TERMS OF THE GLOBE.
Per annum in advanco
tuontlo
MESE!
A failure to notify a discontinuance nt the expiration of
tho term subscribed fur will be couslihned a new engage-
I Mout.
I=
1 Iniortieu. 2 do. 3 do.
Pour Ilnes nr less $ 25 $ 31 $ 50
One square, (12.11 n..) ...... .... 50 75 100
Two olunio, 1 00........ 150 too
Three squares 1 50 2 25 3 00
Ow three week and leis thou three Months, 25 cents
per square for each insertion.
3 months. 6 months. 12 months.
.$1 50 $3 00 $5 00
.300 500 700
.500 800 10 00
, 7 00 10 00 15 00
. 9 00 13 00 20 00
.12 00 16 00 ...... —.24 00
.20 00 30 00— 50 00
Bin liner or less,
One *lmre,
Too ......
Throe squares,...
Pour omunrox .....
Haifa column,..
MIME
Professionnl. and [Meiners Cords not exceeding ruur lines,
one your, gt 00
Aitialidstlntore mid Executors' Notices, *1 75
Advertisements not rum kit with the number of minter.
thine desh ed, will be continued till forbid and charged ac
cording to these terms.
LET TEAT BANNER WAVE
Oh, let that starry banner wave
To glad the patriot's eye,
And tell in these degen'rato days
Of brighter days gone bye—
Of days when 'neath it in the light
The bronzed warrior stood,
And bore its folds in glory's light
O'er crimsoned fields of blood.
Still let it tell of strife and tears,
Of martyr'd spirits fled,
And of the long and toilful years.
Through which our father's bled,
Still let it tell of Bunker's height,
Of Monmouth's gory plain—
Of those who poured in Camden's fight
Their blood like summer rain.
Still on its folds beam every star
In bright and dimless ray,
And palsied be the hand would mar,
Or tear one gem away,
Forever let that that banner wave
To toll of deeds sublime,
And light each nation struggling o'er
The stormy sea of time.
Then freemen, round it firmly stand
With high and deep resolve,
And stay the wild fanatic band
That struggles to " dissolve."
Swear by the hope of future days—
The deed of days gone by,
That still in glory's deathless haze
That flag shall wave on high.
THE DOG AND THE ASSASSIN.
I=
While traveling in 1857, through the
beautiful city of Leipzig, I observed,
about a-half a league from the gate of
the town, a few rods from the high
way, a wheel and the bones of a chain
ed corpse exposed to the gaze of every
passer.
The following is the history of the
criminal as I learned from the judge
who conducted the trial, and condem
ed him to be broken alive.
A Gorman butcher being benighted
in the midst of a forest, lost his way,
and, in endeavoring to find the road,
was attacked by highwaymen. lie
was on horseback, and accompanied by
a large dog. One of the robbers seized
the horse by the bridle, while the two
others dragged the butcher from his
saddle and felled him. The dog im
mediately leaped upon one of them
and strangled him, but the other
wounded the animal so severely, that
he rushed into the woods, uttering the
most fearful howls. The butcher, who
by this time had disengaged himself
from the grasp of the second robbe •
drew its ktnre - antrklueu 1 •
the same moment he received a shot
from the third one, who had wounded
the clog, and fidling, was despatched
by the thief, who found upon him a
large sum of gold. a silver watch and
a few other articles of value. lie
plundered the corpse, leaped on the
horse and fled.
The next morning, two cutters hap
pening in the path, were surprised to
find three dead bodies, and a large
dog, who seemed to be guarding
them. They examined them, and en
deavored to restore life, but in vain.
One of them dressed the wounds of
the dog, gave him some food and
sought some water for him, while the
other hastened to the nearest village
with the news of the discovery. The
officer, accompanied by several atten
dants, was soon on the spot; the sur
geon examined the wounds of the
three bodies; they drew up a verbal
process, and interred them.
The dog had dragged himself, in the
course of the night, when all was quiet,
to the corpse of his master, where he
was the next morning. He allowed
his new friends to dress his wounds.
He looked on quietly as they dug
the grave, and allowed them to bury
the bodies, but as the turf was replac
ed, he stretched himself upon it, howl
ed mournfully, and resisted all efibrts
of the bystanders to induce him to
move. Ho snapped at all who came
near him, except the woodman who
had tended him. He bore his caresses,
but no sooner did the man attempt to
take his paws to remove him from the
grave than he gnashed his teeth and
would have wounded him severely if
be had not fled. Every one admired
the fidelity of the dog, and when the
woodman offered to carry him food
and drink each day that he might not
perish, the magistrate proposed taking
up a collection to remunerate the man,
as ho was poor, and the father of a
large family. With difficulty he was
induced to accept the money, but he
finally did, and front that moment bne
doned himself with the care of his new
pensioner.
The details of this horrible event
wore published in the principal journals
a the country. J. Meyers, a brother
,of the butcher, reading sometime after
ward the advertisement of the magis
trate, hastened instantly to his pres
ence, saying he had fears which he be
hoved only too Well founded that his
brother had fallen into the hands of
robbers, as ho haddeft home with a
large sum of money for the purchase
cif cattle, and was not since heard of.
His suspicions were only too sadly
confirmed when the magistrate related
to him the conduct of a dog which he
described. Mr. Meyers, accompanied
by the officer and several others re
ilffired to the grave. As soon as the
allg perceived his master's brother, he
bowled, lapped his hands, and evinced
other demonstrations of joy. By dif
ferent parts of his dress, Mr. Meyers
recognized the body of his brother
when they disinterred it. The absence
of the gold and the watch, tho wounds
of the butcher and his dog, those of
the two other bodies, together with the
disappearance of the horse, convinced
the magistrate and the witnesses that
the deceased had not only been assas-
Mnated by two but also by several oth
ers, who had fled with the horse and
plunder.
Having obtained permission, Mr.
MeyerA removed the corpse to his
EMI
WILLIAM LEWIS, Editor and Proprietor.
VOL. XVI.
native village, and interred it in the
adjoining cemetery. The faithful dog
followed thebody, but by degrees he
became attached to his now mas
ter.
Every effort was made by the most
dilligent search, and the offer of im
mense rewards to secure the assassins.
But in vain—the horrible tragedy re
mained an enigma.
Two years had passed away, and all
hopes of solving the mystery had van
ished, when Mr. Meyers received a let
ter, urging him to repair to Leipzig
without delay to close the eyes of his
maternal uncle, who desired to see him
befor he died. He immediately has
tened thither, accompanied by his bro
ther's dog, who was his constant com
panion. He arrived too late. His
relative had deceased the previous
evening, bequeathing to him a large
fortune. He found the city crowded,
it qeing the season of the great fair
held regularly there twice a year.
"While walking ono morning on the
public square, attended as usual by his
dog, he was astonished to behold the
animal leap forward like a flash. He
dashed upon the crowd, and leapep fu
riously upon an elegantly dressed man,
who was seated in the centre of the
squure, on an elevated platform erect
ed for the spectators who desired more
conveniently to witness the show.—
He held them by the throat with so
firm a grasp that he would have stran
gled him had not assistance been ren
dered. They immediately chained the
dog, and thinking of course he must
be mad, strove to kill him. Mr. Mey
ers ran through the crowd and arrived
in time to save his faithful friend, cal
ling eagerly in the meantime upon the
bystanders to arrest the man for he
believed the dog recognized in him the
murderer of his brother.
Before he had time to explain him
self, the young man profiting by the
tumult. escaped. For some moments
they thought Meyers himself med,and
he had great difficulty in persuading
those who had bound the dog that the
faithful creature was not in the least
dangerous. and begged earnestly for
them to release him that he might pur
sue the assassin. He spoke in so con
vincing a manner, that his hearers fi
lially felt persuaded of the truth of his
assertions. and restored the clog to his
freedom, who joyously bounded to his
master, leaped upon him a few times
and hastened aware•.
lie divided the crowd, and was soon
who upon these occasius are very ac
tive mid prompt, were immediately
informed of this singular and very ex
traordinary event, and a number were
soon in pursuit. The dog became, in
a few minutes, the object of public cu
riosity, and every ono drew back to
give him room. Business was suspen
ded and crowds collected in groups.
conversing of nothing but the dog and
the murder which had been committed
two years before.
After an hour's expectation, a gen
eral rush indicated that the search was
over. The man had stretched himself
on the ground, in the heavy folds of a
double tent, and believed himself hid
den. But, in spite of his fancied secu
rity, his avenger tracked him, and
leaping upon him, he tore his gar
ments, and would have: killed him on
the spot, had not assistance rushed to
the rescue.
He was immediately arrested, and
led, with Mr. Meyers mid the dog,now
carefully bound, before the judge, who
scarcely knew what to say of so ex
traordinary- an affair. Meyers related
all that had happened two years be
fbre, and insisted on the imprisonment
of the man, declaring that he was the
murderer of his brother, for the dog
could notbo deceived.
During all this time it was almost
impossible to hold the animal, who
seemed determined to attack the pris
oner. Upon interrogation the judge
was not satisfied with his replies, and
had him searched. There were found
on him a large sum of gold, jewels,and
five watches, four of which were gold,
and the fifth an old silver one of but
little consequence. As soon as Meyers
saw the last, he declared it to be the
same his brother wore the day he left
home—and the description of his
watch published months before, cor
roborated his assertions. The robber
never dared to expose it, for fear that
it would lead to his detection, as he
was well aware that it had been mi
nutely described in all the principal
journals in Germany.
In short, after the most minute and
convincing legal proceedings of eight
months, the murderer was condemned
to be broken alive on the wheel as an
example to others. On the night pre
ceding the execution, he confessed,
among other crimes. which until then
he had alway denied, that be was the
murderer of Meyers' brother. Ho gave
them all the details as above related,
and declared that lie always believed
the cursed dog had died of his wounds.
" Had it not been for him," he repeat
ed several times, " I would not have
been here. Nothing else could have
discovered me, for I had killed the
horse and burled him with all he
wore."
lie expired on the wheel, and this
was the corpse which I beheld, before
entering the gates of Leipzig.
zer A French paper says that near
St. Sevier there lives an old soldier
with a false leg, false arm, a glass eye.
a complete set of false teeth, a nose of
silver, covered witkThembstanee imita
ting flesh, and a replacing
part of his skull. He was i soldier
under Napoleon, and these are his tro-
DEA,.. the league of friendship is
once broken, the cabinet of secrets is
unlocked, and they fly wildly about
like uneaged
DEATH OF CLEOPATRA,
Oetavius, now undisputed master of
the world, was dreaming of the splen
did triumph which awaited him in
Rome; and the presence of Cleopatra,
the renowned queen of Egypt, to lead
in the train of the captives, would be
one of the most conspicuous ornaments
of the triumph. Conscious of the deg
redation which awaited her, she watch
es for an opportunity to commit suicide.
Octavius with almost equal interest
guarded is captive, that she might not
thus escape him. Her fetters were
truly those of silk and gold, for she
was treated with the most profound
deference, surrounded with all her ac
customed luxuries, and all her wants
were abundantly supplied.
Octavius indulged himself with a
triumpal entrance into Alexandria, en
deavoring by humanity and condescen
sion to secure the fitvor of the people.
Yet cruelly, it would seem, he caused
the eldest son of Antony, and also Cue
sario, Cleopatra's son by Julius Cxsar
to be put to death. Fearing nothing
from any of the other children of Cleo
patra, he treated them all as princes,
provided them with teachers, that they
might receive an education suitable to
their rank.
At length Octavius visited Cleopatra
in person. She received him artisti
cally languishing upon a conch, draped
in gauze like robes which scarcely con
cealed her voluptuous beauty; for
though the freshness of youth had de
parted, she was still a woman of rare
loveliness. No one knew better than
Cleopatra how to magnify her charms,
by tones of softness, and that artless
ness of manner which is the highest
achievement of art. Her beautiful
eyes were filled with tears, her cheek
flushed with emotion, and rising from
her couch she fell, half fitinting, pros
trate at the feet of Octavius. The
young conqueror lifted the exquisitely
moulded, drooping form and placed
her on the couch by his side, support
ing her against his own bosom. A
queen whose renown filled the world,
beautiful, graceful, pliant, had thrown
herself into his arms. How could he
treat her cruelly. Had Cleopatra been
nineteen instead of thirty-nine, the
decision might have been different,
and, by facile divorce, the way might
have been made easy for Cleopatra to
share the throne of - Universal em Are
W.l • , C as le
stances were, were, ambition proved more
powerful than love.
Cleopatra exhausted all her maga
zines of art—tears, smiles, reproaches,
blandishments, flattery, supplications
to win Octavius, but in vain. lle trea
ted her with politeness, but his heart
remained obdurate. The queen took
from her bosom some letters full of
tenderness, from Julius Ciesar, and
with a trembling voice and falling tears
read them to Oetavius.
" But of what avail to me now," "is
all this kindness? Why did I not die
with him ? And yet in Octavius I see
another Julius. You are his perfect
imago. Ile seems to have returned
from the spirit land in you."
All was in vain. After a long inter
view Octavius left, and Cleopatra re
flected in despair that for the first time
her charms had foiled her. She had
surrendered herself to Octavius and he
had coldly laid her aside. What more
couLD she do ? Nothing. There now
remained for her but to die, or to be
carried to Rome to grace the triumph
of her conqueror. There was a young
Roman in the camp by the name of
Dolabella. lie was much affected by
the queen's grief, and she with woman's
tact had thrown him all the meshes of
her wiles. Dolabolla knew and inform
ed her of all that was transpiring.—
One day he brought to her couch the
tidings, fiat in three days she and her
children were to be sent to Rome.
The crisis had now come, and, with
singular calmness and fortitude, Cleo
patra prepared to die. After taking a
bath, she attired herself in her most
sumptuous robes, and sat down with
her friends to a truly regal feast. Ap
parently banishing all care, the festive
hours passed rapidly away. At the
close of the feast she dismissed all her
attendants but two. She then wrote
note to Octavius, informing him of
her intention to die, and requested that
her body might be buried in the tomb
with that of Antony. She had con
trived to have brought to her, in a bas
ket of flowers, an asp, a reptile the
concentrated venom of whose bite cau
ses inevitable death, and yet with but
little pain. She dispatched the letter
to Octavius, and immediately placed
the reptile upon her arm. The poison
ous fangs pierced her flesh, stupor and
insensibility soon ensued, and she sank
back upon her couch and died.
Octavius, immediately upon receiv
ing the letter from Cleopatra, dis
patched messengers hoping to prevent
the fatal deed. But tiny arrived too
late. Upon entering the chamber they
found Cleopatra already dead, still ar
rayed in her royal robes. ller two
waiting women were at her side. One
of the messengers uttered words of re
proach, but the maid of honor replied—
"It is well done. Such a death be
comes a glorious queen, descended
from a race of illustrious ancestors."
Tie not atli'onted at a jest. If
one throw salt at thee, thou wilt re
ceive no horn), Imjer3s thou host sore
places.
11EN, Few have been taught to any
purpose who have not been greatly
their own teachers.
Wl A bad mistake often turns out
better than a bad intention.
xtm,„ God often lets us stumble, to
put tur , on one glumd a e.:ahn,t a fall.
HUNTINGDON, PA., WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 16, 1861.
FROM ABBOT'S " ITALY."
El2ll
a~
~~~,
-PERSEVERE.-
FACTS ABOUT THE BODY.
There are about two hundred bones
in the human body, exclusive of the
teeth. These bones are composed of
animal and earthly materials, the for
mer predominating in youth, the lat
ter in old age, rendering the bones
brittle. The most important of these
bones is the spine. which is composed
of twenty-four small bones called ver
tebrae, one on top of the other, curi
ously hooked together and fastened by
elastic ligaments, forming a pillar by
which the human body is supported.
The bones are moved by the muscles,
of which there are more than five hun
dred. The red meat or beef, the flit
being excluded, is the muscular
fh
brie of the ox. There are two sets of
muscles, one to draw the bones one
way, and another to draw them back
again. We cannot better describe the
muscles than by comparing them to
fine elastic thread bound up in their
cases of skin. Many muscles termin
ate in tendons. which are stout cords,
such as may be seen traversing the
back of the hand, just within the skin,
and which can be observed to move
when the hand is open or shut.—
Every motion we make, even the in
voluntary ono of breathing, is per
formed through the agency of muscles.
In adults there are fifteen quarts of
blood, each weighing about two pounds.
This blood is of two kinds, arterial and
veinous. The first is the pure blood,
as it leaves the heart to nourish the
frame, and is of a bright vermillion
color. The last is the blood as it runs
to the heart loaded with the impuri
ties of the body, to be refined, and is
of a purple hue. Every pulsation of
the heart sends out two ounces of ar
terial blood, and as there are from
seventy to eighty beats in a minute, a
hogshead of blood passes through the
heart every hour. In fevers, the pul
sations are accelerated, and conse
quently death ensues if the fever is
not checked.
The stomach is a boiler, WANT may
use such a figure, which drives the hu
man engine.
Two sets of muscles, crossing each
other, turn the food over and over.
churning it up in the gastric juice till
it has been reduced to the consistency
of thin paste. This process requires
from two to four hours.
Emerging from the, stomach the
food enters the small intestines, where
it is mixed with the bile'aud
j i.;6:.'n777tirto chyle.—
These small intestines are twenty-four
feet long, closely packed, of course, mid
surrounded through their whole length
with small tubes which are sockets,
and drawing off the chyle, empty into
a large tube named the thoracic duct,
which runs up the back and discharges
the contents into the jugular vein,
whence it passes to the heart to as
sist in forming the arterial blood.
The lungs are two bags connected
with the open air by the windpipe,
which branches into innumerable small
tubes, all over the inside of the lungs,
each terminating in a minute cell.—
The outer surface of these air cells is
full of small capillaries, infinitely small
veins, a thin membrane only dividing
the air from the blood.
The impure portion of veinous blood
is carbonic acid, which, having strong
er affinity for air than for blood, pass
es through this membrane to a gase
ous state, combines with the air in the
cells, and is expelled with the next
respiration. Meanwhile the oxygen
of the air unites with the blood, and
becomes purified; then passes into the
heart, being mixed with the chyle,
it is forced through the body as life
giving and arterial blood.
The skin serves an important pur
pose in carrying off the impurities of
the system. It is traversed with cap
illaries of the body. It is also perfor
ated with countless perspiration tubes,
the united length of which amounts to
twenty-eight miles, and which drains
away from three to four pounds of
waste matter every twenty-Thar hours
or five-eights of all the body discharges.
The nerves are another curious fea
ture of the animal economy. They
are, however, but ltttle understood.—
They act as feelers to tell the wants of
the body, and also as conductors to
will the muscles to act. They branch
out from the brain and spine over the
whole frame infinitely fine fibres, like
branches or twigs to trees.
PLEASURE,
All pleasures aro bought with a
price. We enjoy nothing for which we
do not pay. All true pleasures are
paid for in advance, or rather they
come to us as rewards for some net or
inspiration of our lives, that has produ
ced an inevitable result. The youth
who in a fit of passion leaves his home,
and pronounces it hateful and a prison.
returns to it after weary years of toil
and lengthened unsatisfied longings,to
find it the loveliest spot of all the earth
to him. lie has won the true pleasure
he now feels by years of penitence and
effort. lie has paid Its price, c‘ strictly
in advance," and it is now his—he may
enjoy it to the utmost.
Therice paid for pleasure is almost
invaria p bly pain. It is a question
whether anything is ever fully enjoyed
for which this price is not paid,
As true pleasure is paid for in ad
vance, the false is paid fir after its en
joyment is past. All the meretricious
pleasures of sense soon pall upon the
wearied spirit. The debt thus incur
red must thus be paid. Weariness of
spirit, penitence, regret, remorse, sor
row that no alleviation, are the cur
rency in which the wicked pay for
their false pleasures. The wino of life
sparkled in the cup they pressed to
their lips, but" having tasted they must
drain its bitterest dregs. Who would
thus accumulate a debt of woe and
suiferiwx.
(//'
‘.
%%%, =~
(7 -
c. .
.-
:,...
s -i: .
.. , .
.
. ~
. .
. ~ . , .
i. _ *
My husband is a very strange man !
to think he could have grown so pro
voked about such a little thing as that
scarf: Well, there is no use in trying
to deceive him, I've settled that in my
mind. But he can be coaxed—can't
he though; and from this time shan't
I know how to manage him ! Still,
there is no denying, Mr. Adams is a
strange man.
You see this morning at breakfast,
I said to him; " Henry, I must have
one of those ten dollar scarfs at Buck
ley & Byrne's. They are perfectly
charming, and will correspond so nice
ly with my maroon velvet cloak. I
want to go this morning, and get it
before they are all gone."
"'Ten dollars don't grow on every
bush, Adaline, and just now times are
bad, you know," he answered, in a
dry careless kind of tone which irri
tated me greatly. Besides that, he
could afford to get me the scarf as
well as not, only my manner of re
questing it did not suit s his lordship.
" Gentlemen who can ',"iifford to buy
satin vests at ten dollars apiece, can
have no motive but penuriousness for
objecting to give their wives as much
for a scarf." I retorted, glancing at
the money which a moment before he
had laid by my plate, requesting to
procure one for him. He always
trusts me in these matters. I spoke
angrily, and should have been sorry
for it the next moment, if he had not
answered: " You will charge it then
to my penuriousness, I suppose, when
I tell you that you cannot have
another ten dollars."
Well, then, I will take this and get
a scarf. You can do without the vest
this fall," and I took up the bill and
left the room,:for he did not answer
me.
" I need it, and I must have it," was
my mental observation, and I
wailed my tear swollen eyes, and ad
justed my hair for a walk; but all the
while there was a whispering at my
heart; "Do not buy it. Go buy a
vest for your husband." And at last
that inner voice triumphed. I went
down to the tailor's bought the vest,
and brought it home with me.
" Here it is, Henry ; I selected the
color I thought would suit you best.
Isn't it rich ?" I said, as I unfolded
the vest after dinner, for somehow my
pride was all gone. I felt so much
happier since the scarf had been :iven
up.
He did not answer me, but there
was such a look of tenderness filling
his dark eyes as his lips fell on my
forehead, that it was as much as I
could do to keep from crying outright.
But the cream of the story is not
told yet. At night, when lid came
home to tea, he threw a little bundle
in my lap. I opened it, and there was
the scarf—the very one I had set my
heart upon.
Oh, Henry ?" I said, looking up,
and trying to thank him; but my lips
trembled and the tears dashed over
the eyelashes, and then ho drew my
head to his heart, and smoothed down
my curls, murmured the old loving
words in my oar, while I cried there
a long time, but my tears were such
sweet ones!
He is a strange man, my husband;
but he is a noble man, too, only he is a
little hard to find out sometimes, and
it seems to me that my heart says
it more earnestly to night than it
ever did before—Clod bless him.
REARING CHILDREN,
1. Children should not go to school
until six years old.
2. Should not learn at home during
that time more than the alphabet,
religious teachings excepted.
3. Should he fed with plain, sub
stantial food, at regular intervals of
not loss than four hours.
4. Should not be allowed to eat
anything within two hours of bed
time.
5. Should have nothing for supper
but a single cup of warm drink, such
as a very weak tea of sonic kind, or
camomile tea or warm milk and water,
with one slice of cold bread and but
ter—nothing else.
6. Should sleep in separate beds, on
hair matresses, without cap, feet first
well warmed by the fire or rubbed
with the hands until perfectly dry; ex
tra covering on the lower limbs, but
little on the body.
7. Should be compelled to be out of
doors for the greater part of daylight,
from after breatthst until half an hour
before sundown, unless in damp, raw
weather, when they should not be al
lowed to go outside the door.
8. Never limit a healthy child as to
sleeping or eating, except at supper;
but compel regularity as to both; it is
of great importance.
9. Never oompol a child to sit still,
nor interfere with its enjoyment, as it
is not absolutely injurious to person
or property, or against good morals.
10. Never threaten a child ; it is cru
el, unjust and dangerous. What you
have to do. do it, and he done with.
11. Never speak harshly, or angrily,
but mildly, kindly, and when really
needed, firmly—no more.
12. By all means arrange it so that
the last words between you and your
children at bed time, especially the
younger ones, shall be words of un
mixed lovingness and affection.
bn„ Harrison Duffer's houn in Lew
istown, was entered on the night of
the Ist inst„ and a trunk containing
$3BO in gold and silver carried off.—
The trunk was afterwards found but
the money was missing. The money
stolen was the hard earnings of sever
al years of an industrious young man.
, Xte - Of all wild beasts the most dan
gerous is a slanderer; of all tame ones
a flatterer.
TERMS, $1,50 a year in advance.
A LIFE SKETCH.
CODFISII ARISTOCRACY.
writer in one of the New York
Sunday papers thus discourses on the
species denominated codfish aristoc
racy :
" Laugh as we may and must at the
pretensions of those who sail under
the flag of codfish aristocracy, they
aro, nevertheless, greatly to be pitied.
Their immense exertions to attain the
enviable position of the drones of so
ciety, and their still more violent ef
forts to retain their foothold when
they have once climbed the ladder,
fully entitle them to be considered
workinc , members of the community ;
and the many frights and mortifica
tions they must endure, deserve our
deepest sympathy. how dreadful it
must be never to dare to deviate from
one regular pattern of dress, move
ment or speech, lest people should
think they were not used to society !
How terribly the absent-minded re
marks of some forgetful person must
sound to the juvenile ears What hor
ror must assail them when some pie
bian relative, too rich to cut, appears
unexpectedly at a reception, and re
marks across the room in a stentorian
voice say, Jenkins, times is altered
since you and me made candles in the
little shop next door to the rag and
bottle depot, aint they ?' Or when
some old-time neighbor nods a friendly
recognition across fine rows of fashion
able individual's at the theatre, and in
quires, in ignorance of altered fortune
and position—' How d'ye do ? How's
business? Much doing in candles, now
a-days ?'
" In my opinion, no torture could be
worse than the struggle to keep up a
false position; in vain pretence to aris
tocratic birth or hereditary fortune—
the false shame which seeks to cover
the humble ladder which it was not
ashamed to climb. Whenever I see
one of those recently-elevated dames
(women are by fitr the worse,) who
seeks to show her dignity by humming
ludicrous airs, and attempting to lead
every whim of fashion—who treats
her servants with insolence, her trades
men with rudeness, her mental and
moral superiors with insult—l feel
naturally seine anger and contempt,
but much more pity ; pity for the
mind which renders one mortal de
spicable and ridiculous in the eyes of
all others—for the mind utterly wasted
in endeavors to be what nature and
Providence never intended man for
ior the soul which, utterly Clite
garding every higher attribute, fritters
itself away and is degraded by the
vain effort to appear what men call
'highly born.' "
WOMAN.
Great, indeed, is the task assigned
to woman ! Who can elevate its dig
nity ? Not to make laws, not to lead
armies, not to govern empires; but to
form those by whom.laws are made,
armies led, and empires governed; to
guard against the slightest taint of
bodily infirmity, the frail, yet spot
less creature, whose moral no less than
physical being, must be derived from
her; to inspire those principles, to in
culcate those doctrines, to animate
those sentiments which generations
yet unborn, and nations yet uncivilized
will learn to bless; to soften firmness
into mercy, and chasten honor into
refinement; to exalt generosity into
virtue; by a soothing care to allay the
anguish of the body, and the fir worse
anguish of the mind; by her tender
ness to disarm passion; by her purity
to triumph over sense; to cheer the
scholar sinking under his toil ; to eon,
sole the statesman for the ingratitude
of a mistaken people; to be compensa
tion for friends that are perfidious—
for happiness that has passed away.—
Such is her vocation. The couch of
the tortured sufferer, the prison of the
deserted friend, the cross of the re
jected Saviour—these are theatres on
which her greatest triumphs have
been achieved. Such is her destiny;
to visit the foresalcen, to tend to the
neglected when monarchs abandon,
when counsellers betray, when justice
prosecutes, when brethren and disci
ples flee, to remain unshaken and un
changed, and to exhibit in this lower
world a type of that love, pure, con
stant and ineffable, which in another
we are taught to believe the test of
virtue.—Blackwood's .Magazine.
WHAT WE SOW, WE REAP.
There was once an old niaa whose
eyes had become dim and his ears
deaf. When he sat at the dinner-table,
he could hardly hold his spoon, so that
sometimes he spilt his soup on the
cloth, His son and daughter-in-law
were much displeased at this; at last
they made their old thther sit in a cor
ner behind the stove, and gave him
food in a little earthen plate. He nev
er got so much as he could eat, and he
would often look towards the table
with wet, yet longing eyes.
One day his shaking hands let the
little dish fall, and it was broken. The
woman scolded, but he said nothing;
he only sighed. They then brought a
wooden trough for him. Once ho was
sitting thus in the corner;
his grand
child, about four years old, was play
ing on the floor near him; with some
pieces of wood,
" What aro youmaking ?" asked the
father smiling.
" I am making a trough," answered
the child, " for father and mother to
eat from when they are old and I rim
grown big."
Tho man and his wifelooked at each
other in silence, and their tears flowed
fast. They brought the old father
back to the table,
and gave him as
much as he wished, and they never
spoke angry words, when his trembling
band spilt soup on the cloth ,---Christian
For The Globe. _
11cOnaktOsviLLE, Deo; '3l, 1860.
Ma. EDITOR :—.A.B ray pen has been
laying by for some time, and the name
of Yrrah almost sunk into oblivion, I
shall in a manner lay before your many
readers a few pencilings, taken while
traveling along the path of life. And
perhaps will continue doing so weekly,
for a short period of time, ns it has
been the request of many,
Almost twelve score days and ton
have expired since my last correspon
dence appeared in the excellent col
umns of your highly conducted paper.
ATDCGCLX is trembling upon the
brink of time, and will soon be forever
gone. Already is his requiem being
sung. How soon it passed away
Do we ever think of the theme it af
fbrds for serious reflection and medita
tion ? How true,
" The year rolls round, and steals away
The breath that first it gave;
What e'er we do, where e'er we be, -
We're traveling to the grave."
NO. al
The close of this year as_ well es
every other brings reminiscences, mel
ancholy reminiscences to the mind.—
Row many of our friends and asso
ciates who commenced the year with
as fair prospects of long life as we did
are now laying beneath the clods of
the valley, awaiting the coming of
Gabriel to bid them come forth ? ' Who
of us has not lost a father, mother; sis
ter, brother or some fond •relative, or
companion? Let as take these inter
rogations into consideration, and with
the new year turn a new leaf and
make preparations for death in life.
Last week was a week of general
recreation among a great number of
our business men, as well as the literati
of the township. Some visited the
east, some the west, and others the
centre (county.) Several, myself in
the company, spent a few days in "ye
ancient borough" with "ye jolly"
townsman, E. Green. Em is a clever
fellow, and sound on the j question.—
Long may he circulate.
I must not forget to mention, Mr.
Editor, that a portion of our time was
spent with . the young ladies of your
borough, with whom we become ac
quainted many years ago. It afforded
us great pleasure indeed, to meet in
one social gathering and converse
about the time past and gone.
We unite in tendering our sincerest
thanks to Miss L. B. for her evenings
entertainment on the piano forte,
More anon,
NEWLY MARRIED COUPLE.
" William, dear William," said the
wife with a world of affection in her
•
eyes.
" Speak_, heavenly charmer," replied
the new husband, returning with in
terest the expressive glances of his
spouse.
"Dear William!"
•
" Adored Eliza !"
" Sweet flatterer !"
" Angelic creature."
" Dear, dein. William, pardon me—
but do you think a short walk would
hurt us, as the divine Willis says ?"
"I fear, lowliest of thy sex, that you
maybe fittigued."
"Heavenly - emanation—bright dream
of my precarious existence—but I
cannot help fearing."
" Sweet William:"
"Celestial Eliza !"
Here they fell to violent kissing,
which lasted abort fifteen minutes.
Almost breathless the lady exclaimed :
" William, clear William, why are
you so sweet? Oh, this joy, the ec-
Stacy of wedded bliss! Best beloVed
will you over love me thus ?"
" By yonder fearful—l say tremen
dous—orb I swear;" he exclaimed,
pointing to the setting sun.
" And as a memento of our wedding
day, you will yearly bring me here—
will you, you cherished idol?"
"Yes, my only pet—my life—my
love—will bring you here every year
—if my capital holds out !"
4 :Ah! bravest and best of thy noble
sex, talk not of capital in this, our
hour of bliss,"
How much longer they talked the
writer cannot say, for he was called
away at this moment to welcome some
friends from Maryland. But ho is
firmly of the opinion that none but
married folks know what real happi
ness is. While the above happy couple
were talking he felt as if immersed in
molasses, and every thing since has
looked, felt, and smelt sweet.
GREATNESS AND GOODNESS.
Worthy of all acceptation is the wise
maxim, " Greatness may procure a
man a tomb, but goodness alone
can deserve an epitaph." Were
men measured by their goodness
or their greatness alone, how many
epitaphs graven on perishable marble
and written on imperishable paper
would the world read to-day. A. man
may be groat without being good, and
good without the first scintillation of
oreatness about him ; and yet each de,
mands that his epitaph shall blazon to
the world what he might have been,
not what he was. Let each man write
his own epitaph, and what a series of
strange and seemingly irrepneliabb3
contradictions would be presented
The good would ask to be great—the
great, good I Superficially looked upon
these epitaphic publications would be
false; but substantially they would be
true; and for this all-sufficient, reason
—no man has lived or can truly live as
his soul expresses itself. Externals
govern him to his out-doings and in
comings. He craves for bread, , but is
ever receiving a stone, and thus the
food ho receives nourishes not the aspi
rations which prompt him to deeds of
goodness or greatness when uninfluen
ced by worldly considerations; and thus
were he to write his epitaph he would
speak of himself as he truly is, and not
what he seems to be to, the world. -•
During the pearl-fishing excite
ment in New Jersey, a few years since,
it will be remembered a very large one
was found at Paterson. Empress Eu
gene is now the possessor of it, it is
stated, at a cost of $2,500.
Aig - There is a difference between
happiness and wisdom; ho that thinks
himself the happiest man really is so ;
but he that thinks himself the wihost
is generally the greatest fool,
Se - They who are easily flattered
are always easily cheated.
ps,. When you cannot see , . both ondo,
the middle is uncertain.
YARRAII