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.elt.ct Vettui.
THE LAND OF DREAMS.
The land of dreams is brighter
Than this dark land of ours,
Its cloudless skies are lighter
And fairer are its flowers,
And hearts that earth would sever
In union close and sweet,
More fond and true than ever,
May there tos . ether meet.
The forms we most have cherished,
That in the cold grave sleep,
The beings that have perished
Rise from their slumber {hop,
And joyfully they meet us,
With a pleasure beaming eye,
And the voice with which they greet us,
Is the voice of days gone by.
The beggar with his wallet,
Has a mine at his command,
And the slave upon his pallet,
Holds a scepter in his hand.
In sleep the old man loves to dwell,
He seems a boy to be,
The prisoner laugheth in his cell,
For he dreams that be is free.
Vrom realms of cold reality,
How starts the unfettered mind,
Ranging as lawless through the sky
As blows the mountain wind,
Its home of clay forsaking,
It journeys wide and far,
Its boundless voyage taking
From distant star to star.
~..; ~Z~t~ ~f ~~~1~.
THE JUDGE'S VISION
The Judge was a bale man of three-score
years, erect, white-haired, and yet handsome.
Much thought and many judicial cares had
lined the noble forehead with seams; but
both age and care sat gracefully upon him.—
Men respected him because he had been suc
cessful in winning both fame and wealth—
women admired him because he pleased them.
There was a rumor that as a young man he
had been wild—and bonvivants winked as
they declared that the old gentleman could
toss off a beaker with the best of them.
The Judge gave splendid suppers now and
then. His clothing was of the finest, and he
fared sumptuously every day. His house
was built of marble, its appointments were
princely; a retinue of servants gave seeming
dignity to his possessions. lie had, whea.in
court, a habit of settling his chin comfortably
in the folds of his cravat, while work was in
progress, so that sometimes when his eyes
were cast down, he might have been thought
dozing, but for the nervous pressure of his
lips ; indicating that mind and body were ful
ly awake, and intent upon the matter in band.
One day there was an unusual press of bu
siness. Several cases had been disposed of,
and now there remained but an old man and
young girl to commit. The one was an ha
bitual drunkard, blear-eyed, haggard, unsha
ven, trembling, muttering, bearing every vis
ible mark of degradation in face, frame and
manner. The other—God help all such !
was the pitiable thing, forsaken by her sex,
humbled and despised by man•—a fallen wo
man.
When the latter was called up—she was
very young—she started and shivered as one
in an ague. She had none of that hardened
brazen manner, so often assumed by people
of her class. Her hollow eyes were scarcely
lifted. Plenteous tears had nearly washed
the false color from her cheeks sunken by dis
ease ; her small, thin hands, so tightly
clenched, that they seemed chiseled out of
pale stone—spoke of prayer—agonizing, yet
still hopeless—faithless.
It chanced to be very still as she stoorl
there. Why it was, the Judge knew not, but
it seemed to him there fell an unearthly si
lence over the entire assembly, like that of a
grave. He lifted his head from the position
which Lt t „had settled. His strong, piercing
gray eyes fell full upon the pitiful object be
fore him. Downward drooped the pale face,
from shame and weariness. The whole pos
ture betrayed a wretched life, an abject fear,
and it seemed at that moment as if some un
earthly voice cried out in the midst of the
startling quiet—
" Give her bread ; she is starving."
It also appeared to the Judge as if the
lawyer on his right—an angular, long-faced
man, who had been examining witnesses all
day, seemed unusually exhausted—that he
made an effort to speak, as if it were beyond
his power ; and his honor continued to gaze,
first at the girl, who was so wan and shad
owy, then at the lawyer, and still he wan
dered at the strange still silence.
Suddenly the Judge started. What was
that shadow behind the girl? What was that
misty cloud, that seemed growing out of that
shadow, at first white and faint, but gradual
ly taking form and feature, until to his horror
a face looked with shining eyes into his own
a face that he knew had lain for twenty years
in an unhallowed grave. A cold sweat broke
out over his brow, and a tremor seizing his
frame shook him as with an iron hand.
More and more distinct grew that ghostly
figure in the awful silence, behind the droop
ing form of the sinful girl who dared not face
the wild but austere countenance of the Judge.
"What—what can have broughther here?"
be cried, in a husky whisper, his gaze still
rivited upon the mysterious presence. " Who
has called upon the sepulchre to yield up its
sheeted dead—who ?"
There was no answer ; still that dreadful
silence reigned. The Judge grew livid, his
teeth chattered; he sank back in his chair;
unable to move his eyes from that thin shade
that with raised hand seemed ready to speak.
" Man," it said—and the tones who can
describe ? Who can catch the moan of the
wailing wind among the pines ? who shadow
forth the sound of the breeie that sings the
dirge of the dead in lonely grave-yards ?
That voice was not of earth. " Man, behold
thy work, and judge her if thou canst ! Look
in thine own heart, and then dare to condemn
Y insertion. 2 do. 3
25 $ 37y $
75 1 00
100 150
2 00
WILLIAM LEWIS,
VOL, XV,
this poor child ! Twenty years ago I was
innocent as she was within a few short
months. Though you look pure and saintly,
you, you ruined me. Though you stand erect
among men, exalted above your fellows, bow
ed;down to, eulogize and followed, you, you
destroyed this sacred temple—you made it a
den of thieves—you planted deadly flowers in
its walks. Ay, and you, and those who stand
in high places like you, know your own cor
ruption, yet you dare to pass judgment on
the erring. Oh that I could brand you now,
as God will brand you in the future ! Ilow
dare you condemn this poor man and that
weak woman, when you are guilty of the
very vices that bring them here ? In the
name of all that is sacred, I ask you—how
dare you—thrice perjured.and accursed ?"
The words fell on ,he heart of the Judge
like drops of melted lead. The figure of the
shade grew yet more erect and terrible, and
the deep eyes burned like never-dying fires.
The Judge was conscious of but one feeling
—remorse 1 It seemed to him that every
ear had heard, that every heart was passing
the verdict of guilty upon him, and that ver
dict, in awful voice, as the voice of many wa
ters pouring into his ear, while the people
shouted—
" Thou unjust Judge Thou hypocrite !"
Still the covering figure of the poor street
walker, with its clasped hands and stream
ing eyes, wavered before him. Did she hear
the accusation ? Was her soul stung to mad
ness because of the injustice, the hypocracy
of man ? It might be, for the tears came
faster now, and the cheeks grew more ghast
ly. The Judge essayed twice, thrice to speak
—but the words would not come, and his
lips were in-cold.
" In this poor, sinful creature," cried the
shade, with that same indescribable tone,
"behold your wretched child. In this old
man—this miserable wreck, ruined by in
temperance and the anguish of blighted
hopes, behold my father—now broken-hearted
—he whose humble door you entered to break
faith, prove recreant to manhood, curse a fair
name, and bring desolation to a loving house
hold. From that roof you went—a more
than murderer—from that roof 1 was carried
in one short year to the village graveyard,
and over the mound which covers me, the
nettles are growing now. From that same
roof went out a child, cursed from the birth
—the victim of coldness, neglect and brutal
ity. For that old man, once the honest, up
right husband and father—disappointed,
world-sick, disgraced, ruined, drank to drown
his grief, and made his home a hell. Ay I
turn white, recreant Thou honest, faith
—incorruptible Judge. Let no flush of crim
son stain the dignity that twenty years have
built around your fame. Hold up your gray
hairs for the crown of glory. Point the fin
ger of scorn at this poor street-walker. Hus
tle her off to your jail, and then go home to
your velvet couches, your marble halls, your
tapestried carpets. Give her bread and wa
ter, while you, oh peerless Judge, sit at a
princely table. Consign her to infamy, while
Honor writes your name above that of com
mon men. Leave her to the iron bedstead,
while you repose upon silk and fine linen ;
and when she dies, throw her into the Put
ter's field, while the costly marble is being
moulded into a pyramid on which your vir-
Ices shall be inscribed in letters of gold.—
Oh, most peerless Judge !"
White and cold sat the Judge, feeling that
God's hand was upon him. He strove to
speak—in vain, His voice was bound as in
a prison of iron. Gradually the figure lost
its unearthly height ; the gray midst floated
round the miserable young creature drooping
there ; there was a murmur and humming,
as of confused voices ; the numbness left his
limbs ; the court seemed in motion ; a sharp
voice sounded near him, and with a start the
Judge sat upright, though with eyes that
seemed changed to stone at the poor young
thing before him, who seemed that moment
to be speaking.
" Oh, sir, it is the first time," she sobbed.
"I—was hungry—starving—oh! that I might
die—die here. Oh! lam so poor! so helpless!
so motherless!"—her voice Was drowned in
grief, and she seemed falling to the ground.
" Sentenced to four months in the house
of correction," said the lawyer on the right.
" Stop !" cried the Judge, with a thrilling
emphasis ; "I did not say it."
" We understand your honor," replied the
the clerk, hesitating, " that—after the evi
dence—"
" Let the case lay over," cried the Judge,
wiping his forehead, " God have mercy on
us all!"
The court was astonished. The Judge left
his scat, and entering an adjoining room!
paced the floor ; his face haggard, his soul in
arms.
" God have mercy on inc !" he exclaimed,
ever and anon, " I—a guilty, unrepenting
man, to condemn those whom I ruin Yes,
in these high places of the world's honor,
dwells iniquity. How many of these law
yers are pure men ? How many are careful
of the honor and reputation of women ? How
many are there who do not drink to excess
and but for their sealed houses, their silken
curtains, gold and a reputation, would be in
the same gutter from which that old man was
dragged ? And I—Heaven help me ! am a
vile, accursed thing, I am a whited sepul
chre. Out of my black soul shall judgment
fall upon my fellow men? Never again—
never again! I have given my last verdict.
I will rescue this poor child—this poor, hum
bled woman, who has never known a mother's
love. Dream of vision, whatever it was—
that strange revelation has changed the cur
rent of my life. I have no longer courage to
stand before my Maker as I am—before men
as I am not. God have mercy on us who
make and administer laws! We are many
of us rotten at the core, and we dare our Ma
ker to his face."
The public wondered why the Judge re
signed. The papers were full of regrets.—
That gray-white look came over his face
again as he read this and that comment upon
his "unstained reputation," how "wise, skill
full, just and sagacious he had been! above
all, how upright."
"Rottcl., at the core !" he muttered, clash-
0;
4.;•
,
;51 . ;1p 4
.4 , Y .,
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I.%;!'r
ing the paper down, " and God knew it all
the time ! God is never deceived."
People wondered, also, at the change in
the old Judge. He was no longer convivial.
He gave no more great suppers, was seen no
more at public festivals—nor was his name
paraded in capital letters on great occasions.
There was a stranger in his house—a pale
consumptive girl, who seldom went out, whose
life had been a continual regret. But the
old Judge was repenting before God. Hours
of anguish did the review of his long life
give him. His head was bowed—his step
was slow—his words were few and penitent.
Men said, "the old man is changed," with a
sigh. Angels said, also—" the old man is
changed I" but the words gave joy to their
counsels.
One day there were two funerals. The
Judge and the gray haired drunkard were
gone to their long home. One monrner—
whose tears were of deepest grief—followed
in the long train, and is " only waiting" to
follow father and grandsire.
- With God, who alone judgeth in perfect
righteousness, we leave them all.
" Pshaw ! harm—what a squeamish fellow
you are, Stanton ? Why it's nothing but a
raffle, and merely designed to give a little
zest to an agreeable party. Didn't you know
there's not the least possible risk in it? I
can tell you that they act an the same princi
pte in church fairs, and the good church mem
bers buy tickets for pictures, and quilts, and
piano -fortes, and all that sort of thing. If
they can do it, I am sure we can, who don't
pretend to any special piety.
Thus reasoned Harry Brooks, a young man
of twenty, while endeavoring to persuade his
friend, Miles Stanton, to take part in a raffle.
Miles had been carefully educated, and had
always looked with suspicion upon all games
of chance as not only hazardous, but immor
al and pernicious in their tendency; but the
cunning and special argument of Brooks
somewhat unsettled his convictions. "'True
enough," he said to himself, (and pity it is
he had cause to say it,) " they do encourage
such practices at fairs, and after all, it would
be paying but a trifle for a good supper; only
a shilling." And alas I he yielded—as Har
ry knew he would—and yet, there was a voice,
and it sounded wondrously like the gentle
voice of his angel mother. saying, " Go not
in the way of the ungodly."
"What's to be raffled for?" asked Jonas
Childs, who, with two other young men, bad
just joined them.
" Oh, a magnificent work-boy ; just a,:-1
thing to give to a pretty sister," said Harry,
who knew that Miles was very fond of his
sister •lice, and that the two bei❑g poor, and
orphans, rarely had gifts bestowed upon them.
" Come, it's nearly time, we shall have fun
there, I tell you ; Elliston always gets up
prime raffles—any way we shall only he a
shilling out of pocket; we might spend that
for cigars, you know."
The four gay young men—two of them
clerks in mercantile establishments, two of
them bank clerks—wended their way to an
other part of the city, and soon stopped on
the threshold of what might be called a fash
ionable restaurant, kept by a man of little
principle, who seemed to understand how, by
the most subtle advances, to gain a foothold
in the hearts of the young men of the city.
Miles Stanton was, perhaps, the only youth
in the little company who did not at first en
ter into the spirit of the entertainment. lle
thought of his mother, who had been in
heaven but a year ; be thought of his blue
eyed sister, waiting for him in their humble
home, and wondering why he. came not. But
the merry conversation of the convivial party,
the clinking of the delicate glasses, the an
nouncement that he was the fortunate win
ner of the splendid rosewood work-box, with
its lid carved in flowers, its hinges of silver,
its gold enameled compartments. and glowing
lining, soon gave him new spirits, and when
he was challenged to look " upon the wine,"
he drank and forgot.
And again the tempter assailed him. "It
was no harm—a game of cards !—only a
fashionable amusement to while away the
time—and what was a quarter? So small a
stake was hardly worth a thought."
" Come, come, Miles, you mustn't let them
think you are a green hand. Sit down here,
and I'll initiate you, besides you are one of
the lucky ones; only think now, of that beau
tiful box, that cost fifteen dollars—yours for
a shilling—it is just that you should stake
something."
And he did stake something, though he
knew it not, for there are fearful pleasures
that cost men their souls ! Oh, the peril, the
periLof first yielding to sin !
That beautiful work-box ! How the inno
cent eyes of Alice Stanton flashed with pleas
ure, and filled with tears over it ! Little she
knew—sweet confiding girl—that this first
" stroke of fortune " had poisoned the foun
tain of a heart dear to her as life.
Yes ; for now, alas ! the blush of crimson
wine, the sharp shuffle of the cards, the fear
ful rattle of the dice, the clink of the shining
silver as it came rattling towards him in glit
tering heaps, or receded, to fill the purse of
some fortunate gamester, had become as sweet
music to him.
" To-morrow ! to-morrow ! I shall be ruin
ed!"
Thrilling was that cry, awful beyond por
trayal, the haggard look in that youthful face.
The eyes show bloodshot ! How corded the
veins on the brow, seeming like knotted ser
pents ! How the lips were blanched, the
cheeks sunken, as he stood there, a young
man of twenty-one years ruined irretrievably.
Oh, the passionate cries that went up to God
—but in them was no contrition. Convulsed
in every motion, now he flung himself in ag
ony on the floor, and now strode the room,
his clenched hands raised above his head, his
forehead beaded with great drops wrung forth
by anguish.
" Miss," said the woman to whom the
rooms belonged, " there's some trouble up
stairs. I heard your brother groan, and he
walks up and down like mad."
And Alice, alarm in her gentle face, pushes
aside the costly rosewood box (alas ! she lit-
HUNTINGDON, PA., MARCH 7, 1860.
Only a Raffle.
.~~'~-i.
-PERSEVERE.--
tle knows what it has cost,) and springs up
the stairs. Her trembling fingers rap upon
the door, and there is a smothered sound that
bids her enter.
Poor brother ! he is prostrate on the bed.
His face is hidden, but the throes of guilt, of
outraged honor, are past.
" Dear Miles, you are ill, you are in trouble I"
" Yes, I am ill "—why glare those eyes
with ghastly light upon her? " Yes, lam
ill, what will become of you Alice, what will
you do when I am gone ?"
" Miles, Miles, you frighten me I—dear
Miles." She gazes at him, breathless, ter
ror-stricken.
"0 Alice I burn that box—never touch it
again; for that I sold myself!"
She thinks ho wanders. Some sudden fe
ver is upon him; but vainly she presses the
hot locks from the burning brow—vainly ;
for with a gasp, a cry for pardon, he is gone.
One more crime has he added to his catalogue
of sins—he has perished by his own hand.
Harry Brooks sat in the club room with
two chosen friends—one of their number was
missing.
" Well, boys, what has become of Stan
ton?" asked Harry, shrilly, as he whiffed his
cigar.
" Oh, he'll be here with plenty of money,
as usual," said another, " wonder where he
gets it? He's lost enough lately."
"Where we get ours, perhaps," muttered
another, in an undertone—then he said, "by
the-by, was it not you who had the honor of
initiating Miles into this pleasant way of
earning money without work ?"
"He never would have known one card
from another if it hadn't been for me," said
Brooks complacently.
In came an officer. More than one cheek
paled when the guilty party knew that he
sought for Stanton, and that Miles was a de
faulter.
An hour later, and the city rang with the
pitiful news.
Little he thought, when that first step was
taken, helped forward as it was by the con
duct of church members—little he saw then,
the possibility of the result that followed—
himself a thief and a self-murderer, his bro
ken-hearted sister weeping and moaning over
his dishonored memory and early death.
Can I add to this sketch, founded in the
main, upon facts recently developed in a dis
tant city, one word of comment? Let me
open my Bible, and in the spirit of the great
apostle, exhort the followers of Christ to take
heed " that no man put a stumbling block or
an occasion to fall, in his brother's way.
The Glasgow (Scotland) Daily Mail tells
the following, which, though it smacks of the
marvelous is still vouched for as true :
Somewhere about thiity years ago, at a
place nearly twenty miles from London, a
boy about 11 years of age was returning from
school with his sister. They were amusing
themselves on the road by running after and
touching each other alternately in their youth
ful glee. They had arrived at a large play
ground or green, and he had " tigged " and
touched his sister, and had given her a slap
on the face, when she gave him a push with
her hand, whereby he was overbalanced, and
he fell into a large well behind, and, timid
and amazed at his sudden disappearance,
owing to her inadvertant act, off she ran.—
For some days a strict search in all direc
tions was instituted fur the boy, but without
avail. Advertisements in the newspapers
were also resorted to without effect, and the
girl, bewildered, doubting and still hoping
that her brother might yet make his appear
ance, or be discovered in some way, and, on
the other hand, afraid that he might have
perished in the well, refrained from explain
ing to her relatives the truth. The conse
quence was, that as time wore on, she fell in
to a state of despondency, but her friends
could never ascertain the cause.
In the course of some years she was mar
ried. her family often kindly inquired, and
even pressed her to say whether anything
was weighing on her spirit, but she could
give no explanation, and it may be added, as
it will naturally be surmised, did. not intend
to do so till on her death-bed. In the mean
time, her brother, after having fallen, as we
have described, into the well, and sunk in the
water, rose
_again to the surface ; and laying
hold of some projecting bricks or stones at
the side of the well, called loudly for help.—
After some time, a carrier who was passing,
heard the cries of the boy, and going for
ward to the mouth of the well, succeeded in
rescuing him from his perilous condition.—
When he had recovered a little, the carrier
asked the boy the name of his friends and
where he resided, but he would not tell him,
and said he had no friends, but wished and
would be glad to go along with him.—
Through persuasion and entreaty, the kind
hearted carrier, thinking the boy au orphan,
took him along with him in his cart or wag
on to London, and there gave him employ
ment to run his messages. He afterwards
sent him to school, and thereafter to learn a
trade, but he was a little wild in his dispo
sition, and did not settle well to his employ
ment.
In the course of time the news arrived of
the discovery of the gold fields in Australia,
and the carrier's son determined to proceed
there, and as the boy expressed an anxious
wish to accompany him, that wish was com
plied with, and lie went out along with him.
He was extremely prosperous, and wealth
showered upon him. He acquired lands and
engaged servants, and in short, fortune was
lavish to him of her gifts. But in the midst
of his prosperity he began to think of home
and his early associations, and of how his
beloved sister might think him dead, and as
having been drowned in that deep well, and
he determined on returning home to gladden
them with his presence, relate to them his
fortunes, and dissipate their fears concerning
him. Having arrived in this country, he
tried every means to ascertain where his
friends lived, for they had removed from the
home of his youth, and none in the neigh
borhood could tell him where they had gone.
After having made inquiry for a length of
,
Ti
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The Dead Alive.
Editor and Proprietor
time without avail, it so chanced that on one
occasion he went to England to see the Queen
passing, and while witnessing the cortege,
recognized in the features of a person present
one whom he had known in his boyhood.—
He went forward and inquired his name,
which he told, and mutual recognition took
place. Then followed questions concerning
his family, when it turned out that the friend
whom he addressed had been married to his
own sister—to that sister who had long been
the subject of his waking dreams, and who
had in his early years been the means, how
ever inadvertantly, of giving a direction to his
course and to his subsequent fortunes. Ile
was further informed that his sister was at
the time residing in Stirling, and it need
scarcely be said that he immediately posted
on to Stirling, where he arrived about the
the 13th or 14th of September last year.
The meeting which ensued between the
long-parted sister and brother can only be
left to the imagination. The surprise, the
conflicting emotions caused by the re-appear
ance of a brother after such a long absence,
under the circumstances related, caused an
indisposition, from which we are glad to say
she has now recovered.
The World
The following was one of the late Major
Noah's stories :
" Sir, bring me a good plain dinner," said
a melancholy looking individual to a waiter
at one of our principal hotels.
" Yes, sir."
The dinner was brought and devoured, and
the eater called the landlord aside, and thus
addressed him :
" Are you the landlord ?"
6I yes . ),
"You do a good business?"
" Yes," (in astonishment.)
" You make, probably, ten dollars a day,
clear ?"
Yes."
"'Then lam safe. I have been out of em
ployment about seven months ; but I engaged
to work to-morrow. I had been without food
twenty-four hours when I entered your estab
lishment. I will pay you in a week."
" I cannot pay my bills with such promi
ses," blustered the landlord ; " and I do not
keep a poor house. You should address the
proper authorities. Leave me something for
security."
" I have nothing."
" I will take your coat."
" If I go into the street without that, I will
get my death such weather as this."
" You should have thought of that before
you came here."
" Are you serious ? Well, I solemnly aver
that one week from now I will pay you."
I will take the coat."
The coat was left, and a week after was
redeemed.
Seven years after that, a wealthy man en
tered the political arena and was presented
to a caucus as an applicant for congressional
nomination. The principal man of the cau
cus held his peace—he heard the history of
the applicant, who was a member of the
church, and one of the most respectable citi
zens. He was the chairman. The vote was
a tie, and he cast a negative, thereby defeat
ing the wealthy applicant, and whom he met
an hour afterwards, and to him he said :
" You don't remember me?"
" No."
" I once ate dinner at your hotel, and al
though I told you I was famishing, and
pledged my. word of honor to pay you in a
week, you took my coat, and saw me go out
into the inclement air, at the risk of my life,
withont it."
" Well, sir, what then ?"
" Not much. You call yourself a Chris
tian. To-night you were V a candidate for
nomination, and but for me you would have
been elected to Congress."
Three years after the Christian hotel keep
er became bankrupt. The poor dinnerless
wretch that was, is now a high functionary
in Albany. I know him well. The ways
of Providence are indeed wonderful, and the
mutations almost beyond conception or be
lief.
Maxims of Washington
Use no reproachful language against any
one—neither curses nor revilings.
Be not too hasty to believe lying reports
to the disparagement of any one.
In your apparel be modest, and endeavor
to accommodate nature rather than to procure
admiration.
Associate yourself only with men of good
quality, if you esteem your reputation, fi: it
is better to be alone than in bad company.
Let your conversation be without malice or
envy, for it is the sign of a tractable and
commendable spirit ; and in cases of passion
admit reason to govern.
Use not base and frivolous things against
girown and learned men ; nor very difficult
questions or subjects among the ignorant,
nor things hard to be believed.
Speak not of doleful things in time of
mirth, nor at the table ; nor of melancholy
things, as death or wounds, and if others
mention them, change, if you can, the dis
course.
Break not a jest when none take pleasure
in mirth. Laugh not loud, nor at all with
out occasion. Deride no man's misfortune,
though there seems to be some cause.
Be not forward, but friendly and courteous
—the first to salute; hear an answer—and
be not pensive when it is time to converse.
Keep to the fashions of your equals., such
as are civil and orderly, with respect to time
and place.
Go not thither when you know not whether
you shall be welcome or not..
Reprehend not the imperfection of others,
for that belongs to parents, masters, and su
periors.
Speak not in an unknown tongue in com
pany, but in your own language, and that as
those of quality do, and not as the vulgar.
Sublime matters treat seriously.
Think before you speak; pronounce not
imperfectly, nor bring out your words too
harshly, but orderly and distinctly.
Many persons suppose that diamonds are
only used in jewelry—for rings and other ar
ticles of personal adornment, and that they
are really of no essential value whatever in
the practical arts. This is a mistaken notion ;
they are used for a great number of other pur
poses in the arts. Thus for cutting the glass
of our windows into proper size, no other sub
stance can equal it, and it is exclusively used
for this purpose. A natural edge, or point,
as it is called, is used for this work, and
thousands of such are annually required in
our glass factories. Diamond points are also
employed for engraving on carnelians, ame
thysts and other brilliants, and for finer cut
ting on cameos and seals.
Being very hard, the diamond is also used
in chronometers for the steps of pivots ; and
as it possesses high retractive with inferior
dispersive power, and little longitudinal aber
ration, it has been successfully employed for
the small deep lenses of single microscopes.
The magnifying power of the diamond in
proportion to that of plate glass, ground to a
similar form, is as Sto 3. For drawing min
ute lines on hard steel or glass, to make mi
crometers, there is no substitute fur the dia
mond point.
The rough diamonds are called berf, and the
points used for glass cutting aro fragments of
the borts. Great care and skill are neces
sary in selecting the cutting points, because
the diamond that cuts the glass most success
fully has the cutting edges of the crystal
placed exactly at right angles to each other,
and passing through a point or intersection
made by the crossing of the edges. A pol
ished diamond, however perfect may be its
edges, when pressed upon the surface of the
glass, splinters it with the slightest pressure ;
but with the natural diamond the most accu
rate lines are produced on glass, and their
surfaces are so highly burnished that, if ruled
close together, they decompose light and af
ford the most beautiful prismatic appearance
—all the colors of the rainbow flash from
them as from the silvery interior of a pearl
oyster shell.
Diamonds are also employed for drill points
to perforate rubies, and bore holes in draw
plates for the wire, and also fur drilling in
hard steel. Some inquiries have been made
of us recently in regard to using them for
dressing millstones, as a substitute for steel
picks. We apprehend that they are alto
gether too expensive to be used for this pur
pose at present; but if some of our inventors
would make the discovery of manufacturing
diamonds as cheaply as we make charcoal,
which is of the same composition, we might
be able to recommend them to our millers.—
The coke obtained from the interior of gas
retorts in many cases is found so hard that it
will cut glass ; but as its point endures but
for a short period, it cannot be made availa
ble as a substitute for the natural diamond
for such purposes.
NO. 37,
Count what? Why, count the mercies
which have been quietly falling in your path
through every period of your history. Down
they come every morning and every evening,
as angel messengers from the Father of
Lights, to tell you of your best friend in heav
en. Have you lived these years, wasting
mercies, treading them beneath your feet, and
consuming them every day, and never yet re
alized from whence they came? If you have,
heaven pity you.
You have murmured under afflictions, but
who has heard you rejoice over blessings ?
Do you ask what are these mercies? Ask
the sun-beam, the rain-drop, the star, or the
queen of night. What is life hut mercy?—
What is health, strength, friendship, social
life, the Gospel of Christ, Divine worship ?
Had they the power of speech, each would
say, " I am a mercy." Perhaps you have
never regarded them as such. If not, you
have been a dull student of nature or revela
tion.
What is the propriety of stopping to play
with a thorn hush, when you may just as
well pluck sweet flowers, and eat pleasant
fruits ?
Yet we have seen enough of men to know
that they have a morbid appetite for thorns.
If they have lost a friend they will murmur
at the loss, if God has given them a score of
new ones. And somehow everything as
sumes a value when it is gone, which man
would not have acknowledged when he had
it in his possession, unless, indeed, some one
wished to purchase it.
Happy is he who looks at the bright side
of life ; of Providence, and of revelation ;
who avoids thorns, and thickets, and sloughs,
until his Christian growthis such that if he
cannot improve them, he may pass among
them without injury. Count mercies before
you complain of afflictions.
Live not for relf alone, should be the lan
guage of every thinking, reflecting mind.—
Let us go to the flowers, the streams, the
trees, and the birds, and learn wisdom,
Do the little flowers that sparkle so beauti
fully through the dew and sunshine, live alone
for themselves ? No, no ! Do they not cheer
our lonely walks ? do we not gaze on them,
inhale their fragrance, and pass on better
than we came, feeling that they have minis
tered to our perceptions of the beautiful ?
and, too, they give to the bees their honey,
to the insects their food. And they help to
clothe the earth in loveliness and beauty.
Does the wide spending tree under whose
grateful shade we recline when the noon-day
sun is oppressive, live for itself alone ?
answer no ; for it gives a happy home to
many a tiny insect; there, too, the little bird
finds a resting-place when his little wings are
tired of soaring up so high, and a secure
asylum wherein to build their tiny nests, and
to rear their defenceless and unfledged broods.
And, too, it gives support to many a tender
vine. It also absorbs the poisonous vapors
in the atmosphere, that would otherwise scat
ter disetise and death broadcast over our land.
And it helps to clothe the earth in majesty
and beauty.
Does the mighty river or the laughing little
brook that ripples so merrily along, live alone
for themselves ? Not so ; for on the broad
and mighty bosom of yen tranquil river are
borne the fortunes, the hopes and the fears,
of many. And who can tell to how many
millions of the finny tribes it gives a happy
home.
g-a. Lately, a negro in the West Indies,
who had been married to a lady of color by
one of the missionaries, at the end of three
weeks brought his wife back to the clergy
man and desired him to take her back. He
asked what was the matter with her. •
" Why, massa, she no good. The book
says she obey me. She no was my clothes.
She no do what I want her to do."
" But the book says you were to take her
for better or for worse."
" Yes, massa, but she all worse and no bet
ter. She am too much worse and no good."
13e - Creditore•and poor relations never call
at the right moment,
Usefulness of Diamonds
Count Them
Live Not For Self Alone