VOL. LI V.
PROFESSION \IL C. IRDS.
CL T. Alexander. C. M. Bower.
ALEXANDER A BOWER,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW.
BELLEFONTK, PA.
Offlee tu Garman's new building.
JOHN B. LINN,
ATTORNEY AT LAW.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Office on Allegheny Street.
OLEMENT DALE,
ATTORNEY AT LAW
BELLEFONTK, PA.
Northwest comer of DUmond.
D. O. Bush. S. H. Yocum. I), u. Hastings.
JJUSH, YOCUM A HASTINGS,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW*.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
tltgh Street, opposite First National Bank,
yy M. C. HEINLE,
ATTORNEY AT LA \V.
* BELLEFONTK. PA.
Practices in all the courts of centre county.
Spec at attention to collections. Consultations
In German or English.
yyiLBUR F. REEDER,
ATTORNEY AT LAW*.
BELLEFONTK. PA.
All bus ness promptly attended to. Collection
of claims a speciality.
J. A. Beaver. J. W. Gephart.
JJEAYER4 GEPHART,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW*.
BELLEFONTE, PA.
omce on Alleghany Street, North of High.
W A. MORRISON,
ATTORNEY AT LAW*.
BELLEFONTE. PA.
Office on Woodrlng's Block, Opposite Court
Hume.
S. KELLER,
ATTORNEY AT LAW
BELLEFONTE, PA.
Consultations in English or German. OOlce
In Lyon's Building, Allegheny Street.
JOHN G. LOVE,
•ATTORNEY AT LAW,
BELLEFONTK PA.
Office In the rooms formerly occupied by the
late w. P. Wilson.
yjHLLHEIM BANKING CO.,
MAIN STREET,
MILLHEIM, PA.
A. WALTER, Cashier. DAV. KRAPK, Pres.
HARTER,
AUCTIONEER,
m
KEBERSBCRG, PA. •
Satisfaction Guaranteed.
When the barbarous practice of stuff
ing, one's guests shall have been abol
ished, a social gathering will ;not ne
cessarily imply harJ labor and dyspep
sia. Perhaps, when that time arrives,
we shall be sufficiently civilized to de
mand pleasures of a higher sort. True,
the entertainments will then, in one
sense, be more costly, as culture eo>fs
more than cake.
The greater the difficulty the more
glory in surmounting it. Skilful pilots
gain their reputation l'rom storms and
tempests. . •
That plenty should produce either
covetousness or prodigality is a perver
sion of providence, and yet the gener
ality of men are the worse for their
riches.
It is a distinguishing feature of Chris
tianity that its God is a God
Christianity tells us that "God is Love. "
This is both His nature and Hs name.
There is no greater sign 01 a mean
and sordid man than to dote upon
riches; nor is anything more magnifi
cent than to lay them out freely in acts
of bounty and liberality.
There is a game ot cards very popu
lar in Ireland called "Spoiled Five."
Any number of persons greater than
two can participate in a game, but with
three contestants the best points are
drawn out. Each player looks excliw
sively after his own interests. Each
trick counts five, and to win a game it
is necessary. to get fifteen in a single
hand. But as only five cards are dealt
to each player, this, it will be seen, is
not an easy thing to do; and with good
players the battle has olten to be fought
again and again, with increasing stakes
and interest, before a victory is scored.
As soon as the plaver has looked at his
hand and calculated his chances, lie is
guided by this golden rule: "If you
can't win the gauie, spoil it."
Truth discoveres the evil; grace puts
it away. Truth unfolds what man is;
grace unfolds what God is. Truth
brings out into the light the hidden
workings of evil in the heart of man;
grace brings out, in contrast, the rich
and exhaustless springs of grace in the
heart of God; both are needful. Truth
for the maintenance of God's glory;
grace for the establishment of our bless
ing. Truth for the vindication of the
divine character and attribute; grace
for the perfeet repose of the sinner's
heart and conscience- How blessed to
know that both grace and truth came
by Jesus Christ.
f fee ptMit ivnrnst
„ A BABY GIRL.
A little one eliuibed in my lap last night
A fair little creature with slum eyes,
That seemed to have taken tin ir radiant light
From the fairest line of the rudiui" skies—
And down on my shoulder she laid her head.
An t settled herself with a quaint little twirl;
And then, looking up in my face, she said,
"Now, sing mo a song of a baby girl."
"Of at aby girl!" How my thoughts back
To Ruothf r time and another scene.
Far. far adown on my memory's track.
With many a joy and sorrow between—
To another time, when at evening's close.
Tired out with the long day's busy whirl.
1. too, climbed up for a sweet repose
On my moth r s lap—a baby girl!
How we change, how we change, as the years
go on !
There are silver threads in my hair to-day ;
And the loving and cherished mother is gone
To the phm-ant land where angels stay.
O. 1 wonder, 1 wonder, if e'er she looks down
From "the beautiful city with gates of p arl,"
From "tho Bounding harp and the gleaming
crown."
To follow the fate of her baby girl ?
What is this, little one ? Ah, her head droops
low.
And her lingers have loosened their clinging
clasp.
For the innocent slumber but children know
Holds her baby brain m its soothing graep.
And I gather more closely her form to my
breast.
And I teuderly toy with each cluat'ring curl,
When our labor is done; may our final lest
He as sweet as the sleep of my baby girl!
A Little Mistake.
M iss Mimgva Blair, spinster on the
shady side of forty, and iier niece, Miss
Hope Alexander, also single, brtt on the ;
sunny side of twenty, sat in the pleasant j
sitting-room of a pleasant country mansion,
listening to the rumble of the afternoon
railway train, which was just arriving at I
the depot.
"Mr. Harvey will he here in a few min
utes, Hope," said the aunt; "and you
must lie cordial to him, unless it is your
desire to offend me."
"I wish the train had had a collision!"
was the rather vindictive reply, though a
sly half-smile showed that the words were
hardly meant.
"Hope!" cried the other, somewhat'
sternly. "You are positively sinful to be |
so malicious. Why should you hate a
gentleman you have never seen ?"
"1 might in turn ask you why should 1
love a gentlemaa I had never seen ?"
"Nobody asks you to love him."
"No. But you wish me to marry him." i
"Well," apologized the aunt, "I would
like to see you as well settled as you cer- j
tainly would be with Walter Harvey. The :
love can come afterward. I know you
will like him."
"Why, Aunt Minorva, vou have never
met him yourself!"
"Not since he was a little boy. But I
have always known his parents, and they j
are worthy people."
•'So were Hope Alexander's, I think," |
poutingly said the younger lady. "And
yet you see what a perverse scapegrace you
iiave got for a niece." -
Even Miss Minerva's grim features had
to relax a little. But any further conver
sation was cut off by a ring at the outer
door.
"He has come," said Miss Blair. "You
must at least treat him civilly, Hope."
"Indeed I will, aunty, for your sake,"
said the girl, with a touch of good feeling.
Miss Minerva went herself to admit the
visitor.
"Mr. Harvey,'' she said to the dark
bearded, handsome young man whom she
admitted, "it gives me genuine pleasure
to welcome you to this house. I have
known your family so many years, that
you almost seem a friend."
"Indeed. I hope to. be one," was the
frank reply.
"You must let me send my niece to
you," said Mia* Minerva, as soon us the
newcomer was fairly seated. "I am house
keeper, you know, and cannot neglect my
duties, but you will have a substitute whom
you must learn to like."
''You would hardly say that if you
knew all," the gentleman remarked so (to
voce.
"I am afraid 1 have humored her into
being a little wilful, but she is kind
hearted and good/'
And with these pleasant words, the kind
old maiden lady left the room.
She was gone scarcely long enough to
allow the young man to collect his thoughts
ere she again stood in the doorway, say
ing :
"Mr. Harvey, I present my niece, Miss
Hope Alexander."
And a slender, rustling figure was half
pushed into the room, where it stoixl bow
ing with a semi-haughty air.
Something like a smile was upon the
young gentleman's countenance, and he
kept ins eyes fastened upon the girl's face;
but she did not look up, waiting in silence
for him to speak. But he too seemed
wordless, and only gave vent to an embar
rassed "Ahem 1"
Miss Blair wondered a little, and
frowned a little, at her niece's perverse be
havior. But she wisely concluded to leave
them together.
"I must attend to getting supper," she
then said. "I will leave you together for
a time."
As soon as she was fairly gone, 'Hope!'
, cried the young man. The girl raised her
eyes at once.
, ''Arthur is it you? I—l did not expect
! you. I thought it was your cousin Walter
: who was coming."
"It will require quite a talk to explain
all, my Hope," he answered. "And I
almost fear your auut may overhear us."
i His arm went about her waist. Sly Miss
Hope, not to have told her auut the secret
this action implied! Wicked Misa Hope,
; to deceive so good a relative!
At present she was only charming Miss
Hope to the only eyes that looked upon her,
and in sooth she was flushed and very
pretty.
"We will stroll into the garden, Arthur.
There we can talk without danger of being
overheard."
| So they walked out into the pleasant
j paths of the home grounds, and over the
greensward, to the roots of a great buck
eye-tree, where they found cozy seats,
j "Have you ever told your auut about
. me, Hope ?"
J "1 could not, Arthur. She has been so
wedded to the idea ol' uniting myself to the
MILLHEIM, PA.. TIH KSDAY.. MARCH 4, 1880.
sou of her early friend, John Harvey, that
any opposition would have made her un
happy. So 1 have left the matter to time.
But you have not yet told me how you
come to he here."
"It is not t<H> wonderous strange. My
cousin Walter and myself are excellent
good friends, and as he happens to have an
attachment of his own, he is just as adverse
to being forced into a marriage with a
stranger as yourself. I discovered all this
in the course of a conversation with him,
and then I told him the storv of our meet
ing, and our present relations. The revela
tions came just in time. His father was
even then urging a visit here upon him.
Nothing was easier than for me to take his
place, and let Walter undertake a more
welcome jaunt."
"And now thai you are here, sir, what
can you do ?"
"I'pon mv soul,'" cried the young man,
somewhat ruefully, "1 hardly know! 1
must trv ami ingratiate myself with your
aunt and leave the rest to luck."
A long talk was followed by a long stroll,
and thus nearly two hours elapsed before
they returned to the house. Aunt Minerva
beamed a most approving glance upon
what she deemed the success of her plans,
but she startled them the next moment by
saying:
"1 have just Inula note from your father,
Mr. llarvev. He will he with us himself
to-morrow morning."
Poor Arthur tried hard to conceal the
consternation which this intelligence threw
him into. Fortunately Miss Minerva was
in too complacent a humor to he very ob
servant.
"Come, Hope, you shall read the note.
It might make Mr. Harvey too vain, or 1
would give him a peep also."
Miss Hope, in another room, read John
Harvey's billet, which ran as follows:
"If my son Walter, usually so dutiful,
should disappoint me in our plan, 1 shall
feel like adopting my nephew, Arthur
Harvey,, who is a splendid young fellow,
and would probably do more to oblige me,
as he has not been spoiled by indulgence.
I suppose my gentleman will have arrived
before you get this. I have taken a sudden
notion that lie may require overseeing, and
as 1 have long owed you a visit, I will pay
my debt by following this note to-morrow
morning.
Sincerely your friend,
John Hakvey."
"I suppose,'* said Hope, slyly, though
she felt in no humorous mood, "if you
couldn't get the son, auntie, you would not
object to the nephew, as it would all be in
tlu- family ?*
"Well,? replied her aunt, after a mo
ment's thought, "1 don't know how that
might have been if 1 hadn't met Walter
Harvey. But I feel now that no other
young man could replace him. Besides,
Hope," and here she gave her niece a mis
chievous pinch, "I guess he won't be so
unwilling.''
Poor Hope could only hang her head and
blush like a guilty thing.
"What shall I do, Hope?" cried Arthur,
when she tripped back into the parlor. "I
feel like running away iimtanter."
"That would be so brave!" was the
rather sarcastic rejoinder.
"Please, then advise —or rather, com
mand me."
"Well, then, sir, hear your orders. —
This deceit makes me feel mean and guilt)*,
in spite of myself, and we must have an
explanation at all hazards."
"Now?"
Hope reflected a moment.
"No, not now—to-morrow. You must
face your uncle, and then let the truth
come out."
"And then won't there be a storm !" the
young man said, shrugging his shoulders.
"Well, we have raised it, and must meet
it," Miss Hope replied, bravely,—"And
now let us dismiss the subject for to-day. '
But although they did their best to be
happy, a nervousness about the coming ex
posure overhung them, and they were much
too restless for comfort thut evening and
the next morning.
It was ten o'clock before the train from
the city arrived, ami two weary hours
passed after breakfast before the expected
visitor reached the house.
He was received at the door bv Miss
Minerva, while Hope and her lover re
mained in the sitting room. Arthur made
a virtue of necessity, and advanced to greet
his uncle with as much heartiness and in
nocence as he could possibly throw into his
manner.
"Why, Arthur!" cried the old gentle
man. "this is rather a surprise. What
could have brought you here?"
But he gave tiis nephew a warm shake
of the hand.
"Arthur! 'cried the aunt. "Arthur, I
thought your son's name was Walter, John
Harvey ?"
"So it is, Miss Minerva—so it is; but
this young man happens to be my nephew.''
"Good gracious!" gasped Miss Blair,
sinking back into a chair.
* John Harvey began to comprehend that
something was wrong.
"See here, Arthur!" he cried sternly.
"Have you been playing a trick? Why
are you here, instead of my SOM, whom I
sent?"
"Dear uncle, Walter would not cOme,
for he is not heart-free; and he and I both
knew that you wanted Miss Hope in the
family, we thought—that is, I—lie—"
There was a blank, ominous silence.
Hope stole to Miss Minerva's side.
"Dear auntie," she said, "v OH must for
give Arthur and me. We are such old
friends. Besides," she added demurely,
"you said if you couldn't get John Harvey's
son, you would prefer his nephew."
Mr. Harvey's and Miss Blair's glances met,
and something like a smile passed over
their faces.
"I see how it is," said he, "We have
been fighting nature, which is a bit of a
mistake. I guess we had better rectify it."
And they did so.
Everybody knows how; if not, learn of
Mr. and Mrs. Harvey.
Keep to he liiplit.
In the cities, the custom of keeping to
the right-hand side of the sidewalk should
be invariably observed; anyone who persists
in taking the left hand may be deemed
ignorant and rude, unless there are very
special reasons for his conduct. For vehic
cles, the right hand side is the .right side,
alike in town and country. Some of the
States have statute laws commanding this.
In others the rule upon customs.
Havana.
I
Havana is cosmopolitan. One sees in her
streets almost every nationality and hears
ninny tongues. Coolies are employed for
! much of the work along t lie harbor frout
and also swell the ranks of the peddlers.
The vanity bred in the Castilian is evinced
hy the ninnv varieties of gorgeous uniforms,
meeting the eye. Almost every third man
| is in uniform, and a score or so differently
tricked out may be seen at a glance. Some
of the otllcere wearing side arms also carry
Malacca sticks with a golden brown cord
and tassel, which strangely suggests Cock
ucyisiu. One of the commonest types is a
swarthy bearded man dressed in a very
neat light blue striped material, with white
vest, low cut, exposing a gorgeous shirt
front, small pancake cap with a straight
tortoise shell visor, gold bowed eye glasses,
and all the decorations in cap and uuiform
that his rank will allow. The ladies sel
dom go covered iu the street. Their coiff
ures are most elalmratc; and only a film of
lace is occasionally worn on the hack of
the head. Some of the poorer classes wear
even less than the traditional Topsy, and
during the morning's drive our company
passed several groups of negro children
with only nature's covering. In the even
ing the social life of Havana begins. The
long lines of the l'rado are ablaze with
light, the numerous cafes overfl .w to the
sidewalks, which in many instances are
under arcades, and the theatres and the
circus furnish amusement. Brilliunt pri
vate equipages and less ambitious victor
ias dash along with their loads of dark
liearded men and smiling senoritas. The
Tacon theatre lnvs probably a world wide
reputation. For some cause it is closed at
present, and the fashionable house is the
Theatre Pay ret tie la Paz, a handsome new
theatre, standing in a square nearly oppo
site the Tacon. The Payret is probably as
large us the Boston theatre, which it very
much resembles. There is a parquet circle
and four tiers above; two of which are di
vided into boxes. The theatre has a fair
company and a remarkably large orchestra,
which discourses excellent music. The
curtain remains down übout fifteen minutes
between the acts, and the parquet is entire
ly emptied. The men throng out into the
the lobbies or the adjoining cafes, smoke
cigarettes or drink coffee. The American
bar is a feature of the Havaua cafe, but not
the prominent feature. It is found on one
side or iu a corner, while most of the space
is devoted to the marble-topped tables for
cotlee drinkers.
JMa*rylt>K at Large.
A Xew York justice of the peace was re
cently called U> a German house in that city
to tnarrv a couple. Putting a marriage
certificate in his p>)cket, he started for the
festive scene. Arrived at the house, under
the direction of a blue-legged little boy,
who pointed out the place, he knocked and
went in. In the middle of the floor st(*>d a
stout German girl, sorry and plump, her
blue eyes rolling out b ars as large as butter
pals.
"Wlmt's the matter?" said the sympa
thetic judge.
"Matter!" said the girl, "dat Gotleib
went oir and wouldn't marry me, ain't it?"
The justice said lie supposed it .was, and
intimated that he had come to marry some
one, and requested the old lady to bring on
the lambs to the sacrifice. Old lady said,
"Dare vos no- lambs—Gotleib ish run off,
and vil not marry my Katariua."
"Well," said the justice, "Gotleib isn't
the only man there is— send for some other
man to marry her."
At this Katarma's face brightened up,
and she ejaculated, "Yah—dat is g<x>t —
send mit Hans."
1 ians was seot for, but couldn't come.
When her messenger returned,
determined not to give it up, said, "Send
mit Shoseph."
Shoseph was sent for. but lie couldn't be
found. Katarina's looks fell at this news,
ami the justice was growing impatient.
Just then Ivaiarina looked out of the* win
dow' and saw a short and thick young
German going by, when she rushed to the
door and hallooed, "Fritz! Fritz!"
Fritz shortly made his appearance at the
dtx>r, when Katarina's mother said, "Fritz,
you lofs mine Katariua?"
Fritz, allowed lie did, "more as sauer
kraut."
"Then stand up here," cried the justice;
and before Fritz could realize bis position,
he and Katariua were man. and wife, and
Katarina's arms were around his neck,
and her lips pressed to his, she crying the
the while. "Mein husband—mein Fritz!"
Our duty as correct historians compels us
to say that Fritz hugged hack as well as he
knew how. The justice, with head erect,
stepped smiling out, leaving the lovers to
themeslves, and walked away meditatively,
a holy calm stealing all over bis massive
proportions, the consciousness of having
done his duty gleafiiiug in his eye, and
honor, honesty, and rectitude in his foot
ste|w.
Oil Produviiix Insect.
This insect, which tins considerable eco
nomic use in Central America, belongs to
the siunc genus as the cochineal, and is
called by the native name of "ni-in." Be
ing unknown to science, the author names
it Coccus adpofera. The females are of a
coral-red and are covered with a fine whit
ish powder. They live on trees belonging
to the genus Spodias, and known as "hog
plumbs." They adhere to the trees by
means of their beaks, remaining motionless,
and existing in such large numbers that
they frequently cover every portion of the
plant. There is extracted from these fe
males 2t' to 2ft per cent, of their weight of
a bright yellow fat having an odor suige
neris, and which when recently melted is
homogeneous, but in a short time becomes
granular and of a lighter color. It is the
most quickly drying oleaginous substance
known, since • it becomes immediately
covered over with a pellicle full of wrinkles
ami folds; and, if this pellicle be dipped
into the greese to exclude its surface from
contast with the air, the whole mass shortly
becomes transformed into an infusible an
insoluble resinous substance. Applied to
paper or any other surface, this greese dries
in six or seven hours so as to form a smooth
lustrous surface and almost odorless. Mixed
with copal, or any other resin, and turpen
tine, it forms a gulden-yellow drying var
nish. Its melting point is 36 ° . Heated
to a temperature of 200 ° to 210 ° until it
becomes glutinous, it changes on cooling
into a bland elastic mass (caoutchoue of
ni-in) which is almost insoluble in spirit of
turpentine, but insoiuble in bisulphide of
carbon. In t)5 per cent, alcohol it is but
slightly soluble. The various properties of
this fatty matter, ami its hchavoir with
acids ami alkalies, prove that its chemical
composition differs from that o! all other
oils known. Like all drying oils, it forms
hy die action of neat a glutinous substance:
hut, while heat is indispensable to make
such oils more siccative, the ni-in grease
loses a portion of this property through
heating. The elastic substance of oils is
soluble ill ether, and especially in turpen
tine, hut that of m-iu is nearly insoluble iu
these materials. In some localities in Cen
tral America this oil is largely employed
for puintmg woollen utensils, such a ladles,
etc., a mass being made-with color, chalk,
and the grease, and applied precisely as in
ordinary oil painting. It lias been observed
that articles painted witli it may be pre
served for a long time. Guitar manufac
turers also use this greese iu varnishing
their instruments. ■ As yet it lias received
no application in pharmacy. It is probable
tlmt tiie ancient race which formerly peop
led Central America used this greese iu
painting their buildings, and it is for this
reason that, after a lapse of several centu
ries the decorations are still to he seen in
that perfect state of preservation which
caused the admiration of Mr. Stevens when
he visited these ruins in 1842.
Productive Macliiucry
Tlie census act authorizes the census
bureau to report "the kind and amount of
power employed in establishments of pro
ductive industry, and the kind and number
of machines in use, together with the maxi
mum capacity of such establishments,
where the superintendent of census shall
deem such inquiry appropriate." The in
formation which this inquiry will bring out
will lie of great value and importance, and
the superintendent is taking measures to
make it thorough and searching. In 1870
there were reported 2,707,421 persons in
the United States employed in manufactur
ing, mechanical and mining industries, and
6,022,000 employed iu agriculture—mak
ing a total of 8.620,421 persons engaged in
productive pursuits. But this piece of in
formation is incomplete without a knowl
edge of the aggregate power of ail the
steam-engines and water-wheels harnessed
to the work also. Very little lalor. com
paratively, is now done without the aid of
power machinery, and the human muscles
contribute but a Hmall portion of the power
employed. It is estimated that the steain
engines in France give an aggregate force
equal to that of 81,000,000 men ; and it has
been asserted that the power machinery in
Great Britain has a force equal to that of
800,000,000 men. To know what the pro
ductive capacity of our country is, there
fore, we must inquire, not only liow many
persons are employed in productive pur
suits, hut how many steam-engines and
water-wheels, with the horse-power they
represent, are employed also. It will
throw some light on that very interesting
and much-disputed question, whether the
world is able to consume all that it is able
to produce.
A Flying l.eg of Mutton.
In the "gixxi old days*' at the Ilavmar
ket Theatre, London, they were running
the musical farce of "No Song, No Supper,"
and the exigencies of the piece required a
real boiled leg of mutton every night, which,
according to the law of property, or rather
the *'property-man's" law in a theatre,
went after performance, almost untouched,
to the oflicial named.
But the "flymen," perched up aloft, did
not like this, which occurred night after
night to their growing dissatisfaction, for
they, too, had wives and families, to whom
a boiled leg of mutton free of charga would
have been a thing to be remembered. So
they hit uj>on a plan, and one night Mr.
William Barren, who had the carving of
the aforesaid leg, was solicited to fix a hook
that would be let down from the "flies"
into the mutton and leave the rest to them.
Barren, always ready for a practical joke,
consented at once, and as the scene was
coming to a termination, deftly fastened
the hook into the leg, and "left the rest to
them. As the scene-shifters were prepar
ing to "close in," and the property-man
stood at the wings ready to seize on his
perquisite, the leg of mutton was seen
slowly to ascend, without any visible agency.
The audience laughed, and the employes
all gave vent to their feelings in ill-sup
pressed merriment—all save the property
man. who remained miserably serious, and
gazed at bis fast departing supper with a
woe-begone countenance. Suddenly, as
the scene almost closed in, the hook, which
Barren ha " unfortunately on.y fastened in
the fat, gave way, and the much-coveted
imp ton came down on the dish with a ter
rific splash. The audience now roared, the
employes roared, Barren at the table roared,
and as the "flats" hid the unrehearsed tableau
from view, the now delighted property-man
rushed on the stage, and securing the ill
treated supper, joined in the general roar.
Our fly fishers were never Known to try a
hook again.
A Fair Duel,
In 1794, an English judge delivered the
following charge to a jury iu a duelling
case: "It is now a painful duty which
jointly belongs to us; it is mine to lay down
the law, and yours to apply it to the facts
before you. The oath by which I am
bound obliges me to say that homicide,
after a due interval left for consideration,
amounts to murder. The laws of England
in their utmost lenity and allowance for
human frailty, extend their compassion
only to sudden antl momentary frays; and
then, if the blood'has not had time to cool
or the reason to return, the result is termed
manslaughter. Such is the law of the land,
which undoubtedly the unfortunate gentle
man at the bar has violated, though he has
acted in conformity to the law of honor.
I lis whole demeanor in the duel, according
to the witness whom you are most to be
lieve, Colonel Stanwix, was that of perfect
honor and perfect humanity. Such is the
law and such are the facts. If you cannot
reconcile the latter to your conscience, you
must record a verdict of guilty. But if the
contrary, though the acquittal may trench
on the rigid rules of the law, yet the ver
dict will bo lovely in the sight of God and
man." But finer still was the direction of
the Justice Fletcher in 1812, on a similar
occasion, when addressing an Irish jury, he
summed up in two minutes: "Gentlemen,
it is my businees to lay down the law to
you, and I shall do so. Where two peo
ple go out to fight a duel, and one of them
falls, the law says it is murder. And I tell
you, bylaw this is murder; but, at the same
time a fairer duel I never heard of in the
whole course of my life."
I.itlie Dwellers.
This class of persons lived before the
time of the Pyramid-builders; but in their
progress and their discovery, first of bronze
and finally of iron, they may have been
slower and later than the ancient Egyp
tians. The only knowledge we have of that
strange people, who once lived iu curious
rounded houses built ou platforms erected
for some distance from the shore out into
the of Switzerland, is derived from
arehißologv. In 1804 the waters of Jjike
Zurich (and of some other Swiss lakes) re
ceded I art her than they had ever been
known to sink before during the historic
iwriod; and a farmer, digging the rich
muck thus exposed for his garden, was as
tonished upon coming upon masses of piles,
and, mixed among these, bronze imple
ments—knives, chisels, axes, etc. In other
localities subsequent explorers, digging
down into these lakes and in other places,
came u|>ou implements of stone as well as
bronze; but it was found in every instance
that the stone implements lay below those
of bronze. Whether the age of bronze came
for the Lake Dwellers at the same time
that it did to those wonderful people in
habiting the valley of the Nile, is very
doubtful, if the Dwellers were earlier
than the Egyptians, they were also slower,
and probably later in arriving at the age of
bronze. But they reached that age. They
had lances, tlsli hooks, sickles, axes, all of
bronze. It was an age in which men did
not know the use of iron. And the bronze
implements they had were cast in the forms
in which we find them, in some localities
we come upon articles of bronze and of
stone ;in othcife of stone only. The ques
tion arises was there ever a period
in which mankind used only implements of
stone. There is no doubt of it. From one
lake alone in Switzerland no fewer than
2,648 axes have now been recovered, 148 ar- i
rows, and a variety of other weapons and |
domestic utensils, all stone. Other Swiss
lakes yield similar suggestive revelations.
And it was the same iu Great Britain—it
was the same in France —it was the same
throughout Italy, Germany, and most parts
of Europe—it was so even in Egypt ? Not
even the Egyptians knew, at one time, the
use of iron or bronze.
What a Boy Did.
A duke walking in his garden one day,
saw a copy of a great work on Mathe
matics lying on the grass, and thinking it
had been brought from his library called
some one to carry it bark.
"It belongs to me, 1 ' said the gardener's
son stepping up.
"Yours!" cried the duke; "Do you un
derstand geometry and Latin?"
"I know a little of them," answered the
lad modestly.
The duke, having a taste for the sciences,
began to talk with the young student, and
was astonished at the clearness and intelli
gence of his answers.
"But how came you to know so much?"
asked the duke.
"One of the servants taught me to read,"
answered the lad; "one does not need to
know anything more than the twenty-six
letters in order to learn everything else one
wishes." But the gentleman wanted to
know more about it.
"After 1 learned to read," said the hoy,
"the masons.came to work on your house;
1 noticed the architect used a rule ami com
passes, and made a great many calculations.
What was the meaning and use of that? 1
asked and they told me of a science called
arithmetic. I bought an arithmetic and
studied it through. They then told me
there was another science called geometry.
I bought the hooks and learned geometry.
Then I found there were better hooks
about these sciences in Latin. I bought a
dictionary and learned Latin. I heard
there were still better ones in French. I
got a dictionary and learned French. It
seems to me we may learn everything
when we know the twenty-six letters of
the alphabet."
They are in fact, the ladder to every
science. But how numy hoys are contented
to waste their time at the first two or three
rounds, with not pluck nor perseverance
enough to climb higher! Up, up, up, if
you want to know more, and see clearer,
and take a high post of usefulness
in the world. And if you are a
poor boy and need a little friendly encour
agement to help you on, lie sure, if you
have a will to climb, you will find the
way, just as the gardener's son found it
afterwards in the Duke of Argyll under
whose parentage he pursued his studies
and became a distinguished mathematician.
St one''B Mathematical Dictionary—
for Stone was the young gardener's name—
was a celebrated hook puulished in Loudon
some years ago.
Where doett the Day Begin?
As a matter of fact, the day begins all
around the world—not at the same instant
of time, but just as the sun visits succes
sive portions of the earth in his journey
from east to west. But the traveler who
crosses the Pacific ocean can give another
answer to the above question; that on the
18th degree of longitude—one-half of the
circumference of the globe, starting from
Greenwich east or west, —these is an ar
bitrary change or dropping of a day, and
that at this point, if anywhere, the day
may be said to begin. It was with strange
feelings tiiat the writer, crossing the Paci
fic, having gone to bed on Saturday night,
leaving everything pertaining to the alma
nac, iu a satisfactory condition, awoke on
Monday morning! Sunday had completely
dropped from our calendar, for that week
at least. Every one knows that in travel
ing round the world from east to west a
day is lost, and in order to adjust his rec
koning to that of the place he has left, one
must drop a day as if he had not lived it,
when iu reality the time has passed by
lengthening every day during the journey.
For a long time it Mas the custom for sai
lors to effect this change pretty much
where they pleased; but it has now become
a settled.rule among American and English
navigators that at the 180 th decree a day
must be passed over if going west, and one
added if going east, in which latter case the
traveler enjoys two Sundays or two Thurs
days, as the case may be. It is most likely
that this particular degree was decided on
from the fact that, except a few scattered
islands of Polynesia, there are no large com
munities, with their vast commercial and so
cial transactions, to be affected by the
change.
"What? Twenty-five cents a pound
for sausages! Why, I can get'em down
at Schmidt's tor twenty cents!" "Veil,
den, vy, didn't yer?" " 'Cause Schmidt
was out of 'em." "Veil, uv I was out
of 'em I sell 'em for twenty-cents too."
American Bird*.
The Duke of Argyle says iu his Impre
sious: "With regard to the birds of Nort
America, I caunot doubt from what I saw
and iieurd that as songsters they are inferior
to our own. This is the testimony of Mrs.
Grant of Laggan, who was familiar with
both. It is a curious circumstance that be
tween one Canadian bird and the corres
ponding species at home the ouly difference
I could detect was that the American spe
cies was silent, whilst our own is always
talking. I refer to that charming bird the
common sandpiper, abounding on the
; banks of every s ream and lake in the high
land*. its American cousin is equally
abundant on all the rivers in Canada; but
whilst at home its call notes are incessant,
and the mule bird has even a continuous and
most lively song, I did not hear a solitary
sound from the sandpiper of Canada. This,
however, may liave been an accident, and
the saudpipers are no where reckoned
among the birds of song. One hears the
migratory thrush (robin) everywhere, in
the midst of the gardens and villas of towns
and cities, and in every little clearing of the
forest on the outskirts of human habitation.
It is a pleasant song, but decidedly inferior
to any of its cousins in Britain. It is in
ferior in power to the missal thrush, in va
riety to our common 'mavis,' in melody to
the blackbird. Near Niagara I heard one
very broken and interrupted song of fine
tone and of considerable power. But al
though 1 was in the woods and fields of
Canada and of the States in the richest mo
ment of the spring, I heard litttle of that
burst of song which in England conies from
the blackcap and the garden warbler and
the common wren, and (locally) from the
nightingale. Above all, there is one great
want which nothing can replace. The
meadows of North America were to my eye
thoroughly English in appearance—the
same rich and luxuriant grass, the same
character of wild flowers and even the same
weeds. The skies of America are higher
and wider and more full of sunshine. But
there is no skylark to enjoy that 'glorious
privacy of light.' 'The sweetest singer iu
the Heavenly Father's choir' is wantiug iu
the New World. I cannot help thinking
that it might be introduced. Of course the
winters of Canada and of the Northern
states Would compel it to follow almost all
the other birds which summer there, aud
to retire with them until the return of spring
to Virginia or the Carolinas. It would be
an interesting experiment. Ido not know
whether it lias been tried. If not, I would
suggest it to my American friends as one
worth trying. It would be a happier intro
duotion than that of the London sparrow.'"
Sweet Courtship.
They were sitting on a stile—S&ry and
Steve. He at one end, solemnly "gnaw
ing his tawny moustache, 1 ' she at the other,
solemnly knitting cottan lace. He smiled.
She smiled. He slipped up cloee to her
side, took a big sweet potato out of his
pocket and wiped it carefully on his sleeva.
"Less swap," said he, in deep, rich tones,
as he handed her the potato, taking
the ding}' cotton lace from her hands, he
coquettiahly wrapped it around his hat.
"Well, less," she replied, gnawing at the
raw potato. Ten minutes of dead silenc.
Then from another pocket he handed a bun
dle tied up in a handkerchief.
"Gues what I've got/' said he, archly.
"Mo 1 tatere?"
"No."
"Ginger cakes:'' 1
"No."
"t'hrakypins?"
"No. 11
"War nuts? 1 '
"No."
"Goobers?"
"Yaas! Now guess who they're fur.''
"Fur yo' mar? 11
"No."
"\o' pa?"
"No."
"Fur that sarcer-eyeded Cath'n you'se
ben pay in' 'tent ion terf
"No." One of his rare smiles played
upon his aristocratic features at that mo
meat and caused her to say:
"Maybe they's fur me."
"That's who they's fur. shore!"
She took the bundle and thanked him.
More silence. Then he cleared his throat
exactly fifteen and a half times. He had
something to say, but didn't know how to
say it. He looked sheepishly—l meau
pensively—at the leaves dancing brownly
on the ground, then at the cottou lace
twined round liis hat, then at the calm, blue
sky. for ltispiratirn.
Maybe, like the great Constantine, he
beheld a writing on Heaven's azure wall,
for he spoke, and thusly:
"Us is gwine to marry, ain't us?"
"Yaas, us is."
' An' when the meat an 1 the meal gives
out, an' 1 beats you 'cus you won't wuck
an' git some mo' quick 'nutf, will you leave
me?"
That was Love's test; but she replied,
sweetly and firmly:
"No, I won't, nuther! I'll stay 'long
with you while life lastes.'"
Watlier News.
January—Will be rather warm, but not
very warm; somewhat moist, but not very
moist; just moist enough. There will be
some cold weather,, and some not quite so
cold; just cold enough.
February—The weather will be like that
of January, only more so, with slight var
iations.
March—Can't say whether we will have
any weather this month or not. The game
is blocked and the machine won't indicate,
but it is safe to say it will rain, and it never
rains but it pours.
April—People will be greatly fooled 01.
the weather of this month. We know
what it will be, but don't propose to spoil
all the fun by giving it away.
May—We may have some rain this month,
but it will not rain all the time. The sun
will shine.
June —By the time we have got along to
this month we will all begin to see the ef
fects of the famine. Oh, but it will be hot
some of the time; but it is well enough for
some folks to become acclimated.
July—Some dust, rain, clouds and wind,
but more sunshine; it will be quite hot.
August—Considerable fair and warm
weather, but not more than we can use.
September—Some rain, at least enough
to supply milkmen. Sunshine.
October—Talk of a boat race will pre
vent a storm this month.
November —Some snow and rain.
Deoember —More snow.
NO. 9.