-,. 46. luntingdon Journal, J. A. NASH, BORROW, WILISHERS •NR PROPRIETORS. e Corner of Bath and Washington streets. cTINGDON JOURNAL is published every , by J. R. DURBORROW and J. A. NASH, rm name of J. R. Dunnonnow & Co., at mum, IN ADVANCE, or $2.50 if not paid nonths from date of subscription, and id within the year. • discontinued, unless at the option of ers, until!llarrcarages are paid. CIS:EMENTS will be :nseded at TEN line fur each of the first four insertions, csrrs per line for each subsequent inset an three months. uonthly and yearly advertisements will at the following rates: 6m 9 mlly 490 50c 1 600 col E 00 , 10 00112 00 10 00114 00,16 001 " 14 00 20 00:24 001 18 00 i 25 00!30 00 , 1 col 3mlliml9ml 9 00118 00r 27 24 00 36 tO 34 00 60 00 65 moo, 1 60o() 1 eal lotices will be inserted at TWELVE ♦NI) TS per line, end local and editorial no rms CENTS per line. rations of As‘sociations, Communications r individual interest, and notices of Mar- Deaths, exceeding five lines, will be CENTS per line. I other notices will be charged to the ig them inserted. ng Agents must find their commission hese figures. •fining accounts are doe and collectable rertinement is once inserted. INTING of every kind, in Plain and rs, done with neatness and dispatch.— Blanks, Cards, Pamphlets, .to., of every style, printed at the shortest notice, hing in the Printing line will be excess- Jost artistic manner and at the lowest Professional Cards, :NGATE, Surveyor, Warriors rk, Pa. [apl2,'7l. ALDWELL, Attorney -at -Law, Hi, 31 greet. Office foreierly occupied Woods & Williamson. [apl2;7l. '.. R. WIESTLING, .aotfully offers his professional services ,ne of Huntingdon and vicinity. toyed to No. 61Si Hill street, (Sutra's [apr.s,7l-Iy. . C. FLEMMING respectfully his professional services to the citizens don and vicinity. Office second floor of m's building, on corner of 4th and Hill may 24. ►. P. MILLER, Office on Hill et, in the room formerly, occupied by PCulloch, Huntingdon, Pa., would res ffer his professional services to the citi itingdon and vicinity. Dan. 4,71. .. B. BRUMBAUGH, offers his fessional services to the community. Washington street, one door east of the irsonag,e. Dan.4,'7l. GREENE, Dentist. Office re m". to Leister's new building, Hill street n. fjan.4,'7l. ROBB, Dentist, office in S. T. wn's now building, No. 520, Hill St., n, Pa. [apl2,'7l. LAZIER, Notary Public, corner Washington and Smith street., }Enn a. [jan.l2'7l. . MADDEN, Attorney-at-Law. ffico, No. —, Hill street, Huntingdon, [ap.19,71. LVANUS BLAIR, Attorney-at w, Huntingdon, Pa. Office, Hill street, west of Smith. [jan.4'7l. PATTON, Druggist and Apoth ry, opposite the Exchange Hotel, Hun s. Prescriptions accurately compounded. irs for Medicinal purposes. [n0v.23,11. LLL MUSSER, Attorney-at-Law, ntingdon, Pa. Office, second floor of ew building, Hill street. Dan.4,"il. DURBORROW, Attorney-at w, Huntingdon, Pa., will practice in the arts of Huntingdon county. Particular ;iron to the settlement of estates of done- he Joeux.u. Building. [feb.l;7l POLLOC K, Surveyor and Real sate Agent, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend ng in all its branohee. Will also buy, t Farms, Houses, and Real Estate of ev n any part of the United States. Send lar. [jan.4"i]. . MATTERN, Attorney-at-Law d General Claim Agent, Huntingdon, Pa., laims against the Government for back ty, widows' and invalid pensions attend great care and promptness. t Hill street. Dan. 4,71. ►LLEN LOVELL, Attorney-at :am, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attention , ot.LccrioNs of all kinds ; to the settle states, he.; and all other Legal Business 1 with fidelity and dispatch. Sea in room lately occupied by R. Milton Dan. 4,71. . & M. S. LYTLE, Attorneys -Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend to legal business entrusted to their care. the south side of Hill street, fourth door pith. ORBISON, Attorney-at-Law, ;ffiee, 321 11111 street, Huntingdon, Pa. Duay3l,7l. TT. S. T. anowl. J. N. BAILEY T, BROWN & BAILEY, At teys-at-Lsw, Huntingdon, Pa. Pensions, time of soldiers and soldiers' heirs against nment will be promptly prosecuted. n Hill street. [janA,'7l. NYTON, Attorney-at-Law, Hun ngdon, Pa. Office with J. Sewell Stewart, ,LIAM A. FLEMING, Attorney -Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attention ,ollections, and all other legal business to with care and promptness. Office, No. street. [apl9;7l. Miscellaneous iIANGE HOTEL, Huntingdon, . JOHN S. MILLER, Proprietor. y 4, 1871. N MILLER. H. BUCHANAN iLER & BUCHANAN, DENTISTS, 8 Hill Street, HUNTINGDON, PA, ~'7l-Iy. iES ZENTMYER, Attorney-at ,aw, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend promptly al business. Office in Cunningham's new Dan. 4171. It THE RAILROAD DEPOT, WAYNE and JUNIATA STREBTT NITED STATES HOTEL, HOLLIDAYSBURG, PA N k CO., P110P111.0119. 31131.115-tf T. KING, Merchant Taylor, 412 'ashington street, Huntingdon, l'a., a lib e of patronage respectfully solicited. 2, 1871. 'ISTOWN BOILER WORKS. gYDER, WEIDNER b CO., Manufac- Locomotiveand Stationary Boilers, Tanks, illing-Barrows for Furnaces, and Sheet y rk of everdescription. Works on Logan 3wistown, Pa. •lore q”-- port ,ly attended to. Repairing [Apr 5,'71,1y.* The . un t ing d on r, j. T a ll 6 A P-5 k -CA../ Ji. o New Advertisements. TO ADVERTISERS THE HUNTING-DON JOURNAL. PUBLISIIED EVERY WEDNESDAY MORNING J. R. DITRBORROW & J. A. NASH. Office corner of Washington and Bath Ste., HUNTINGDON, PA, -:o: THE BEST ADVERTISING MEDIUM CENTRAL PENNSYLVANIA, -:o: CIRCULATION 1700 HOME AND FOREIGN ADVERTISE MENTS INSERTED ON REA SONABLE TERMS. :o: A FIRST CLASS NEWSPAPER :o: TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION $2.00 .per annum in advance. $2 50 within six months. $3.00 if not paid within the year. 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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 Zhe ffltorm-Btiler. ITT_TLE t 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 knee. 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 complained bitterly. "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 !" "No !" "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 with astonishment. 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 est. 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 sleeping, 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 silver rays. Sleep began to overtake the young gipsy; her head was drooping, when suddenly she was awakened by shouts far off in the woods. 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 the woods. 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 low l" 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 grew fainter. 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 eyelids : "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 them I "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, , 'Aimani?" "Alumni !" replied Myrtle, with emo tion. "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 CQOJd bo, Since that day nothing hns been heard of Myrtle. 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 village. Bremer only was still sad; he had end ed by loving Myrtle as if she were his own child. 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 his wife. 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 people. 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 ,the rising 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 notoriety. 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 ' erally. 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 skillfully detects. 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 construction. 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. Hard Times, 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 w.10412.11C—duae..10.7.44--Ziat.a.4la9 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 gence 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 spoil him. Nocessary Blessings 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" NO. 42. 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 alone. 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 half discovered. 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. Christian Courtesy. 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 sincerely.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers