Newspaper Page Text
J. A. NASH;
the Corner qf Bathand Waxhingtoußtreete.
IiONTINRUON JOURNAL 10 published every
lay. by J. it. Dunnonnow and J. A. Nast!,
ie name or J. R. Du...now & Co., at
r annum, In ADVANCE, or $2,50 if not paid
a months from date of subscription, and
paid within the year.
p'er discontinued, unless at the option of
ishers, until all arrtara,s are paid.
F.RTISEMENTS will be ' inserted at TEN
)er line for each of the first four insertions,
E ceaco per line for each subsequent laser
; than three months.
ar monthly and yearly atlyertisenients will
ted arthe following rates:
3m; Gm' in ;
1 y 3m 6m 9 m!ly
1 .. •
501 4 , 01 5Mt 6 uuir 90018 00 $ 274 36
001 o 0 10 on 12 00l 21 00 360 501 65
00 10 00'1400,18 00, `. 81005000 65 80
00:14 80 2) 00,21. 001
50'18 03;25 00130 00 , 1 col 36 00 GO 00 80 100
inserted at TWELVE ♦ND
locul null edizorial no-
esolutions of As'sociations, Communications
al or individual interest, and notices of Mar
na Deaths, exceeding five lines, will he
cr.Nvs per line.
t and other notices will be charged to the
acing. thun inserted.
,gents must find their commission
nubs are duc and collectable
PRINTING of every kintl, in Plain and
.lolors, done with neatness and dispatch.—
ills. Blanks, Cards, Pamphlets, &c., of every
and style, printed at the shortest notice,
:ry thing in the Printing line will he excel,
he most artistic manner and at the lowest
DENGATE, Surveyor, Warriors
CALDWELL, Attorney -at -Law,
'0; ill, 1J street. Office formerly occupied
re. Woods k Williamson. Lapl2,ll.
~ R. R. WIESTLING,
respectfully offers his professional services,
:itizens of Huntingdon and vicinity.
removed to No. G 136 Hill street, (Surrn's
L J. C. FLEMMING respectfully
Arcrs his professional services to the citizens
tingdon and vicinity. Office second floor of
iglntin's building, on corner of 4th and fill
P. MILLER, Office on MR
street, in the room formerly occupied by
he :Wee'loch, Huntingdon, Pa., would res
ly offer his professional services to the citi
• Huntingdon and vicinity. Dan.4,'7l.
I. A. B. BRUMBAUGH, offers his
professional services to the community.
c on Washington street, one door east of the
is Parsonage. pan. 4,71.
J. GREENE, Dentist. Office re
mom' to Loiter new building, Hill street
L. ROBB, Dentist, office in S. T.
11,wn'e new building, No. 520, 11111 St.,
ngdon, Pa. [apl2,'7 1.
GLAZIER, Notary Public, corner
• of Washington and Smith streets. Ilim
m, Pa. [jaa.l27l.
C. MA.DDEN, Attorney-at-Law.
• Office, No. —, Bill street, liuntinglon,
SYLVANUS BLAIR, Attorney-at-
Law, Huntingdon, Ps. Office, Hill street,
doors west of Smith.
R. PATTON, Druggist and Apoth•
cowry, opposite the Exchange Hotel, Hun
., Pa. Prescriptions accurately compounded.
Liquors for Medicinal purposes. [nor 23,'70.
HALL MUSSER, Attorney-at-Law,
Huntingdon, Pa. Office, second floor of
ir's new building, Hill street. Dun. 4,11.
At torn ey-at•
Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will practice in the
al Courts of Huntingdon county. Particular
Lion given to the settlement of estates of dece-
ice in ho Joirnmet
A. POLLOCK, Surveyor and Real
Estate Agent, Huntingdon:Pa., will attend
rveying in all its branches. Will also . buy,
Jr rent Farms, Houses, and Real Estate of er
.ind, in any part of the United States. Send
W. MATTER v, Attorney-at-Law
t and General Claim Agent, Huntingdon, Pa.,
,ers' claims against the Government for back
bounty, widows' and invalid pensions attend.
with great care and promptness,
fice on Hill street
- ALLEN LONELL, Attorney-at
- Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attention
a. to COLLECTIONS of all kinds; to the settle-
I of Estates, ac.; and all other Legal Business
canted with fidelity and dispatch.
Os Office in room lately occupied by R. Milton
ir, Esq. [jan.4,7l.
.M. a.. M. S. LYTLE, Attorneys
• wt-LaW, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend ,to
rinds of legal business entrusted to their care.
on the south side of Hill street, fourth door
I A. ORBISON, Attorney-at-Law,
b• Office, 321 Ilill street, Huntingdon, Pa.
N SCOTT. S. T. BROWN. J. U. BAILEY
COTT, BROWN & BAILEY,. At-
torneys-at-Law, Ilantingdim, Pa. Pensions,
all claims of soldiers and soldiers' heirs against
Government will be promptly prosecuted.
W. MYTON, Attorney-at-Law, llun
--. tingdon, Pa.. Mice with J. Sewell Stewart,
VILLIAM A. FLEMING, Attorney
at-Law, Iluntingtlon, Pa. Special attention
en to collections, and all other legal business
ended to with care and promptness. Otice, No.
~11iil street. [apt:l.'7l.
rXCHANGEOHN HOTEMILLER L, Huntingdon
A Pa. J S. , Proprietor.
January 4, 1871.
ALLISON MILL ER. H.
dILLEII & BUCHANAN,
No. 228 II Street,
April 5, 'll-ly
'/FILES ZENTMYER, Attorney-at
:CA- Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend promptly
all legal business. Office in Cunningham's new
NTEAR THE RAILROAD DEPOT,
COR. WAYNE and JUNIATA STREETT
UNITED STATES HOTEL,
'CLAIN A CO., Pnornorroas
Lw OBT. KING, Merchant Taylor, 412
Washington street, Huntingdon, Pa., a lib
•n/ &arc of patronage respectfully solicited.
April 12, 1871.
LA SNYDER, WEIDNER k. CO., Manatee
trers of Locomotive and Stationary Boilers. Tanks,
ipes, Filling-Barrows for Furnaces, and Sheet
PM Work of every- description. Works on Logan
;met, Lewistown, Pa.
Ail orders prnwrp;ly attended to. Repairing
one at abort now...e. [Apr 5,'71,13,*
kY .i :;: ~
. ..: ...,
.., ' ei.c l". '
D u tlng d on Journal
. , 0
THE HUNTINGDON JOURNAL.
EVERY WEDNESDAY MORNING
J. R. DITRBORROW & J. A. NASH.
Office corner of Washington and Bath Sts.,
THE BEST ADVERTISING MEDIUM
ROME AND FOREIGN ADVERTISE
MENTS INSERTED ON REA-
A FIRST CLASS NEWSPAPER
TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION
$2.00 per annum in advance. $2 50
within six months. $3.00 if not
paid within the year.
ALL KINDS OF JOB WORK DONE
NEATNESS AND DLSPATCII,
AND IN THE
LATEST AND MOST IMPROVED
POSTERS OF ANY SIZE.
WEDDING AND VISITING CARDS,
. LETTER HEADS,
ETC., ETC., ETC., ETC., ETC.,
Our facilities for doing all kinds of Job
Printing superior to any other establish
ment in the county. Orders by mail
promptly filled. All letters should be ad
J. R. DURBORROW & CO.
right plots' goor.
Ere in the Northern gale
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.
The mountains that enfold
In their wide sweep the colored landscape round
Seem groups of giant kings in purple and in gold
That guard enchanted ground.
Oh, Autumn, why so soon
Depart the hues that make the forest glad
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave the wild and sad?
Ali I 'twere a lot too blest
Forever in thy colored shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the southwest,
To roam and dream for aye.
And leave the vain, low strife
That makes men mad ; the tug for wealth and
The passions and the cares that wither life
And waste the little hour.
TWO PASSING CLOUD.
"Do you want me to get anything for
you in town ?"
Andrew Thurston spoke very calmly,
and a chance listener might have thought
that he spoke kindly, Re certainly spoke
deferentially; but his lips were compress
ed, and there were lines upon his brow
which were not usual. Ordinarily he would
have said, as he drew on his glove :
"Now, my love, what can I get for you
in town ?" and he would have spoken gay
ly and frankly, with sprightliness and
sparkle; for they had been married not a
year yet, and only the day before Andrew
had declared that they would never outlive
"Ettie," he said with a kiss, "when we
cease to love, we shall cease to live; life
could be nothing without love."
But now a cloud had come; very small
at first—not bigger than a man's hand—
but yet a cloud. Ellie had never complain
ed of flitigue or weariness, and yet she was
far from robust. On this particular morn
ing she had arisen with an aching head,
but she did not mention it. She did not
smile as was her wont, and her husband
asked her what was the matter. His ques
tion seemed to imply that her manner had
fretted him—there was almost an accusa
tion in it—and she replied rather shortly :
"But there must be something," said
he. "What is it ?"
This, to his wife, rendered over-suscep
tible by her headache, seemed a dispute of
her words, and she answered :
"I tell you—nothing."
"But Ellie," he said, "you wouldn't act
so if there was nothing the matter."
"Act how ?" demanded his wife, flush
ing under his direct charge. "What have
I done ?"
What could her husband reply to this ?
What single act of hers—what word, even,
could he point out? Something in her
manner Lad jarred upon the sensitive
chords of his heart, and a cloud had come
between them; but how could he tell it ?
How could he give to another an idea of
that which had no form nor substance and
which he bad only perceived because it
dropped a discord into the exquisite har
mony of his jealous love ? He could make
no plausible answer, and this fretted him
"Oh, nothing," he said, drawing back.
"If you don't choose to confide in me, all
His wife's eyes flashed now, and she
spoke quickly—spoke so quickly, and so
feelingly. that her husband was, iu turn,
offended; and, with a hasty word upon his
lips, he went out into the city, which was
but a few miles distant from his suburban
When Andrew Thurston re-entered the
sittino , room, with his hat in his hand, he
asked the question we have already heard.
"Do you want me to get anything for
you in town ?"
How cold his voice sounded to his wife
who sat, with bowed and aching head, by
the curtained window. It did not sound
like the voice of her husband, rnd she did
not look up. She would wait until he
came to kiss her, as he always did before
he went away, and then she might be able
to speak—to speak upon his bosom where
she could hide her face—but she dared not
trust her voice now. She knew that she
would cry if she spoke,
and she would not
have her husband see her do that if he
were angry with her. But he did not
come to her. He turned without another
word and was gone.
Andrew Thurston knew that his wife
must have heard his queston, and as she
did not immediately answer, he allowed his
answer to express itself in a slam of the
door as he went out. He pulled on his
gloves very vigorously, and stepped off
with measured strides. But not CO long.
The fresh morning air fanned his brow
with a cooling influence, and he began to
think, He had missed something. For
the first time since he had married he was
going away without his wife's kiss. Surely
a cloud had arisen upon the domestic ho
rizon, and something like a stern' had
come upon their peace. He was unhappy
and the more he meditated the more un
happy he became.
~ .Ellie was to blame," he said to himself.
But this did not heal the wound. "I may
have been hasty," he acknowledged, after
further recollection. "But still," he as
sured himself, "she irritated me."
Thus he reached a point very far from
soothing or satisfactory in its influence.—
He was forced to acknowledge that he had
allowed himself, in a moment of irritation,
to speak hastily and unkindly.
A little thing it was, to be sure, but it
gave him great pain. A mote is a tiny
particle, but becomes a thing of painful
moment when it is lodged in the eye ; and
the heart that is made tender with a de
voted, living love, is es sensitive to motes
as to the eye. Hitherto the current of
Andrew's love had flowed on unbroken and
untroubled, but this incoming of obstruc
tion had produced a turbulence as destruc
tive of peace and happiness, for the time,
as though the very fountain of love itself
had been broken up. In short, he was
brought to the self-confession that there
could be no more joy for him until this
cloud had passed away. And how should
that be done? How should the sunlight
be let in again upon his hearthstone ? He
was proud, and he did not like to make
confession of his fault. Would his wife
make the first acknowledgement ? He
hoped so; for thus the evil might be put
As he sat alone in his office, he Loop up
a paper, and sought to overcome his un
happy thoughts by reading. He could not
fix his mind upon the thread of a long ar
ticle, so he read the short paragraphs; and
at length his eye caught the following :
HUNTINGDON, PA., OCTOBER 11, 1871
"Where there has been a misunderstand
ing between near and dear friends, result
ing in mutual unhappiness and regret, the
one who loves most and whose senses of
right and duty is the strongest, will make
the first advance - towards reconciliation."
Andrew Thurston dropped the paper,
and rose to his feet. It was as though a
voice from heaven had spoken to him.
"I do not love the most,". he soliloqui
zed; but I am the strongest, and should
show my love by my works."
Ile looked at his watch—it was almost
noon. It was not his custom to return till
evening, but he could not remain and bear
the burden through the other hours of the
day. And he marveled, as he put on his
hat and drew on his gloves, how even the
resolve to do this simple thing bad let the
sunlight into his soul.
Ellie Thurston when she knew that her
husband had gone—had gone without giv
ing her time to recover her stricken senses—
sank down and wept; and it was along time
before she could clearly think and reflect.
She had been left alone—alone with pain
and sorrow, and she was utterly miserable.
She blamed herself fur not havino•" called
her husband back to her; and she blamed
him for not having come of his own accord.
To her it seemed as though the death of
joy had come. She had never known such
misery before. By and by, when she could
think, she wondered if her husband would
smile upon her, if she would offer the first
kiss, and speak the first word of love. She
would try it. It would be terrible if he
should repulse her; but she could not
The hours passed and the young wife
sat like one disconsolate. She thought not
of dinner—she had no appetite. She only
thought could the warm sunshine ever
come over her again ? Did her husband
love her less than she thought ?
Thus she sat with pale cheeks and swol
len eyes, when she heard the outer door
open, and a step in the hall. She started
up to listen, thinking that her senses might
have deceived her, when the door of the
sitting-room was opened, and her husband
entered. His eyes filled with tears when
he saw how pale and grief-stricken his
wife looked, and with open arms he went
"Ellie, my darling, don't let us be un
happy any more."
He had been thinking, on his way home,
what he should say when he met her; and
he had framed in his mind a speech of
confession which he would make; but for
got it all when he saw her, and his heart
spoke as it would. The words burst from
his lips, lovingly, prayerfully, beseeching
ingly, "Ellie, my darling, don't let us be
unhappy any more I"
She came to his bosom, and twined her
arms about his neck; and for the kiss
that was unmissed in the morning they
wept no more apart, but they wept to
gether. _ _ _
That was all. The cloud had passed;
and they experienced the exquisite thrill
which all true hearts feel when a wrong
has been made right, and the warm joy
beftnia drive ftwnr rho dark slindwar of sor
row and regret. It was a life-lesson to
them both; and they promised themselves
that they would never forget its teachings.
fading tor the Win.
Labor is Conducive to Long Life.
When we take into consideration the
limited period of time that is set to life by
one's occupations, we must regard it as a
consoling, a sublime truth that the tenden
cy of labor is not to shorten life, but on
the contrary, when reasonably engaged in
it, has a tendency to lengthen life by keep
ing the organization of the system in free
and healthy running order for a longer
time ; while, on the other hand, idleness
and luxury are as injurious to health, and
consequently as dangerous in their tenden
cy to shorten life as the most unhealthy
occupations. _ _
D. Guy, an Englishman, in calculating
the average duration of life in the wealthy
classes, arrived at the rather surpassing
conclusion that the higher the position in
the social scale, or the more unlimited their
means, the less the probability of a long
It has been so long considered by a large
number of persons that the possession of
wealth was the best, and, in fact, only gu
arantee to physical welfare, that many will
be surprised to-hear from Guy, "that the
probitbility of the duration of life lessens,
with regard to adults in each class of pop
ulation, in the same degree as the benefi
cial impulse for labor is lacking. If a per
son who for a long time has lived an active
life, retire from business, it may be taken
for granted, with a probability of ten to
one, that he has seized the most effective
means to shorten his life."
Of all the conditions of life, idleness is
the hardest for nature to cotubat,and hence
it is dangerous to the interests of life and
health for one who has been used to phy
sical exertion, as the farmer for instance,
to quit work and either remain idle or en
g:age in sonic other occupation which re
quires no manual labor.
Then, farmers, don't call a farmer's life
a dog's life because of the labor that it
requires, for, as we have said above, labor
is conducive to long life, Be careful not
to expose yourselves too much—work mod
erately, manage carefully, and with the
smile of Providence, long life and plenty
Benefits of Laughter.
Probably there is not the remotest cor
ner or little inlet of the minute blood ves
sels of the body that does not feel some
wavelet from the convulsion produced by
hearty laughter, shaking the central man.
The blood moves more lively—probably,
its chemical electric, or vital condition is
instinctly modified—it conveys a different
impression to all the organs of the body, as
it visits them on that particular mystic
journey, when the man is laughing, from
what it does at other times. And thus it
is that a good laugh lengthens a man's life,
by conveying a distinct and additional
stimulus to the vital forces. The time may
come when physicians, attending more
closely than they do now to the innumera
ble subtle influences which the soul exerts
over its tenement of clay, shall prescribe
to a torpid patient so many peals of laugh
ter, to be undergone at such and such a
time, just as they do now that far more
objectionable prescription-,-..a pill, or an
electric or galvanic shock; and shall study
the best and most effective method of pro
ducing the desired effect in each patient.
TIIE great novelty in traveling-dresses
are the Baden-Badon towel costumes, that
are literally made of the rough brown
bath toweling, which we know better as
Lost but Saved ,
BY SIGNOR BLITZ.
One night while in London, upon re
turning very late to my boarding house,
found, on arriving at the door, pacing up
and down in evident distress of mind, a
young man, the son of my worthy land
lady, whom I had learned to look upon
with a great deal of interest, by reason of
his uniform gentlemanly deportment and
the affectionate solicitude he ever exhibit
ed for his mother. He held a fine position
as clerk in a large house, and was one in
which his employers reposed the utmost
"Why Harry! what is the matter ?" I
asked, not a little alarmed at this sudden
scene: "What are you doing here ?"
"I am a lost man, ruined, eternally ruin
ed, and my poor mother—"
"Ruined, lost, what do you mean ?"
"I have lost everything—my salary, my
mother's little jewels which my father gave
her—and, to complete my guilt, I have
r-r obbed my employers."
"You! you! robbed your mother, and
your master ! When, and for what pur
"Yes, I have done it—and not an hour
since I staked the last crown of my thiev
ings on the card table at—. am
.damned forever," he cried wildly, throw
ing hinuelf upon the doorstep, in an agony
Here was a scene indeed; a young man,
before whom, but a few months since,
there were the happiest prcspects of an
honorable life—a mother's only hope, and
the esteemed confidant of an honorable
merchantile house, lying abjectly upon the
earth with every daraig hope in ruin.
Here, then, was the cause of his silence,
his moodiness, and his late hours.
I saw it at a glance, and as quickly did
I resolve to save him if possible. After
some little entreaty, I persuaded the young
man to leave the place where he was, and
go with me to some secluded locality. On
my way I learned the whole story. It was
a simple one, and just such as happens
The young man, by the invitation of a
friend, had been induced to visit—, to
see the place; next to take a game or so
for the pleasure of the thing ; soon, to
make it more interesting, small sums were
staked, and lost of course; next to win
them back, debts were incurred, which, if
not paid, would lead to exposure. Poor
Harry ! he saw his position, but how could
he return. His salary was small, and only
came on quarter-days.
The friend suggested borrowing without
asking a loan—for he could replace it in
a few days, and no one would be the wiser,
for luck would turn. It was as eve, the
old story over again—and he fell into the
snare, first, by robbing his mother, then,
on this day, he had taken fifteen pounds
from his employers.
After listening to his tale, I knew at
once how he had been duped, and proposed
that he should go with me to—, "where,"
said I,"though I never gamble, yet I hope
to teach a lesson that--.hall elmqe you
never to put your foot within this, or any
similar place again. Come, it is now near
morning, and if you wish to save yourself,
do as I direct and perhaps it can yet be
My companion led the way to the saloon
where I was to be introduced as a special
friend. All, of course, were glad to see
me, and with the young man near I set
down to one of the card tables and com
menced to play. For a time I lost, but
soon the game began to take a more favor
able turn, and after an hour's play, I arose
from the table, and left the place with
above a hundred and fifty pounds in my
After I had gained the street, and was
a considerable way from the house, where
my visit had not been a very agreeable one
to some who wished we to remain longer,
I turned and said, "there Harry, you see
what I have done. This fortune, as you
gamblers call it., is a cheat, and the money
which I have taken from those scoundrels
who robbed you, was done in accordance
with their own principles. Here are the
cards I played with," and beneath the
light of the street lamp I showed him a
pack of cards, so arranged that I could
always hold the game in my hands. Be
sides I designated marks by which I knew
the character of every card in the hands
of my opponents. "There," said I, "in
those and similar ways, lie the art of gam
bling. Yon have been duped, but I know
you will not be so again."
. . _ .
"I see it all—bat now it is too late I"
exclaimed the poor fellow. "Now I see
"Not yet; promise me' but one thing,
and you shall be saved."
"What is it ? I will do—ay, be anything,
only for my poor mother's sake."
"Give me your word of honor, then,
that you will never again touch card or
dice-box, and here is the money which I
have won. Take it ; pay back the money
you have taken from your employers—
make what lamest and true account you
can to your mother, and remember as long
as you live, the night of the 10th of March,
The young man promised and I never
had occasion to doubt but that he kept
A Quaker Printer's Proverbs
Never send thou an article for publica
tion without giving the editor thy name,
for thy name often times secures publica
tion to worthless articles.
Thou shouldst not rap at the door of a
printing office, for he that answereth the
rap sneereth in his sleeves aad loosetli
Neither do thou loaf about, ask questions
or knock down type, or the boys will love
thee like they do shade trees—when thee
Thou shouldst never read the copy on
the printer's case, or the sharp and hooked
container thereof may knock thee down.
Never inquire thou of the editor for the
news, for behold it is his business, at the
appointed time, to give it thee without
salting. _ _
It is not right that thou shouldst ask
who is the author of an article, for his
duty requireth him to keep such things to
When thou dost enter into his office
take heed unto thyself that thou dost not
look at what may be lying open and con
cerneth thee not, for that is not meet in
the sight of good breeding.
Neither examine thou the proof sheet,
for it is not ready to meet thine eye that
thou mayest understand.
Prefer thine own town paper to any
other, and subscribe for it immediately.
Pay for it in advance, and it shall b:s.
well for thee and thine,
TIIE ties of buSiness—Advertise.
gilt Vents Vito.
Would-be reformers usually go so far in
advance of public opinion in their efforts
to correct evils and abuses that they render
themselves liable to the charge of eccen
tricity, if not extravagance. Though there
may be a good sound basis of the truth in
some of the accusations which they hurl at
society, they ale so uncompromising in
their condemnation and propose such abrupt
departures from the well-troden paths of
custom and fashion that the majority of
people regard their theories either as the
fruit of a cynical disposition or as the evi
dence of a morbid desire to attract notice
by singularity of conduct. The result is
that the community is but little improved
by their violent denunciations of error and
the impracticable correctives they suggest.
Social customs are not always right, however
many of them justly deserve severe Ben
sure and urgently require a thorough and
radical reformation. A woman doctor of
"Our Home," at Danville, N. Y., is a re
former who furnishes a pertinent illustra
tion. She has zealously labored, both by
precept and example, to prevail upon wo
men to substitute a more comfortable and
healthful arrangement of their clothing
for the ordinary cumbersome and injurious
style now in vogue. Her argument is as
"It is terrible, the hardship which wo
men suffer on account of the style of dress
which they are almost forced to wear, and
and some of them feel it to be so. Every
woman who does feel it should assert her
right so far at least as to wear in her
home a costume in which she can work or
rest, stand up, sit down or lie down, wash
or sew, cook or make beds, go up chamber
or down cellar, without hinderance or ob
struction. We, the women of 'Our-Home,'
are determined that we will not be sub
jected to the impositions of fashion and
custom in this regard, and we have inven
ted a style of dress which we call the
American costume, and in wearing of
which we experience immeasurable com
fort and satisfaction."
There is nothing imaginary in her as
sertion that women suffer hardships from
this cause. It is not so much the whim
sical pattern, or the unnecessarily expen
sive material of which the dress is com
posed that is objectional, as the manner in
which the clothing is suspended on the
person. This not only interferes with the
comfort of the wearer, but seriously im
pairs her health.
The widely extended, and almost uni
versal prevalence of feeble health among
women is due, in part, to this unnatural
method of adjusting the dress, which, com
bined with the lack of exercise, sunlight
and fresh air, is all that is needed to ac
count for the physical degeneracy so com
monly attributed to the women of the pres
ent age. The remedy, as proposed by the
lady referred to, is not likely to be gen
erally accepted, notwithstanding the en
thusiastic prase of its merits, and although
it promises to go very far toward removing
many of the sufferings of her sex
The object of this costume, she says, is
to afford complete protection to every part
of the body, while the free, natural action
of no muscle or organ is interfered with.
The costume is fitted nicely, but so easy
about the chest and shoulders that the
arms can be used freely, the lungs expand
ed and the ribs thrown out to the fullest
extent without restriction; the stomach is
free from pressure; all heavy, heating
underskirts are dispensed with, and bands
of undergarments removed, skirts and
drawers being supported by suspenders or
buttoning to a well-fitting, complete un
dersuit. The skirts are short and the
lower limbs are clothed with pantaloons or
The purpose intended to be accomplish
ed by the introduction of this new apparel
deserves hearty encouragement from every
woman who desires to improve the health
of womankind; but the apparel itself is
entirely too much at variance with modern
fashions to meet with general approval.
It is quite possible, however, to let the ex
ternal dress remain as it is, subject to all
the vagaries of conventionalism, and, at
the same time, to alter the arrangements so
as to fulfil all the salutary indications sug
gested by this radical reformer. If she
can induce the women of this country to
adopt this portion of Is r improvement in
dress, she will preserve them from much
of the untold mental as well as physical dis
tress which they must now endure, and
will perform an important service for safe
Why People do not Marry Better.
You have seen a beautiful girl, beauti
ful in person and spirit, graceful in form
and feature, and of a lovely disposition,
married to man of common mould. Who
cannot recall many such instances ? Then
again, you see strong, intellectual men—
men every way superior—so grievously
mistuated ! It has often been remarked
that if matches are made in heaven, they
must have got dreadfully shaken up and
misplaced on their way down.
Now it is very natural not only that
people should, in the first place, all want to
marry well themselves, but also, in the
second place, that their own friends should
be particularly well married. At the same
time, when we take a broad, philosophical,
true view of the matter, what do we find
our conclusion to be on the subject ?
It is very simple, and it is this : Mar
riage on the whole, cannot average above u
certain medium quality ; in other words
marriages, in the general, must be pre
cisely on the level with the ordinary char
acter of the persons of whom the commit •
nity is made up. And, as a comprehen
sive proposition, the whole problem of mar
riage is reduced to this question. It is
better for such people to marry each other
or to live single ?
It is inevitable that., as marriage is gen
eral, there must be thousands of instances
in which parents will be disappointed at
the matches which their children make.
Love is mysterious, and it leads the feet of
boys and girls in directions where their
fathers and mothers would fain not have
them go. They will not select the com
panions for life which others would select
for them. The most that can be done to
render marriage happier, is to contribute
what one can to the improvement of the
whole community. It is not in your power
to foresee who may become your son-m-law
or your daughter-in-law—perhaps it may
be the very last person on earth you would
'Whatever parents do, therefore for the
physical, intellectual and moral education
of the whole people, will in a manner, tend
to increase the chances that their own sons
and daughters will succeed in obtaining
partners for lift suited to their several
ght paw Sink.
There are few who rightly appreciate
manners, and who value them according to
their real worth. There are many who
greatly over-estimate them, who make them
the sole index by which they judge others,
and cultivate them as the one thing need
ful in themselves. There are those, on the
other hand, who despise and scorn good
manners, affecting to see in them only the
tinsel, which may either cover goodness of
heart, or hide vice and corruption. Both
of these classes are mistaken—they have
equally failed to discover either the source
from which manners spring, or the effects
they arc destined to produce. An eminent
writer has defined manners to be "the visi
ble carriage of the individual, as resulting
from his organization and his will combi
ned—lfs thought entering his hands and
feet, and controlling the movements of his
body, speech and behavior." They are
thus themselves realities, but the signs of
realities, and as such, should be honored
not for themselves but for what they re
present. The smile on the lip and the
tear in the eye are nothing, save as they
show the affection or sympathy of the heart.
But as this they are much, and may never
be contemned. It is only where a sign is
substituted for the thing signified, where
the cold heart and impure disposition try
to copy the outward expression of love and
purity, and by hypocrisy endeavor to pass
for what they are not, that manners lose
their significance and become worthless.'
It may be said, that if this is so, there
can be no duty resting upon us to cultivate
good manners; that each one should be
content to be natural and nothing more,
and allow his individual character to ex
hibit itself by its appropriate signs,-what
ever they may be. There is some reason
in this. To be natural, to be true to our
selves, to be sincere in every look, word
and gesture, is one of the first principles
of virtue, one which we can never trans
gress with impunity. But while we may
never counterfeit the signs of goodness, let
us take care that we possess the true coin.
There is an error that many make who
pride themselves on their sincerity. "I
never pretend to anything I do not feel,"
is the boast of some who ought rather to
be ashamed of their lack of feeling, and to
be humbly striving to enrich their hearts.
The improvement and ennoblement of char
acter, which should be the aim of every
individual, cannot be accomplished without
direct and continual control over its exter
For example, the passionate man can
never calm that Blom that rages within
him till lie subdues its outward expression.
He whose heart burns with the desire of
revenge can best quench the unholy pas
sion by performing some friendly act to
ward his enemy. f affection, benevolence
and good-will are absent, the best. way to
produce them is by constant acts of friend
ship and beneficence If we feel cross and
ill-humored we can at least bridle our
tongues and look pleasantly. If we are
rough cud rude iu our inclinations, we can
force ourselves to acts of politeness and
courtesy. Such a course as this has no
flavor of hypocrisy or insincerity. It is an
earnest effort at self-improvement by the
most direct means ' and will in no ease be
ineffectual. The difference between such
a conflict of the inner and outer man, and
the course of action which simply apes vir
tues it does not possess, lies wholly in the
motive. He, who, for the sake of appear
ance, counterfeits goodness; who, to be
thought benevolent, gives away large sums;
or to be esteemed affectionate, feigns a love
he does not feel, is a hypocrite, whose se
cret self and external expression are ever
growing further and further apart, and
whose thin veil of deceit will not long hide
his real character. But he who is striving,
simply and humbly, to improve himself;
who employs every means to conquer the
evil and strengthen the good in his own
nature, may also find that his manners are
not always a faithful exponent of the dis
position within, but it will be because he
aims by his manners to exalt his mind, and
by controlling the external signs to enno
ble and dignity the soul within. One who,
with this worthy aim, compels his deport
ment to represent the character he strives
to become, will find his task grow easier
and easier, his inner self and outward ex
pression will continually and naturally ap
proach each other, until at length they
come into perfect harmony and consonance.
Judged from such a standard, the manners
are by no means the frivolous and unim
portant things that some deem them. Ev
ery look, word and gesture bears the im
press of what is within, and is fraught
with results on our characters and lives.
I have never written a sermon in de
scription of the juigment day; I have
never felt able to do it. I have been little
profited by the efforts of others to describe
it. The subject is so vast., se solemn, so
awful, that I cannot grasp it. In a dim
sort of way. I have imagined it—the vast
multitude filling half of heaven ; the throne
uplifted in the midst; the unreserved rev
elation of life made by each when ques
tioned; the opened books, in which man
finds every deed and thought of his hands
and heart recorded ; the word of verdict,
from which none appeal; the. commotion
and separation as some pass to the right,
others to the left, of the throne ; the on
looking anzels poising on steady wings like
a great white cloud above the crowded mass
—all this, in a dim sort of way, I repeat,
I have imagined; but to put the picture
in words I canuot,—Rev. Murray.
If one should give me a dish of sand,
and tell me there were particles of iron in
it, I might look for them with my eyes,
and search for them with my clumsy fin
gers, and be unable to detect them; but
let me take a magnet and sweep through
it, and it would draw to itself the most in
visible particles, by the mere power of at
traction. The unthankful heart, like my
finger in the sand, discovers no mercies;
but let the thankful heart sweep through
the day, and, as the magnet finds the iron,
so it will find, in every hour, 80111(1 heav
enly blessings, only the iron in God's sand
HERE AND THERE.—When a man dies,
the people ask, "What property has he
left behind him ?" But the angels as they
bend over his grave, inquire, "What, good
deeds, hast thou sent before thee."—Ma-
Do you know that all your property be
longs to God?
Do you know that you forfeit all your
hope by indolence ?
Do you know that your Sunday vacant
seat looks bad ?
!ke fano' Paget.
"Artemus" Visits the Shakers.
"Mr. Shaker," sed I, "you see before
you a Babe in the Woods, so to speak, and
he axes a shelter of you."
"Yay," sed the Shaker, and be led the
way into the house, another bein' sent to
put my horse and wagon under- kiver.
A solum female, lookin' somewhat like
a last years' bean-pole stuck into a long
meal-bag, cum in and sand me was I athirst
a.d did I hunger? To which I asserted
"A few." She went orf and I endeavored
to open a conversation with the old man.
"Elder, I 'spect," sed I
"Yay," he sed.
"Health's good, I reckon ?"
"What's the wages of a Elder, when he
understands his bizness--or do you devote
your sarvice gratooitons ?"
"Storm nigh, sir."
"If the storm continues there'll be a
mess underfoot, hay ?"
~ya y., ,
"If I may be so bold, kind sir, what's
the price of that pecooler kind of wesket
you wear, including trimmins ?"
"I pawsed a minit, and then, thinkin'
I'd be faseshus with him and see how that
would go, I slept him on the shoulder,
burst into a hearty larf, and told him that
as a gayer he had no living- ekel.
He jumped up as if bilhe water had been
squirted into his ears, groaned, rolled his
eyes up tords the sealin' and sed :
"Yju're a man of sin !"
He then walked out of the room.
Directly thar cum in two young Sha
keresses, as putty and slick lookin' gals as
I ever met. It is troo they were drest in
meal-bags like the old one I'd met pre
visly, and their shiny, silky hair was hid
from sight by long white caps, such as I
'spose female Josts wear ; but their eyes
sparkled like diamonds, their cheeks was
like roses, and they was charmin' enuff to
make a man throw stuns at his grandmoth
er, if they axed him to. They comment
clearing away the dishes, caatin' shy
glances at me all the time. I got excited.
I forgot Betsy Janc in my repter, and
sez I :
-My pretty dears, how air you ?"
"We air well," they solumly sed.
"Where's the old man ?" sed I, in a soft
"Of whom dost thou speak—Brother
"I mean that gay and festive cuss who
calls me a man of sin. Shouldn't wonder
if his name wasn't Uriah."
"He has retired."
"Wall, my pretty dears," sea I, let's
have some fun. Let's play puss in the
corner. What say ?"
"Air you a Shaer, sir ?" they asked.
"Wall, my pretty dears, I haven't ar
rayed my proud form in a long weskit yet,
but if they wuz all like you perhaps I'd
jine 'cm- As it is - , I'm to be a Sha
They was full of fun. I seed that at
fust only they was a little Fkeery. I twat
'em puss in the corner, and sich like plase,
and we had a nice time, keepin' quiet of
course so the old man shouldn't hear.
When we broke up, sez I:
"My pretty dears, ear I go you have no
objections, have you, to a innersent kiss at
"Yay," they sed, "and I yayed."—Ar
tenzus Ward His Book.
The Natick, Dias., Bulletin is responsi
ble for the following :
"Squire 8., a well-known barrister of
Belknap, having occasion to transact some
business at the Ossipec court, found a few
days at his disposal which he determined
to spend in trouting in the mountain
brooks. In company with an artist friend
he wandered several miles into the country.
Night came down and the sportsmen con
cluded to spend the night at a farm house
if permission should be obte.ned, and re
turn early next morning to the village. A
cherry-faced old lady granted permitision
to remain under her roof that night. Now,
as it was necessary that our • legal friend
should be at court at eight next day, the
good dame rose early and prepared break-.
fast by the light of a tallow candle. The
anglers were seated at the table in a dark
corner of the kitchen, while the old lady
was engaged over a sizzling frying pan on
the stove. "Row's this steak, T., tough,
eh ?" asked the lawyer, sotto voice. "Dcn't
know ; why ?" "By Jove, I can't chew
the stuff !" continued he. Wiping the
sweat from his forehead, he made - another
effort to masticate the mouthful, then
shouted, "My good woman, will you be
kind enough to see why this steak is so
tough?" The pleasant-faced old lady ap
peared with her candle, wiped the mois
ture from her spectacles and looked at the
plate, dropped the tallow candle into the
lawyer's lap, and shouted with horror,
"Great State of Hampshire Pve fried my
Went For Him.
A rough looking specimen of humanity
was recently promenading up Chatham
street, New York, when he came plumply
upon a Jew, a specimen of his race about
whom there is no mistake.
Without a word of warning, the rough
knocked him sprawling into the gutter.
Picking himself up, and taking his bleed
ing nose between his finger and thumb, he
demanded an explanation.
"Shut up; I'll bust yer again !" shout
ed the aggressor, approaching him again.
"I have never done notings mit you, and
what for you mash me in the nose!" asked
"Yes yer have; yer Jews crucified Je
sus Christ, and I have a mind to go for
"But, mine Cott, dat vash eighteen
hundred years ago," said the Jew,
"Well, I don't care, if it was; I only
heard of it last night," replied the am.
washed, and he went for him agsia.
AN Irishman, being recently on trial
for some offence, pleaded "not guilty ;"
and the jury being in the box, the State
solicitor proceeded to call Mr. Furkieson
as a witness. With the utmost innocence,
Patrick turned his face to £he court, and
said, "Do I understand, your honor, that
Mr. Furkisson is to be a witness forenenst
me again me ?" The judge said, dryly,
"It seems so." Well, then, your honor, I
plade guilty; sure an' your honor plaice,
not because I am guilty, for I am as inno
cent as yer honor's sucking baby, but just
on account of saving Mr. Furkinon's cowl r