TERMS OF THE GLOBE. Por annum in advance 31x months Thrco months A failure to notify a discontinuance at the expiration of the term subscribed for will be considered a now engage ment. TERMS OF ADVERTISING Four linos or Ono squarer, (12 lines,) Two squares, Three squares, Over t - hreo week and less than three mouths, 25 cents per square for each insertion. 3 months. 6 months. 12 month's. Six lines or less, $1 50 $3 00 5'.5 00 Ono square, 3 00 5 00 7 00 Two squares, 5 00 8 00 19 00 Three squares, 7 00 10 00 15 00 Four squares, 9 00 13 00 20 00 Half a column, 12 00 16 00 ....24 00 One column, 20 00 'lO 00.... 50 00 Professional and Business Cards not exceeding four lines, one year, $3 00 _ Administrators' awl Executors' Notices, Advertisements not marked with the number of inser tions desired, will be continued till forbid and charged ac cording to these terms. Votttg. SHE ALWAYS MADE HOME HAPPY. [What true woman could wish to have a more glorious epitaph engraved upon her tombstone, than that embraced n these simple lines?] She always made home happy With her kind and winning ways, With her voice of cheerful gladness, With her joyful hymn of praise. She always made home happy! Though she charmed no passer-by With the beauty of her person, Or the brightness of her eye. Though no pearls or rubies glittered 'Mid the ringlets of her hair, In her heart there shone a radiance Of a jewel far more rare. She always made home happy ! Though her song was not divine; Though no harp beneath her fingers Thrilled to notes almost sublime. Though no artist, yet she painted Many a beam of Heavenly love On the friendly faces round her, That shall shine in realms above 5 - eiert 5t0r.)2. TW'ZNTY YEARS' TRIAL FOUNDED ON FACT BY MARY A. LOWELL " What on earth shall I do?" asked a young mechanic, as he came home one evening in the height of the business panic of 1837-8,- which operated so disastrously upon all class es of society, and which has only been equal led in the period of twenty years. It was a momentous question, and one which Sarah Worcester, hopeful and cheerful as she was, could not answer easily. She had not impoverished him ; for there was not a house wife in the country who possessed in such perfection, the art of making a dollar go as far as five would in other families, and in making 'auld claiths awmast as gude as new.' ller husband's and children's wardrobes testified to this skill ; Stephen always looking like a gentleman, and his little ones neater and more tastefully dressed than any in the school ; a Pennsylvania school, too, where there were Quaker children in plenty, to test her claims to neatness. With such a wife, it would seem that no man could fail of getting on in the world, es pecially if the belief of some persons that a woman always makes or mars her husband's fortune, were true ; but in this case, at least, the proverb failed, and Stephen Worcester was gradually going down in the world, with out a single bad habit as it would seem, only with the peculiar ill-luck which some men invariably find. The season had failed in a remarkable way, to realize the hopes of the spring, Stephen's land had been almost barren. I-Es cow died, his work-shop was burned, and to add to his distress, the children were attacked by an ep idemic fever, and his expenses were increased four-fold. Bills were staring him in the face —his cottage was mortgaged to its full value ; and it did really seem that Fate was doing her wosrt against the success of anything with which he had to do. Meantime Sarah Worcester continued hope ful, and almost cheerful, under these accu mulating trials. She had a calm, sweet, happy temper, which stood in the place of wealth, to its fortunate possessor, and bright ened up the desolate prospect that to Stephen seemed growing darker and gloomier. " What on earth shall I do ?" was his sor rowful question to his wife, for the hundredth time, as he paced the floor one rainy after noon, looking out occasionally on the burnt ruins of his once pretty workshop. " Don't worry, Stephen," answered the blithe voice of Sarah Worcester, as she plied her needle as fast as ever, repairing the rents in the children's almost worn out clothes.— " Don't worry. We are very poor, but' so have thousands been before us. God is not dead, nor has he forsaken us. We trusted him in our prosperity, and it is a poor faith that will not bear a little trouble. Look, Stephen ! you are well and strong, and so am I. The children have nearly recovered from the effects of their fever , and we may never again have such a poor season for your work. I know, that with a little practice, I can make a very tolerable dress maker, and I mean to try it." " Yes, and have everybody saying that Ste phen Worcester is maintained by his wife. I would starve first." . . " Nay, husband, you look at this affair in a different light from what I or any one else will. If your work fails, why cannot I try mine ? You can go •to town for me and buy my materials, for I shall want trimmings, &c.; and I shall want you to fit up the front room with shelves, and do many other things. By-and-by, perhaps, we shall be able to keep a. shop, which you can take care of until your word comes round again." Stephen made no reply. He went out into a dark narrow land and walked backwards and forwards meditating upon his altered for tunes. One thing was certain, he would never hear it said that his wife was maintain ing him. At the same time he did not doubt her ability to do what she proposed. Per haps if he were away, she might be more successful. " Poor girl," ho said almost aloud, "I have made but a shabby husband for her after all. If I go and leave her, she may prosper." In the mood which he was cherishing, , it was easy for him to resolve upon leaving home. He felt just cowardly enough to de sert his wife and children, rather than to ac cept the proposal Sarah had made to him. The time was come, he thought, in which an entire change must be made, another state of things secured, or the world—should hear no more of Stephen Worcester. He did not dare to go back to the house again ; not even to look in at the window. $1 50 1 insertion $ 25.-. 2 do. ado. 373.< 50 75 1 00 1 00 WM 1 50 Effl 3 00 2 00 WILLIAM LEWIS, VOL. XV. E= Sarah, sitting there with her youngest child upon her knee, and Stepby and little Alice beside her, handing up their poor garments for her to mend; was a scene which he knew would shako his purpose ; and he walked rap idly away from it, crushing down the bitter ness of his thoughts, and trying to feel that it was better thus. Yet often, as he paced along through the rain-drops that were still falling, he would stop irresolute, as he saw through the window of some cottage, the little group that had gathered round the father just returned from his work—the clean supper table spread for him, and all the home sights that cluster so fondly around a man's heart. Then what would Sarah think had become of him. He almost shrieked out when he fancied her alarm. She would think, per haps, that he had killed himself. Then ho would hasten on again, and try to forget eve rything. Poor Sarah! 'What a night she passed! What a week of torture ! But when every search had been made for the missing man, and nothing could be heard of him, her hope ful temper suggested something near the ac tual truth ; anal after a while she actually started the plan she had been talking of in their last conversation, and advertise that she would commence dress-making at her own house. Whether from pity to her widowed state, or from seeing how neatly and even elegantly fitted were her own plain cheap dresses, work soon poured in upon her. Every moment was occupied. She sat up late and rose early to her labor; and before many months had elapsed, she was obliged to hire a girl to at tend to the housework, and had also three or four apprentices. Her taste was so gond that every one de ferred to it, and as she found that her opinion was constantly asked respecting the trim mings suitable for the dresses she made, she concluded to keep a stock on hand, from which she realized a very pretty income. Soon little Alice could mind the shop when she was out of school, and Stephy was inval uable as an errand boy. The little fellow seemed so anxious to do everything for his mother, that she sometimes feared that she might allow him to do too much. Sarah was the only one that could not help her ; but she was such a good, quiet, amiable child, that if she was no help she was no hin drance. Such was Mrs. Worcester's success in her new business, that she not only maintained her family better than before, but she raised the mortgage from the house and land, leav ing it free and unencumbered. There were few hours in which she was at liberty to sit down and wonder what had be come of her husband. She had an innate consciousness that he was not dead. Some thing seemed to say that he had only left her for a time; and that after years of patient toil he would come back to her again. She wished that he could know how well she was prospering; and at times she would have given up everything and shared poverty and even disgrace, for the sake of seeing him alive once more. But again she thought of her precious children, and how much she could advance their interests in the world by the power which her growing wealth could give her. Stephy grew stouter and wiser every day. A good and faithful student, she felt that it would be injustice to tie him down to me chanical labor, and by prudence and frugali ty, she managed at last to send him to col lege. It was a struggle, and cost her and the girls many sacrifices, but they were wil lingly made, and he went through the appoint ed time and received the highest honors of his class at the end. As a profession, he decidedly preferred medicine, and after the alloted period of study, he began practicing in Lancaster. Despite the proverb that a prophet hath no honor in his own country, he was auccesful beyond his hopes, and soon realized a compe tence. He still lived with his mother, and after his own fortunes brightened, he would urge her to give up her business, and rest comfortably upon what she had saved. If that did not suffice, he was ready to-support them all. But some unexpressed feeling in her heart forbade this. She worked early and late, ad ding dollar to dollar, and anxiously seeking to invest everything as favorably as possi ble. Stephen thought her selfish almost, when he wished so much for her society at night, to find her stitching, cutting, basting and fit ting as if her life depended upon every shred of cloth that she was manufacturing into gar ments. His sister's woman-heart more easily di vined her motives. They knew, although she never spoke of him, that she was gather ing up for their father's return. They knew that she believed him living, and that some day he would come back; and that she would show him that she had not been idle in her desolation ; or if he returned poor, she would have power to raise him above despondency. Alice married at sixteen, and removed to Cincinnati ; and soon after, Sarah, the pet, the darling of them all, gave up her sweet young life and went to heaven. Then the mother yearned for Alice, and Stephen gave up his practice, and took his mother away from the sorrowful home. Arrived at Cincinnati, he found a place more suited to his ambition, and soon he be came one of the first in his profession, and gradually distinguished as a public-spirited and noble-hearted citizen. Now that the family were again united, and time seemed to soften the loss of the child they had so , xlearly loved, Mrs. Worces ter recurred more frequently to the subject of her husband's return. Stephen thought her almost insane on this point, and with reason—for she would sit at the window for hours, now that her old oc cupation was gone, and gaze at the crowds that passed by, as if earnestly trying to dis cern the well remembered features. The first baby in the house was a girl. It was named after the beloved Sarah, and thenceforth Mrs. Worcester lived only in the .......,. ...... :. .... . .. ... ..... , ~,..,..-...,. ....f„ . .-..,. i.,• , ...... . .:. ..... .. ..,.. .... ~ ....- r , . .. 2,: , .: ... ..,!-•••' 1..:...,:. :,.• _. life of that child. Alice could hardly be permitted to hold it in her arms at all, so eager was her mother to perform everything pertaining to the little one's comfort. Her children looked upon this with pleas ure, for they had really sometimes feared the effect upon her senses, which the constant ex pectation and subsequent disappointment was likely to produce. Stephen was one day returning from some professional calls, when he perceived a group collected upon the side-walk, not far from the street where he lived. He was on foot; and as he came near, the crowd parted respect fully to let " the good Doctor," as he was called, pass on. He then saw that the object of their atten tion was a man, who seemed to be stricken prematurely old. His long grey hair stream ed in the wind ; a beard white as snow, hung far down his breast, but still his countenance did not indicate length of years. He was relating to the pitying crowd how recklessly he had once thrown away his hap piness, how cowardly he had deserted his family, and become a wanderer in many lands ; how that in all his wanderings, pov erty had still clung to him, and that at length, worn, weary, and wretched, he had turned his footseps home again to seek his family, ask their forgiveness for his desertion, and die. Ile told them he had sought them where he had left them, but found them not, and had traveled slowly and painfully to the west, whither he was told they had gone. Here his courage and his strength had failed him alike, and he implored his listeners to take him to some hospital, where he could find shelter for the few days he had to live. " Here comes the Doctor," was echoed from one to another. ' He will help us to find a home for the poor creature" And the Doc tor was fairly carried along with the'stream, until he stood face to face with the stray waif which had floated into his path. Memories came thronging up of his child ish years, as he looked at that forelorne old man. Ile was a little child when his father went away ; but something in that face woke up a host of long forgotten scenes, years on years ago. With streaming eyes, he led the man away to his home, and a few questions on the way elicited the truth of what he suspected. lie conducted him by a private gate to his office in the rear of his house, clothed him anew, smoothed his ragged locks, and re freshed him with food and wine. Not until then did he insist on his knowing his name. It was he ! Cautiously he told him that be was his son and then the palled face glowed. He dared not ask for his wife, dead or living; but through an open door he saw a woman sitting with the very child, as be thought, that was in his wife's arms when he left her for the last time. Time had touched her very gent ly, and the bright hair and eyes were the same as ever. She turned and caught one glimpse of his face, and she knew instantly that it was her husband. Time could bang no veil upon that countenance which her love could not pierce through. It was a rare meeting, so warm and cordial —so apparently oblivious of all wrong or un kindness, so full of tenderness and sympathy, that all was forgotten, save the actual pres ence of the beloved. The past was annihila ted, or only lived to give the necessary sha ding to a picture so delightful. If ever wife was worshipped by a husband, it was Sarah Worcester. Restored by her care to health and strength, a new man in purpose and in action, he lost no time in re trieving his character from the imputation that had rested upon it. He sought and ob tained a situation, for nothing could induce him to touch his wife's hardly earned money, nor would he be under obligation to his chil dren ; but laboring every day for his daily bread, he experiences a satisfaction which was never his before. Heaven strengthened him to accept it as he ought ! Let no one judge him harshly. Few arc the souls into which misfortune may not, sometimes, bring weakness and cowardice. Perfection, like aloe, blooms only once in a century. Somn YEA.RS AGO.-A lady noticing a neigh bor who was not in her seat in church on Sabbath, called on her return home to inquire what should detain so punctual an attendant. On entering the house she found the family busy at work. She was surprised when her friend addressed her— "Why, la! where have you been to-day dressed up in your Sunday clothes ?" "To meeting." "Why what day is it ?" " Sabbath day." " Sal, stop washing in a minute ! Sabbath day Well, I did not know, for my husband has got so plagued stingy that he won't take the paper, and we know nothing. Well who preached?" " Mr. .71 " What did he preach about." " It was on the death of our Savior?" " Why, is he dead. Well, all Boston might be dead and we know nothing about it? It won't do, we must have the newspapers again, for everything goes wrong without the paper ? Bill has - almost forgot his readings; Polly has got mopish again, because she has no po etry and stories to read. 'Well, if we have to take a cart load of onions and potatoes to market, I'm resolved to have a newspaper." parA railroad accident took place a while ago in Maine, upon which occasion the at torney of the road visited the scene of dis aster, to satisfy the claims of the injured par ties. After paying for black oyes, bloody noses and cracked crowns all round, at the appraisal of the injured, he supposed his business over, when he was saluted by a tall Yankee, with feet like snow-shoes, a bell crowned hat, and a blue coat over his arm, with—" Well, Squire, what are you going to allow me ?" " You !" said the attorney— " where are you hurt?" " Oh, nowhere to speak of, Squire, but I was most terribly start, and I think that's worth about a dollar, the way you've been payin' on 'em." The dollar came, of course. -PERSEVERE.- HUNTINGDON, PA., APRIL 25, 1860, [Written expressly for the "Globe."] A Bar-Room Scene Twenty Years Ago BY GAY. I was once sitting in the bar room of a village tavern, in a sort of a dreamy mood, not noticing anything around me, although the room was filled with persons, who not !in frequently would sally up to the bar in doz ens and half dozens, and call for something. As I said before, I was sitting almost uncon scious of what was going on around me, so much so, that had I been called on oath to give an account of anything transpiring there, I could have answered nothing. I roused myself from the stupor into which I had fal len, drew the chair closer to the fire on the great hearth, and, for the first time, scanned the assemblage. There were about twenty persons present, the greater part of them had been partaking rather freely of the contents of those long necked decanters, that were handed out so frequently—l judged so from their actions. Some were praising their own strength on a " lift," others were eulogizing their oratorial powers, and a third party was standing in the middle of the room, circled around a huge-looking fellow, dressed in the garb of a collier. As my eye measured the man, I wondered if Hercules could have personated trength better than he ; he was rather above the medium height, though heavy set, his breast was deep, very deep, and his neck, I have never seen such a neck protruding from the shoulders of any man ; his pants were belted around him, and over a white shirt, he wore a blue blaize one, with sleeves folded up to the elbows. In a word, be was what he appeared to be—a bully. It is strange that a person should have such thoughts, but the mind is ever active ; and I thought as he raised those black, brawny-looking arms in gesture, and brought down that huge fist with an oath, that I could almost see Satan peeping out of those snake-like eyes. He, too, had been drinking—yet not drunk—just enough to raise the demon in his depraved nature. They called him Galer. Sitting not far from me, was an aged man, a traveler, who, from previous conversation, I learned had been a revolutionary soldier ; he was shabbily dressed ; a bundle lay at his tide, and he sat, his body bent forward, and supported by an old faded umbrella, on which, with one hand upon another, be res ted his weary head ; his long hair—white, white as a snow-flake—almost concealing his wrinkled hands. He seemed like some old tree that had stood for a long, long time, w.til ;he winds and storms had uprooted its fellows—time had wasted them, and it alone was left. I was interrupted in my reverie by— " What are you dreamin' on ? Wake you up," and with a sweeping kick, the ruf fian—Galer—knocked away the old umbrella, and the aged man fell prostrate on the floor, amid the cheers of his no less villainous com panions. How I wished for strength, but knowing my imbecility, and thinking, " dis cretion the better part of valor," I could do nothing more than assist him to rise. The old soldier offered no return, no word of re proach escaped his lips ; but far more touch ing, he wept, the team ran down the deep furrows on his cheeks like rivulets from the mountain side—how I pitied him. I heard some due in a remote corner of the room, mutter something like the word brute, I looked, a tall, manly looking fellow rose and advanced towards the scene. " Who did that ?" he said with sparkling eyes, and a contemptuous curl on his thin lip. " Whoever did it, is a brute and a coward, and has no sense of shame in his black heart ?" He look ed towards me for an answer. I said nothing, but pointed to Galer,• who was just raising his huge fist, which fell like a sledge, sepa rating the air, filling the space just occupied by the strangers head. Like a thought, the stranger had dropped on his knees before the bully—and before he could recover the mo tion caused by the stroke, he found himself on the floor, with his bead almost broken. Before the bully had gained his feet, the stranger was hurried off into another room. Then such fearful imprecations as was heaped upon the stranger's head, by that profane man, I hope I may never hear again. He raged and frothed like a madman, kicked over the chairs, insulting every one in his way. At last a blear-eyed looking fellow, about three parts drunk, proposed that " they should fight it out," but the landlord interfering, said there should be no more fighting, and if they were determined to do so, they should leave the house, which settled the matter for the space of half an hour. By this time the stranger, through his disinterested respect for age, had gained several friends of a more res pectable class than his enemy's, and as is usually the case among such men, the dying embers of the feud, were again soon fanned to a blaze, and the two champions were es corted to the village green, " to fight it out." I did not follow the crowd, but a short time afterwards as I rode out of the village, I knew from the cheers (for the stranger,) that were borne on the still evening air, that the agility of the tall stranger had been victorious over the brute force of his adversary. [Written for The Globe.] The Farmers' Club CHAPTER I. And it 'came to pass that in the fall of '59, the farmers of Norton assembled themselves together, for the purpose of raising a society, to be called the Farmer? Club. And because of the inclemency of the weath er, and the roughness of the roads, no one, except the sons of Adam, had ever yet met with them. But in the third month, which is Nison, of the present year, the damsels of Norton were also invited to be present at the Farmers' Club. Accordingly six of the daughters of Eve, together with their neighbors and kinsfolk, set out on their journey to the school house, on the night of the thirteenth. CHAPTER II And being fatigued with our journey, and, as pilgrims are wont to do, we tarried for a while at the house of one Joseph by nanc, whose wife was also anxious to make one of our number." The evening being far spent, we were about to set out on our journey, when the door turn ed slowly on its hinges, and in our midst ap peared one David, who had come out from the land of steady habits, to pitch his tent with his brethren in the land flowing with milk and (not honey) sugar-cane. And it came to pass that we escorted this kind bachelor of the land of steady habits, to the Club, and by reason of the crowd that thronged the door, we entered amid cheers and loud exultations of here comes Mr. W., and the girls. Moreover, after pieces had been road by the committee, the society proceeded to nom inate officers for the next three months, after which they adjourned to meet the next Tues day evening. Lo l and behold, the next evening of the meeting, was beautiful to look upon, so much so, that a goodly number who had been ab sent for several meetings, was present on that night. - And hearing of the seven new members that were added to the Farmer's Club, of the town of Norton, they were anxious no doubt, to have a house full on that evening. And it came to pass that the election of of ficers passed off quietly, without any bon-fires or fisticuffs, as is generally common on such occasions. Although the gent nominated for Vice President was absent, yet he was elected by a large majority, for which he will please thank those six daughters of Ere. In journeying homeward I beheld one Wil liam, of Norton, escorting Frances, a fair damsel of James to her residence, which is at Willow grove. And I turned and looked in another direc tion, and there was Alfred, of the tribe of Thomas's also escorting one Mary; around the slough of much water, to her residence at Mount Pleasant. After these things, it came to pass that, as Lizzy, of the tribe of Matthew, was about to set out on her journey, that Frederick, a kins folk to the damsels above mentioned, was also ready to depart and be gone to their own coun try. After arriving at the house of Lizzy, being overcome with the journey, he tarried until daylight. Moreover, brethren, I would have you pub lish the Chronicles that have been written in the town . of Norton, that others in coming to this county, may see the good things whereof I have written, and profit thereby. Finally brethren, farewell. No man, I suppose, certainly no young man, ever began to gamble with the expecta tion of being a gambler. Nobody ever told a lie, meaning to be a liar. Nobody ever drank, meaning to he a drunkard. Nobody ever stole, meaning to be a thief. Nobody ever committed a wickedness for the sake of being a wicked-act man. Wicked men thought they could do a wicked act, and not have the moral quality of that act attached to them. They thought they could begin a course of wickedness, and not go through that course. And men never gamble that they may become gamblers. Of that army, a thousand strong, of professional gamblers in New York, I do not believe one set out to be a gambler. A man goes to college to be a school-master ; he means to be a professor from the day he determines to be there.-- Another man says, "I will be a physician ;" another man says, "I will qualify myself for a civil engineer ;" another man says, "I will study for a lawyer ;" another man says, " I will prepare myself for the ministry ;" an other man says, "I will prepare myself for the navy." But Ido not believe a man ever said, " I will be a gambler," and begin to in dulge in games of chance with that idea in his mind. On the contrary, no man ever be came a gambler that there was not in his mind, all through the earlier stages of his progress toward confirmation in this vice, a rebellion against any such idea. No man ever took the first steps toward becoming a gambler, that he did not say, "I will no tbe one." And yet, dry cards are very dry indeed.— Drinking and playing are so nearly connec ted that they court each other as almost inti mate relations and inevitable friends. And so, as playing for nothing is a very insipid process, men soon get to playing, not for money, but for the drink, for some little to ken, for nuts, for the supper, or something of the sort. They play for small amounts—just enough to keep their hand nerved, just enough to keep an object before their mind, just enough to have the devil inculcate them with a passion of gaming ; and the moment they have got the virus in them then it is no longer at their option how far they shall go. Suppose a man should go to his physician, and say to him, " Be kind enough to inocu late me with the small-pox, so that I shall have the small-pox a little !" Suppose a man should ask to be inoculated with the plague, so that he might have just a taste of the plague. When once the disease is in your blood, it is rto longer you shall say how little or how much you shall have of it. It has a work of its own, which it will carry out ir respective of your wishes. And that which •is true of gambling, is true of tampering with illicit pleasures— with this exception ; that gambling works with slowness, while licentiousness works like a conflagration. The spark rarely smoulders long. When a man has caught the infection it is as if he were set on fire of hell. There may be outward guises which for a time con ceal his real condition from observation, but underneath these the passions rage almost from the beginning, and he goes quickly through from the tentative sin into the very wallowing of the mire of iniquity. And do you suppose that in the beginning he pro pos 3cl that to himself? If it had been hinted to him, he would have said, "Is thy servant a dog—a hog!—that he would do this?"— And yet he does it.—Beccher. Editor and. Proprietor. CHAPTER 111 CAAPTER IV. CONCLUSION AN EYE WITNESS, Within the bounds of Norton, Illinois Beware of the Beginnings of Evil A girl, young and pretty, but above all, gifted with an air of adorable candor, lately presented herself before a certain Parisian lawyer. " Monsieur, I came to consult you on a grave affair. I want to oblige a man I love, to marry me in spite of himself. How shall I proceed ?" The gentlenian of the bar had, of course, a sufficiently elastic conscience. lle reflected a moment, then being more sure that no third person overheard him, replied unhesitatingly : " Mademoiselle, according to our law, you always possess the means of forcing a man to marry you. You must remain on three occa sions alone with him, that you can go before a judge and swear that he is your lover." And will that suffice, Monsieur ?" " Yes, Mademoiselle, with one further con• dition." " Well ?" NO. 44. " That you will produce witnesses who will make an oath to their having seen you re main a good quarter of an hour with the in dividual said to have trifled with your affec tions." " Very well, Monsieur, I will retain you as counsel in the management of this affair.— Good day." A few days afterward the young girl re turned. She was mysteriously received by the lawyer, who, scarcely giving her time to seat herself, questioned her with the most lively curiosity. " Well, Mademoiselle, how do matters prosper ?" " Capital l" " Persevere in your designs, Mademoiselle, but mind the next time you come to consult me, you must tell me the name of the young man we are going to render so happy in spite of himself." " You shall have it without fail, Monsieur." A fort-night afterwards, the young person, more naive and candid than ever, knocked discreetly at the door of her counsel's room. No sooner was she in the room, than she flung herself into a chair, saying that she had moun ted the steps too rapidly, and that the emo tion made her breathless. Her counsel en deavored to reassure her, made her inhale salts, and even proposed to release her gar ments. " It is useless," said she, "I an much bet- tor." " Well, Mademoiselle, now tell me the name of the fortunate mortal you are going to expose." " Well, the fortunate mortal, be it known to you, is—yourself," said the young beauty, bursting lilt° a laugh. " I love you, I have been three times tete-a-tete with you, and my four witnesses are below, ready and willing to accompany me to the magistrate's," grave ly continued the narrator. The lawyer thus fairly caught, had the good sense not to get angry. The most sin gular fact of all is, that he adores his young wife, who, by the way, makes an excellent housekeeper. Going to Big Cities to Make Money. In a recent sermon, Henry Ward Beecher says :—" Have you come to New York to get rich ? Did you take the trouble to come all the way from home down here just to get rich? Why, you might have demoralised yourself, and made a fool of yourself, without taking half so much trouble! God could have said, 'thou fool,' to you just as well, if you had staid at home I You have come here, among all this excitement and temptation, with no other end than this : I will be as big a fool as ten thousand before me have been !—here, where, if anywhere, wealth stands on a weak foundation ; here, where it has been proved, ten thousand times over, that the rich man is like au old harp frame without a string in it—that he has nothing in his soul which re sponds to joy; here, where a man may build lofty palaces and vast warehouses, and carry the street in his hand, and own the bank, and yet be a miserable wretch, raving at night, `I would that it were morning,' and saying in the morning, `I would that it were night!' You have come down to try the old game.— One more dupe for the devil ! One more bird running to the snare of the fowler ! Surely, a bird is wiser than you are ; for in vain is the snare set in sight of the bird ; but the devil scarcely takes the trouble to hide his snare. You have come down here, not for the sake of integrity, and truth, and recti tude, and God, and eternity, but to get rich ! Good-bye—go—we do not travel the same road !" " 0, I will not say so ; fur as my mother wept over me, your mothers wept over you. 0, the tears that have baptized you in the cradle 1 0, the prayers that have brought down the blessings which now you boastfully call the fruit of your own skill ! There is much, I trust, laid up to be answered in your behalf, yet. Think better of it-0, young man, thi❑k better of it. Think better of God; think better of heaven ; think better of man hood. If you have begun wrong, it is not too late to change your course. It is never too late to do well. Take a higher view of life. Get a nobler conception of duty." There is a prevailing idea that the two third rule in National Democratic Conven tions originated in the Baltimore Convention of 1844. This is an error. It was adopted as the basis of the first National Convention ever called, that of 1832, at which Jackson was re-nominated with Van Buren for Vice President. Previous to that date the Congres sional Caucusses had assumed to present can didates, but the election of Jackson in 1828, against caucus dictation, terminated that policy. The Cincinnati E2zguirer, speaking of this, says: The two-thirds rule was reported in 1832, from a committee, of which the late Vice President King, of Alabama, was Chairman. An attempt was made to substitute the ma jority principle, but it was voted down. In 1835 the second National Convention was held at Baltimore. The two-thirds rule was adopted after a long discussion. The major ity principle at - first carried, but was finally stricken out. In 1840, no action was taken on the two-thirds rule, at the third National Convention, as Mr. Van Buren was re-nomi nated for President by acclamation. In 1844, at the fourth National Convention, the two thirds rule was adopted by a close vote after a long discussion. At the National Conven tions since held it has been adopted without opposition. The two-thirds rule has nev, er defeated a candidate for President who had a majority of votes in a Convention, save the case of Martin Van Buren, in 1844. It has been customary for the majority to yield to chat person fur whom a majority of the Con, vention votes. We have no doubt that will be the case at Charleston. WE have heard of an economical man who always takes his meals in front of a mirror— he does this to double the dishes. If that isn't philosophy, we would like to know whilt is. Caught in His Own Trap The Two-Thirds Rule
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