£al i r m>r. *r> SMs &aßsE3Sggiy« **&. Sgff »r “'nl»iißni r , m *S .S t* «•! F S*.jm| 'i gsfell s|>il =*t ?1 im BAKERY! ■pNED ANNOUN inStotaw «nd rteinlty that he l»»t)lc«0 Of I 9HARU& XVT*, SWOSB - far th«Uolt4. y ,. , » good stock of Mn !|^WRifrctiir«s K RAISINS, &C. jrear.# JWfllassfJi, um WHEATFLOU&, TOR, OQRJi MKAL, AC, u> Jit large or small quantities, ft nij stock end yon will find grin town. ; JACOB WlB*. 3TION.ERY PER SALOON, JBER WOOL® IN it Altoona and vicini tyrtkat bic and FKCIT STORE, isslvsy, A articles to bo had, and in poll SALOON bJjewiUserve op OTfiTXU mfif PntS aje*r)rr Oh band. Itnnibfdy al»v Ci ~/«*# to?) T'HE PRINCIPAL id OaM for aide.' irtrrrtfo. rP&A&m. varnuup-< ~Md »oPal „ o>B . „„„ m i payable inratiably lb adrance,) *1,60. lup»P er * dincoutinned at the expiration of the time paid for TftftMft or 4»vs»timhq 1 insertion . . * » * $ SO „«r .1““ „ u 50 75 100 16 “ ) 100 150 I 2 00 fee ” j'ji i. , ISO 200 12 50 iare ' i. M «e«k« »i>d l«“ than three months, 25 cents for each insertion, pirujoare s months. 6 month*. 1 year.. .. .$l6O $ 3 00 $5 00 -it lion or !«■« . 250 4 00 7 00 ■JM 4 oo 6 00 10 00 i»» ‘ soo soo 1200 Tnrea - ... 6 00 ■ 10 00 UOO f J “ r “ 10 00 14 00 20 00 DOf • colom" _.. 14 oo 26 00 40 00 C ni«trttor“ auO KxecaU)re Notice*,..... 1 TS iS»t.»S»rtUlng by the year, three «,»«.*, P not •««* 600 * j am en .* not marked with the number of jnecr ; iSwilt be continoed till forbid and elmrgri ac '■"«« u notices fUe conta per line forerery Inaertlon. exceeding ten line*. dfty cent, a .qua e BALTIMORE LOCK HOSPITAL AS FROM QUACKERY Only Place Where a Cure Can be Obtained. LWI JOHNSON has discovered the f most Certain, Speedy and only Effectual Remedy in * 11 r,r alt Private Diseases, Weakness of the Back toS™ "Ta "lions of the K idnoys and Rind ,.rLl?volunury Discharges, Impolicy, Generali Debility, ‘ ninASH DvaoeDsy. Languor, Low Spirits. Confusion ’alViS o y f toU Timidity, Tremblings, of Sight or Giddiness. Disease of the Head. StXose or Sirin. Affections of the Liver. Lungs. Stom- 1 1 or Bowels-tbose Terrible disorders arising from the ;:,L r “Habits of Youth-those secret and solitary prac ' more fatal to theix victims than the song of to IhV Mariners of dysnes, blighting their most brilliant h i\**oT anticipations, rendering marriage-Ac., unpoesi- YOUNG MEN L'l'tftritllv who have become the victims of Solitary vice, .isUreadful and destuctive habit which annually .weeps “.a amimely g.ave thousand, of Young Men of the most Cihdtcl talents and brilliant intellect, who might otlier «i.e liave entranced listening Senates with Me thunders , f eloquence, or waked to ectasy the living lyre, may call »itk full coufidence MARRIAGE. t . • . Harried Person*, or Young Men cotemplatmg inurnam, aware of physical weakness, organic debility. «.etor mitv.ic.. speedily cured. , _ , lie who places himself under the care of Dr. J. may ?e -iiiijusly cuufid-in hb honor as a gentleman, and conn relv upon his skill as a physician. ORGANIC WEAKNESS luntfbdiaiely Cured, amt full Vigor Uestored; This Distressingifection—which renders Life miserable *ui marriAi'c impossible—is the penalty paid by the uctiias of improper indulgences. Young persons are to !p t t, commit exces-e* from not being awau* “f the dread !ul consequence* that may ensue. Now, who that under- the subject will pretend to deny that the power of recreation is lost sooner by those falling into improper babita than bv the prudent? Besides being deprived the i nures of healthy offspring, the most scions and de structive symptoms to both body and mind arise. Ihe irsfem becomes Deranged, the Physical and Mental rune* twos Weakened. Los- .if Procreative Power, Nervous Irri tability, Dyspepsia, Palpitation of the Heart. Indigestion Constitutional Debility, a Wasting of the Frame, Cough. Consumption, Decay and Death. OFFICE, NO. 7 SOUTH FREDERICK STREET, Lefr band side going from Baltimore street, a few doors f-.jin the corner. Fail not to’olnerve name and number Utters must be paid and contain a stamp- The Doc tor's Diplomas hang in hi* office A CURE WARRANTED IN TWO DAYS. Xo Mercury or Xustons Drugs. OR. JOHNSON. „ j Hember of the Hoyal College of Surgeons, Loudon, Urad uste from one of the most eminent Colleges in the United states, and the greater part of whose life has been spent pi the hospitals of London, Paris Philadelphia and .else where, has effected some of the most astonishing cures that were ever known; many troubled with ringing in the inland ears when asleep, great nervousness, being dunned at sudden sounds, bashfulness, with frequent blushing, attended sometimes with derangement of mind. v*re cored immediately. TAKE PARTICULAR NOTICE- Dr. J. addresses all those who have injured themselves by improper indulgence and solitary habits, which ruin both body and mind, unfitting them for either business, daily, society or marriage. Taiai are som£ of the sad and melancholy effects pro ceed by early’habits of youth, viz: Weakness of the Sick and Limbs, Pains in the Head, Dimness of Sight, Loss of Muscular Power, Palpitation of the Heart. Dys* {’•P*y, Nervous Irritability, Derangement of the Diges tive Functions, General Debility, Symptoms of Consump tion. ic. ... MrrrALLT.— The fearful effects of the mind are much-to t* dreaded— Loss of Memory* Confusion of Ideas, De pression of spirits* Evil-Forebodings. Aversion to Society, Love of Solitude, Timidit>, Ac., are some of: ’tie evils produced. Thousands of persons of all ages can now judge what Is the cause of their declining health, losing their vigor, be* r 'ialog weak, pale, nervous and emaciated, having asln sular appearance about the eyes, cough and symptoms of C/oiamptioo YOUNG MEN . Who hare injured themselves by a certain practice in dulged to when alone, a habit frequently learned from ••vU companions, or at school, the effects of which are: aigbtjy felt, ereb when asleep, and if hot cured renders.: cwrrtage irnposible, and destroys both mind and body, iboald apply immediately. what a pity that a young man, the hope of his country, 'ht darling of h!a parents, should be snatched from all prospects and enjoyments of life, by the consequence of ‘hriating from the path of nature, and indulging iu a >ruln secret habit. Such.; persons MUST, before contem plating ' MARRIAGE. tnat a pound mind and'body are the most necessary requisites to promote tannabia! happiness. Indeed, with out these, the journey through life becomes a # weary pH* primage; the prospect hourly darkens to the view; the -tuiod becomes shadowed with despair and filled with the melancholy reflection that the happiness ot another be comes blighted with our own. * •: DISEASE OF IMPRUDENCE. , When the misguided and imprudent rotary of pleasure : 4nds that he has imbibed the seeds of this painful dis ease, it Coo often happens that an ill-timed sense of shamej, if dread of discovery,deters him from applying to those education and respectability, can alone friend him, delaying till the constitutional symptoms of this horrid disease make their appearance, such as ulcerar* M Rore throat, diseased uoee, nocturnal pain s in the bead *ad limbs, dimness of sight, deafness, nodes on' the shin tone* and arms, blotches on the head, face and extremi ty, progressing with frightful rapidity, till at last the palate of the mouth or the bones of the nose fall in, and rh? victim of this awful disease becomes a horrid object of l ' J anni*6ration, till death puts a period to his dreadful sufferings, by sending him to 44 that Undiscovered Country from whence no traveller returns.” ' It 1» a ndajichoty /act that thousands fall victims to •hit terrible disease, owing to .the unsklUfulhess of igno r*Qt pretenders,'who, by the use of that Dt&d Zy ibiswi, X’r&iry, ruin the constitution and make the residue of, 'to miserable. ' '' i T STRANGERS ‘rust not your lives, or health to the care of the many Colterntd and Worthless Pretenders, destitute of knowl- Mea, name or character, who copy Dr. Johnston’s odver or style themselves, in the newspapers, regn al Educated Physicians, incapable of Curing, they keep trifling month after month, taking their filthy and poisonous compounds, or os long as the smallest fee caa obtained, and in despair, leave yoa with mined health tf -£lgh over your galling disappointment. «r. Johnston li the only Physician advertising. Hw credential or diplomas always hang In his office. “U remedies or treatment are unknown to all othert, from a lift spent In the great hospitals ofKurope. ® *r*t in the country and a more extensive PrivOtePra&- than any other Physician i« the world. indorsement of the press. l “® many thousands cured at this Institution, year after • ***• the wiinwm* Important Surgical operations or by Johnston, witnessed by the reporters of the Clipper,” and papers, notices of t Te a PPeSfed again and again before the public, cZI .v M* ~and lng as a gentlemen of character and re- Possibility, ia a sufficient guarantee to the afflicted. „ skin diseases speedily cured. »®tter« received unless postpaid and coqtaining a »mpto be rued on the reply Persona writing should S«sadiend portion erfadvertisement describing symptonis fifr ol ! l * l heparticalsrln directing their lers to ihls Institution. in the following manners • * "PeHN'M, JOHNSTON. M. D.. : OCth* Baltlaon Lock HMpital, MkryU Shoice THE SOLDIER’S WETTER. How sweet wbeu. night her mipty veil Around the weary soldier throws, And twilight’s golden, skies grow pale, And wooing winds invite repojpv, To sit beside the waichfire’s blue, 2 do. 3 do. Where friendly comrades nightly come, To sing the song of other day* And talk of things gt home. Of those we love, who list anti wait. Beneath the same benignant moon. The postman’s step beside the: gate, With tidings from the absent one; And beaming smiles their thoughts reveal. And love is mirrored is their eyes, As eagerly they break the seal, Elate with Joy and glad surprise. Bat dearer yet, the shout that rings. In exultation, loud and clear, To hail the messenger who brings Letters from home and kindred dear; And *neath file pale moon’s smiling light The soldier reads his treasure o'er. And tUrough lhe hours of silent night He dreams he visits home once more. In dream* be sits beside the beat th. Afar from camps and traitor’s wiles. And deems the dearest spt Where loving wife and raether smiles, And many a face almost forged. And many a word so fondly spoken Come flitting round the soldier's cot. Till the sweet dream, at morn, is broken. On! ye wbo loves the soldier well — Bid him be bopfeful, brave and gay— Better he knows than yon can tell. The perils that attend bis way. Some word of hope in battle's boar, While striving with a vengeful foe. Has nerved the soldier’s atm with power. To strike or ward the pending blow. The soldier brave, is often prone To deem himself forgotten quite. A wanderer on the earth alone,. When friends at home neglect to write. Then cheer him oft with words like these. And thu? your deep affection prove; Let every keel -that plows the seas Hear him some message full of love. Jjlwt THE MYSTERIOUS WATCH, You have no faith in supernatural ? 1 have. Yon do not believe in necromancy or astrology, or in the power of the evil eye ? I do. The reason for this is you are Americans, descended from English ances tors, while I have German blood in my veins, and inherit a reverence for what you at. Were a disembodied spirit to rise at my bedside to-night, I should question it, and own to being; frightened, while you would throw a candlestick at its immaterial head, and insist to the last upon its being a burglar in disguise. Yet mark me, in spite of yourself,, your hair would rise and your blood curdle, and you would feel what you would ndt acknowl edge for the world. Bah! If'such things have no existence, what do our strange shiverings and shudderings mean ? and why do we look about- us with aye stricken when we pass grave yards after dark? You do not, you say. Are you sure of it | I have never seen a ghost and I cannot say I desire the spectacle: There must be ah uncomfortable beating of the heart at such a sight. I doubt if many could re tain both Ufe and reason through such an ordeal. lam a doctor Years ago I was poor and young. I came from my own country with fny diploma and nothing else. I found that the great cities of the : new world were full of doctors youhg and poor as 11 was. I left them and went Westward. I j settled in the State of Indiana. It was | then a great forest with clearings here | and there for fields of com and rude log ; houses. Any one. led a hard life there,! and a doctor’s it seemed to hie the worst j of all. Miles and miles of hard riding, through rain and mud, to Visit patients who would pay nothing 5 miles back again, to steal a few minutes of repose before another announcement of some one being “ very bad.” I was skin and bones in a twelvemonth, but that; was'nothing un common in that part ot the ‘world. The only wonder is that I did not have the fever and ague. 1 was the only person free froml it for fifty square nufes.; However,! prepared after a certain fashion, and in a year or two made a considerable local reputation. The place Was; growing and my spirits began to revive. j It was about this tlipe when I first saw \ my watch, to which all- I have now to | tell relates. A cold night in November i i had set in. I was at supperi in ‘my little ■ j home, add enjoying it as only a hungry and weary man can enjoy food. Don’t I i ask what I had; it was opt West remember. Of course there was a preparation of whiskey-; com meal, pork And whiskey i are the staple articles offerded “ out west.” I was enjoying my supper as I have said, and a loud knock at the does- was not the most delightful sound which could have broken the silence.,- However, I said , “ come in! ” with as good igrace as pos sible, and a stranger entered. He was a tall, broad shouldered man, in the dress of a backwoodsman, and his large features wore a troubled expression. 1 saw at once that serious bad occurred. “ It’s a bad night to trouble you to ALTOONA, PA. r THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 1862 come so far, doctor,” he said, looking at me from under hjs fur cap ; but there’s a bad accident happened oyer at our elearin; and if you can do anything for the poorchap I’ll be glad to see it done, more particu larly as I helped to shoot him.” “Helped to shoot him!” I said with a start, “ what do yon mean T” We took him forsopie kind of a critter; that’s how N it was,” answered my visitor; “ not a purpose, stranger. We thinks heaps of him. I’d sooner hev shot myself.” 1 knew that the man spoke the truth, and taking my box of surgical instru ments tinder my arm followed him to the spot where his horse- was tied. Mine was already saddled; my little darkey knew well enough what the arrival portended, and bad made him ready. We were off in a few moments. Few words were spoken as we rode alongf through the darkness. I asked whether the Wounds were very serious, and my compamion replied —“ I’m afeared they be, doctor.” I asked if the injured man was young or old, and he answered, —“ Rising forty and then, after a few words upon the badness of the road, we relapsed into silence. At last a glimmering light told that we had approached a dwelling, and with a short “ We’re fhar, doctor.” My company sprang from his saddle and entered the door. I followed him. The room was feebly lit by flickering candles. About a bed life the center were grouped four or five men and a woman, large and broad shouldered as any of her masculine com panions. A child too, lay crying in its cradle, but no one seemed to notice him. They made way for my approach, and I saw a figure stretched upon the bed. It was that of a man with sinewy limbs and weather beaten face. His shirt was un buttoned, and the breast and sleeves were soaked with blood. “ Taint of no use, doctor,” he said as I bent over himl’m a gone good. Doctor’s stuff aint no account to me now.” I did not believe him. His face was not that of a dying man and the wounds scarcely seemed dangerous. “ These bul lets are bad things to have in one,s side” I said, “but men have lived through more than that. Cheer up !” “ I ain’t down hearted, doctor,” an swered the man. I shan’t leave no children nor no wife to fret after me and suffer for want of my rifle, I never have been so much afeared of death. But I tell you all you can do’s no use. There’s a sign that cant be mistook.” The group about the bed .glanced at each other; and the woman shook her head at me as though she would have said, “ Never mind his words.” I did what I could for him. The bul lets were extracted and the wounds bound up He was weak but not desperately so. I looked at him and smiled. “ How now?” said I.' “ ’Tain’t noi use—-the watch is stopping fast,” he answered. Then for the first time I noticed that beside him on the bed lay a great big old fashioned silver watch, the fiase bat ered, the face discolored, and that it ticked with a strange dull sound, as though it was very old and t feeble. “ The watch has been injured by the bullets, I suppose,” said I; “ besides all watches stop sometimes.” il Not this one stranger,” said the wounded man. They’ve laughed about that watch a hundted times ; now they’ll find my story’s true, I reckon. That watch and I will stop at the same minute.” The woman at the bedside shook her bead again. “ It’s an old fancy o' youru, Mike Barlow,” she stud; “ you’ll live to see the folly of it.” “ So they talk,” said the man. “ Now listen doctor. You’ve come to see me; and done all that you could. I’ll give you that watch. It’s money value am’t much, but it’ll do you service. It was given to me by an bid Frenchman, out o’ Canady, when he [was layin’ Just as I am layin.’ ; It had been his father’s and his grandfather’s, and his great grandfather’s and his great grandfather’s before that; and this is what he told me about it, and that is what you’lllfind to be true. That watch will tick slow and steady, reg’lar as the sun, as long os whoever it belongs to j is well, and safe I and thriving. When I there’s danger coming, it begins to go fast, i faster and faster and faster, until it is past and so loud that you can hear it across the room as plain as if you held it in ; your hand. When death . is coming that j : watch begins to strip. It goes slower and | | slower. Ite voice grows hollow, and j i when the breath leaves the body, and ! ' there’s! no more] sound to be heard, | all you can do won’t make it go for a year. ! At the endj of that time it will start all of a sudden, and after that time you i can read your fate by it and know your i death hour. It was so after old Pierre (died. It will be so now. Keep the | watch when I am gone, doctor.” i I could not helpj looking with some in* I teresti at the tottered time piece. A | strange story had \ been woyeh about it, and the marvelous always had a charm i for me. I sat beside my patient until he annk to sleep. He seemed to be doing ("independent in everything.] well still, and I had no doubt but that the morning light would see him greatly .better. But western hospitality would not admit of my departure at that late hour, and I was lodged in an upper cham ber upon a bed as clean and simple as it was fragant. I slept soundly. At mid night, however, I was awakened by the news that my patient was worse. He had awakened in mortal agony. Some inward injury, impossible to discover, had done its work. I said nothing of hope now, and the dying man looked at me with a ghastlys mile. “Take the watch,” said he. “ Watch it and me; yon will find me right.” These were the last words he uttered. He muttered incoherently after this, tossed his arms about and struggled for breath.. At last he seemed to sink into a slumber My hand was on his heart, 1 felt its beat ing grow fainter, fainter, fainter still. At last there was no motion. He was dead. I lifted the watch to my ear—that had stopped also. There were tears in the eyes of the rough men about me, and the woman as she might for one of her own kindred. I could do no good now, and I turned away, leaving the watch upon the coverlid, but one ot the men came after me. He gave it to you,” he said, “ and its your’n. He had nobody belongin’ to him, so you need not be afeered to take it.— He must hev taken a likin’ to you, for he thought a heap of it. Take it doctor.” — And so the watch was mine. It was dumb and motionless, and re mained so. I took it to the watchmaker, and he laughed at the idea of its ever going again. This was after I had left the West and dwelt in a lafge and popu lous city in the States, some eight or nine months after poor Mike Barlow's death. The watchmaker only comfirmed my own suspicions. It was a strange coincidence that it should last ex actly its master’s lifetime, but that was all. So I hung it upon my chamber wall, a memento of those days of toil and struggle in the far West. One morning I awoke early. The blushes of dawn were just breaking over the earth. It was the month of Novem ber, but still the day was lovely. There was an unwonted sound in my room. — At first I could not guess from whence it came. Had the sky been cloudy I should have imagined it to be the rain upon the roof. Then I began to feel that this sound I had heard was too delicate for the patter of rain. It might have been the clang of a fairy hammer, or the tapping of the beak of some minute bird, save that it was too regular. But the mystery of the sound was that it seemed to appeal to me—to reproach me with forgetting it. I sat up and looked about me. In an instant I understood the sound. It was the tick of the old watch on ihe wall.— Silent for a twelve-month, it had suddenly found voice, as though some spirit voice had touched its springs. I looked at my memorandum book. Twelve o’clock of the past night was the anniversary of Mike Barlow’s death. His words had come true ;at last. He had said that when it once began to move, it be as my monitor of safly or danger. All else had happened as he had foretold; — why should not this come to pass? I wore upon my guard chain a dainty little Geneva watch. I unfastened it, and put the battered silver monster in its place. The budding developments of the mystery made it more precious to me than if it had been set with jewels. It did not stop again. I heard the soft clear “ tick, tick,” all the day, and when I awakened in the night. Once or twice it beat more rapidly than usual, and always before peril —the first time when a fever threatened me; the second as I stood upon a broken bridge, which was swept away one hour afterwards; and at an other moment which I have forgotten, but which served to keep alive the fancy that I loved to cherish. Never was its voice so clear and soft as on that evening when I first met Sosa Grey. I loved her from the first moment, and she loved me in return. We had neither of us any friends to in terfere, for she was an orphan, brotherless and sisterless; and so after a brief court ship, we were married. I had no secret from my wife, and in a little while she learnt Ihe story of the watch.. She had faith in it, and thought or fancied could detect the very shades of difference in its utterance when I was weary, she said the watch was weary too; when I was glad it had a joyous echo. 1 know that on that night when a feeble frame, and the little creature to whom our love had given existence struggled vainly for its life, there was a piteous cadence in the voice of the old Watch 1 hoped never to hear again. So we lived together. It was God’s will that we should be chidless, but we loved each other all .the more. I grew rich and prosperous, and our only grief was the missing of those baby eyes and voices which we had hoped to bave about our hearth. ; It was my fortieth birth day—l shall never forget the day—when the watch began its warning. My wife and 1 heard it at one moment. Never before had the voice of that watch - been so loud and rapid. All day long, all the next and all the next, that warning continued. The strong pulse within- the watch shook the tableon which it rested, when I drew it from my pocket, and made the garment on my bosom rise and fall when I re placed It. -Were we with illness? No! her cheek was blooming and my pulse was regular. What could it mean? After four days I began to laugh at my own credulity, and even Rosa began to lose her faith in the monitor. , About noon I left her, and went'alone in a little room where I kept my medical works and some rare drugs and curiosities. It was my purpose to study for a lecture which I was to deliver that evening. I seated myself at the desk and commenced to read, but after a few moments I began to ex perience a singular faintness and to. inhale a disagreeable odor. I recognized the smell in a moment. In one of the jars upon my shelves was a rare essence of great- use in cases where a suspension of consciousness was necessary, but exces sively dangerous save in skilful hands. Some one—a servant probably—had been meddling with the jar and removed the stopper, and the room was full of the powerful odor. I must leave if I would live. I staggered to the door, put my hand upon the lock, when horrors! it remained unmovable—something had. hap pened to the catch. 1 strove to call: aloud, but my voice failed me. I clutched the table for support, but lost my hold, and fell heavily to the floor. I could see nothing—all grew dark about me. Me chanically I placed my hand upon my watch within my bosom. It stopped! and I remembered nothing more. Consciousness came back to me, as it may come back to a new born babe, fur aught I know. I felt without understand ing ; was conscious of facts for which I cared nothing ; I was in the dark ; I was very cold and my movements were con strained —but it did not seem as though that were any affair of mine. Hunger at last awoke me—the animal aroused the mental, and I began to wonder where I had been and where I was. I put my hand up as well as I could. There was a low roof over my head, folds of muslin lay about me and something was on my breast, which emitted a sickly fragrance—a bunch of flowers seemingly half withered. 1 knew this by the touch. What was the mat ter with me ? Why could I not breathe freely 1 Was I blind and deaf that I could neither see or hear ? Suddenly the truth flashed across me ; I had been buried alive —l lay in my coffin! And all this time you ask, where was my wife, how had she bom the blow which bad fallen so suddenly upon her ? She it was who found me senseless upon my study floor, and sbe it was who hoped for returning consciousness after all others despaired. At last they told her I was dead, and shrouded me for burial. Learned men decided that the strange preservation of my frame was caused by the manner of death, and at length my body was committed to the tomb. I bad then made my wife promise me that if I died first she would take the watch into her own possession, and wear it while she lived; and so, now that all was over, she took it voiceless as it was, and laid it next to her bosom. For three days and nights she never slept, but at last exhaustion did its work, and she fell into a heavy slumber. She was awakened by a sound as strange as it was unexpected. The watch, silent since that fatal day, had begun to tick—fast and furious, as it never ticked before—loud enough to arouse her—loud enough to make her spring from her pillow in agony of hope and fear. Those abont her thought her a mad woman —but nevertheless, the strength of her purpose bore all before. Through the streets of the deserted town she passed in her white night robe, like a ghokt, and they dared not hold her back. She Reached the church door atliast, and beat widly at the old' sexton’s gate. “ I am come to tell yon to open my husbands vault,” “ he’s come to life again.” He also thought her mad, and. yet dared not disobey her, and all the while the furious ticking of the watch could be heard by each one there. It softened, it stilled, when the doors were opened and the black coffin stood upon the turf. It grew musical when my wife bent over me and capght me to her heart no corpse, buta living man,; and it has bad no change in its regular beat since that moment.' It is before me now, battered and worn as it was when it first came into ihy pos session, and you may langh alike; at the watch and the superstition with which it is connected. But my wife believes in it firmly and loves it as though it; were a living thing; and, for the matter Of that, so do I. itar It is enough to niake oneshudder to read the printers' for a, boy of “ moral character,” whexut is well known the; inlaid Uwnske » rt devil" of hjm ‘ EDITORS AND PROPMETOBS. EYES. A knowledge of the structure and funo* tionsof the eye has been prescribed as a cure i for Atheism. lam not certain that the pre scription would prove generally efficacious among the fools who say in their hearts i “ there is no God.’* But certainly the evidence yaf skill and wisdom are so ap parent in the mechanism of the human eye, as to make manifest the stupid depravity of those who fail to see that a divine ham was employed in its creation. Nor is the .human eye more curious of beauti ful than tiie organs of vision of many 't>f. the lower orders of animals. The’ in vestigations of the anatomist, specially when aided in his studios by tbd micro scope, make us acquainted with-a world of wonderful facts. Crabs have their eyes te placed at the extremities of shelly foot-stocks, which are themselves on moveable binges, capable of being pro jected at pleasure, moved in different di rections, and packed away, when not in active use, in certain grooves hollowed out expressly for them in front margin of the shell.” The garden snail carries his eyes at the extremity of a pair of horns. Most persons suppose' the scallop to be blind, but it has eyes by the score, and every one ofthem bright as an emerald, and beautifully set. A single dragon-fly accord!ng to the computation of naturalists, has more than twenty thousand eyes, and splended ones they are. The spider has fewer eyes—generally not more than eight in number—but they are perfect in form, finely set, and almost as brilliant as dia monds. The eye of the eel is protected by a tough transparent covering that ena bles him to thrust his head through, sand and mud without at all impairing his vis ion. The'fish-hawk has eyes that are both microscopic, to fit him for the life be leads. Animalculm too minute to be seen by the human eye, are found when examined by a magnifying glass, to have well-defined and useful organs of vision. Solomon seems to have made the eye .a, study, and frequently refers to it in his writings.— He warns us against eating: the bread of him that hath an evil eye —that is, of the covetous hyppocrito who grudges his guests ;he entertainment to which he has invited them.- In .the East, the words of Salomon would receive a more literal application; for to this day there are whole nations that have full faith in the malignant po tency of an evil eye. Thomson tells' us that the Syrians stand in such dread of this blight that they resort to countless charms to ward it off. If you only look at a beautiful child, you must repeat the name of the Prophet of God, or if the Virgin, with a prayer for protection. If you extol the beauty of a horse, you must immediately spit on it; and the same is done to a child, though most persons are content to blow in its face and pronounce a charm. Bright and striking figures are made on figtrees to draw attention from the fruit, lest it should be blasted by a too steadfast look. We read also of haughty and lofty eyes, of eyes that are wan ton,of tbe eyes of a fool that are in the ends of the earth, and of the eyes of the spouse in Canticle, which are like the “fish pools in Heshlow, by the gate of Bath-rab bim.” R. M. Hatfeld. The following “ lines” were picked np bn the forecastle of the Wabash. They, evidently, are the production of a Jack Tar, whose abstinence from the diurnal “tot” has made him childish, taking his mind back to the days of Maternal Goose; “Jack lost bis Gill So said to Bill— ‘ I know I hadn’t oughter, But. at seven bells I cuss the Welles That give us nought but water.’ ” •9* A loafer who had got his Fourth of July load on, “ fetched up,” against the side of a house that had been newly paintr ed. Shoving dear by a vigorous effort he took one glimpse at bis shoulder, another at the house, a third one at,his hands, and exclaimed. “Well, that’s a mighty careless trick in whoever painted that house, to leave itstanding out all night for people to run against” 0* Make troth credible, ► and children will believe it; make goodness lovely and they will love it make holiness cheerful and they will be glad in it; but remind them of themselves by threats or exhorta tions and you impair the force of tNir unconscious affections —your words pass over them only to be forgotten. An American paper announced the illness of its editor, piously adding:, . “ All good paying subscribers are . re quested to mention him in their prayers. The others, need not, as the prayers of the wicked avail nothing according togopd authority.’ tv A witty dentist having