained in Frauce. 1 kept aloof from the court, aud received a hint that I had best confine myself to my own province. Many masses were chant ed in the little chapel of Puy Verdun for the soul ol my dead cousin, and his coffin filled a niche in the vault of our ancestors. His death had made me a rich man; and the thought that it was so made my newly-acquired wealth very hate ful to me. I lived a lonely existence in the old chateau, where I rarely held converse with any but the ser vants of the household, all of whom had served my cousin, and none of whom liked me. It was a hard and bitter life. It galled me, when I rode through the village, to see the peasant-children shrink away from me. I have seen old women cross themselves stealthi ly as I passed them by. Strange re ports had gone forth about me ; and there were those who whispered that I had given my soul to the Evil One as the price of my cousin's heritage. From my boyhood I had been dark of visage and stern of manner ; and hence, perhaps, no woman's love had ever been mine. I remember my mother's face in all its changes of ex pression ; but I can remember no look of affection that ever shone on me. That other woman, beueath whose feet I laid my heart, was pleas ed to accept my homage, but she nev er loved me ; and the end was treach ery. I had grown hateful to myself, and had well-uigh begun to hate my fel low-creatures, when a feverish desire seized upon me, and I pined to be back in the press and throng of the busy world once again. I went back to Paris, where I kept myself aloof from the court, and where an augel took compassion upon me. She was the daughter of an old comrade, a man whose merits had been neglected, whose achievements had been ignored, and who sulked in bis shabby loding like a rat in a hole, while all Paris went mad with the Scotch Financier, and gentlemen and lackeys were trampling one another to death in the Rue Quincainpoix.— The old child of this little cross grain ed old captain of dragoons was an incarnate sunbeam, whose mortal name was Eveline Duchalet. She loved me. The richest bless ings of our lives are often those which cost us least. I wasted the best years of my youth in the wor ship of a wicked woman, who jilted and cheated me at last. I gave this meek augel but a few courteous words —a little fraternal tenderness—and 10, she loved me ! The life which had been so dark and desolate grew bright beneath her influence ; and I went back to Puy Verdun with a tair young bride for my companion. Ah, bow sweet a cbauge there was in my life and in my home ! The village children no longer shrank ap palled as the dark horseman rode by, the village crones no longer crossed themselves ; for a woman rode by his side—a woman whose charities had won the love of all those ignor ant creatures, and whose companion ship had transformed the gloomy lord of the chateau into a loving husband and a gentle master. The old retain ers forgot the untimely fate of my cousin, and served me with cordial willingness for love of their young mistress. There are no words which can tell the pure and perfect happiness of that time. I felt like a traveler who had traversed the frozen seas of an arctic region, remote from human love or human companionship, to find himself on a sudden in the bosom of a ver dant valley, in the sweet atmosphere of home. The change seemed too bright to be real ; and I strove in vain to put away from my mind the vague suspicion that my new life was but some fantastic dream. So brief were those halcyon hours, that, looking back on them now, it is scarcely strange if I am still half in clined to fancy the first days of my married life could have been no more than a dream. Neither in my days of gloom nor in my days of happiness had I been troubled by the recollection of Andre's blasphemous oath. The words which with his last breath he had whisper ed in my ear were vain and meaning less to me. He had vented his rage in those idle threats as he might have vented it in idle execrations. That he will haunt the footsteps of his en emy after death is the one revenge which a dying man can promise him self ; and if men had power thus to avenge themselves, the earth would be peopled with phantoms. I had lived for three years at Puy Verdun ; s tting alone in the solemn midnight by the hearth where he had sat, paci ug the corridors that had echoed his foot-fall; and in all that TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., MARCH 28,1867. time my fancy had never so played me false as to shape the shadow of the dead. Is it strange, then, if 1 had forgot ten Andre's horrible promise ? There was no portrait of my cousin at Puy Verdun. It was the age of boudoir art, and a miniature set in the lid of a gold boubonniere, or hid den artfully in a massive bracelet, was more fashionable than a clumsy life-size image, fit only to hang on the gloomy walls of a provincial cha teau rarely visited by its owuer. My cousin's fair face had adorned more than one bonbonuiere, and had been concealed iu more than one bracelet ; but it was not among the faces that looked down fr< ni the paneled walls of Puy Verdun. Iu the library I found a picture which awoke painful associations.— It was the portrait of a Do Brissac, who had flourished in the time of Francis the First ; and it was from this picture that my cousin Audre had copied the quaint hunting-dress he wore at the Regent's ball. The library was a room iu which I spent a good deal ol my life ; aud I order ed a curtain to be htiug before this picture. We had been married three months when Eveline one day asked, " Who is the lord of the chateau nearest to this ?" 1 looked at her iu astonishment. " My dearest," I answered, " do you uot know that there is no other cha teau within lorty miles of Puy Ver dun ?" " Indeed !" she said ; " that is strange." I asked her why the fact seemed strange to her : and after much en treaty I obtained from her the reason of her surprise. In her walks about the park and woods during the last month she had met a man who, by his dress and bearing, was obviously of noble rank. She had im igined that he had occu pied some chateau neai at hand, and that his estate adjoined ours. I was at a loss to imagiue who this stran ger could be ; for my estate of Puy Verdun lay in the heart of a desolate region, and unless when some travel er's coach went lumbering and jing ling through the village, one had lit tle more chance of encountering a gentleman than of meeting a demi god. " Have you seen this man often, Eveline ?" 1 askea. She answered, in a tone which had a touch ot sadness, " I see him every day." " Where, dearest ?" " Sometimes in the park, sometimes in the wood. You know the little cas :ade, Hector, where there is some old neglected rock-work that forms a kind of a cavern. I have taken a fancy to that spot, and have spent many mornings there reading. Of late I have seen the stranger there every morning." "He has never dared to address you ?" " Never. I have looked up from my book, and have seen him standing at a little distance, watching me, si lently. I have continued reading ; and when I have raised my eyes again 1 have found him gone. He must approach and depart with a stealthy tread, for I never hear bis footfall. Sometimes I have almost wished that he would speak to me.— It is so terrible to see him standing silently there." " He is some insolent peasant who seeks to frighten you." My wife shook her head. " He is no peasant," she answered. " It is not by his dress alone I judge, for that is strange to me. He has an air of nobility which it is impossible to mistake." " Is he young or old ?" " He is young and handsome." I was much disturbed by the idea of this stranger's intrusion on my wife's solitude, and I went straight to the village to inquire if any stran ger had been seen there. I could hear of no one. I questioned the servants closely, but without result. Then I determined to accompany my wife in her walks, and to judge for myself of the rank of the stranger. For a week I devoted all my morn ings to rustic rambles with Eveline in the park and woods ; and in all that week we saw no one but an oc casional peasant in .safeofs, or one of our own household returning from a neighboring farm. 1 was a man of studious habits, and those summer rambles disturbed the even current of my life. My wife perceived this, and entreated me to trouble myself no further. " I will spend my mornings in the pleasaunce, Hector," she said ; "the sti anger cannot intrude upon me there." " I begin to think the stranger is only a phantasm of your own roman tic brain," 1 replied, smiling at the earnest face lifted to mine. " A cha telaine who is always reading ro mances may well meet handsome ca valiers in the woodlands. I dare say I have Mdlle Scuderi to thank for this noble stranger, and that he is only the great Cyrus in modem cos tume." " Ah ! that is the point which mys tifies me, Hector," she said. " The stranger's costume is not modern.— He looks as an old picture might look if it could descend from its frame." Her words pained me, for they re minded me of that hidden picture in the library, and the quaint hunting costume of orange and purple which Andre de Brissac wore at the Regent's ball. After this my wife confined her walks to the pleasuauce ; and for many weeks I heard no more of the uameless stranger. I dismissed all thought of him from my mind, for a graver and heavier care had come upon me. My wife's health began to droop. The change in her was so REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANT QUARTER. gradual as to be almost impercepti ble to those who watched her day by day. It was only when Bhe put on a rich gala dress which she had not worn for months that I saw how was ted the form must be on which the embroidered bodice hung so loosely, and how wau and dim were the eyes which had once been brilliant as the jewels she wore in her hair. I sent a messenger to Paris to summon one of the court physicians; but I knew that many days must needs elapse before he could arrive at Puy Verdun. In the interval I watched my wife with unutterable fear. It was not her health only that had declined. The change was more pain ful to behold than any physical alter ation. The bright and sunny spirit had vanished, and place of my joyous young bride I beheld a woman weighed down by rooted melancholy. In vain I sought to fathom the cause of my darling's sadness. She assured me that she had uo reason for sorrow or discontent, and that if she seemed sad without a motive I must forgive her sadness, aud consider it as a misfortune rather than a fault. I told her tuat the court physician would speedily find some cure for her despondency, which must needs arise from physical causes, since she had no real ground for sorrow. But al though she said nothing, 1 could see she had uo hope or belief in the heal ing powers of medicine. One day, when I wished to beguile her from that pensive silence iu which she was wont to sit au hour at a tout-, I told her, laughing, that she 'appeared to have forgotten her mys terious cavalier of the wood, and it seemed also as if he had 1 irgotten her. To rny wonderment, her pale face became of a siylden crimson ; and from crimson changed to pale again in a breath. "You have never seen him since you deserted your woodland grotto?" I said. She turned to me with heart-rend ing look. " Hector," she cried, " I see him every day ; and it is that which is killing me." She burst into a passion of tears when she had said this. I took her in my arms as if Bhe had been a frightened child, and tried to comfort her. "My darling, this is madness," I said. " You know that no strangei can come to you in the pleasauuce.— The moat is ten feet wide and always full of water, and the gates are kept locked day aud night by old Massou. The the chatelaine of a medieval for tress need fear no intruder in her an tique garden." My wife shook her head sadly. " I see him every day," she said. On this I believed that my wife was mad. I shrank from questioning her more closely concerning her mys terious visitaut. It would be ill, I thought, to give a form and sub stance to the shadow that tormented her by too close inquiry about its look and manner, its coming and go ing. I took care to assure mysell that no stranger to the household could by any possibility penetrate to the pleasaunce. Having done this, I was fain to await the coming of the physician. He came at last. I revealed to him the conviction which was my misery. I told him that 1 believed my wife to be mad. He saw her— spent an hour alone with her, and then came to me. To my uuspeaka ble relief he assured me of her sani ty- ... . "It is just possible that Bhe may be affected by one delusion," he said "but she is so reasonable upon all other points that I can scarcely bring myself to believe her the sub ject of a monomania. I ain rather inclined to think that she really sees the person of whom she speaks.— She described him to me with a per fect miuuteness. The descriptions of scenes or individuals given by patients atilicted with monomania are always more or less disjointed ; l ut your wife spoke to me as clearly and calmly as 1 am now speaking to you. Are you sure there is no one who can approach her in that gar den where she walks ?" " I am quite sure." "Is there any kinsman of your steward, or hanger-on of your house hold--a young man with a fair wo manish face, very pale, and rendered remarkable by a crimson scar, which looks like the mark of a blow ?" "My Ood !" I cried, as the light broke in upon me all at once. " And the dress—the strange, old-fashioned dress ?" " The man wears a hunting cos tume of purple and orange," answer -1 ed the doctor. 1 knew then that Andre de Bissac I had kept his word, and that in the | hour when my life was brightest his I shadow had come between me and happiness. I showed my wife the picture in ; the library, for I would fain assure myself that there was some error in my laucy about my cousin. She j shook like a leaf when she beheld it, ! and clung to me convulsively. " This is witchcraft, Hector," she said. " The dress in that picture is the dress of the man I see in the pleasaunce : but the face is not his." Then she described to me the face of the stranger ; and it was my cous in's face line for line—Addre de Bris sac, whom she had never seen in the flesh. Most vividly of all did she : describe the cruel mark upon his face —the trace of a fierce blow from an open hand. After this I carried my wife away from Puy Verdun. We wandered far—through the southern provinces, and into the very heart of Switzer land. 1 thought to distance the ghastly phantom, and I fondly hoped that change ol scene would bring peace to my wife It was not so Go where we would the ghost of Audre de Brissac follow ed us. To my eyes that fatal shad ow uever revealed itself. That would hove been too poor a vengeance. It was my wife's innocent heart which Andre made the instrument ofihis re venge. The unholy presence des troyed her life. My constant com panionship could uot shield her from the horrible intruder. In vain did I watch her ; in vain did 1 strive to comfort her. "He will not let me be at peace," she said : "he comes between us, Hector. He is standing betwaen us now. 1 can see his face with the red mark upon it plainer than I see yours." One fair, moonlight nigh, When we were together in a mountain village in the Tyrol, my wife cast herself at at my feet, and told me she was the worst and vilest of woman. " 1 have confessed all to my direct or," she said ; "from the first I have not hidden my sin from Heaven. But I feel that death is near me ; and be fore I die I would fain reveal my sin to you." " What sin, my sweet one ?" " When first the stranger came to me in the forest his presence bewil dered and distressed me,and I shrank from him as from something stange and terrible. He came again and again; by-and-by I found myself thinking of him and watching for his coming. His image haunted me perpetually ; I strove iu vain to shut his face out of my mind. Theu fol lowed an interval in which 1 did not see him ; and, to my shame aud an guish, I found that life seemed dreary and desolate without him. After that came the time iu which he haunt ed the pleasauuce ; and—oh, Hector, kill me if you will, for I deserve no mercy at your hands ! —I grew in those days to count the hours that must elapse before his coming, to take no pleasure save in the sight of that pale face with the red brand upon it. He plucked all old, familiar joys out of my heart, and left in it but one weird, unholy pleasure—the delight of his presence. For a year 1 have lived but to see him. And now curse me, Hector, for this is my sin. Whether it comes of the base ness of my own heart, or is the work of witchcraft, I know not; but I know that I have striven against this wickedness in vain." I took my wife to my breast and forgave her. In sooth, what had I to forgive? Was the fatality that overshadowed ns any work of hers ? On the next night she died, with her hand in mine ; and at the very last she told me, sobbing and affrighted, that he was by her side. A MIXIN' or THE BABIES. —Some time ago there was a dancing party given "up North," most of the ladies present had little babies, whose noisy ! perversity required too much atten tion to permit the mothers to enjoy the dance. A number of gallant young men volunteered to watch the young oues while the parents indulg ed in a "break-down." No sooner had the women left the babies in charge of the mischievous devils, than they stripped the in!ants, chan ged their clothes, giving the apparel of one to another. The dance over, it was time to go home, and the mothers hurriedly took each a baby in the dress of her own, and started to their homes some ten or fifteen miles off' and were far on their way before day-light. But the day fol lowing there was a tremendous row in the settlement: mothers discover ed that a single night had changed the sex of their babies—observation disclosed physical phenomena, and then commenced some of the tallest female pedestrianism ; liviug miles apart, it required two days to unmix the babies, and as many months to restore the women to their natural sweet dispositions. To this day it is unsate for any of the baby mixers to venture into the territory. QUARRELING. —If anything in the world will make a man feel badly,ex cept pitching his fingers in the crack of a door,it is unquestionably a quar rel. No man ever fails to think less of himself after it than before. It de grades him in the eyes of others,and, what is worse,blunts his sensibilities on the one hand, and increases the power of passionate irritability on the other. The truth is, the more peaceably and quietly we get on, the better for our neighbors. In nine ca ses out of ten, the better course is, if a man cheats you, cease to deal with him ; if he is abusive, quit his com pany ; and if he slanders you, take care to live so that nobody will be lieve him. No matter who he is, or how he misuses you, the wisest way is to let him alone ; for there is noth ing better than this cool, calm, and | quiet way of dealing with the wrongs we meet with. SORROW. —Sorrow sobers us, and makes the mind genial. And in sor row we love and trust our friends more tenderly, and the dead become dearer to us. And just as the stars Bhine out in the night, so there are blessed faces that look at us in our grief, though before their features were fading from our recollection.— Suffering ! Let no man dread it too much, because it is good for him, and it will help to make him sure of his being immortal. It is not in the bright, happy day, but only in the solemn night, that other worlds are to be seen shining in their long, long distances. And it is in sorrow—that night of the soul—that we see farth est, and know ourselves natives of finity and sous and daughters of the Most High. WHY is a dog's tail a great novel ty? Became no one eter saw it before. 02 per Annum, in Advance. THE IBOU OF PENNSYLVANIA, SCOT LAND AND WALES. From the Pottsville Standard, Jan uary 19, we condense the following : In Wales and Scotland there is a kind of ore called black band. It is bat a few inches thick, and consists in the union of coal and iron. It is consequently easily smelted—the con tents of coal being almost sufficient alone to reduce the iron. This ore had for many years been thrown away as earthy slates, and large piles of it had accumulated around the mine pits. Its ferruginous qualities were finally detected, and almost immedi ately furnaces sprung ap in long lines for miles miles through the coal field where the black band exis ted. There is one little narruw basin in South Wales which produces be tween twenty-five thousand and thir ty thousand tons of pig metal per week, and consumed more coal tuau all the iron works in the United States combined. In that small patch it is no unusual thing to see fifteen aud twenty furnaces side by side, and the whole scene for over twenty miles includes nothing bat furnaces, roasting kilns, rolling mills, coal and iron mines, and the usual clamor of machinery aud of bituminous fires from thousands of tall chimneys. In Pennsylvania, uutil very re cently, no such ore as black baud had been found ; nor has iron, coal, and limestone been mined in the same measure, the two formerly lay together,) except to a moderate extent in certain districts in the west ern slope of the Alleghany moun tains. In addition to the several veins and kinds of black band al ready proved, there are many beds of workable and rich hematite, besides enormons deposits of a concretionary ore and limestone, immediately out side the coal measures—veins ten, fifteen, and twenty feet thick. Be sides this there are several veins of rich boulder ore, generally lying over veins of coal Most if not all of these could be worked to advantage. Besides all this there are not less than forty millions of tons of pulver ized coal lying in vast artificial hills around our coal breakers, all of which will prove available for roasting ores, improving their quality, and increas ing their richness. Since, therefore, it is a physical fact that veins of black band, much richer in iron and three times the thickness of those of Wales, occur here side by side with great veins of anthracite coal ; and that enormous deposits of hematite and limestone occur in near proximi ty, with rich aud beautiful valleys of shale and calcareous soil creeping around the rugged slopes of the me talliferous mountaius, aud inviting j the sluggish pace of the farmer—why j should not Schuylkill county blaze i with long lines of furnaces aud roll- | I ing mills and workshops of every j I description ? Why should it not ri-! val the population, the industry, and I the wealth of the same geological j belts in England,Scotland,and Wales? i Why should we allow John Bull to | outstrip us iu the production of iron j in our owu market when we have the i means to prevent it 1 To form au | idea of the real value of this black j baud discovery we will conclude with I a simple e. timate. The vein of Mc- ; giuues is over three feet thick. A cubic yard we will estimate to weigh ' three tous—or say about 4,500 square j yards to the acre, which, multiplied j by three, will give 13,500 tons to ! each acre of ground. The deviation j from perpendicularity of all our uiea- ! sures would increase the number of tons to at least fifteen thousand per acre. Estimating the accruing value j of each ton, for a period of twenty ! years--leaving out interest on origi-1 nal cost of land, which the surface j value would offset—at an average of j thirty ceuts, we 'find that this single ( vein of Mr. McGinnes would yield $2,250 per acre ! Add to this the I value of the coal, not less than $3,000 per acre, aud we find the whole to be i worth not less than su,ooo per acre, j Aud this is exclusive of the surface, j which is often worth from SSOO to i SI,OOO per acre for building lots.— 1 Now, while such lauds are really ; worth that amount of money, they are trifled with iu such manner that j they often yield little or nothing—for the reason that the coal only is work ed. To obtain the coal expensive outside machinery has to be erected; immense wastage occurs in its pre- i paration, while the process of pre-1 paring it is itself very expeusive.— ! But, were the iron brought up with j the coal, and both poured into the furnace, no breakers would be re quired—no loss of coal would ensue —no cost of breaking it up, aud uo cost of hauling the debris away. It ( would be difficult to say what amount i could not be saved by the introdnc- 1 tion of furnaces at our mines, in stead of coal breakers. Many of the coal breakers cost quite as much as an ordinary furnace ; aud while the one would save twenty-five per cent, of the aggregate amount annually mined in this region, it is a most scandalous lact that the other des troys twenty-five per cent, of the ag gregate. TEA BRANDS.— "Hyson'' means "be fore the rains,"or "flourishing spring," that is, early in the spring ; hence it is often called "Young Hyson." "Hy- j BOD Skin" is composed of the refuse of other kinds, the native term for which is "tea skins." Refuse of still coarser descriptions,ccutaining many stems, is called "tea bones." "Bones" is the name of the hills in the region where it is collected. "Peckoe" or "Pecco," means "white hair"—the down of tender leaves, "Powchong" —"folded plant." "Souchong"— "small plant," "T wank ay" is the name of a small river in the region where it is bought "Congo" is from a term signifying "labor," from the care re quired in ita preparation. FUN, FACETIJE. THAT man is not good enough for any place who thinks no place good enough for him- WOULD you hear a sweet and plea* ' ing echo, speak sweetly audf pleasing vi.nr | self. A SENTIMENTAL young man thus feel ingly expresses himself: "Even as nature benevolently guards the rose with thorns, so does she endow women with pins." THE merit of our actions consists not in doing extraordinary actions, but in doing ordinary actions extraordlarily well. THE public character of a uian is the tinsel worn of court; his private char acter is the service of gold kept at his bank er's. THE aim of au honest man's life is not the happiness which serves only bin self, but the virtue which is useful tooth ers. WHY are a country girl's cheeks like French calico? Because they are "war ranted to wash and retain their color. AUNT Betsey says, "a newspaper is like a wife, because every man should have one of his own." "SALLY," said a lover to his inten ded, "give us a kiss, will you ? " "No 1 won't," said' Sally, "help yourself." WHY are printers tempted above all other men ? Because they are always found in company with the Devil. DEATH comes to a good man to re lieve him ; it comes to a bad one to relieve society. DON'T take so much interest in the affairs of your neighbors. Seven per cent. I will do. • WANT less than you have and you will always have more than you want. THE most common things are the most useful : which shows both the wisdom and goodness of the Great Father of the fam ily of the world. JONES called on the man who "re stores oil paintings," and requested him to try to restore one stolen from his residence a year ago. ADVERSITY has ever been consider ed*as the state in which a man most easily becomes acquainted with himself—particu larly, being free from flatterers. IN the voyage of life we should imitate the ancient mariners, who, without losing sight of the earth trusted to the heav enly signs lor their guidance. —IN the natural history of insects, the grub turns into a butterfly ; but it often occurs in the natural history of man, that the butterfly turns into a grub, A romantic young man sayß that a young woman's heart is like the moon ; it changes continually, but it always has a : man in it WASHINGTON was once dining with | several of his officers, when one of them ; uttered an oath. He instantly dropped Lis knife and fork, and in a deep tone, with characteristic dignity and earnesness. said, "I thought we all regarded ourselves as gen tlemen.' Two Irishmen were travelling when they stopped to examine a guide board. "Twelve miles to Portland." said one. "Just six miles apiece," said the other And the trudged on, apparently well satis fied at the sihall distance. A FARMER'S boy was told to give the cows some cabbages, and to give the cow that yielded the most milk the largest share. He literally obeyed the order, and deposited the largest share on the pnm;. " BOYS, what is all that no se in I school ?" " It's Bill Sites imitating a loco motive." "Come up here, William :if you have turned into a locomotive, it's time you were'switched off." SALLY, said a fellow to a girl who had red hair, keep away from me or you will set me on fire. No danger of that Re plied Sally, you are'too'green to'burn. "O, AUNTY make Freddy behav himself; every time I hit him on the head with the mallet he bursts out crying! Smart boy, that Owen. " THERE are ties that never should be severed,'' as the ill-used wife said when she fonnd her brute of a husband hanging in the hay-loft. To drain lands, drink whiskey and spend all your time at the village tavern.— This will drain you of all"your v lands in a short time. DR. CHAPIN says : The cause that never made a fanatic never produced a mar tyr. AIR is a dish on which one feeds every minute : therefore it ought always to be fresh. " Wake up here, aud pay youi lolging." said a deacon, as he nudged a sleepy worshiper with the contribution bo\ NUMBER 43. Ax editor auuounces the death of a laily of his acquaintance, aud thus toueL ingly adds : "In her decease the sick lost an invaluable friend. Long will she seem to stand at their bedside, as she was wont, with the balm of consolation in one hand and a aq i of rhubarb in the other.' "WHERE are you goiug so fast, Mi Smith ?" demanded Mr. Jones. •' Home, sir, home, don't detain me ; 1 Lave just bought my wife a new bonnet, and I must deliver it before the fashon changes. ECLIPSES IN 1867.—There will be four eclipses in the present year two of the sun and two of the tnoon but no remarkable phenomena An annular eclipse of the sun, March fi, will be invisible iu America. It will be seen, however, in Europe, Asia and Africa. At Greenwich the time of its occurrence is 8 o'clock and 1. minutes in the morning. The other eclipse of the sun, August 29, will be total, but not visible in the United States or in Europe. The South Americans will have a view of it A partial Eclipse of the moon, March 20, may be witnessed from all parts of the United States. In New Vork city and State the time of its begin uing will be about 2:20 in the morn ing, and it will end at about halt past 5 o'clock In California and Oregon it will begin in the evening of the nineteenth. A partial eclipse of the moon, Friday evening, Septem ber 13, will be visible iu parts of the United States, though its beginning ' will not be generally seen. At places west of Boston the moon will , rise more or less eclipsed. From the ! Pacific States this eclipse will not be seen at all. MAGNITUDE OF THE EARTH— The cir cumference of our globe is 25,0*20 miles, and so stupendous a circle may be best comprehend* d by com parison. For examp'e, a railway train, traveling incessantly, night and day, at the rate of twenty five miles an hour, would require six weeks to go around it. The cubical bulk of earth is 260,000,000,000 of cubic miles, and according to Dr. Larduer, if the materials which com pose it were built up in the form ul j a columu, having a pedestal of the 1 magnitude of England and W ales, i the height of the column would be nearly four and a half millions of millions of miles. A tunnel through I the earth from England to New Ze land would be about 8,000 miles lODg.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers