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:NGATE, Surveyor, Warriors
rk, Pa. [apl2,'7l.
ALDWELL, Attorney -at -Law,
Hi, 31 greet. Office foreierly occupied
Woods & Williamson. [apl2;7l.
'.. R. WIESTLING,
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,ne of Huntingdon and vicinity.
toyed to No. 61Si Hill street, (Sutra's
. C. FLEMMING respectfully
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. JOHN S. MILLER, Proprietor.
y 4, 1871.
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lie gllmoto' pimr,
What Does it Matter.
It matters little where I was born
Or if my parents were rich or poor ;
Whether they shrank at the cold world's acorn
Or walked in the pride of wealth secure;
But whether I live an honest man,
And hold my integrity firm in my clutch,
I tell you, my brother, plain as I can,
It matters much I
It matters little how long I stay
In a world of sorrow, sin and care;
Whether in youth I am called away,
Ur live till my bones of flesh are bare;
But whether I do the best I can
To soften the weight of adversity's touch
On the faded cheek of my fellow men,
It matters much I
It matters little where be my grave,
Or on the land, or on the sea ;
By purling brook, or 'neath stormy wave,
It matters little or naught to me;
But whether the angel of death comes down
And marks my brow with a loving touch,
As one that shall wear the victor's crown,
It matters much
THE GIPSY GIRL.
BY MM. ERCKMANN-CHATIIIAN.
AT the extreme end of the village of
Dosenheim, in Alsace, a few steps above
the sandy footpath which leads to the wood,
stands a pretty little house surrounded by
fruit trees, its flat roof laden with heavy
stones, its gabled front projecting over the
valley. Flights of pigeons are whirling
about, liens scratching under the hedges;
upon the little garden , wall is perched a
cock whose crow is repeated by the echoes
of the Falberg ; two branches of a vine
cover the front of the house and spread
themselves out under the roof; a staircase
with wooden railing ou which clothes are
hanging out to dry, leads up to the first
story. Mount this staircase, and at the end
of a short passage you come to the kitchen,
with its plates and dishes and fat soup-tu
reeus ; open the door on your right, and
you enter the large sitting-room, with its
old furniture, its ceiling supported by heavy
brown beams, its old-fashioned Nuremberg
clock ticking the time.
A woman about thirty-five years old,
wearing a closely-fitting bodice of black
silk and a black velvetcap with wide hang
ing ribbons, is sitting there spinning.
A man in plush coat and brown cloth
breeches, with wide forehead and calm
thoughtful expression, is whistling to a fat
chubby-faced boy and jumping him on his
Such was the house of Bremer, and such
were Bremer, his wife Cathirine, and their
little boy Fritz in the year of grace 1820.
I picture them to myself just as I have de
scribed them to you.
Christian Bremer had ferrnerly served
in the chasseurs of the Imperial Guard.—
After the year 1815, he married Catharine,
his old love, when she was no longer young,
but still blooming and full of charm. With
his own property, his house, four or five
acros of vineyard, the land which be got
with Catharine, Bremer was one of the
most well-to-do men in Dosenheim; he
might have been mayor or deputy mayor,
or municipal councillor, if he liked, but he
did not care for these honors, and when be
had done his day's work in the fields, his
only pleasure was to take down his gun,
whistle to his dog Friedland, and go for a
turn in the wood.
Now one day, when he came back from
shooting, he brought with him in his great
game-pouch a little gipsy girl, lively as a
squirrel and brown as a berry. He had
found her at the foot of a tree, beside a
poor gipsy woman, dead from fatigue, and
perhaps from hunger.
Catharine cried out and protested against
having the child ; but Bremer, who was
quite the master of his own house, simply
announced to his wife that the little one
was to be baptized and given the name of
Susan Frederica Myrtle, and was to be
brought up with little Fritz.
Of course all the gossips in the village
cause by turns to look at the little gipsy,
whose grave and thoughtful face quite as
tonished them. "She is not like other
children," said they. "She is a little hea
then !—a regular little heathen !—you can
see by her black eyes that she understands
everything!—she is listening to us now.—
You had better take care, Master Christian,
gipsies have hooked fingers. If you rear
young weasels, you may find one fine morn
ing that your cock is throttled and your
egg all gone."
"Get along with you !" exclaimed Bre
mer, "and mind your own business. I
have known Russians, Spaniards, Italians,
Germans, Jews; souse had brown skins,
some black, some red ; some had hooked
noses; some snub-noses; and everywhere,
yes, amongst all of them, I have found
honest, worthy men."
"That might be," said the gossips, "but
then all those people lived in houses, where
as gipsies live in the open air."
Bremer would hear no more, so ho took
the women by their shoulders and pushed
them gently enough towards:the door, say
ing as he did so. "Go along, go along; I
don't want any of your advice. It is time
to attend to the farm, to clean out the sta
bles and wash the floor."
The gossips ware not, however, entirely
in the wrong, as unhappily was proved
twelve years afterwards.
Fritz delighted to feed the cattle, and to
take the horses to water, to go with his
father to the fields to dig, or sow, or reap,
or tie up the sheaves and then bring them
in triumph to the village. To Myrtle, on
the contrary, it was no pleasure to occupy
herself usefully; she had no mind to milk
the cows, or churn the butter, or shell the
peas, or peel the potatoes. When she heard
the girls of Dosenheim, as they were wash
ing clothes of a morning in the stream that
ran through the village, call her the "little
heathen," she would look at herself com
placently in the water, and seeing the re
flection of her beautiful black hair, purple
lips and white teeth, she would smile and
murmur to herself; "They call me the little
heathen because I am prettier than the
other girls," and bursting into laughter,
she would splash about in thn water with
the tip of her little foot.
Catharine noticed all these things, and
"Myrtle," she would say, "is of no use
for anything—she will do nothing. It is
of no good for me to preach to her, or ad
vise or reprove her; she does everything
cross-wise. The other day when we were
arranging the apples in the fruit-loft, she
took it into her head to bite all the Sliest
to see if they were ripe! She likes to gob
ble up everything she can lay her hands
HUNTINGDON, PA.; OCTOBER 25, 1871
Bremer himself could not but perceive
that the child had a touch of the heathen
in her, and when he heard his wife calling
out from morning till night, "Myrtle,
where are you ? Oh, the wretched child!
Off she has run again to gather blackber
ries !" he would laugh and say to himself,
"Poor Catharine, you are like a hen that
has hatched duck's eggs; the little ones
are in the water, she flies round and calls
t) them, but they pay no heed."
Every year, after the harvest was over,
Fritz and Mrytle used to spend whole days
far away from the farm, looking after the
cattle. They sang, they whistled, they
made a fire of dry stalks of hemp, and
baked potatoes in the ashes, and when
evening came, ran home down the stony
hill, blowing trumpets made of hark.
These were Myrtle's happiest days.—
Seated by the fire, her beautiful brown
head resting on her little hand, she would
remain motionless for hours, as if lost in
profound reveries. Flights of geese and
wild ducks crossing the deserted skies
seemed to sadden her profoundly. She
followed them with a long, long gaze into
limitless depths of the skies; then sudden
ly she would stand up, stretch out her arms
and exclaim, "I must run off—l must—
oh ! I must run away."
Then she would bury her face in her lap
and weep. Fritz, standing close beside
her, wept too, and said : "Why do you
cry, Myrtle ? Who has been unkind to
you ? One of the village boys ? Kaspar,
or William, or Henry ? Tell me. I will
punish him. Only tell me !"
"What makes you cry ?"
"I don't know."
"Do yon want to run up the Falberg ?"
"No, that isn't far enough away."
"Where do ycu want to go, Myrtle ?"
"Over there!! Over there !" and she
pointed far off beyond the mountains;
"where the birds go !"
Fritz opened his eyes and mouth wide
One day they were together at the edge
of the wood; the beat was so great, the air
so still, that the smoke of their little fire,
instead of rising in a grey column, spread
itself out like water under the dried-up
briars. It was nearly midday. The grass
hopper had stopped its monotonous song ;
there was not the hum of an insect, not the
whisper of a leaf, not the chirp of a bird.
The oxen and cows, their eyelids closed,
were lying in the shade of a large oak tree
in the middle of the meadow, and from
time to time one of them lowed in a mel
ancholy way, as if complaining.
Fritz had at first occupied himself plait
ing the cord of his whip, but he, too, soon
stretched himself out on the grass and put
his hat over his eyes, and Friedland laid
down beside him, yawning to the very ears.
It was only Myrtle who did not seem to
feel the overpowering heat. Squatted close
to the fire, her arms round her knees, in
the full blaze of the sun, there she remain
ed motionless, gazing with her large black
eyes into the sombre colonnades of the for
Time pagfina law 1 y =Tiro aißtfint village
clock struck twelve, one, two; still the
Gipsy Girl did not move. Those woods,
those bare mountain tops, those rocks and
fir trees, seemed for her invested with
something profound and mysterious,
"Yes," said she to herself, "I have seen
that—it is a long time ago—a long time
ago!: . . . .
All of a sudden, noticing that Fritz was
she got up quietly and took to
flight. Her feet seemed scarcely to touch
the grass ; on she ran, up the hill. Fried
land turned his head listlessly, and appear
ed for a minute to be about to follow her,
then stretched himself out afresh as if
overwhelmed with weariness.
Tired out, her feet all bruised, her little
rod petticoat torn by the brambles, Myrtle
sat down at the foot of an oak.
For a long time she remained motionless,
staring into space, listening to the moan of
the wind among the tall fir trees, happy to
feel herself alone in this solitude.
Night was coming on. Myriads of stars
sparkled in the sombre depths of the sky;
toe moon rose, and the few birch trees
scattered on the sides of the hill caught its
Sleep began to overtake the young gipsy;
her head was drooping, when suddenly she
was awakened by shouts far off in the
Farther off still she saw the village, the
river, the roof of the barn, round which
the pigeons were flying, distance making
them look as small as swallows ; she saw
the winding street, and the rod petticoats
of some peasant women walking in it ; she
saw the little moss-grown church, in which
the good Cure Nik!ausse had baptised and
afterwards confirmed her in the Christian
faith. Then turning towards the moun
tains, she gazed at the numberless spires
of the firs, crowded closely together on thp
slopes of the narrow valleys, like the blades
of grass in the fields.
As she contemplated this grand view,
the young gipsy felt her chest dilate, her
heart beat with au unknown force, and
resuming her course, she darted into a
crevice carpeted with moss and ferns, in
order to reach the herdsman's path across
Her whole soul, her savage nature,
Bashed out in her expression in a strange
way; she seemed transfigured; with her
little hands she clung to the ivy, and with
her feet to the fissures of the rocks.
She soon set off again down the other
slope of the mountain, running, bounding
along, sometimes stopping suddenly and
looking at some object—a tree, a ravine,
an isolated pool, a patch of sweet-smelling
grasses—as if half stupefied.
Although she did not remember having
ever seen these thickets, these coppices,
these heaths, at each turn of the path she
said to herself: "I knew it! the tree was
here—the rock there—the torreut be
Although a thousand strange remem
brances, like dreams, came into her mind,
she did not understand them, could not
explain them to herself. She had not yet
said to herself: "What Fritz and the rest
like I don't care for; the village, the
meadow, the farm, fruit trees in the or
chard, cows to give milk, hens to lay eggs,
provisions in the barn and the cellar, and
a warm room in winter; these things make
them happy, but as for me, I don't Want
this ; for I am a little savage! I was born
in the woods, like the squirrel on the oak,
the hawk on the rock, the thrush on the
fir tree," No, she had never reasoned
thus, instinct alone guided her; driven by
this strange impulse, at sunset she reached
the platean of the Kohle-Platz, which is I
the place where the gipsies who are going
from Alsace, to Lorraine usually stop to
pass the night, and hang up their pot in
the middle of the hearth.
Myrtle uow disappeared in the midst of
the brambles which skirt the forest. With
one jump she cleared the muddy ditch, in
which the solitary frog croaked among the
rushes. In about twenty minutes she
reached the crest of the 1131 low Rock
which overlooks the country of Alsace and
the blue mountain tops of the Vosges.
Then she turned round to look if any
one was following her ; there was Fritz,
his hat over his eyes, still sleeping in the
middle of the green meadow. Friedland,
too, and the cattle under their tree.
Listening attentively, she recognized the
voices ; Bremer, Fritz and all the farm
people were in pursuit of her.
Without a moment's hesitation, Myrtle
darted deeper into the forest, and only
stopped running from time to time that
she might listen again. At last the shouts
Soon she heard nothing but the rapid
beating of her heart, and she slackened
her pace. At last, very late, when the
moon had set and she was quite worn out
.with fatigue, she sank down amongst the
heather and fell into a deep sleep. She
was now twelve miles from Dosenheim,
near the source of the Zinsek She felt
sure that Bremer would not extend his
search as far as that.
It was broad daylight when Myrtle
awoke to find herselr alone on the Har
berg, under an old fir tree covered with
moss. A thrush was singing over her
head, another was answering it from a
lung distance, far off in the valley.
The morning breeze was stirring the
leaves, but the air, already warm, was la-
den with a thousand perfumes of ivy,
mosses, and wild honeysuckle. The young
gipsy opened her eyes quite amazed; she
looked about her, and then remembering
that she could not hear Catharine calling
out "Myrtle ! Myrtle ! Where are you,
wretched child?" she smiled, and listened
to the song of the thrush.
She heard the murmuring of a spring
close to her, and found she had only to
turn her head to see the fresh water rush
ing along the rock and spreading itself out
on the grass. An arbutus tree, laden with
red berries, hung over the rock ; beneath
it grew a splendid aconite, with violet flow
ers spotted with white.
Myrle was thirsty, but she felt so lazy
and so contented to lie there listening to
the sound of the water and the singing of
the thrush, that she was disinclined to dis
turb the harmony, and let her pretty
brown head fall back again. and smiling
looked up at the sky through her half open
"This is how I shall always be," she
said to herself. "I am lazy; I know I
am. God made me so !"
As she went on dreaming in this way,
she pictured to herself the farm, with its
cocks and hens, and then thinking of the
eggs in the barn, hidden under a few blades
of straw, she said to herself : "I wish
I had got two eggs now, two hard-boiled
ones, like Fritz had in his sack yesterday,
and a crust of bread, and salt. But,
pshaw ! if one hasn't got eggs, blackber
ries and whortleberries are very good too"
"Ah ! I sec sonic there," she exclaimed
"I see some."
Vte vrab -'alit, toi
on the heath.
In a few minutes she noticed that the
thrush had stopped singing, and raising
herself on her elbow she saw the bird peck
ing one of the berries on the arbutus tree.
She got up to drink some Water out of the
hollow of her hand, and noticed plenty of
cress growing all about.
Then certain words she had heard from
the Cure Nickiausse came into her mind;
such a thing had never happened to her
before. The words were these :
"Consider the fowls of the air ; they
neither sow nor reap ; which neither have
storehouse nor barn, and God feedeth
"Consider the lilies of the field, how
they grow; they toil not, they spin not;
and yet I say unto you that Solomon in all
his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
"If then God so feed the birds, and so
clothe the grass of the field, shall he not
much more feed and clothe you!
"0 men of little faith ! Take no thought
for these things; for all these things do the
heathen and the nations of the world seek
after; and your Father knoweth that you
have need of them."
"Ah," thought Myrtle, "when Mother
Catharine used to call up a little heathen,
I might well have made answer to her ; 'lt
is you who are heathens, tbr you sow and
reap—and we are good Christians who live
as the birds of the air."
She had scarcely ended these wise re
flections, when a noise of footsteps among
the dry leaves wade her lift up her bead.
She was about to take to flight, when a
gipsy lad of eighteen or twenty years old ;
tall, slight, with brown skin, curly hair,
sparkling eyes, and thick, broad lips, let
himself slide down the rock, and, looking
at her admiringly, exclaimed,
"Alumni !" replied Myrtle, with emo
"To what troop do you belong, Eh
Eh ?" asked the young fellow.
"I don't know. I am searching."
Then she told him how Bremer had
brought her up, and how she had escaped
from his house the day before. Meanwhile
the young gipsy stood there smiling and
showing his white teeth.
"As for me," said he, throwing out his
arm, "I am going to Haz-ach ; to-morrow
is the day of the great fair, and all our
troop will be there. Pfiifer-Karl, Melchior,
Fritz, the clarionct player, and Concon-
Peter. Tho women will tell fortunes, and
we shall play music. If you like, coma
with me !"
"I should like very much," said Myrtle,
casting down her eyes.
He then kissed her, put his sack upon
her back, and taking his stick in both his
hands, exclaimed, "Woman, you shall be
mine. You shall carry my sack, and I
will feed you. Now forward !"
And Myrtle, who bad been so lazy at the
farm, now stepped forward cheerfully. He
followed her, singing and bounding along
on his hands and feet, as joyous as he
Since that day nothing hns been heard
Fritz thought he should die if she did
not come back, but in a few years he con
soled himself for her loss by marrying
Gredel Dick, the daughter of the miller.
Catharine appeared quite contented, for
Gredel Dick was the richest heiress in the
Bremer only was still sad; he had end
ed by loving Myrtle as if she were his own
One winter's day he was looking out of
the window, and on seeing a gipsy woman
in raga, with a sack on her back, crossing
the valley, which was all blocked with
snow, he sat down, drawing a deep sigh,
"What is the matter, Bremer ?" asked
As he did not answer she went up to
him, and saw that he was dead.
giendiug poi The pillion>
Journalism and Woman Suffrage.
The following article, replete with good
sense in that it keenly deplores the im
modest desire of a vast crowd of women for
public notoriety, was written for The True
Woman, published in Baltimore, Md., by
Mrs. Dahlgren. We desire to say that
the female suffrage question is an open
one with us. She says :
During a recent visit to some Virginia
springs, we were witnesses of that anoma
lous state of social sentiment, which at
once encourages and complains of the
present license of the press, by which it
assumes en inquisitorial right over the
private life and character of respectable
No longer may worthy citizens claim
exemption on the score of living in digni
fied retirement, from the displeasing no
toriety attached to public mention of their
names and record of their actions. Cer
tain papers, known to supply this pabulum
to morbid taste, were eagerly looked for,
and every copy quickly sold, and instantly
scanned. We saw many excellent people,
while scarcely glancing at the really able
leading articles of these papers, who were
very especially interested in various letters
full of social gossip.
In these letters we find the cherished
sanctities of family altars rudely exhibited
to public gaze, and introduced to a gaping
world by some familiar name, only intend
ed for the privacy of home endearment.
In our social circle we have often enjoyed
the refined hospitalities extended by dig
nified matrons and their accomplished
daughters. We have thought of these
ladies with that pleasant measure of respect,
which we desire to merit for ourselves
in return ; and assuredly when we find the
press, regardless of all claims to forbear
ance, glibly commenting upon these ladies
as "Lizzie, Annie, Jennie," etc., etc.,—so
and so, we feal that a certain harm has
been done. 'We recognize that delicate
modesty, refined susceptibility, and high
toned ideas of propriety have been out
raged. But, perchance, this very last
sentence, requiem -like, only embodies the
good which is passing away, and will sim
ply be read to be sneered at by
spirit of the age.
Yet, we repeat it, a harm has been done.
Our best people regret, deprecate, yet are
half bewildered by this inundation of in
novations. But they meet with entire
favor by coarser:and ruder minds, who
delight in personalities, and who are well
pleased to have names bandied about as
common of women who should have been
spared the disparagement of such vulgar
In this connection we are reminded of
an incident of our early life, which may
serve to illustrate somewhat the change
between now and then. The "then" re
fers to a score or more of years ago, when
Annie Bovall. the mother of the strew--
minded of to-day, having started an of
fensive little paper at the capital, made
use of it fur the express purpose of levy
' ing a species of black-mail on all members
of Congress and public functionaries gen
In collecting her subscription list, she
used precisely the same peremptory means
since found so effective by the various en
terprising female-Quixottc editors who
have succeeded her. The woman of that
day not having been illuminated by that
light of progress in which we now revel,
had a genuine horror of having their por
traits taken for public gaze; and the men
of that day, as yet unenlightened in their
apprehension by the female suffrage move
ment, had also an intense dread of seeing
the names of the lady members of their
family in print. But to our incident, We
had just left school, and were about to be
introduced to society, by a father who held
at that time, and for many years, a leading
place in public life. One morning, while
quietly reading a book in the parlor of our
boarding house, we were amazed to see our
sedate,,composed and calm-brewed patent
hurriedly enter, and seizing our hand in an
excited manner, almost drag us to our
room, when the door was quickly closed
and we looked in aqd left to our wondering
reflections. Now our father was conspi
cuous among the remarkable m.n of his
day fur his never-failing tranquility of
manner. He alone would retain an un
ruffled aspect when engaged in the most
excited debates on the floor of Congress.
Much did we marvel for the short space of
time in which we were left a prisoner, as
to what could have so greatly disturbed the
habitual calm of the wise man. The mys
tery was soon unraveled. Annie Royal'
had been in the house, and the only hope
of avoiding a notice in her paper, was to
escape her observation. Impressed with
the imminent peril of his child, no time
had been lost to secure for her a retreat.
Thus was it twenty years ago. How is it
now ? Do we behold agitated parents hiding
away their daughters when the news re
porter makes his inquisitorial rounds ? We
arc answered by a smile at the old-fash
ioned simplicity of the question.
Certainly, the tone of social life has been
lowered. There are yet not a few culti
vated women who may feel hurt and indig
nant to find their names and their move
ments chronicled with but little of decorum
of form. But we fear that these vestiges
of the past are rapidly disappearing, for
editors aver that their papers never sell so
well as when they particularize society
items. Such facts are perfectly indicative
of the change of manners we are undergo
ing. The newspaper men are nut the
party in fault. They simply cater for the
public taste. We do not now speak of
journalism as it ought to be, but as it is.
It clearly reflects the public sentiment and
mirrors the nation. It regards the read
able matter offered as a purely business
affair, and its articles are manufactured to
suit its readers just as the tradesman se
lects his wares to please his customers. We
might as well quarrel with the "modiste"
who gives us 4 "perfect fit," as with the
journalist who takes an exact measure of
the follies of the age. But unlike the good
physician, who, when he feels the pulse
and finds the excitement of fever, uses dis
pleasing but needed remedies to effect a
cure, the journalist too often only assists
the ravages of the moral maladies he so
When are we to hope for the advent of
that Christian hero, who with unswerving
zeal for the right, will labor to elevate
journalism intoareaeeming power through
out the land r And to what causes are we
to attribute this decadence of good taste
and good manners, as expressed by the
present journalism? So far as women are
concerned, we may dispassionately aver
that the long-continued agitation kept up
by the female suffragists has had much to
do in causing the mischief we deplore. The
public harangues of women all over the
country; the incendiary and immoral doc
trines so boldly advocated by many; the
assumptions so constantly made of intoler
ance of all restraint, progress being defined
as free thought, free lives and free loves;
the senseless villification of men, our natu
ral protectors, which makes them in turn
forget the exercise of their wonted amenity
towards us; the brazen adoption of mas
culine manners and dress; the eager lust
of these women for the fierce excitements
of political life;—all these causes, surging
throughout the length and breadth of this
vast country,—all conspire to demoraliza
tion and rain.
Did we not, my sisters, once drink of
the pure waters of the mountain heights
Should we not now shudder to behold that
passionate Amazonian thirst which has
poluted these the thousand beauteous
mountain rills, whose pellucid waters
spread richness and peace over this fair
land ? And now we look upon turbid, swol
len torrents, madly rushing on to limn a
mighty stream of corruption, which shall
presently cover the face of the earth. Let
us pause, ere we, too, arc whirled into thit
seething vortex. Let us pause, ere this
hell's cauldron, like another deluge, may
engulf us ; for out of this approaching chaos
conies no salvation, except in an entire re
We are drifting into a worse cataclysm
than has ever yet submerged society. Let
us accept all the signs of these perilous
times, and unite to check this utter mad
ness of the hour, to vindicate our right to
be considered modest, virtuous and God
fearing. By such united effort alone may
we hope to arrest the growing licence of
the press, which is but an image of the
license of society.
There is moil to be done and no time
to lose in the doing. When men shall say
of us, "She is intelligent, ferainine and
high-minded," rather than she is "well
dressed, pronouce and hshionable," we
shall have won half the battle, half regained
our waning influence. Then shall we be
ready to anew enchain the spirit of animal
ism, now triumphant. Yet morality alone
may never conquer Satanic forces. Let us
invoke the God of hosts to our aid, and
then having put on the full armor of reli
gion, we may command the troubled waves
be still. Let us not waste precious moments
in futile indignation at the journalism of
the day, but arouse ourselves to check the
baleful public sentiment now being fostered,
which gives it encouragement and life.
What is it that makes hard times
Just at this writing the solution is easily
arrived at. No country or people can
really be prosperous where idleness takes
the place of industry. In a majority of
cases prosperity and plenty is the result of
honest labor, while on the contrary, want,
and misery, and destitution, is sure to fol
low in the wake of indolence and a dispo
sition to put off until tomorrow what
es over our heads put that we are struck
with the large amount of labor lost to the
country, in the great number of idlers
standing on the street corners loafing away
time which might be employed profitably
to themselves and the community.
In a country like this, boundless in its re
sources, there is something for every one to
do. The industrious man is never idle—
his children never cry for bread, nor do
they go in rags. lle never finds time to
vim the places of demoralization, which
generally result in ruin. In ninety-nine
cascara of every hundred the idle slothful
man is responsible for the many evils that
afflict society. It is in his brain alone that
house burning, robberies and all manner
of devilment, is concocted. Until intelli
and education beats down the stu
pidity and ignorance of the populace ;
then will times become better, and money
easier, and loafers and vagabonds find no
place to hide themselves from the strong
arm of the law.
The Richest Boy.
The papers are telling about a boy in
New England, now fourteen years of age,
who is supposed to be the richest boy in
the United States, because he has a great
deal of money. To our mind, the richest
boy in America is the one who is good
hearted, honest, inteligent, ambitious, will
ing to do right. lie is one who loves his
mother, and has a kind word for her ;
who loves his sister or sisters, and is the
one that does not call his father the "old
man," but who loves him, speaks kindly to
and of him, and tries to help him as the
sign of old age gathers fast upon his brow.
The richest is the one who has pluck
to fight his destiny and future He is
the ono who has manhood to do right and
be honest, and is striving to be somebody :
who is above doing a mean action, who
would not tell a lie to screen himself, or
betray a friend. He whose young mind
is full of noble thoughts for the future,
who is determined to win a name by good
deeds. This is the richest boy in America.
Which one of our readers is it
This boy we like, we would be glad to
sae, would like to take him by the hand
and tell him to go on earnestly, that
success might crown his efforts. And if
he is a poor boy we could meet him at the
threshold, bid him enter, and give him
good advice, well and kindly meant. That
other rich boy in New England, we don't
care anything about, for there are fools
and snobs enough to worship, flatter, and
Did it ever strike you that there were
necessary blessings as well as necessary
evils in this world; certain good things
that we cannot escal' any more than we
can certain so-called evil things; benefits
that we accept with the same lack of res
ponsibility, something of the same
spirit of resignation that we do the trouble
we are called upon to bear? Sombre in
deed would be the round of the seasons to
some of us where it not for pleasures that
needs must be devised and entered into
for the sake of friends and guests beloved ;
and oh, the delicious holidays of conva
lesetice 1 are there not those who know the
blessed relaxation of some morbid self-dis
cipline, through the interposition of a mas
ter soul; those who, perplexed and irreso
lute while duty and desire debate at the part
ing of the ways, have joyfully welcomed the
clear decision that directs them at last into
the path leading through the green pas
tures and beside the still watn !—Front
"The Ohl Cabin ft," iit &rilnicr's.
A TOPER sneered at a young man for
wearing spectacles, when the latter said,
"It is better to use glasses over the nose
as I do, than under the nose as you do r"
ghe sme Circle.
I Need Thee, Precious Jesus.
I need thee, precious Jesus,
For I am very poor;
A stranger and a pilgrim,
I have no earthly store.
I need the love of Jesus,
To cheer me on my way,
To guide my doubting footsteps,
To b.: my strength and stay.
I need thee, precious Jesus,
I need a friend like thee,
A friend to soothe and pity,
A friend to care for me.
I need the heart of Jesus
To feel each anxious care,
To tell my every trial,
And all my sorrows share.
I need thee, precious Jesus,
I need thee day by day,
To fill me with thy fullness,
And lead me on my way ;
I need thy Holy Spirit
To teach me what I am,
To show me more of Jesus,
To point me to the Lamb.
I need thee, precious Jesus,
I hope to see thee soon
Encircled with the rainbow,
And seated on thy throne;
There, with thy blood bought children,
My joy shall ever be
To sing thy praises, Jesus,
To gaze, my Lord, on thee I
The Family Altar.
There arc few memories that are BO fresh and
powerful in after years, as the memories of the
household altar. I can travel back over the
path of forty years, and recall the very tones
of my father's voice, as be reverently read the
Bible, and devoutly prayed, in the midst of
his family. I can remember how he prayed
for his children, how faithfully be taught
them the lessons of Christian truth and duty
in those thoughtless days of youth, and I bless
his memory now for what I did not appreciate
then. I believe that the memories of Chris
tian parents and the early associations of a
Christian home, scarcely ever die out of the
heart. Rev. Dr. Adams, in his beautiful book
on "Thanksgiving Memories," gives us the fol
lowing incident : "In the Cathedral of Limer
ick there hangs a chime of bells, whiCh was
cast in Italy by an enthusiast in his trade, who
fixed his home near the monastery, where they
were first hung, that he might daily enjoy
their sweet and solemn music. In some poli
tical revolution the bells were taken away to
a distant land, and their maker himselfbecame
a refugee and exile. His wanderings brought
him, after many years, to Ireland. On a calm
and beatiful evening, as the vessel which bore
him floated on the plaoid bosom of the Shan
on, suddenly the evening chimes peeled from
the cathedral towers. His practiced ear
caught the sweet sound, and he knew that his
lost treasures were found. His early home,
his old friends, his beloved native land, all the
best associations of his life were in those
sounds. He laid himself back in the boat,
crossed his arms upon his breast, and listened
to the music. The boat reached the wharf, but
still he lay there, silent and motionless. They
spoke to hint, but he did not answer. They
went to him, but his spirit had fled. The
tide of memories that came vibrating through
his heart at the well known chime and snap
ped its strings I"
And so, sometimes, iu after life, when the
away from the home of his youth, and his
heart has wandered far from his father's God,
some memory of the past, like the sweet, sad
melody of the eveninn , chime, may wake long,
slumbering echoes and stir long sealed foun
tains; and a father's counsels, and a mother's
prayers, will come up again from the sacred
burial places of the past with wondrous power
to melt and win the wayward heart.
Yes, a family ought to be a little church of
Jesus Christ. The father should be its pastor,
conducting its daily worship, and leading the
dear circle in the way of truth and duty. Every
tie which binds one living heart to another,
should be made stronger and more tender by
the influence of a common tie to Jesus. . Such
a household will hare a happy home. Their
circumstances may be humble, and their lot
may lowly, but if they have Christ in the fam
ily, there will always be sunshine and peace.
That house cannot secure the highest domes
tic joy, which, like the inn at Bethlehem, has
no room for Jesus.—Dr. Rogers.
Gems of Thought,
He only is independent who can maintain
himself by his own exertions, unaided and
31odesty promotes worth, but conceals it;
just as leaves aid the growth of fruit, and hide
it from view.
It is always safe to learn, even from our en
emies,—seldom safe to venture to instruct,
even our best friends.
A secret is like silence—you cannot talk
about it and keep it; it is like money—when
once you know there is any concealed, it is
Flattery—the hocus pocus nonsense with
which our ears are sometimes cajoled, in or
der that we may be more effectually bamboo
zled and deceived.
If you wish success in life, make perseve
rance your bosom friend, experience your wise
counselor, caution your elder brother, and
hope your guardi- n genius.
In good society we are required to do obli
ging things to one another; in genteel socie
ty we are required only to say them.
The best thing to be done when evil oomes
upon us is not lamentation, but action ; not to
sit and suffer, but to rise and seek the remedy.
Wisdom consists in arming ourselves with
fortitude sufficient for enabling us to support
hardships when they unavoidably happen.
Every man has his faults, his failings, his
peculiarities. Evey one of us finds himself
crossed by such failings of others from hour
to hour ; and if we were to resent them all, or
even notice all, it would be intolerable. It for
every outburst of hasty temper, and for every
rudeness that wounds us in our daily path, we
were to demand an apology, require an expla
nation, or resent it by retaliation, daily inter
course would be impossible. The veryscience
of social life consists in that gliding tact
which avoids contact with the sharp angular
ities of character, which does not seek to ad
just or cure them all, but covers them as if it
did not see. So a Christian spirit throws a
cloak over these :things. It knows when it is
wise not to see. That microscopic distinct
ness in which all faults appear to captions
men who are forever blaming dissenting, com
plaining—disappears in the large, calm gaze
of love. And 0, it is this spirt which our
Chri tain society lacks, and whichwe shall never
get till each one begins with his own heart.
THE Baer.—Out of it comes all pure moral
ities, forth from it have sprung all sweet char
ities. It has been the motive powsr of regen
eration and reformation to millions of men.
It has comforted the humble, consoled the
mourning, sustained the suffering and given
trust and triumph to the dying. The wise old
man has fallen asleep with it folded to his
breast. The simple cottager has used it for
his dying pillow; and even the innocent child
has breathed its last happy smile with its
fingers between its promise-freighted leaves.
KNOWLEDGE, truth, love, beauty, goodness,
faith, alone give vitality to the mechanism of
existence. The laugh of mirth which vibrates
through the heart; the tears which freshen
the dry wastes within; the music which brings
childhood back; the prayer which calls the
future near ; the doubt which makes us medi
tate ; the death which startles us with its
mystery ; the hardships that force us to strug
gle; the anxiety that ends in trust—these are
the nourishments of our natural being.
Tax way to speak and write what shall
not go out of fashion, is to speak and write