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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
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2 do. ado.
373.< 50
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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
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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