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manner and at the lowest rates. TERMS
rpiIOMAS ,1. INGHAM, ATTOR-
I XJ-.'Y A I I.Alt', LAI'ORTE, SullivAU
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
,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,
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.
. 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,
'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
• Mabling and care oi Horses at reasonable
W.yprlv N. y . Qct.2K. )Kdi—3m. C. W.
pINE ASSORTMENT OF PRAY
LR Book-at the NEWSROOM.
E. O. GOODRICH, Publisher.
" 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.
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
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
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
" Forgive me, Andre !" I murmur
He took no more heed of my words
than if that piteous entreaty had
been the idle ripple of the river near
" 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
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
I stood looking down at the young
face with that foul mark upon it, and
God knows I was sorry for what I
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
" Indeed !" she said ; " that is
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
" Have you seen this man often,
Eveline ?" 1 askea.
She answered, in a tone which had
a touch ot sadness, " I see him every
" 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
"He has never dared to address
" 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
" 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
" 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
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
" 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
" 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
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
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
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?"
She turned to me with heart-rend
" Hector," she cried, " I see him
every day ; and it is that which is
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
"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
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
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
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
" 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
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
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
"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
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
" 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
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
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.
THAT man is not good enough for
any place who thinks no place good enough
WOULD you hear a sweet and plea*
' ing echo, speak sweetly audf pleasing vi.nr
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
THE aim of au honest man's life is
not the happiness which serves only bin
self, but the virtue which is useful tooth
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
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
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
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
DR. CHAPIN says : The cause that
never made a fanatic never produced a mar
AIR is a dish on which one feeds
every minute : therefore it ought always to
" Wake up here, aud pay youi
lolging." said a deacon, as he nudged a
sleepy worshiper with the contribution bo\
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