Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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I T~ ^ J ^ ^ ? ^ ^ ^ ~^ ~^"~ ~ ~r lewis M. gbist, Proprietor.! |p |ntie{rcnhnt Jamilji Hetospaptr: Jfor f|c $nmtotmt nf t|e political, Social, ^friraltaral anil Commercial Interests of tjjr SontJ;. j TERMS?$3.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. YOL. 24. YOEKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1878. NO. 45. - i 7z :? .fflectd fuettjr. IT NEVER PAYS. It never pays to growl and fret When fortune is our foe. The better bred will push ahead, And strike the braver blow. For luck iB work, and those who shirk Should not lament their doom, But yield the pay, and clear the way, That better men have room. It never pays to foster pride, And squander time in show ; For friends thus won are sure to run In time of want or woe. The noblest worth of all the earth Are gems of heart and brain, A conscience clear, a household dear, And hands without a stain. It never pays to hate a foe, Or cater to a friend ; To fawn and whine, much loss repine; To borrow or to lend. The faults of men are fewer when Each rows his own canoe; For feuds and debts and pampered pets Unbounded miscniei Drew. It never pays to wreck the health In drudging after gain; And he is sola who thinks that gold Is cheaply bought with pain. An humble*lot, a cosy cot, Have tempted even kings ; For stations high that wealth will buy, Not oft contentment brings. It never pays!?a blunt refrain Well worthy of a song ; For age and youth must learn the truth, That nothing pays that's wrong. The good and pure alone are sure To bring prolonged success; While what is right in Reason's sight Is always sure to bless. f hc fteUcr. HAROLD; OR, THE FALSE FRIEND. A TALE OF BOSTON. "Imprisoned! Accused of murder! Good God, what fearfu! calamity is this!" The words were uttered in a toDe of exquisite anguish, by a gray-haired man who stood in the centre of a richly-furnished apartment of a large mansion, situated in the very heart of the city of Boston. The old man's hands were clasped wildly before him ; his lips tightly compressed, and bis whole appearance denoting intense and painful agitation. JBefore him stood an officer of the law. He seemed but little affected at the personification of terrible grief at bis side. Experience in his profession had harb H dened his heart, and what he now beheld was, to him, but an ordinary event of life. HnH The officer had just brought intelligence that the son of Beujamin Harris, the old man above mentioned, had been arrested npon a W charge of murder, perpetrated under peculiar r circumstances, and in a manner that left but little doubt of the guilt of the prisoner. Mr. Harris walked the room for a moment with an uneven step; and at length, having somewhat calmed his agitation, he turned to the officer, and, in a broken voice, requested him to give the details of the terrible catastrophe. The officer did so, and the following is the substauce of his narrative: Edward Harris had, at an early hour the evening before, entering a certain gambling hell of the city, and there he encountered a most notorious gamester, with whom Harris, not knowing his character, at once commenced to play. . Their game continued for some hours, until at last Harris detected bis opponent cheating, and boldly accused him of the fact; this, the latter stoutly denied, and, upon the former reiterating his assertion, the latter boldly declared him a liar. Harris sprang to his feet, and with one blow of his list, he felled the false gamester to the ground. With muttered curses the latter arose, and darting upon Harris, sought to pull him down. He was evaded, however, and Harris again struck him. The latter then seemed suddenbB ly to recover his self-possession, and with a igir triumphant laugh, proclaimed that he had cheated, and ended by saying that his oppoW nent might make the best of it. He then def parted from the place. Edward Harris was heard to say, in the gambling bouse, that he ' would "fix him yet." The clock struck two a few moments afterward, and Harris departed. The next that was known of him, he was found bending over the body of his murdered opponent, and his clothes saturated with blobd. The watchman who discovered him declared that he had heard a low shriek, and that, as soon as possible, he had reached the spot and found Harris as above described. There seemed a strong probability of the young man's guilt, from the fact that he had lost a large sum of money to the murdered man ; that he had threatened him, and followed him out shortly after his departure. When arrested, Harris coolly stated his entire innocence, and said that the same shriek which had attracted the attention of the watchman, called him to the spot, and that, arriving but a few moments before, he was detected in an examination of the man's ..-.J awnaafnrl in *Kot nnQihnn ^ WUUUllj auu ai icolou iu liuuu |/vwiviwu? Such were the circumstances under which Edward Harris was arrested ; and even to the most unprejudiced and dispassionate observer, there seemed a strong probability of guilt. When the officer left Mr. Harris, he carried a message to his son, that he would shortly visit him in his prison ; not, however, before he had engaged the most eminent legal talent that money could command. Mr. Harris then seizing the bell-rope, summoned a servant. "John, is my nephew in ?" "Yes, sir." "Call him hither." In a few moments the door opened, and a young mau entered the apartment. He was a tall, finely built man, of about twenty-five or twenty-six years of age. His face was swarthy and of oval cast, with hair suiting his complexion, thrown back from a full and intellectual forehead. His features were nearly faultless iu mould, his teeth, large, white and brilliant. But his dark eyes beamed with haughty and passionate fire, mingled with a sinister gleam, which, added to the disdainful curl of the lip, gave to his face an expression akin to treachery, in his motions, he was ft nervously rapid, retaining one position scarce' ly an instant. He was dressed faultlessly in a suit of black clothes, and came into the room with a short, quick step. "You sent for me, uncle?" "Yes. ves. to communicate fearful tidings! ~~ ' * ?/ ^ Your cousin is in prison, charged with murder !" "Good heavens!" exclaimed the young man, with a sudden start, while the sinister glance came, with a trausient flash, to his eyes. "Good heavens, has it come to this ?" "Yes, yes!" cried the old man, in a voice of anguish. "Reckless of character, of life, and spurning my advice, and defying my control, he has given himself up to wild licentiousness and mad dissipation, until at last the prison impedes his further progress!" "I had feared that some disaster would overtake him, but, great God! I had never expected so terrible a finale as this. My poor, unfortunate cousin !" And the young man buried his face in his hands and seemed to give way to passionate grief. Mr. Harris gazed on him for a few moments with a look of deep sympathy, seemingly forgetful of his own sorrow and misfortune; and then going up to him, he placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder, saying: "Come, Harold, you take the blow too deeply to heart. Come, my kind boy, let us take measures for his safety !" "You speak well, uncle, this is no time foi grief; I acu glad that you bear up bo brave ly. I cannot believe that ray poor cousin is guilty 1 With all his faults he would never never conceive, much less execute, so terribh a crime as this!" "Ay, with all his faults, my poor boy ii innocent of this. I believe it, and God knowf it" When Harold lifted his face from his hands, no tears were visible; but his face was flushed, and bis dark eyes strangelj gleaming. But buried in his own sad thoughts, the old man noticed not the peculiar expression 01 his face ; but hurrying on his outer garments he and his nephew left the mansion. Edward Harris, who now stood accused oi the terrible crime of murder, was a young man about twenty-three years of age. In appearance he was the opposite of his cousin, Harold Stanly. He was of a tall and graceful figure; dark blue eyes, and brown, eurling hair, with dignified and intellectual features. The expression-.of his face was manly and candid, and such as would win the confidence of every student of human nature. He was open and generous to a fault. The only child of his father, he had been spoiled by over-indulgence, and naturally of a quick, impulsive temperament, he could ill brook control. Early in life he was his own master, and over his actions his father seldom or ever attempted control. , His father, one of the most prominent of Boston merchants, with nearly a million of money, never stinted his allowance, but was always ready to gratify his whims, for he loved him with a deep and fervent affection. The coming of Harold Stanly, whose mother died long before be had attained his majority, gave an impetus to the extravagant desires of Edward, and his couBin it was who first introduced him, as it were, to the realities of life. Under a garb of friendship and generosity, Harold Stanly covered a corrupt and deceitful heart. He lured Edward on, step by step, until at last he was initiated into the darkest mysteries of city life. He it was who first introduced young Harris to a gambling hell; and who, when the latter bound by his passion for play, turned about and hypocritically expostulated with him on the folly of bis course ; but not until he had convinced himself that, for the time, Edward was under the baneful control of hie own passions. With his artful ways and seeming steadiness of disposition, Harold Stanly had entwined himself about the heart of his uncle, until, at length, the latter thought him a model youth, and placed in him tbe utmost confidence. When Mr. Harris mourned over the folly and extravagance of his son, the point would be taken up by Harold, who would cheer the old man with the hope that Edward would one day give up his evil ways, and become a staid and exemplary man. Edward never suspected the dark, designing nature of his false cousin; busied in seeking the gratifications of his own passions, and naturally of an unsuspicious temperament, be never imagiued that such a thing as falsehood and deceit could be nourished in a heart so nearly related to his own. But a deep scheme lay beyond all this. It was no ordinary one. Jtiaroia was aciuatea in bis course, not so much by ill-will or hatred to Edward, as by a determined intention of superseding bim in the graces of his father; to make himself his heir; and failing in this, he would not scruple to proceed to the direst extremities. Time passed on. But all the folly and waywardness of Edward could not alienate the affection of his father. The latter expostulated with his son ; he threatened, and implored ; all in vaio?yet the old man loved him still. Harold Stanly at last became convinced that he could never achieve his desire by waiting for such an event. Then he determined on another course?dark and consummate villain that he was?what that course was will soon be plainly evident to the reader. In the boudoir of a splendid mansion, standing in a fashionable quarter of the city, was seated a young aud divinely beautiful i woman. Her dark and lustrous tresses hung | down upon shoulders pure as Parian marble. Her dark, lustrous eyes, beaming with pen sive sweetness, were bent upon her embroidery, and her red, ripe lips were slightly part| ing, and her full, round cheeks tinged with ; the beauty of the full blown rose. She was I a being of more than ordinary beauty. Her | heart shoue out from the liquid depths of her large and handsome eyes.; and her smile was | brighter than a sunbeam of a June morning. ! Rarely beautiful, she sat, ever and anon slightly lifting her head, as if listening for an approaching footstep. This beautiful beiDg ' was Marion Lee, the beloved of Edward Harris. They had met under peculiar circumstances, at one of the fashionable watering places. Marion, with some friends, was out . upon the river, and more than a mile distant | from the shore, when the yacht in which she j was, by some mismanagement, was suddenly overturned. Edward was passing them in a small sail boat which he occupied aloue, and seeing the catastrophe, he tacked about, and lowering his sail rapidly, he caBt out hie an; chor ; and, seeing one of the lady passengers j of the yacht?there were but two?floating : down with the current, he sprang into the ; water ,and swam rapidly towards her, while the i rest of the passengers, three in number, rej mained clinging to the boat. He reached her as she was sinking for the second time, and, grasping her securely with one arm, he made I toward his boat, but ere he reached it, another yacht appeared upon the scene and he was lifted, with his nearly senseless burden, aboard. From that moment a warm and fervent atatchment sprang up between them, and ! ere three months had passed over their beads, j they were affianced. Marion loved Edward | with a most devoted affection. But a period j was approaching which was to test the strength I of that love most cruelly. Marion was recalling this sweet rerainisj cence, with a fluttering heart, when the door j opened, and the name of Harold Stanly was announced. He entered, and bowing gracefully, he said : "Miss Marion, I would not intrude my preseuce upon you at such an early hour, did I not come on a sad and imperative mission !" "You are welcome, sir; but what has oci curred that is so important, that you speak so | formally ?" j "I came on behalf of my unfortunate cous| in." "Heavens! What has happened? Is Ed| ward ill? Speak, speak, in heaven's name!" | And Marion darted from her seat, clasped 1 > 1 t ? J .1_ - -1_ ^1. C ner nanus ana jooaea upon me uum mtc ui | Harold, with a wild gaze of entreaty. The i sinister gleaui was in his eye, and he seemed gloating over the suspense in which he held J her. At last he said : "No, Edward is not ill; on the contrary he j is in the best of health?" "Thank God !" cried Marion, gratefully, ' as she sank into her seat. "I repeat," continued Harold, "that he is i in the best of health?but he is in prison." "In prison!" muttered Marion,confounded. J "Yes in prison 1" repeated Harold, harshly. "And for what ?" asked Marion, recovering j somewhat her composure. "For murder!" answered Harold, with ill| disguised triumph. I "For murder?" shrieked Marion, spriDg r ing wildly to her feet; "for murder?O, God, - it cannot, cannot be I" And the poor maiden i clasped her hands, while to her face came an , expression of most unutterable woe. j "Yes, for murder, committed last night. And he is guilty, for he was found bending i over the body of his victim I" i "'Tis false, 'tis false ! My Edward would never, never be guilty of so foul a crime! i 'Tis the work of some wicked enemy ! 'Tis 3 false!" r And the eyes of Marion Lee flashed proudly, and her fine form was drawn to its full I height, and her breast heaved with indignant f emotion. The eyes of Harold quailed be, fore her proud glance, and a tremor passed through him as she cried : " 'Tis the work of some wicked enemy!" "I pray Heaven that he may be innocent; r but the proof is terribly conculsive. His ca' reer for the past two months ban not been ' creditable to him?he is a notorious gambler, 1 a libertine?" "Peace, sir I Speak not of Edward Harris ' T. L / ._ 1 inus to me i it is enougn ior me iu &uuw that he is in prison! I know his faults, and I know his virtues. I know, for my heart tells me, that he is innocent 1" And Marion 1 moved proudly from the room. "By Jove, she's a noble woman ! I'd risk my life to win her, and Ixoill! And Harold Stanly left the house. In a narrow cell, containing nothing hut an iron bed, on which was laid a hard mattress, , a chair and a table, sat Edward Harris. , His dark locks were disheveled, his fine face pale, and marked with traces of suffering and anxious thought, and bis head was resting languidly on bis open palm. His past life rose before him like a dream. And he shuddered as his follies passed in review before his conscience stricken gaze. It was the first time for years that he had ever pondered upon the folly of his career; and now as he thought, he felt himself visited with just punishment. His aged and indulgent father had just left his prison; his presence had touched Edward to the heart, and he bitterly regretted that he had ever given the old man cause for sorrow ; and, in his innermost soul, he determined that should he pass safely through the trying ordeal, his future life should atone for the follies of the past. Buried in his mournful reflections, he scarcely noticed the opening of his prison door, and it was not until a soft white hand was laid upon his brow, that he noticed the presence of a visitor. He looked up. "Marion!" "Edward 1" A moment more and they were clasped wildly in each other's arms. "Marion, dearest, do you love me still; do you believe me innocent? 0, God, this is too much joy!" "Yes, Edward, you are the same to me as ever?yes, my poor Edward, I believe you iunoceut, as firmly as I believe in God 1" "Heaven bless you, Marion 1 I fear not now to face the charge 1" "Fear not, Edward. God, in his own good time, will make your innocence apparent." "Ay I Marion, that God whom I have so long forgotten, whose laws I have so often broken, is now my only dependence. I am involved in a strange and intricate web. A powerful chain of evidence is against me, and it is only with God's aid that I can substanti ate ray innocence." "It is our best and highest trust," said Marion. Thus conversing, an hour passed rapidly away and Marion at length departed. Her maid awaited her outside the cell door, and in company they left the prison. The events related in the foregoing chapter were enacted many years ago. We must now leave the fasionable quarter of the city, and pass on to the purlieu of crime and wretchedness, Ann Street, now North Street, somewhat more refined. In one of the dismal and wretched caverns of the place, we now find otirselves. The stone walls are mildewed with moisture, and the sickening smell of bad tobacco and worse liquor greet the nostrils, and the dense, close atmosphere is nearly overpowering. A number of men and women are scattered throughout the cellar, engaged with cards, pipes and rum. Bacchanalian songs are being sang by men whose throats are hoarse from the constant friction of fire-water; and loud laughLeraud obscene jokes are being bandied about, and all is noise, riot and confusion. At a rickety table in one corner of the dismal place, are seated three men. One of them, wrapped in a heavy cloak and fur cap, the broad visor of which nearly concealed his face, was earnestly engaged in conversation, and his whispered tones and the fashionable shape of his garments proclaimed that his position in rociety but ill accorded with his present place or company. "Did you have much trouble in securing the lady, or did she fall quietly into the trap ?" "Not much ; the night was dark, and we muffled her head before she could cry Pills ! The team was handy, and we slipped her in, and, in a few minutes we had the gal tight and sound in old Wilson's crib," replied one of the men in answer to the cloaked stranger. "She's a tough un, Bob, ain't she? An' cool as a cucumber," cried the last speaker's companion, pulling fiercely at his long black, bristling beard. "She is that, cuss her 1 She called the pair on us villains and scoundrels, and said as how she'd fix us?dido't cry one bit though J" "Well, so much for that poiDt; my plans are working right?" "Yes, we's done your work well; so, now, come down with the dimes. This ere city's gettin' hot, and we must trayvel /" "That's the talk ! We wants double money," cried the man with the beard. "I won't dispute but the job was done well; but the sura which you demand is much more than we agreed upon," replied the stranger. "Well wot if it is ?" cried one of the desperadoes. "You'll make your fortin by the operation. Men won't risk their necks nowadays for nothin.' So down with the dust, or we'll blow." "That's so, by Jupiter!" exclaimed the other. "And wot's more?" continued the firstspeaker, "we ran an awful risk ; for when we laid the chap out, a watchman, and that ere Harris you wants to be rid off, came down on our heels and we on'y 'scaped by the skin o'our teeth !" "Just so, eggsactly," cried bis companion, who was content to endorse the assertions of his pal. "Well, well," replied the cloaked stranger, carelessly, "we will not dispute the matter further?here's the money." And pulling a wellstuffed wallet from his pocket, he took out a large roll ot mils, ana nanuea mem 10 me i villains, who carefully counted and divided them. "Has yer got that ere Harris all right, d'ye think, 8ur?"8aid one of the villains, as he crammed his money into a belt which he pulled from his breast. "Ye3," cried the stranger, in a tone of exultation, "no earthly power can save him I now!" The stranger now arose, and whispering to one of the men, he was about to move away, followed by the latter, but his cloak, catching about his chair, was dragged down from his face, and he stood revealed, Harold Stanly! With a muttered curse, he wrapped his cloak again about him, and followed by the man, passed down to the distant end of the cavern. They then passed up a narrow flight of steps, and in a moment moire found themselves in a long, narrow entry, lighted by a large oil lamp; they moved down this pussage for a few yards, and at last paused before a door. Here the man took a key from bis pocket, which he handed to Stanly, and then, with a sinister grin, he wished him luck and depart; ed for the place where he had left his brother ruffian. Harold Stanley, placing the key | in the lock, turned back the bolt, opened the door, and found himself face to face with Marion Lee ! Let us return for a few moments to the cavern. Louder and more boisterous grew the noise, as the potent fire water reached the brains of the revelers. Some of them, over .i i l- J 1 I?1 _ 1 l_ ? AL? come wun arms, uroppeu neipiesaiy uu me floor; others, maddened by its terrible influence, danced wildly around, shouting and shrieking, until they, too, fell senseless to the ground. But the two villains, who had received the money from Stanly, paid no heed to the noise; but sat at a table with their bottle before them, deeply absorbed in play. At times they wonld dispute, and then their blasphemies were terrible to listen to. But they played on, each seeking to relieve the other of his share of the spoils. At last, the one called Bob, who took a second place in the conversation with Harold, won nearly all his companion's money, and was now gloating over the pile as it lay before him on the table. The eyes of the other were flashing with drunken rage. An instant he looked upon his companion with a deadly glare, and then sprang upon him with a demon's fury, and plunged a knife deep into his breast! With a cry of pain and fear, the latter staggered to the door and then rushed out into the street. He cried wildly for help, and in a few moments a crowd had collected about him, and a couple of watchmen, attracted by the noise, came hurriedly to the spot, and in a Bhort time he was taken to the hospital. His treacherous comrade effected his escape. We left Harold Stanly, standing in the presence of Marion Lee. She looked upon Stanly for a moment with much indignation. That he was the author of her present misfortune she was well aware, having gleaned the knowledge from the conversation of the ruffians who had forcibly carried her away. The eyes of the accomplished villain fell before her flashing gaze ; but recovering himself, he forced a sneer to his lips and said : "I have caged you at last, my lady bird I You who have scorned my love, for the love of a boy 1 I had sworn, long ago, to possess you?and I have kept my word I" "It is to you, then, that I am indebted for my present confinement! I had suspected you were a villain, Harold Stanly?hut never the deep villain that you have proved I Perhaps your villainy is greater than even 1 dare imagine !" said Marion, significantly. "What, woman I" cried Harold, whose face had suddenly grown deadly pale. "Do you dare to insinuate?" "I insinuate nothing, sir?but I suspect much I" "Suspect what you please, then, I care not! I have you safe?you are mine, mine! More than mine a few hours hence, when your boy lover will be swinging on the gallows !" cried Harold, fiercely. A shiver ran through the frame ot Marion, and ber face became a shade paler, but she "My trust is in God, Harold Stanley ; the innocence of Edward Harris will be made manifest, to the confusion of his enem ies?and that he has enemies, my present position amply proves I" "Yes, yes ! I am his enemy! the deadliest he has ever had. I hate him as fiercely as I love you ; you, madam, who have scorned and trampled upon my heart I" cried Harold Stanley, as he strode rapidly up and down the apartment. "Ha 1 I thought as much. It is through your villainous machinations that be is now in prison?my own heart and your base actions tell me so." "You are right!" cried Harold, boldly, as hepaused before the dauntless Marion. "What more do you know, or wish to know ?" "No more! Keep your dark secrets within the recesses of your own bad l.e irt. Y ou will repent these confessions by-andby." "Fear not, madam, you will never breathe them. I shall make it a sacred duty with you to keep them. I battle for a purpose." "Ay! and a dark, foul one!" said Marion, contemptuously. The eyts of the villain were flashing with rage, but he was somewhat awed by the dignified and determined position of Maiion Lee, whom, when he first entered the apartment, he had expected to see, spiritless and in tears. "I shall leave you for a time, Marion Lee! But when next I see you, I shall make you repent of your language. Remember." And without waiting for an answer, he left the room, locking the door carefully after him. He then left the house by a secret passage. Upon his departure, Marion Lee cast herself upon a lounge, and gave way to tears. The courage which upheld her in the presence of the villain, Stanly, now entirely deserted her. At length, recovering her composure, she threw herself upon her knees and prayed long and fervently. The merchant, Benjamin Harris, sat alone in his study. His face was pale and wan. Greatly had he changed in the last few days. The lines about his mouth were deeper, his brow more furrowed, and an expression of helpless sorrow rested, like a cloud, on his countenance. At times he would heave a deep sigh and gaze mournfully about him, as though searching for the form of his imprisoned son. He had done all he could for his boy, hut he felt he had little to hope for. The evidence against him was powerful, and, so far as circumstantial evidence could be, conclusive. But he hoped against hope. He had another cause for sorrow. The mysterious disappearance of Marion Lee ! Her family was thrown into the profoundest misery. Search had been made for her everywhere, but no tidiugs of her could be had. Her disappearance was kept a secret from Edward, and Mr. Harris, who loved her as his own child, was nearly broken-hearted at this accumulation of misfortunes. While he sat thus, buried in his great grief, the door of his study was opened, and a servant announced "Dr. Barton." A fine, portly gentleman entered the room, hia fat, haudsome face shining with satisfaction ; and walking quickly over to Mr. Harris, he grasped his hand, exclaiming : "Mv Door friend. I've ereat eood news! Don't move, now, pray don't! Keep cool." And the good doctor, brimming full of excitement hiraaelf, Bat down and wiped the dew from his brow, and endeavored to calm himself with a pinch of snuff. "There is no good news for me, doctor, I fear," said the old merchant, sadly ; "ray poor boy?" "That's it, sir, that's it?it's all right?now don't get excited, prny don't?Edward's innocent?full confession?villain dying?told all?now keep cool?pray do?here 'tis!" While the kind-hearted doctor was giving vent to his thoughts in fits and starts, he had been fumbling in his pocket, and he now laid before Mr. Harris a folded manuscript, which the latter eagerly snatched and read. As he ran on, the face of the poor merchant gradually brightened, and soon a look of joy illuminated bis whole countenance, aucj wben he bad concluded, he cast it down, clasped bis bands gratefully, and sank tearfully on bis knees and thanked God. The good doctor laughed, rubbed bis bands, snuffed eagerly, wiped bis eyes and kept murmuring "good, good !** He had brought a confession, which he bad taken down at the request of a dying man in the hospital; the man who had been so treacherously attacked and stabbed by bis comrade in the cavern. The shbstance of the confession said that Harold Stanly had hired himself?the dying man?and another, to watch Edward Harris, and to involve him in some difficulty, which would eventually get him out of the way. That they had followed Edward into the gambling house on the night of the murder, and were witnesses to his trouble with the gambler?heard the threat of Harris to "fix him," and knowing that Edward must take the same road home, they followed the gambler from the place, attacked and robbed him, and left him dead on the ground. That they had seen Harris from a distant hiding place, leave the gambling house, aud -X iL . I? J? _ r A. L_ J __ J 3 !i stoop over me uouy 01 ins ueau uiuu ; auu n said, furthermore, that if the watchman had not suddenly appeared, they would have seized Harris for the murder. The confession also told of the abduction of Marion Lee, and her place of imprisonment. The confession was taken down in the presence of a number of witnesses, and shortly afterwards the man died. It was placed before the proper authorities, and shortly afterward Edward Harris was liberated. The police,.in company with Edward, old Mr. Harris, and Mr. Lee, went down to Ann Street, broke into the place where Marion was confined, and found the brave-hearted girl on her knees, and in tears. In a moment Edward was at her side. She looked up, and with a joyful cry, was clasped in his arms. He kissed the poor maiden's cheek, but her face was cold. She had swooned upon his breast. When she returned to consciousness she found herself at home, and by her side him to whom she had, through all his trials, proved so faithful, Edward Harris. Marion and Edward were united a few weeks afterwards?a joyful ending to all their sorrows. Nothing was heard of Harold Stanly, but it was rumored that, on the discovery of his villainy, he had entered the army, and fell, bravely fighting, at the memorable storming of Vera Cruz. IpSttUMMttf flatting. ROMANCE OF A COUNTESS. Genevieve Ward, who will appear at Booth's in this city next month, is in reality a countess, and one of high degree. This was bow it came about: She studied originally to he a singer, and did appear upon the operatic stage [in 1859]. Then she went abroad to study. Living quietly in Paris with her mother, she became acquainted with a Russian count?a real count?who belonged to an influential and wealthy family. He was a man of accomplishments and fascinating qualities, and when he asked the American girl to be his wife, he found a heart already conquered. They were married quietly at a Roman Catholic church. In some way or other, by meanB of a chance remark hr ennip nnp shp ant nn inklinc nn thp wpH -diog day that tb? ???rri?g? would pot be le gal in Russia unless it was celebrated in a Russian church. When she asked her husband about it the same day, he met the point very composedly, admitted that this was true, but added that there was no Russian church in Paris; that, as this was merely an additional and formal ceremony, he had supposed that it might be postponed until they reached MilaD, where they proposed going, and where, he said, there was a Rusco-Greek church. To this bis bride replied that he might go on to Milan, and she would follow with her mother; and they could be married there. The impatient lover chafed at all this, but the girl was firm about it, though she does not seem to have begun to suspect him. He obeyed her, and they journeyed to Milan by separate trains. After they had arrived, he appeared with a story that the Russian clergyman was out of town, and an appeal to her to forego this insistance upon a mere formality and Bet out with him upon their travels. Then the native shrewdness of the. girl asserted itself over her love for this titled rascal. She had inquiries made, and discovered that the Russian priest was in town, and likewise, that there was a Russian church in Paris. Evidently, the count had been lying to her, and with what purpose was too evident. She confronted him with her knowledge, and he seeing the game was up, disappeared. She returned to Paris, filled with a determination to compel this man to grant her redress. She went to the American minister, and, not fiuding him in the city, laid her case, in the innocence of her heart, before his official representative, Mr. Donn Piatt. Of Mr. Piatt's share in this history it is perhaps well to say as little as possible. It will be sufficient to say that when the prefect of police demanded Miss Ward's papers of him, he gave tbera up. By this time Miss Ward had got her mental perspective adjusted, and knew just what to do. She set out for St. Petersburg with her mother; took a house there, and entered the best society of the capital. Their letters gave them the entrance everywhere; they had plenty of money and enteraiuedjn handsome style; and the New York girl whose mind was all the while bent on a campaign of which no one else knew, was soon the belle of the season. When the winter was nearly over, when her position as reigning favorite of St. Petersburg was firmly established, when no great entertainment was considered complete without a song from her, she began operations. Up to this time there had been no sign of her semi-husband, but she had ascertained, as soon as she arrived in Russia, that all that had been said of the power and wealth of his family was true. The visible proof of it was found in the fact that his brother was one of the government ministers, and enjoyed the special confidence of the Czar. This only nerved her for the effort' she was to make, the more so as this minister was a constant attendant at her receptions, and acted very much as if he were himself in love with her. She asked, through the American minister, an opportunity of making a statement to the Czar concerning one of his officers. This was granted, and without giving names she told her story. The Czar was indignant and ? ? rr? i 11 /** 1. _ a. declared that this omcer snouia suner wn?iever punishment she demanded. He called in his minister, the brother of the culprit, who vowed that such a man Bhould not be allowed to remain in the armies of the Czar. His uniform should be stripped from him. Then there was a dramatic scene when the Czar asked the name of the offender, and she gave it. The brother exclaimed, in a transport of rage, perhaps of disappointed love and jealousy, "he shall be hanged !" But she said she wouid not have indiguities put upon him. She felt herself above revenge; all that she asked was justice. A peremptory order was dispatched to the post at which Count was stationed, re2uiring his immediate appearance before the Jzar. He came, of course ; counts are prompt when Czars command. He was confronted with the disclosure, and told by the Czar that he must comply with the lady's demand, which was that he fulfill his promise by completing the marriage ceremony. Now, man like, this count was taken with the spirit and courage and brilliant cleverness of the girl whom he had once sought to deceive. He would have liked to begin a second wooing before the second marriage, and would have been glad, no doubt, the match once settled, to be a devoted husband to such a rare woman. But he was very coolly received, and an unmistakable intimation was given that he need not present himself until the day of the ceremony, and then at the churcb. The day came, and the half married maid appeared, dressed wholly in black ; her mother also in black. The sombre bride met her husband at the altar, for she would not even walk up the aisle with hira. The ceremony was performed. At its conclusion she made him a stately salute, walked down the aisle and out of the church; stepped into the carriage which was in readiness for a long journey, and set out at once for the frontier. She has never Been her husband since. "Ah!" says some, "what a romantic story! What a pity it isn't true! But it is true. It is a romance in real life?where all the romances are that are worthy of the name. Miss Ward belongs to an old and highly respectable New York family, and her father is the famous Sam Ward of Washington.? New York Correspondence Cincinnati Gazette. DARING BANK*ROBBERY. Between 6 and 9 o'clock Saturday morning, 26th ult., burglars entered the Manhattan Savings Bank building, corner of Broadway and Bleeker streets, New York, hand-cuffed the janitor and made him, under threat of instant death, reveal the combination of the safe and deliver up the keys of the bank. They then rifled the vault of an amount of money, presumed to be large, as 20 tin boxes, known to have contained bills, were found on the floor empty. The building is a six story one, the bank occupying the ground floor, with entrances on both Broadway and Bleeker street. Wendel Koblman keeps a barber shop in the basement under the bank, and the janitor lives on the second floor. The barber opened his shop, and looking at a clock in the bank office, saw it was three minutes past 6. He says there was nothing unusual in the bank at that time. At two minutes past nine o'clock, he was startled by the appearance, at the head of the basement stairs, of Janitor Louis Wortel, white with fright and excitement, with hands handcuffed tightly, and the key of the bank clutched between them. He was only half-dressed and gasped : "Thieves, robbers, come and see." The barber accompauied him into the bank, and saw the doors of the great vault wide open and the floor littered with empty tin boxes, and burglars' tools scattered in every direction. The barber notified the police, who were soon on the scene. Doors, windows, and all means of access, from without, were found intact, and it was evident that the thieves had entered by meansof keys. Dan Keely, the nightwatchman, said that he left his post at 6 o'clock, a. m., and aroused the janitor, as was his custom, and left the building, locking the hall door after him. It is certain that he left the corner at 6.10 a. m., and then everything was ripht and auiet. The janitor, Wertel, created an unfavorable impression on cross examination. He said that while he was dressing himself, seven masked men suddenly rushed into the room, handcuffed himself and wife and demanded the keys of the bank. His mother in-law, an old lady wno was present, screamed, wben the burglars drew pistols and threatened instant death to any one who made a noise. They then carried him into an adjoining room and forced him to deliver up the keys of the street doors. With these, four of the party went down stairs, leaving three on guard in his room. Three hours passed and Wertel heard the clock strike 9, when one of the men from down stairs returned, and after a whispered conversation all left. After he regained courage, he went to the barber shop as described. Wertel admitted to Superintendent Walling that be had given the combination for unlocking the doors of the vault to the robbers. He gave it under threats of instant death, but he failed to state how he got possession of the combination. His wife corroborated his story of the attack, but said that there were only five men in the party. Mr. Lent, a Broadway merchant, passed the bank soon after 7 A. M., and saw a young man dusting shelves and desks inside. It is supposed that this was one of the burglars endeavoring to make things look as natural as possible. Officers Van Norton and Tully said they looked through the bank window between 6 and 7 o'clock and all was quiet. Inside the main door of the safe vault the burglars found shelves, upon which were tin boxes filled with jewelry, silverware and valuable papers. These they emptied. They overlooked a box containing $50,000 in valuable property of Mr. Edward Schell, president of the bank, and brother of Augustus Schell. The officers of the bank admit that the janitor possessed the combination. They formally state that the loss consists of securities to the amount of $2,758,700, of which $2,506,700 were registered in the name of the institution, and are not negotiable; $168,000 are made payable to it; $73,000 are in coupon bonds and $11,000 in cash. Insanity and its Causes.?Want of nutricious food, stimulating drinks, a dreary monotony or toil, muscular exhaustion, domestic distress, misery and anxiety, account largely, not only for the number of poor who become insane in adult life, but who, from hereditary predisposition, are born weakminded or actually idiotic ; among the middle classes, stress of busiuess, excessive competition, failures, and also in many cases, recklessness and intemperate living occasions the attack; while in the upper classes intemperance still works woe?and under this head must be comprised dipsomaniacs, who are not confined in asylums. While multiplicity of subjects of Btudy in youth and excessive brain work in after life exert a certain a mount of injurious; influence under work, luxurious habits, undisciplined wills, desultory life, produce a crop of nervous disorders, terminating not unfrequently in insanity. Children of feeble intellect, who are delicately reared, are apt to become imbecile when brought in contact with the cares of adult life. A considerable number of insane persons have never been whole minded people; there has, it will be found on inquiry, been always something a little peculiar about them, and when their past life is interrupted by the attack which has rendered restraint necessary, it is seen that there has been a smouldering fire in fliA nAnatihitmn (nr a lifnHma fli/Mirvk nrtro l/iic tuuoububiuu iui u iiiwuiiiiV) iiivugu uv n j for the first time bursting forth into conflagration. Lastly, modern society comprises a uumerous class of persons, well-meaning, excitable and morbidly sensitive. Some of these are always on the borderland between sanity and insanity, and their friends are sometimes tempted to wish that they would actually cross the line and save them from constant harass. When they do, it is easy to make allowance for them and their vagaries. Oftentimes the line between sanity and insanity is no broader than a hair. The Ready Reply.?A pretty long list might be made of men who have owed their advancement in life to a small answer given at the right moment. One of Napoleon's veterans, who survived his master many years, was wont to recount with great glee how he had once picked up the Emperor's cocked hat at a review, when the latter, not noticing that he was a private, said carelessly, "Thank you, Captaiq," "In what regiment, Sire ?" instant ly asked the ready-witted soldier. Napoleon, perceiving his mistake, answered with a smile, "In my Guard, for I see you know how to be prompt." The newly-made officer received his commission next morning. A somewhat similar anecdote is related of Marshal Suvoroff, who, when receiving a dispatch from the hands of a Russian sergeant who had greatly distinguished himself on the Danube, attempted to confuse the messenger by a series of whimsical questions, but found him fully equal to the occasion. "How many fish are there in the sea Vasked Survoroffl "All that are not caught yet," was the answer. "How far is it to the moon ?" "Two of your Excellency's forced marches." "What would you do if you saw your men giving way in battle?" "I'd tell them that there was a wagon-load of whisky just behind the enemy's line." Baffled at all points, the Marshal ended, with, "What's the difference between your colonel and myself?" "My colonel cannot make me a lieutenant, but your excellency has only to say the word." "I say it now, then," answered Suvoroff, "and a right goed officer you'll be." + ? ? Big Words.?Big words are great favorites with people of small ideas and weak conceptions. They are sometimes employed by men of mind, when they wish to use language that may best conceal their thoughts. With few exceptions, however, illiterate and half educated persons use more "big words," than people of thorough education. It is a very common, but very egregious mistake, to suppose the long words are mrfre genteel than the short ones?just as the same sort of people imagine high colors and flashy figures improve the style of dress. These are the kind of folks who don't begin, but always "commence." They don't live, but "reside." They don't go to bed, but mysteriously "retire." They don't eat and drink, but "partake of refreshments." They are never sick, but "extremely indisposed j" and, instead of dying at last, they "decease." The strength of the Engliuh language is in the short words? chiefly monosylables of Saxon derivation; aDd people who are in earnest seldom use any other. Love, hate, anger, grief, joy, express themselves in short words and direct sentences; while cunning, falsehood and affectation delight in what Horace calls verba setquipe dalia?words "a foot and a half' long. ? ? 4 How Long to Sleep.?The fact is, that as life becomes concentrated and its pursuits more eager, short sleep and early rising become impossible. We take more sleep than our ancestors, because we want more. Six hours' sleep may do very well for a mason or bricklayer, or any other man who has no exhaustion but that produced by manual labor; the sooner be takes it after his labor is over the better. Bot for the man whose labor is mental, the Btress of work is on his brain and nervous system, and for him who is tired in the evening with a day of mental application, neither "early to bed nor early to rise" is wholesome. He keeps letting down to the level of repose. The longer the interval between the active use of the brain and bis retirement to bed, the better his char for sleep and refreshment. To bim, an hour after midnight is probably as good as two hours before it: and even his sleep will not so quickly aDd completely restore him as it will his neighbor who is a physically tired. He must not go to bed later, but lie longer. His best sleep probably lies in the early morning hours, when all the ni?rpnn? Kna ? passed away, aud he is in absolute rest. ? ? Too Much School.?The following ideas, from the Philadelphia Press, are correct: "When the doors of the school-house close in the afternoon upon the school children, they should literally close out from them all that pertains to school until the opening next morning. A teacher should be a teacher, not simply a hearer of recitations. Lessons should be learned and taught at school? never at home. The teacher has no right to impose upon parents the most annoying part of her work. She has no right to take from the child a single moment of the few hours it has out of school." To which the Cincinnati Star wisely adds: "The hours of an active school day are not over long, it is true, but they are as many and as long as the average mind of a child should be kept at the tension of learning. The lessons of school should be learned as well as recited in school, and the home hours should really be home hours, unburdened with school tasks. Childhood needs its recreation, its sleep, its rest, quite as much as it needs, its arithmetic, grammar and geography." ? I The Old Folks' Stupidity.?It is related that when tea was first introduced from China into England, some great mistakes were made in the use of it. Some persons steeped the leaves in hot water as they were directed; but, instead of drinking the infusion, they threw this away, and tried to eat the leaves as a vegetable. Of course, there was great disappointment and the new vegetable was set down as an unmitigated fraud and humbug by those stupid old folks. Well, the stupid old folks are not dead dead yet Some are still left that we may be amused by their t n /? __ I 1_ mistaaes. suppose a iarmer piies nis manure up in his yard or leaves it soaking in rainwater, while the strong, dark liquid is thrown away on the roadside, or flows away into some brook or pond; and the drained, dry, useless stuff left, is spread upon the fields in place of good manure; might not such a person be thought as stupid as our good old great-grand mothers who threw away the tea and tried to use the worthless leaves 1?Rural New Yorker. No More Sleepless Nights.?Somebody who seems to have tried it, says^ The latest method we have heard of for curing cases of pure sleeplessness, when unaccompanied by disease, is the following: Get out of bed and take a linen bandage?although a handkerchief, neatly folded longwise, will do as well, perhaps better. Dip one half of the handkerchief into water; pass the wet portion around the wrist; over this lay the dry half, and tuck in the ends so as to make all secure. Lie down again. The wet bandage will be found to exercise a most soothing influence on the pulse; this will soon extend all over the nervous system, and calm and refreshing sleep will be the result. The Deacon's Prayer.?A good story is told of a deacon in Tennessee, who was in the habit of riding a bucking mule?that is, a mule that can make a camel's back of its straight one, and, by a spasmodic movement of its four legs and hump, discharge its rider like a cannon ball. The other day they came to the edge of the worst mud hole in the State, and the mule gave unmistakable indications of bucking. The good deacon knew that he was about to be thrown and bis mind skurried about for a prayer. His table grace came easiest: "Lord, for what we are about to receive make us humbly grateful," he ex?miiIa kn/ilro/1 ko rroa in vJalLLICU) a LIU tiiU VJUJU uuvn^u auu uu n?o mh Value of Smiles.?Some people go through life with a frown, or a scowl, or a gloom in their countenance. The very sight of them iB chilling and repulsive. Others wear a cheerful expression, and thus lighten and bless all around them. The value of a smile is beyond estimate. It costs the giver nothing, but is beyond price to the erring and repenting, the sad and cheerless, the lost and forsaken. It disarms malice, subdues temper, turns hatred to love, revenge to kindness, and paves the darkest paths with gems of Bunlight.