The globe. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1856-1877, October 26, 1859, Image 1

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QHERIFF'S SALE.—By virtue of a
writ of Fi. Fa. to me directed, I will expose to pub
lic sale, on the premises, in Mt. Union on SATURDAY the
29th day of October, the following real estate, to wit:
1. A lot of Ground in said town, fronting
on Water street, and running back on Division street 120
feet, more or lest, tcian alley, and has thereon erected a
two story brick store and dwelling house, fronting 60 feet
on Water street and 40 feet on Division street, and is now
In the occupancy of Benjamin 11. Foust & Co., and has
other buildings thereon, and adjoins a lot of Eby & Mor
rison on the West.
2. Also, a lot of Ground in said town, fronting on'Wri
ter street about 50 feet, more or less, and rims back to an
alley 120 feet, more or less, and adjoins lots of Eby &
Morrison on the east, and James J. Robenson on the west,
and has thereon erected one and a half story frame dwel
ling house 28 by 18 feet, with kitchen and other outbuild
ings attached.
3. Also, two vacant lots of Ground in said town, front
ing on Railroad Avenue 50 feet each, and running back to
an alley 110 feet; adjoining lots of John Thompson on the
east, Samuel Shaver on the west, fenced, with a frame
stable thereon erected.
4. Also, Lot of Ground in said town, fronting 60 feet,
more or less, on Water street, and extending back 100
Piet, more or less, to an alley on Division street, adjoining
lot of John Bare on the east, having a two story frame
house, fronting 34 feet on Water street and 30 feet on Di
vision street, and other outbildings thereon erected.
5. Also, a Lot of Ground in plan of said town, fronting
60 feet on Water street, and extending back to the Penn
sylvania Canal, adjoining John Bare on the cast, and Eby
& Morrison on the west, having a frame sumac mill there
6. Also, a Lot of Ground in plan of said town, fronting
50 feet, more or less, on Water. street, adjoins lot of Sam
uel Eby on the east, and lot of Eby & Morrison on the
west, having thereon erected a large warehouse which ex
tends to the Pennsylvania Canal, with a lot of vacant
ground used as a wharf adjoining the same.
7. Also, a Lot of Ground in plan of said town, fronting
50 feet, more or less, on Water street, and extending back
100 feet, more or less, to the Pennsylvania Canal, adjoin
ing lot of Eby & Morrison on the west, having thereon
erected two one and a half story houses, one of which is
stone and the other frame, now in the occupancy of
11arincrine and John Baker.
8. 'Also; two vacant Lots of Ground in plan of said town,
fronting 50 feet each on Water street. and extending back
100 feet, more or less, to the Pennsylvania Canal, adjoin
ing lots of Eby 8; Morrison on the east, and Abraham
Lewis on the west. Seized and taken in execution and to
be sold as the property of Samuel Eby.
Huntingdon, October 4, 1859.
The undersigned, Assignee of Jonathan Leslie, will
offer at public sale, at the Court House, in the borough of
On Wednesday, the 10th of November next,
at 10 o'clock, A. M., A FARM, situate in Wayne township,
Mifflin county, containing ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY
FIVE ACRES, more or less, adjoining the Juniata River
and lands of Elijah McVey, David Jenkins, Samuel Whar
ton, and others. having a large frame house (unfinished)
and a frame back building erected thereon, together with
a frame bank barn about 40 by 66 feet, with a wagon-shed
and corn-crib attached thereto. Also, a stone spring house.
There are two never failing springs of good water upon
the premises, one of them near the house and barn. Also,
an apple orchard containing from 50 to 75 trees.
This farm is good limestone land, about fifty acres wood
land, some efi.,-which is choice land for cultivation. , It lies
on the south side Of the Juniata river, about one mile
from the Newton Hamilton Station of the Pennsylvania
Railroad, and the Newton Hamilton Dam of the Pennsyl
vania Canal, is in part upon the premises. A portion of
the land lies upon Sugar Ridge.' in the vicinity of large
deposits of iron ore, and is considered a good site for man
ufacturing establishments.
This farm will be sold as the property of Jonathan Les
lie, for the benefit of his creditors.
TERMS:—One-half of the purchase money to be paid
on the first day of April next, when possession will be de
livered, and the other half in one year, with interest, to
be secured by bond and mortgage.
TIIEO. 11. CREMER, Assignee, try.
Huntingdon, Oct.l, 1859-4 t.
, After fifty years experimenting, the proper article has
at last been invented for women, in their hard labors on
the washing day.
Come and be convinced that we are ahead of every ma
chine in use. Half the time, half the hard labor, and half
in wear and tear, is saved. Little boys and girls can do
the work for their mothers. The undersigned have pur
chased the exclusive right of Huntingdon and Mifflin
counties, to make and sell J. T. Minas's
We desire the public to call and examine this truly LA
BOR-SAVING MACHINE. It can be seen at our shop on Wash
ington street
We, the undersigned, ha .
above machine, take pleasure
to the public, assured that th.
'claimed :
Peter Swoope,
Dr. J. IL Dorsey,
J. S. Morris,
Christian Long,
Chas. H. Miller,
johia M. Cunningham,
John S. Miller,
D. H. Foster,
Mrs. C. J. Cunningham,
" Julia M. Miles,
" C. A. Lewis,
Huntingdon, August 3, 1859.
The undersigned would respectfully call the atten
tion of our friends and customers, as well as the citizens
, of the town and country generally, to our new and exten
sive assortment of
consisting of every article of gentleiiiens' furnishing
goods. We deem it unnecessary to make a newspaper
flourish; being confident that a call and an examination
, of our goods, will satisfy all, that our goods are just what
'we recommend them to be, well made, of good material,
.and as cheap as the same quality of goods can be bought
in the county of Huntingdon. It is not our desire, as it
Is not the policy of honest men, to deceive, but this much
we will say, that we will guarantee to all who may favor
us with their patronage, entire satisfaction as to quality,
lit and price. Should gentlemen desire any particular
kind or cut of clothing, not found in our stock, by leav
ing their measure, they can be accommodated at short
notico. Call at the corner of the diamond, Long's new
Sept. 21,
. , • BANKERS,
A general Banking business done. Drafts on Philadel
phia, Pittsburg, &c., constantly for sale. Money received
.on deposit, payable on demand without interest, or on
time with interest at fair rates.
August 17, 1859,"
For sale cheap at
OF V.knIOES SIZES, for sale at
for sale at T. P. LOVE'S. •
For eale
The beet in the country, and cheaper than over,
A good articlo for sale at
$1 50
wing thoroughly tested the
e in recommending the same
ey will find it all that is above
Mrs. Lydia E. Orbison,
" Annie E. Scott,
" Elizabeth Williamson,
" E. B. Saxton,
Wm. Brewster,
Mrs. M. C. Given,
" Mary B. Simpson,
" Mary 0. Marks,
" Lizzie L. Dorris,
" Ann E. Campbell,
" Jennie C. Murray.
Hush! tell not to the flowers and trees,
Whisper it not to the birds and the breeze;
Let not the blossoms of crimson and blue
Rear the sad tale, though its burden be true,
Summer is dead!
Flush for the sea bath suspended its breath,
Fearing to catch the first summons of death,
And the bright clouds that are passing away
Fain must drop tears could they hear what you say,
Summer is dead!
Aye ! though her mantle of glory be still
Spread over garden and meadow and hill—
Though the rich bloom bath no touch of decay,
And the bee toils through the long sunny day,
Summer is dead!
Aye I it is ended!. From forest and glen,
From cities alive with the conflict of men,
From the grass at our feet, for the now silent bird
From earth, sea and sky, in our spirits is heard,
linimer is dead! •
So much of our glory and gladness is left,
We sigh not as those of her presence bereft;
Her crown and her garlands unfaded are hung
Where they dropped when aside they were carelessly
flung ;
#ti.ect #torrg.
Not long since I had occasion to visit one
of our courts, and while conversing with a
legal friend, I heard the name of John An
derson called.
"That's a hard case," remarked my friend.
I looked upon'the man in the prisoner's dock.
He was standing up, and plead guilty of the
crime of theft. He was a tall man, but bent
and infirm, though not old. His garb was
torn, sparse"and filthy ; his face was bloated
and blood-shot ; his hair matted with dirt,
and his bowed form quivering with delirium.
Certainly I never saw a more pitable object.
Surely that man• was not born a villain. I
moved my place to obtain a better view of
his face. He saw my movement and turned
his head. He gazed upon me a single mo
ment, nod then, covering his face with
his hands, he sunk powerless into his seat.
" Good God !" I involuntarily ejaculated,
starting "forward, " Wil—".
I had half spoken his name, when he quick
ly raised his head, and casting upon me a
look of such imploring agony that my tongue
was tied at once. Then he covered his face
again.. I asked my legal companion if the
prisoner had counsel. He said no. I then
told him to do all in his power for the poor
fellow's benefit, and I would pay him. He
promised, and I left. I could not remain and
see that man tried. Tears came in my eyes
as I gazed upon him, and it was not until I
had gained the street and walked some dis
tance that I could breathe freely.
John Anderson ! Alas ! he was ashamed.
to he known as his mother's son. That was
not his real name ; but you shall know him
by no other. I will call him by that name
that now stands upon the records of the
John Anderson was my schoolmate, and it
was not many years ago—not over twenty—
that we left our academy together ; he to re
turn to the home of wealthy parents--I, to
sit down for a few years in the dingy sanctum
of a newspaper office, and then wander off
across the ocean. I was gone some four
years, and when I returned I found John a
married man. His father was dead, and had
left his only son a princely fortune.
" And.C—," he said to me, as he met
me at the railway station, "you shall see
what a bird I have caged. My Ellen is a
lark, a robin, a very princess of all birds that
ever looked beautifully or sang sweetly."
He was enthusiastic but not mistaken, for
I found his wife all he had said, simply omit
ing the poetry. She was one of the most
beautiful women I ever saw. And so good,
too—so loving and kind. Aye, she so loved
John, that she really hived all his friends.—
What a lucky fellow to find such a wife, and
what a lucky woman to find such a husband,
for John Anderson was as handsome as she ;
tall, straight, manly, high-brewed, with rich,
chestnut curls, and a face as faultlessly no
ble and beautiful as an artist ever corned.—
And he was good, too; and kind and gener
ous and true.
I did not see John again for four years.—
In the" evening I reached his house. He was
not in, but his wife and mother were there to
receive me, and curly-headed 'boys were at
play about Ellen's chair. I knew at once
they were my friend's children, Everything
seemed pleasant until the little ones were
abed and asleep, and then I could see that
Ellen was troubled. She tried to hide it,
but a face so used t to the sunshine of smiles
could not conceal a cloud.
At length he came. His face was flushed
and his eyes looked inflamed. He grasped
my hand with a happy laugh, and called me
" old fellow," and " old dog," said I must
come and live with him, and many other ex
travagant things. His wife tried to hide her
tears, while his mother shook her head and
" He'll sow these wild oats soon. 'My dar
ling never can be a bad man."
" God grant it," I thought to myself, and.
I knew the same prayer was trembling on
Ellen's lips.
It was late when vire retired, and we might
not have done so oven then, had not John
fallen asleep in his chair.
On the following morning I walked out
with my friend. I told him I was sorry to
see him the night before.
"Oh 1" said he, with a laugh, " oh, that
was nothing. Only a little wine party. We
had a glorious time. I wish you had been
At fire I thought I could say no more, but
was• it not my duty? I knew his nature bet
ter than he knew it himself. His appetites
and pleasures bounded his own visions. I
Summer is dead!
'; 1.1'.. r.:.= V:.
V'-'.' ..."., • '. 11: : .,.
knew how kind and generous he was—alas I
too kind, too generous. •
" John, could you have seen Ellen's face
last evening, you would have trembled. Can
you make her unhappy ?"
He stopped me with—
" Don't be . a fool. Why should she be un
happy ?".
" Because she fears you are going down
hill;" I told him.
• " Did she say so?" he asked, with a flushed
" No ; I read it in her looks," I said.
"Perhaps a reflection of your own thoughts,"
he suggested.
" Surely I thought so when you came
home," I replied.
Never can I forget the look he gave me
then—so full of reproof, of surprise and
" I forgive you, for I know you to
be my friend ; but never speak to me like
that. I, going down hill? You know bet
ter. That never can be. I know my own
power, and I know my wants. My mother
knows me better than Ellen does.
Ah—had that mother been as wise as she
was loving, she would have seen that the
" wild oats" which her son was sowing would
grow up and ripen to furnish only seed for
re-sowing ! But she loved him—loved him
almost too blindly.
But I could say no more, I only prayed
that God -would guard him, and then we con
versed on other subjects. I could spend but
a day with him, but we promised to corres
pond often.
Three more years passed, during which
John Anderson wrote to me at least once a
month, and oftener sometimes ; but at the
end of that time his letters ceased coming,
and I received no more for two years, when
I again found myself in his native town. It
was early in the afternoon when I arrived,
and I took dinner at the hotel.
I had finished my meal, and was lounging
in front of the hotel when I saw a funeral
procession winding into a distant churchyard.
I asked the landlord whose funeral it was.
" Mrs. Anderson," he said, and as he spoke
I noticed a slight drooping of the head, as if
it cut him to say so.
" What I John Anderson's wife ?" I ven
" No," he said, "it i 8 his mother," and as
he told me this, he turned away. But a gen
tleman near by, who had overheard our con
versation at once took up the theme.
" Our host don't seem inclined to converse
upon that subject," he remarked with a shrug,
inquiring, " Did you know John Anderson ?"
" He was my schoolmate in boyhood, and
my bosom friend in youth," I told. him.
Ho then led me to one side, and spoke as
fol]ows :
" Poor John ! He said he was the pride
of the town six years ago. This man opened
his hotel at that time, and sought custom by
giving wine suppers. John was present at
many of them—the gayest of the gay, and
the most generous of the party. In fact he
paid for nearly all of them. Then he began
to go down hill ever since. At times true
friends have prevailed on him to stop, but his
stops were of short duration. A short sea
son of sunshine would gleam upon his home,
and then the night came, more dark and dreary
than before. • •
Ile said he never would get drunk again ;
but still he would take a glass of wine with
a friend ! That glass of wine was but the
gate that let in the flood. Six years ago he
was worth sixty thousand dollars. . Yesterday
he borrowed the sum of fifty dollars, to pay
his mother's funeral expenses ! That poor
mother bore up as long as she could. She
saw her son—her " darling boy," as she al
ways called him, brought home drunken
many times. And—she even bore blows from
him ! But now she is at rest. Her " dar
ling" wore her life away, and brought her
gray hairs in sorrow to the grave! Oh !
hope this may reform him I"
" But his wife I" I asked.
" Her heavenly love has held her up thus
far, but she is only a shadow of the wife she
was six years ago, he returned.
My informant was deeply affected, and so
was I ; consequently . I asked no more.
During the remainder of the afternoon, I
debated with myself whether to call upon
John at all. But finally I resolved to go,
though I waited till after teai. I found John
and his wife alone. They had both been
weeping, though I could see at a glance that
Ellen's face was beaming with hope and love.
But, oh I she was changed—sadly, painfully
so.. They were glad to see me, and my hand
was shaken warmly.
"Dear o—, don't say a word of the past,"
John urged, shaking my hand a second time.
" I know you spoke the truth five years ago.
I was going down hill. But I have gone as
far as I can,here I.stop at the foot. Every
thing is gone but my wife. 'I have sworn—
and my oath shall be kept—Ellen and I are
going to be happy now."
The poor fellow burst 'into tears ; Ellen
followed suit, and I kept. them company. I
could not help crying like a child. My God
what a sight I The once noble, true man, so
fallen—become a mere broken glass—the
last fragment, only reflecting, the image it
once bore ; a poor, suppliant at the foot of
hope, begging a grain of warmth for the
hearts of himself .and wife. And how I had
honored and loved that man, and how I loved
him still I Oh I—how I hoped—aye, more
than hoped—l believed that he would be
saved. And, 'as I gazed upon that wife—so
trusting, so loving, so true and so hopeful,
even in the midst of living death—l pray
more fervently than I ever prayed before, that
God would hold him up—lead him back to
the top of the hill.
In the morning I saw the children—grown
to two intelligent boys ; and though they look
ed pale and wan, yet they smiled and seemed
happy when their father kissed them. When
I went away, John took me by the hand, and
the last Words he said were :
" Trust me, believe me now, I will be a
man henceforth while life lasts I"
A little over two more years had passed
when I road in a newspaper the death of El
len Anderson. I started for the town where
they had lived as soon as possible, thinking
I might help—some one I A presentiment
possessed my mind.
" Where is John Anderson ?" I asked.
" Don't know I'm sure. He's been gone
these three months. His wife died in the
mad-house last week 1"
" And the children ?"
" Oh they both died before she did !"
I staggered back and hurried from the
place. I hardly knew which way I went but
instinct led me to the church-yard. I found
four graves which had been made in three
years. The mother, wife and two children
slept in them.
" And what has done this ?" I asked my
self. And a voice answered from the lowly
sleeping places :
"The demon of the wine table."
But this was not all the work. No, no.—
The next I saw—oh God !—was far more ter
rible !—I saw in the city court room. But
that was not the last—not the last.
I saw my legal friend on the day following
the trial. He said John Anderson was in
prison. I hastened to see him. The turnkey
conducted me to his cell—the key turned in
the large lock ; the ponderous door with a
sharp crack swung upon its hinges, and I
saw a dead body suspended by the neck from
a grated window ! I looked at the horrible
face ; I could see nothing of John Anderson
there, but the face I had seen in the court
room was sufficient to connect the two; and I
knew that this was all that remained of him
whom I loved so well.
And this was the last of the demon's work;
the last act in the terrible drama. Ah, from
the first sparkle of the red wine, it had been
down, down ! until the foot of the hill had
been finally reached !
When I turned away from the cell, and
once more walked among the flashing saloons
and revel halls, I wished that my voice had
power to thunder the life-story of which I had
been a witness, into the ears of all living men!
A mother, sitting at her work in her parlor,
overheard her child, whom an older sister
was dressing in an adjoining bed-room, say
repeatedly, as if in answer to his sister, "No,
I don't want to say my prayers."
" How many believers, in good standing,"
thought the mother to herself, "often say the
same thing in heart, though they conceal,
even from themselves, the feeling."
" Mother," said the child, appearing a
minute or two after' at the parlor door. The
tone and look implied that it was only his
morning salutation.
" Good morning, my child."
"I am going out to my breakfast."
" Stop a minute,•' I want you to come here
and see me first."
The mother laid her work down in the next
chair, as the boy ran toward her. She took
him up. He kneeled in her lap, and laid his
face down upon her shoulder, his cheek against
her ear. The mother rocked her chair slow
ly backward and forward.
" Are you pretty well, this morning?" said
she, in a kind, gentle tone.
" Yes, mother, I am very well."
" I am very well too, and when I woke up
this morning, and found that I was well, I
thanked God for taking care of me."
"Did you?" said the boy, in a low tone,
half a whisper. He paused after this—con
science was at work.
" Did you ever feel my pulse ?" asked his
mother after a minute of silence, at the same
time taking the boy down, and setting him
in her lap, and placing his fingers on her
" No, but I have felt mine,"
" Well, don't you feel mine now ? how it
goes beating ?"
" Yes," said the child. •
" If it should stop beating, I should die at
" Should you ?"
" Yes, and I cannot keep it beating."
"Who can ?"
A silent pause.
" You have a pulse, too, which beats in
your bosom here, and in your arms, and all
over you, and I cannot keep it beating, nor
can you. Nobody can, but God. If he
should not take care of you, who could ?"
" I don't know, mother," said the child,
with a look of anxiety—and another pause
" 8o when I woke up this morning, I
thought I would ask God to take care of me.
I hope He will take care of me, and all the
rest of us."
" Did you ask Him to take care of me?"
"Why not ?"
" Because I thought you would ask Him
yourself. God likes to have us all ask for
A long pause ensued. The deeply thought
ful, and almost anxious expression of coun
tenance, showed that the heart was reached.
" Don't yea think you had better ask for
" Yes," said the boy readily.
He kneeled again in bis mother's lap, and
uttered 'in his own simple, broken language,
a. prayer for the protection and blessing of
Suppose another case. Another mother,
over-hearing the same words, calls the child
into the room.
" Did I not hear you say you did not want
to say your prayers ?"
The boy is silent.
" Yes, he. did," says his sister, behind
" Well, that is very naughty. You ought
always to say your prayers. Go right back,
now, and say them, like a good boy, and nev
er let me hear of your refusing again."
The boy goes back pouting, and utters the
words of prayer, while his heart is full of
mortified pride, vexation and ill will.—hroth
er's Magazine.
Stir Sin is bad in the eye, worse in the
tongue, worse, still, in the heart, but worse of
all in the life-
Ser Without pleasantry, sarcasm becomes
base insult. - • --•'' ' • •
Led, But Not Driven.
Editor and Proprietor.
A Voice From the Dead
Silas Wright, in one of his excellent agri
cultural addresses, says the very basis of the
prosperity and happiness of a nation lies in
this great principle—" make farming fash
ionable at home." Educate, instruct, encour
age, and offer all the incentives you can offer
to give interest and dignity to labor at home.
Enlist the heart and the intellect of the fam
ily in the support of a domestic system that
will make labor attractive at the homestead.
By means of the powerful influences of early
home education, endeavor to invest the prac
tical labor with an interest that will cheer
the heart of each member of the family, and
thereby you will give to your household the
grace, peace, refinement, and attraction which
God designed a home should possess.
The truth is, we must talk more, think
more, work more, act more, in reference to
questions relating to home.
The training and improvement of the phys
ical, intellectual, social, and moral powers
and sentiments of the youth of our country
require something more than the school house,
academy, college and university. The young
mind should receive judicious training in tho
field, in the garden, in the barn, in the par
lor, in the kitchen—in a word, around the
hearth-stone at home.
Whatever intellectual attainment your son
has acquired, he is unfit to ko forth into socie
ty if he has not thrown around him the ge
nial and purifying influences of parents, sis
ters, brothers, and the man-sating influence
of the family government. The natioiz i must
look for virture, wisdom and strength,lo the
education that controls and shapes the home
policy of the family circle. There can be no
love of country where there is no love of
home. Patriotism, true and genuine, the
only kind worthy of the name, derives its
mighty strength from the fountains that gush
out around the hearth-stone; and those who
forget to cherish the household interests
will soon learn to look with indifference
upon the interests of their common country.
We must cultivate the roots—not the tops.
We must make the family government the
school, the farm, the church, the shop, the
agricultural fairs, the laboratories of our fu
ture greatness. We must educate our sons
to be farmers, artisans, architects, engineers,
geologists, botanists, chemists—in a word,
practical men. Their eyes must be turned
from Washington to their States, counties,
townships, districts, homes. This is true pat
riotism, and the only patriotism that will per
petually preserve the nation.
Turn your heads from Washington, from
custom-houses, and from all public offices,
except those which emanate from the people
soliciting your services for the public good.
There is a dignity in farm labor that is not
found attached to any other employment.—
We have seen hundreds ruined by waiting in
expectancy of public position, aild hundreds
of others who were ruined after they obtained
A Mulling Incident.
One beautiful summer afternoon, I, in com
pany with my wife and child—a little prat
tling fellow of six summers—started out for
a walk. A little dog that was much attached
to the child persisted in following us. Twice
had I driven him back, the last time I thought
effectually. The afternoon was fine, and as
we followed the serpent-like windings of the
railroad, our conversation very naturally
turned to the scenes and little incidents of
our walk; the gay plumed songsters, the
chattering squirrel, and the humming-bee,
all conspired to take our attention.
Becoming wearied, at length, we sat our
selves down on a grassy knoll by the side of
a railroad, about two hundred yards below
where a sharp angle occurs, hiding it from
view. Our little boy was higher up a bank,
busily plucking the blue bells and dandelions
that grew in profusion around, and we soon
lost sight of him altogether.
My wife was engaged in perusing a copy
of " Baxter's Saints' Rest," while I had cast
myself on the grass beside her, enwrapt in
the beauty of the landscape spread to view.
There a field of tasseling corn gently waving
to and fro, while here a field of sweet-scented
clover shed its grateful fragrance on the air.
'Twas like some enchanted bower—the silence
broken only by the tinkling sheep bells, or
the lowing of kine as they peacefully grazed
on the distant pasture. I was thinking of
the infinite wisdom of the Creator, in thus
making earth so beautiful for poor sinful man,
and how thousands are swept away from its
charms and forever forgotten, when I was
aroused from my reverie by the shrill whistle
of the approaching train. Instinctively I
turned to look for little Harry, when a quick
exclamation from my wife caused me to turn.
She was as pale as death. " William look
at our child," she faintly whispered. I did
so ; and, my God ! who can tell the agony
that wrung my heart at that instant ! The
little recreant had wandered up the track un
heeded, and sat himself down on one of the
oaken sleepers to cull his flowers, just below
the curve, unconscious of the death that hov
ered near him. I started up the track to
wards him, beckoning him to come to me as
I advanced. Instead of doing so, he, appre
hending some playful sport, commenced run
ning directly up the track, and laughing as
he went. The smoke from the advancing en
gine was at this instant distinctly visible; it
was not possible that I could overtake him
in time to save him from that cruel death.—
As it was, I was but hurrying him on to his
doom. No, it was evident my efforts could
be of no avail. I breathed a prayer to Him
on high, and staggered back.
At this moment the sharp bark of a dog
broke upon my ear. With one gleeful bound
our boy cleared the track, and grasped the
wooly intruder in his arms.
The train rushed round the curve with a
whizzing sound. The iron monster was cheat
ed of his prey. lam an old man, but I must
confess that as I once more held our little
truant in my arms, safe, the tear of gratitude
started in my eye. The little dog had perse
veringly followed the child unseen, to be the
means of saving his life. Blind, blind, in
deed, is he who could not see the finger of
God in this.--ameri:an, Presbuteriam.
The Fashionable Lie---" Not at Horne."
" I never," says a lady, "sent that message
to the door but once, and for that once I shall
never forgive myself. It was more than three
years ago, and when I told my servant that
morning to say Not at home,' to whomsoever
might call, _except she knew it was some inti
mate friend, I felt my cheeks tingle, and the
girl's look of surprise mortified me exceeding
ly. But she went about her duties, I about
mine, sometimes pleased that I bad adopted
a convenient fashion by which I could secure
time to myself, sometimes painfully smitten
with the reproaches of conscience. Thus the
day wore away, and when Mr. Lee came home
he startled me with the news that a very dear
and intimate friend was dead.
" 'lt cannot be,' was the reply, ' for she
exacted of me a solemn promise that I would
alone sit by her dying pillow, as she had
something of great importance to reveal to
me.' You must be misinformed ;no one has
been for me.' Here suddenly a horrible sus
picion crossed my mind."
" ' She sent for you, but you were not at
home,' said Mr. Lee innocently ; then he con
tinued : 'I am sorry for Charles, her hus
band ; he thinks her distress much aggrava
ted by your absence, from the fact that she
called you name piteously. He would have
sought for you, but your servant said she did
not know where you had gone. lam sorry.
You must have been out longer than usual,
for Charles sent a servant over here three
NO, 18.
" Never in all my life did I experience such
loathing of myself, such utter humiliation.—
My servant had gone further than I, in ad
ding falsehood to falsehood, and I had placed
it out of my power to reprove her by my own
quivocation. I felt humbled to the very dust,
and the next day I resolved over the cold clay
of my friend that I would never again, under
any circumstances, say not at home. "
In the latest of his preachings upon " Pop
ular Proverbs," Dr. Holland closes a thought
ful and suggestive discourse on sensual pleas
ures with the following earnest remarks to
young men, which deserves to be thought of :
" Oh ! if this world could rise out of this
swamp of sensuality, rank with weeds and
dark with deadly vapor—full of vipors, thick
with pitfalls, and lurid with deceptive 'lights
—and stand upon the secure heights of vir
tue, where God's sun shines, and the winds
of heaven breathe blandly and healthfully ;
how would human life become blessed and
beautiful ! The great burden of the world
rolled off, how would it spring forward into
a grand career of prosperity and progress !
This change, for this country, rests, almost
entirely upon the young men of the country.
It lies with them more than any other class,
and more than all other classes, to say wheth
er this country shall descend still lower in
its paths to brutality, or rise higher than the
standard of its loftiest dreams. The devotees
of sense, themselves, have greatly lost their
power for good, and comparatively few will
change their course of life. Woman will be
pure if man will be true. Young men ! this
great result abides with you! If you could
but see how beautiful a flower grows upon
the thorny stalk of self denial, you would
give the plant the . honor it deserves. If it
seem hard and homely, despise it not ; for in
it sleeps the beauty of heaven and the breath
of angels. If you do not witness the glory of
its blossomings during the day of life, its pet
als will open when the night of death comes,
and gladden your closing eyes with their
marvelous loveliness, and fill your soul with
their grateful perfume."
Home; it is a little word; it has its own in
terests, its own laws, its own difficulties and
sorrows, its own blessings and joys,. it is the
sanctuary of the heart, where the - affections
are cherished in the tenderest relations;,- where
heart is joined to heart, and rove triumphs
over all selfish calculations. It is the train
ing place of the tender plants, which in after
years arc to yield flowers and fruits to paren
tal care. It is the fountain whence come the
streams which beautify and enliven social life:.
If any man should have a home, it is the:
man of business. He is t..e true workingman:
of the community. The mechanic has fixed.
hours, and when these have run their course:
he may, ere the day closes, dismiss all anx
iety as his labors ends, and seek the home
circle. Comparatively little has been the tax
on his mind, and not much more on his phys
ical system, as he learns to take all easy.—
But the men of business are under constant
pressure. His is not the ten hour system, with
an interval of rest ; but he is driving onward,
and onward, early and late, without the cal
culation of hours. He must be employed.--
In the earnestness of competition—in the com
plexity of modern modes of business—in
fluctuations which occur—in the solicitous
dependence on the fidelity and integrity of
others—he has no leisure moments during
the day. With a mind incessantly under ex
citing engagements, and body without its ap
propriate nutriment, he may well pant for
home, and hail the moment when he may es
cape from his toils to seek its quiet, and its
affection and confidence by the fireside.—
Isaac Ferris.
A certain regiment was once ordered to
march into a small Tylorese town and take
it. It chanced that the place was settled by
a colony who believed in the Gospel of Christ
and proved faith by their works. A courier
from a neighboring village informed them:
that troops were advancing to take the town.
They quietly answered, "if they will take it.
they must." Soldiers soon came riding in
with colors flying, and pipes fifing shrill de
fiance. They looked round for an enemy,
and saw the farmer at his plow, the black
smith at his anvil, and the women at their
churns and spinning-wheels. Babies and
boys crowded around to bear the music and
see the pretty trainers, with feathers and
bright buttons. Of course, none of those
were in a proper position to be shot at.
" Where are your soldiers ?" they asked:
" We have none," was the reply.
" But we have come to take the town."
"Well, friends, it lies before you."
" But is there nobody here to fight."
" No ; we are all Christians."
Here was an emergency altogether unprO ,
vided for, in military schools. This was aw
sort of resistance which no bullet could hit
a fortress perfectly bomb-proof.
" If there is nobody to fight with, of course
we cannot fight," said the commanding off..
cer ; it is impossible to take such a town ofi f
So he ordered the horses' heads to tai i
ed about, and they carried the btur
mals out of the village as guiltier
they entered, and perhaps some
par We would eduleat-e 4.2 who_l9.. man—
the body, the head, tag heart,--4 bmti'
t►ct i the dead to thi nk 41:0 VIP heart to feel.
az •
For Young Men to Think of.
Peace Principles.
-an ani
-4 as wh en ,
.vhat wiser,