VOL. 47- The tfuntingdon Journal. J. IL DUI:BORROW, PCBLISIIERS AND PROPMETORS. on the Corner of Bath and Washington streets. Tug HUNTINGDON JOUDNAL is published every Wednesday, by J. R. DURDOEROW and J. A. NAsu, under the firm name of J. R. DIIIIDORIIOW IC CO., at 52,00 per annum, 3,1 ADVANCE, or 52,50 if not paid for in six months from date of subscription, and $3 if not paid within the year. No paper discontinued, unless at the option of the ptiblishers, until all arrcarages are paid. ADVERTISEMENTS will be inserted at .Tes CENTS per line for each of the first four insertions, end Five cmcrs per lino for each subsequent inser tion less than three months. Regular monthly and yearly advertisements will he inserted at the following rates • 6mlo mily 1 4 901 5 001 - 0:781 1 col 9 00 18 03 8 ?a 8 00,10 oo 1200 4 . 24 00 36 60 60 1000j14001800)" 34 00 50 00 65 14 00120 00,21'00 18 00125 00130 00 1 col 36 00 60 00 60 Smi 6 m I 0 m' 1 Dich 2lO 2 i . 4 00 ttl Special notices will be inserted at TWELVE AND A HALF CENTS per line, and local and editorial no tices at FIFTEEN CENTS per line. All Resolutions of Associations, Communications t.filimited or individual interest, and notices of Mar riages and Deaths, exceeding five lines, will be charged TEN CENTS per line. Legal and other notices will be charged to the party having them inserted. Advertising Agents must find their .commission outside of these figures. All advertising accounts are doe and collectable when the advertisement is once inserted. JOB PRINTING of every kind, in Plain and Fancy Colors, done with neatness and dispatch.— Rand-bills, Blanks, Cards, Pamphlets, Ice. ' of every variety and style, printed at the shortest notice, ttnd every thing in the Printing line will be execu ted in the most artistie manner and at the lowest rates. Professional Cards CALDWELL, Attorney -at -Law, D•NO. 111, 31 street. °Mee formerly occupied by Messrs. Woods ct Williamson. [apl2,'7l. DR. R. R. WIESTLING, respectfully offers his professional services to the citizens of Huntingdon and vicinity. Office removed to No. 818 i Hill street, (Sutra's BUILDING.) [apr.s,ll-Iy. DR. J. C. FLEMMING respectfully offors his professional services to the citizens of Huntingdon and vicinity. Office seggpd floor of Cunningham's building, on corner of eh and Hill Street. may 24 DR. D. P. MILLER, Office on Hill street, in the room formerly occupied by Dr. John WCulloch, Huntingdon, Pa., would res pectfully offer his professional services to the citi zens of Huntingdon and vicinity. [jan.4,'7l. DR. A. B. BRUMBAUGH, offers his professional services to the community. Office, No. 523 Washington street, one door east of the Catholic Parsonage. [jan.4,'7l. EJ. GREENE, Dentist. Office re • moved to Leister's new building,, Hill street ITt,tingdon. [j0n.4,'71. C.l._ L. ROBB, Dentist, office in S. T. ik—il • BroWn's new building, No. 520, Hill St., Huntingdon, Pa. [apl2,'7l. GLAZIER, Notary Public, corner - PIT • of Washington and Smith streets. Hun tingdon, Pa. [ jan.l2'7l. T I T C. MADDEN, Attorney-at-Law. • Office, Yo. —, Hill street, Huntingdon, Pa [ap.19,'71. JSYLVA.NUS BLAIR, Attorney-at • Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Office, Hill street, three doors west of Smith. [jan.4'7l. JR. PATTON, Druggist and Apoth • ceary, opposito the Exchange Hotel, Hun tingdon, Pa. Prescriptions accurately compounded. Pure Liquors for Medicinal purposes. [n0v.23,'70. HALL 141JSSER, Attorney-at-Law, c-IP • No. 319 Hill et., Huntingdon, Pa. [jan.4,'7l. jr R. DURBORROW, Attorney'=at t., • Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will practice in the several Courts of Huntingdon county. Particular attention given to the settlement of estates of dece dents. - 0 - ifice in he JouaNAL Building. [feb.l,7l W. MATTERN, Attorney-at-Law J • and General Claim Agent, Huntingdon, Pa., Soldier? claims against the Government for back pay, bounty, widows' and invalid pensions attend ed to with great care and promptness. Office on Hill street. ALLEN LOVELL, Attorney-at .‘. • Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attention given to COLLECTIONS of all kinds; to the settle ment of Estates, &c.; and all other Legal Business prosecuted with fidelity nod dispatch. jiffir• Office in room lately occupied by R. Milton Speer, Esq. Dan.4;7l. MILES ZENTMYER, Attorney-at- Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend promptly to all legal business. Office in Cunningham's new building. Lian.4,ll. R. ALLISON HILLER. H. AELLER & BUCHANAN, DENTISTS, No. 228 TIM Street, lIIINTR.TGDON, PA. April 5, PM. & M. S. LYTLE, Attorneys . at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend to all kinds of legal business entrusted to their care. Office on the south side of Hill street, fourth door west of &nat. [jan.4,ll. Teo A. ORBISON, Attorney-at-Law, • °Moe, 321. Hill street, Huntingdon, Pa. [may3l,7l. JOEY SCOTT. S. T. SCOW'S. J. Y. BAILEY COTT, BROWN & BAILEY, At torneys-at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Pensions, and all claims of soldiers and soldiers' heirs against the Government will be promptly prosecuted. Office on Hill straet. pan. 4,71. rri W. MYTON, Attorney-at-Law, Hun -A- • tingdon, Pa. Office with J. Sewell Stewart, Esq. [jan.4,'7l. "WILLIAM A. FLEMING, Attorney at-Law,v Huntingdon, Pa. Special.attention given to collections, and all other l,gal business attended to with care and promptness. Office, No. 229, Hill street. [apl9,'7l. Miscellaneous XCHANGE HOTEL, Huntingdon, -124 Pa. JOHN S. MILLER, Proprietor. January 4, 1871. NEAR THE RAILROAD DEPOT, con. WAYNE and JITNIATA STREETT UNITED STATES HOTEL, HOLLIDAYSBURG, PA M'CLAIN Jc CO., PROPRIETORS ROBT. KING, Merchant Tailor, 412 Washington street, Huntingdon Pa., a lib eral share of patronage respectfully solicited. A pril 12, 1671. L . EWISTOWN BOILER WORKS. .-a—d SNYDER, WEIDNER & CO., .Idanufac urers of Locomotivoand Stationary Boilers, Tanks, Pipes, Filling-Barrows for Furnaces and Sheet Iron Work of every description. Works on Logan street, Lewistown, Pa. All orders prmn?lly attendal to. Repairing done at short nutt..-c. [Apr 5,'71,1y.. AR. BECK, Fashionable Barber • and Hairdresser, Hill street, opposite the Franklin House. All kinds of Tonics and Pomades kept on hand and for sale. [npl9,ll-6m COLORED PRINTING DONE AT `%.,' the Journal Office, at Philadelphia prices. r he Huntingdon J tun , al. ghe plum' ffloattr. J. A. NASH, [For the JOURNAL.] Ever. Ever and ever the world goes round, Bearing its burdens and crosses; Ever and ever fife years roll on, With their tide of sorrows avid losses. Ever and ever the book of life Bears upon its pages The weary, weary lay of the heart, Sung through all the ages. Ever and ever with outstretched hands, We grasp for a golden morrow; Ever and ever the billows of time Are freighted with bitter sorrow; Ever and ever the lips smile on, That tha.world may walk in blindness ; Little they know of the heart's wild woe When the face looks lint with kindness. liver and ever the shadows fall Over the golden mosses ; Ever a gleam from Paradise, Lightens our cares and crosses. Ever and ever the morning dawns On hopes that are breathed in gladness Ever and ever the night brings in Its tide of bitter sadness. Ever and ever the eye of God Looketh upon us with pity; And ever the light is shown to us, That gleams from the Golden City gin c9torp-Zeller, A Narrow Escape. CONDEMNED to die ! Condemned to per ish ignominiously on the scaffold ! Con demned to bid adieu to wife, mother, chil dren, and friends ! _ _ The poor man wept aloud in the extre mity of his anguish. His trembling lips eould frame no prayer, and thus the last avenue of escape was closed against him. The most direct and unequivocal evidences surrounded this man—Lloyd Fletcher by name—and the jury, in bringing in their verdict of "guilty in the first degree," had only acted on their sober conviction of the man's guilt, drawn from the overwhelming evidence. Charles Lancaster, an Englishman, and a neighbor of Fletcher's, had been found brutally murdered, in a lone spot, in the suburbs of London. Fletcher's pistol was picked up near him, thrown aside as he found himself pursued. Footprints in the mud corresponded ex actly with the boots the prisoner wore, and to crown all they had been bitter and in veterate enemies for months previous.— Fletcher had been heard to say, on several occasions, that nothing but the man's death could satisfy his implacable vengeance; and then again, he could produce no one to assist him in proving an alibi. Lloyd was a man vary domestic in his habits, and very devotedly attached to his family. He was known to be absent from home on that evening, yet, on this particular night, Mrs. Fletcher waited up until daylight for his return, expecting every moment (on ac count of the circumstances being so unpre cedented) to have him brought home a corpse. He seemed to be recovering from the deep stupor of intoxication as he en tered his wife's presence on the morning described, and only knew enough to find the bed and sleep profoundly. At the time of his arrest, his hands were found lame and bruised; so this, with the rest, made the sum too crushing for the skillful counsel he had employed, and the result was, "Hanged by the neck, Fletcher, till you are dead; and God have meroy on your soul." It lacked now only three days to the ex ecution, . and here he sat in his lone, com fortless, whitewashed * veil, and his head bowed on his hands. "Can nothing be done ? Must I die thus, poor, miserable dog that lam ? Will Omnipotence allow an innocent man to perish ? Out upon such a God as that !" And the poor fellow struck wildly at his prison-house, groaning so deeply that he aroused the attention of the turnkey, who was passing the cell.— The iron door swung back on its creaking hinges and the stalwart form of the keeper appeared before him. "Come, come, Fletcher, less noise here; be a man ! Yon ain't the first man that's had to swing—not by a long shot! You won't get much sympathy here if you are like a nursin. , infant, I can tell you. Die game, Fletcher ; die game." "ut lam innocent, I tell you, you old wretch; as innocent of the crime as my little girl baby at home. Oh, my Gcd ! my wife—my children--," "Oh, shut up, here's your old woman, now." Dan.4,'7l The hardened turnkey waited a minute to witness the meeting of this suffering couple, and then with maddened curses withdrew. But the condemned man and his loving, faithful wife took no notice of his departure, but clasped in each other's arms awaited for calmness to speak. "Oh, Sarah !" "Oh, Lloyd! God have mercy on us all, my husband ! and now listen. Lie down here—place your head on my lap; I have something to tell you." "Tell me, Sarah, did they search you this time ?" he asked, grasping her hands. "Yes, Lloyd, and they found nothing. I repented my rash promises to you before I reached home. Come what may, suicide must not be your fate. But listen. You see that I am comparatively happy; and let me tell you what has produced this change—a sweet little dream in which I saw you and our darlings all together, com fortable and happy." "Oh, Sarah, talk not of dreams to a doomed man like me; perhaps we may be happy in another existence; but no, that cannot be—for surely God will not allow an innocent man to die the death of the guilty. Oh, no, Sarah, oh, no !" "Keep up your courage, my dear hus band, a certain, strange, mysterious some thing assures me that all will yet be well, how or in what manner heaven only knuws." "I wish I could see it—l wish I could feel it, Sarah ; do not mislead me with false hopes. Oh, my God, if there could only be found a way to escape from this ignominious death!" "Come, madam, time's up," and the turnkey made his appearance. "Hate to disturb such a pair of cooinr , doves. but orders are orders, ma ' am, and must be obeyed. Always obey orders if you break crowns. You ought to persuade your husband to stop his sniveling. Mark what I tell you, ma'am, you'll be looking for another husband in three month's time," continued the wretch, as he walked out by her side. 31ah15-tf Sarah hurried through the corridor, en deavoring to hear as little as possible of the brute's conversation, and reached her home and children, there to hope and pray. The hours sped on, and it lacked one day more for the execution. Fletcher had given 4p all hope of a reprieve, and listen ed to the building of the scaffold with a solemn feeling born of despair. "I've brought another gal to see you this time, Fletcher. It's very probable she won't be so agreeable-like as t'other one, but will do as much good, I reckon." A. woman in black stood before the bed on which Fletcher reclined. He recogni zed Mrs. Lancaster, the wife of the mur dered man. "Ah, this does me good," said she, ta king a step nearer and shaking her clench ed fist in his face. "It does not pay to take a fellow creature's life, does it ? Don't you speak to me, you villain—don't dare to open your mouth. I came here to gloat over your misery, and see how the pros pect of leaving your wife and babies affect ed you. Oh, you tremble. I have found the tender chord. My husband's wife and children were nothing—oh, no.' Wretch, villain, may the law be fully justified." The woman, to all appearance, exaspera, ted beyond the power of further utterance, stepped nearer, and, with a sly movement., hid one of her gloves under the pillow of the bewildered man. -"Have you finished, ma'am," inquired the turnkey, with his hand on the door. "Now, really, Fletcher, don't you rather prefer an interview of this kind to one of those lallygagging sort you have had so many of lately ? 'Twill do you more good— ten to one. What are You doing now ?" "Giving him due more look, that is all. Murderer . robber ! wretch ! I want to engrave his picture on my brain so indel ibly that I can never forget a single fea ture." "By the crown, your old man must have had a Tartar ! Oh, ho, ho, ho !" and the fat turnkey shook his fat sides with laugh ter. "I don't believe he's got it much bet ter where he is staying now than .he had with you. It takes a woman to use up the King's English. I always said so, now I know it." Mrs. Lancaster drew her veil over her face, and quietly left the prison. As soon as he dared, with trembling fingers, Lloyd drew forth the glove. In it was a vial containing a mixture of chloroform or eith er, a small sharp instrument to fire his shackles, and a note. It read thus : You are not the man, and I cannot allow you to be hung. Overpower the keeper, take his clothes, and leave. Go to the old rookery, No. - first floor where a dis guise awaits you, and then God help you, for you must conceal yourself. Lloyd, with a wildly beating heart, con cealed the articles and tried to think. The , keeper did not enter the cell till he brought his tea, and how could he accomplish his purpose then ? There would be too many astir in the prison then, and he might be detected. "Defeated now, with the weapons of de liverance in my hands. No, indeed, Lloyd Fletcher !" "Fletcher, I suppose you know that ac cording to the prison rules you are not al lowed to stay alone to-night. It would be barbarous to leave a feller without good company his last night on earth," said the turnkey, an hour or two after Mrs. Lan caster's visit. "You'll have to take your pick between old Father Walsh and myself, but I sup pose you will take me, bad as you hate me, afore that hypocrite." "Why can't I have my wife ?" asked Lloyd, with a voice fall of bitterness. "Oh, wives ain't allowable on such occa sions. She'll be around in the morning an hour or two; but talk quick, which will you have ?" "What difference do you think it makes to me, you heartless wretch, who watches with my last moments on earth, when my only friend is denied me ?" So it was arranged. The turnkey was to occupy his cell, and Lloyd went to work with his little instrument to file the hand-. cuffs and chains which bound him. It was slow and tedious. but in an hour's time he had the satisfaction of one free hand, and had the power to remove his limbs from the galling rattling torments which had so firmly held him. "f must be able to throw these fetters off, or lam lost." So he worked away in dustriously until the obstinate link was displaced, and he could .wear, or leave them off at his pleasure. Ten o'clock ar rived, and the turnkey had his cot brought in the cell. "When are you going to turn in Fletch er? I'm as tired as an East India nigger. Plagy afraid I shan't be much company to-night; better had the priest. You wrote all your letters yesterday Fletcher, didn't you?" and the keeper yawned deeply, turned once or twice, and in five minutes was snoring profoundly. "Now is my time," thought Fletcher. "It will not do to wait. Heaven help me." Noiselessly he stepped from the chains and drew off the torturing handcuffs. It was but the work of a moment to saturate the handkerchief with the mixture, and in less time than it takes to tell it, Lloyd had stripped the hardened wretch. There was a trifling difference in height, but Lloyd lacked the aldermanic proportions of the jailor. However, he managed that quickly and easily, unlocked the door of the cell, stepped into the corridor, locked it again, carefully withdrew the key, and imitated as nearly as possible the dull, heavy tread of the keeper. The jail physician was just leaving the building, and Lloyd walked along after him, as if to see him safely out. Only one subordinate guarded the en trance, and so Lloyd and the doctor walked out together, without exciting the slightest suspicion. He reached the old rookery., donned his attire, which proved to be a soldier's uni form, removed the black wig of the keeper, and substituted a light, curly one, and be fore twelve o'clock had reached the house of a friend, two or three miles from the city, told his story, and was warmly re ceived and promised protection. Lloyd felt sure he had left no clue by which he could be traced to this spot, and, almost overcome by his great happiness, be fell on his knees and thanked the God he had previously foreswore, for the miraculous escape. The next morning all was astir in the prison, but our turnkey did not make his appearance ; what could it mean ? A key was produced to open the cell door, and the nude inanimate figure of the fat keeper was presented to their astonished view. In the middle of the cell was the prisoner's wardrobe ; all he could spare from the make-up of the turnkey's lusty propor tions. A little cold water and fresh air revived him, but be could throw no light on the mysterious disappearance of Fletch er. He had seen nothing, knew nothing, and remembered nothing. Mrs. Fletcher was arrested on suspicion of assisting her husband to escape, but nothing could be proven, and a few Sys saw her at liberty. She was confident that her darling was safe, but could form no idea of the mode, HUNTINGDON, PA., JANUARY 24, 1872 or where he was concealed. However, now that so much was gained, she felt that she could afford to wait for the rest. Large rewards were ofFered for the prisoner's ap prehension ; large posters were placarded everywhere; and the detectives were set to work to ferret out his hiding place, but in vain. When the excitement was at its height, the ante-mortem statement and confession of a dying man were brought before the court, entirely exonerating Lloyd Fletchex from complicity in the murder. The man was Mrs. Lancaster's foster-broth er. He had drugged and beaten poor Fletcher the night of the perpetration of the crime, stolen his pistol and committed the deed himself. Mrs. Lancaster had been from the first exceedingly suspicious of him, but proofs were not in her power, she had used every means possible to re store Lloyd his liberty, trusting to time and a merciful God for the rest. How well she acted her part and succeeded in . her endeavors, the reader is aware. Fletcher W4S immediately pardoned, and drawn by the excited Londoners to his residence. PAtutling for Ow 41;i Mon. The Wives of the Presidents, The customs of the Republic which re turn to private life those who have served it, and the genius of democratic institu tions which condemn, as assumed emblems of nobility, the prefixing of titles to the names of American women, have acted as an insurmountable barrier to the, acquain tance of the general public with the ladies who have occupied the first social position in the land. Mrs. Washington, to whom fell the honor first, occupied the envied place of power eight years, and her history is per haps better known than any of her descen dants. Biographers and historians, stim ulated with a desire to secure her memory from the dust of years, have been indefa tigable in their labors, and she is perhaps more highly extolled and more truly ven erated than any of many women who have succeeded her. To Mrs. Adams properly belongs the highest place of honor in the American heart because her position was more dif ficult; her duties more arduous, and be cause she was stronger mentally, and more thoroughly disciplined than any who have succeeded her. She became the occupant of a place held to be almost sacred because of its newness and the exalted character of both Washington and his wife. To suc ceed the former was a difficult task for her husband to perform ; to occupy Mrs. Washington's place was an impossibility. But Mrs. Adams was gifted with great strength and courage ; with rare powers of mind and heart, and was the best repre sentative of the best type of American wo men of that day whose life history has been handed down to us. Mrs. Jefferson had been dead nineteen years when her husband became President of the United States, and but for the oc casional visits of his two married daugh ters, and the frequent presence of Mrs. Madison, the White House during , the eight years of Thomas Jefferson's stay would have been entirely without a social history. James Madison's wife was the most pop ular woman of the day, and had it not been for the unfortunate war of 1812, and the disturbed condition of the country, both before and after this unfortunate event, her administration of lady of the White House would have been the most brilliant of any recorded in the annals of the social history of the country. birs. Monroe was a timid, delicate wo man unfitted by nature and habit for the place she held, and at the expiration of her husband's term of office gladly retired with him to their Virginia home, where, in 1830, she died. Mrs. ,John Quincy Adams was a Mary land woman who had been educated in England, and who filled her semi-official position with dignity and honor. Mrs. Jackson died of a broken heart before her husband succeeded to Presi dency. Mrs. Van Buren had been dead seven teen years when her husband was elected Chief Magistrate, and her daughter-in-law, a lady of great refinement, was mistress of the White House during the term. Mrs. Harrison was preparing to leave her Western home when news of her hus band's death reached her. Mr. Tyler, who filled the unexpired term, lost his wife during his stay in the White House, and subsequently married Miss Gardner, of New York, eight months before the close of his administration. Mrs. James K. Polk, of Tennessee, was the second Southern lady, who, as tile wife of the President, lived in the Executive Mansion during the full term. Mrs. Taylor heartily disliked the for mality of Washington society, and retired to her Louisiana home immediately after her husband's death. Mr. Filmore, who served out Gen. Tay lor's time, had a noble wife, and she and her daughter are remembered as two of the most cultivated, refined and attractive ladies ever in the White House. Mrs. Pierce was always an invalid, and after the sudden death of her only child, a young and promising boy, her health gave way entirely, and her position as hos tess was a most undesirable one to her. Miss Harriet Lane made her uncle's administration famous for its social attrac tions. She was one of the most beautiful of women, as well as one of the truest and kindest of nieces, and Mr. Buchanan was peculiarly fortunate in his social relations, though he lived and died a bachelor. • _ . Mrs.' Lincoln's career was checkered from the first, and the awful tragedy that closed her life at the White House, secured for her the sympathy of the people. Mrs. Patterson vas the Mistress of the White House during President Johnson's administration, her mother being a con firmed invalid. The family greatly en deared themselves to the people by their simplicity and refined, unassuming man ners. Cheerfulness. We believe that cheerfulness can be, and ought to be, cultivated by all; that kind ness is most ben4ficially contagions; that to carry good nature and wisely-curbed temper with you wherever you go ; that patience and forbearance in your inter course with family and friends and com munity will always bring forth the richest of social fruits; that the treasure of good deeds achieved, the sufferings assuaged, are worth infinitely more than political honors; that the creation of joy is inesti mably better than the besetting sin of bor rowing trouble, and with Charles Lamb, that "a laugh is worth a hundred groans in any state of the market." Wheeled Himself Into a Fortune , At a meeting of the stockholders of a prominent railway coporation, recently held in Boston, there were present two gentle men, both up in years, one, howler, con siderably the senior of the other. In talk ing of the old times gone by, the younger gentleman called the attention of his friends, and told a pleasant little story, which should be read with profit by every poor, industrious, and striving lad. We use his own language : "Nearly half a century ago, gentlemen, I was put upcn the world to make my liv ing. I was stout, willing and able, con sidering my tender years, and secured a place in a hardware store, to do all sorts of chores required. I was paid seventy-five dollars a year fbr my services. One day, after I had been at wore three months or more, my friend there, Mr. 8., who holds his age remarkably well, came into the store and bought a large bill of shovels and tongs, sad-irons and pans, buckets, scrapers and scuttles, for he was married next day, and was supplying his household in advance, as was the groom's custom in those days. The articles were packed on the barrow, and made a load sufficiently heavy for a young mule. But more will ing than able, I started off, proud that I could move such a mass on the wheelbar iow. I got on remarkably well, till I struck the mud road, now Seventh avenue, leading to my friend B.'s house; there _I toiled and tugged and tugged and toiled, and could not budge the load up hill, the wheel going in full half its diameter in the mud every time I tried to propel forward. Finally a good-natured Irishman, passing by with a dray, took my barrow, self, and all on his vehicle, and iu consideration of promise to pay him a "bit," landed me at the house. I counted the articles carefully as I de livered them, and with my empty barrow trudged my way back, whistling with glee over my triumph over difficulty. Some weeks after I paid the Irishman the "bit," and never got it back from my employers. Mr. 8., I am sure, would have remunera ted tne, but he never before heard this story; in, if he is inclined, he cat} compromise the debt by sending me a bushel of his rare ripe peaches next Fall. Bat to the moral. A merchant had witnessed my struggles, and how zealously I labored to deliver that load of hardware ; he even watched me to the house, and saw me count each piece as I landed it in the door-way. He sent for me the next day, and asked my name, told me he had a reward for my industry and cheerfulness under difficulty, in the shape of a five-hundred-dollar-clerkship in his establishment. I accepted, and now, after nearly half a century has passed, I look back and say, I wheeled myself into all I own, for that reward of perseverance was my grand steppingstone to fortune. The speaker was a very wealthy banker, a man of influence and position, and one universally respected for many good quali ties of head and heart. Boys, take a moral from this story, and be willing and industrious. You do not know how many eyes are.upon you, to discover whether you are sluggish and carelesg, or indnstriousand willing. _ Self-Examination Examine yourself. Do it impartially. Do it faithfully. Do it often. Sit down by yourself, and shutting out all thoughts on other subjects, review your own life for the last day—for the last week. Recall both your acts and your words—for, both to others and yourself, your words are oftner as serious realities as your actions, We believe there is not a human being who will not be benefited and improved by the habitual review of his or her own life, in this manner. Have your hours been turned to ac count, either in work or recreation ;or have they been frittered away, in a man ner profitless, or positively injurious, to both mind and body ? Have you made any acquisitions of knowledge within the day or the week just gone ? Can you say you know this thing, or that, which I did not know be fore ? 7 fiave you strengthened your principles which require constant b4acing, for a thousand temptations are always at work to undermine them ? We say to under mine them ; for it is only the worst of men who sit down and deliberately con coct plans of wickedness. It is the in sidious unperceived approach of the Temp ter, in disguised and undistinguishable form, from which the greatest danger is to be anticipated. Have you helped your unsuccessful and troubled brother where you had it in your power ? Have you said a kind and en couraging word where that was all that was needed ? Have you done a kind and generous act where it was your duty to do one ? _ We shall be judged by our works, and there is no more efficient aid in improv ing our works, and in rendering the future better than the past, than by a frequent, searching review, and an unprejudiced, unsparing judgment of the past. Faith and Works There are two oars of a boat. Row with the right oar alone, and a boat describes a useless circle on the water. Row with the left oar alone, and it merely goes in the opposite direction. But use both oars with equal force and it moves swiftly and evenly foreward. Faith and works ; they are the two wings of a bird. Using but the right wing the bird flutters helplessly on the earth. Using the left wing alone, there is the same result. But plying both with equal vigor, it plumes its fright heavenward. 'So' faith alone or works alone, distract the soul—bind it in helplessness to earth, or turn it in idle circles ; but give faith and works in equal strength, and its move ment is uniform. "What God hath joined together let no one put assunder." APPROPRIATE NAMEs.—The following names are indeed appropriate for the uses mentioned : For an auctioneer's wife—Bid-dy. For a general's wife—Sally. For a sport's wife—Bet-ty. For a fisherman's wife—Net-ty. For a shoemaker's wife—Peg-gy. For a teamster's wife—Car-rio. For a lawyer's wife—Sue. For a printer's wife—Em. For a druggist's wife—Ann Eliza. For a carpet man's wife—Mat-tie. HE who betrays another's secret, be cause he has quarrelled with him, was never worthy of the sacred name of friend ; a breach of kindness at one side will not justify a breach of trust on the other. tor the glide *M o. =---= Eyes and no Eyes. You have all read the story in the school readers of the two boys who went over the same route, one with his eyes open and the other with them shut. It is old, but worth repeating, and worth re membering every day. So many things slip by us; so many things worth knowing go on right under our eyes without being noticed. I knew a man who had very little time for reading or study, but whose mind was a perfect storehouse of information on al most every subject. "How does it happen that yon know so much more than the rest of us ?" I asked him, me day. "Oh," said he, "I never had time to lay in a regular stock of learning, so I 'save all the bits' that come in my way, and they count up a good Beal in the course of a year." That is just the thing—save all the bits. "That boy," said a gentleman, "always seems to be on the lookout for something to see." So be was; and while waiting in a newspaper office for a package, he learned, by using his eyes, how a mailing machine was operated. While he waited at the florist's, he saw the man setting a box of cuttings, and learned by the use of his eyes, what he never would have guessed, that slips rooted best in nearly pure sand. "This is lapis luznli," said the jeweler to his customer; and this is chrysophrase." And the wide-awake errand boy turned around from the door to take a sharp look, so that in future he knew just how those two precious stones looked. In one day, he learned of the barber what became of the hair clippings; of the carpenter, how to drive a nail so as not to split the wood; of the shoemaker, how the differ-' ent surfaces of fancy leathers are made ; of a locust, that its month was of no use to him in singing; from a scrap of news paper, where sponges were obtained ; and from an old Irish woman, how to keep stove-pipes from rusting. Only bits and fragments of knowledge, but all of them worth saving, and all helping to increase the stock in trade of the boy who meant to be a man. A Good Reputation to Have The little stcry lam going to tell yon happened just before the war, when every one was very, very busy. Soldiers were enlisting and going away from almost every home in the land. One young man had volunteered and was expected to be daily ordered to the seat of war. One day his mother gave him an unpaid bill with money to pay it. When he returned home at night, she said, "Did you pay that bill ?" "Yes," he answered. In a few days the bill was sent in a sec ond time. "I thought," she said to her son, "that you paid this." "I really do not remember, mother ; you know I have had so many things on my mind." "Bat yon said you did." "Well," he answered, "if I said I did, I did." He went away, and his mother took the bill herself to the store. The young man had been known in the town all his life, and what opinion was held of him this will 'show. "I am quite sure," she said, "that my son paid this some days ago; has been very busy since, and has quite forgotten about it; but he told me that day he had, and says that if he said then that he had, he is quite sure he did." "Well," said the man, "I forget about it; but if ever he said he did, he did. Wasn't that a grand character to have ? Having once said a thing, that was enough to make others believe it, whether he re membered it or not. I wish all the boys in our land were sure of as good a reputation. The Fox and the Lion's Den. You boys who read Bsop,s Fables, will remember the story of the lion who feign ed to be sick, and induced all the smaller beasts to come and pay their respects to him in his den. Only the fox, it was no ticed, did not come, and the lion sent to inquire the reason. "Tell his majesty," said the shrewd fel low' "that when I draw near the mouth of his den, and see the prints of my fellow creatures' feet all pointing forward and none backward, I am warned not to ven ture further." There is a lesson of wisdom for you.— The fable might have been written to-day, if only some keen-eyed /Esop would walk along our streets and take note of the lions' dens, and see silly dupes that are always going in, but never coming out. Grog shops, saloons, theatres, gambling dens ! do you think when you have once entered, you can come away at will ? Never be lieve it. If the old lion does not devour you at once, he will eat you piece-meal.— Be sure you will not escape without at leas. the marks of his teeth and claws.— No tracks coming out! The people who come away leave behind purity, and honor, and honesty, and manhood; they enter whole; they limp away; maimed and dis figured, by another door. Take warning, boys, and when the old lion sets his traps in the shape of music, and merriment, and pleasant company, to draw . you inside his door, be sure there is an inner den where terrible jaws are lying in wait. "No TRACKS COMING OUT," says lEsop, which is only another version of Solomon's dec laration : "There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof is death." Air Castles Air castles ! Who has not built them 7 vast structures that tower up and grow grander, until lost in their own limitless magnificence. Who has not builded them, and then in blissful admiration viewed their work, until a breath of air from the cold world of reality " Whelmed in nothing, the unsubstantial bubble l" We are all architects, and we all build castles ! In youth we are happy at our work, for we have faith in it; but there comes a time when the illusion vanishes, when we know that the fabrics we have wrought with so much pains, are more fragile than a shadow. Then the employ ment ceases to be a pastime; but we have learned the trade, and we must work at it. So we go on building, building, build ing, though the splendor of our creations forever mock us with vanity. CHILDREN obey your parents. he J' Don't Know Adam As Artemus Ward was once travelling in the cars, dreading to be bored, and feel ing miserable, a man approached him, sat down and said : "Did you bear the last thing on Horace Greeley ?" "Greeley ? G reeley ?" said Artemus. "Horace Greely ? Who is be ?" The Man was quiet about five minutes. Pretty soon he said : "George Francis Train is kicking up a good deal of a row over in England; do you think they will put him in a bastile ?" "Train? Train ? George Francis Train ?" said Artemus, solemnly. "I never heard of him." This ignorance kept the man quiet for fifteen minutes; then he said : "What do you think about General Grant's chances for the Presidency ? Do ydn think they will run him ?" "Grant ? Grant ? hang it, man," said Artemus, "you appear to • know more strangers than any man I ever saw." The man was furious; he walked up the car, but at last came back and said : "You confounded ignoramus, did you ever hear of Adam ?" ..A.rtemus looked up and said : "What was his other name?" Sharp Youth, On a certain railroad, the other day, a newsboy entered a car with a bundle of dailies, and accosted a crusty old chap who sat crouched in a scat near the stove : Taper, sir, only five cents." "No!" growled the passenger; but I'd give five dollars if there was a fire in that stove." "Did you say you'd give five dollars if you had fire in that stove ?" said the boy, turning back. "Yes, and darned quick, too." The boy, in the twinkling of an eye, opened the stove door, thrust in the bun dle of fresh papers, touched a lighted match to them, and demanded his pay. The pas sengers, who had been watching the ma noeuvre, shouted with laughter, and the old fellow, after hesitating a moment, sheepishly drew five dollars from his pock et and paid the bill. "Sold out again," quoth the sharp boy, as he went out after his basket of confec tionery. Too Much for Him A gentlemanly conductor was collecting tickets from his passengers. All handed over the tickets promptly except one fat old lady who sat next to the door, and who seemed to be reaching down to get something she had dropped on the floor. 'When her time came to pay, she raised her head, and thus addressed the blushing conductor : "I allurs, when I travels, carry my money in my stockin', for you see nothing can get at it thar—and I'd just thank you, young man, just to reach it for me, as I'm so jammed in I can't get to it. I forgot to nit a ticket at the depot." The conductor glanced at the other pas sengers some of whom were laughing at his plight; one or two young ladies among them blushed scarlet, and he beat a hasty retreat, muttering something about not charging old ladies, etc. His cash was short that trip the fare of one passenger. a became _necessary last _week in the criminal court at Newport, Ky., in order to render a'boy witness competent, to prove that he had reached the age of ten years, and his mother, an Irish woman, was called for that purpose. "How old is your son John ?" quoth the lawyer. "Indade, sir, - I dunno, but I think he's not tin yet," was the reply. 'Did you make no record of his birth ?" "The praist did, in the old country, sir, where he was born." "How long after your marriage was it ?" "About a year; may be liss." "When were you married ?" "Dade, sir, I dunno." "Did you not bring a certificate of your marriage with you from the old country ?" "Hey, sir, and what should I made wid a certificate whin I had the ould mon him self along wid me ?" No further questions were asked. "CLERK," said a tall Kentuckian to a hotel official, "this young lady and me have eloped. Have you any marryin' fa cilities 'round here ?" The clerk replied in the affirmative, and the two were "spliced" in less than an hour. The bride-groom was evidently not yet satified, and lingered around the ho tel-book. • "Clerk," said he confidentially, at length, "hadn't ye better change the register, and give us one room now we're married ?" "It's already done," replied the clerk; "you're marked for the same room." "Well, clerk,.replied the Kentuckian, quickly, "won't you just show me up, then, for I'm awful sleepy. AN Irishman was looking about the ruins of a burnt confectionery establish ment in Nashua, N. H., when he spied a box of lozenges, still in a fair state of pre servation. He picked up the box, but preliminary to making off with it the idea occurred to him to Be sure that the lozen ges were worth purloining. He picked up a roll and broke it in two, and crammed his mouth as full of lozenges as the Cra chitts did of spoons. In a moment more the box was hurled to the ground, accom panied by the exclamation : "Be gorra, they are hot yet !" They were of the cayenne sort. AN elderly gentleman, returning home on Sunday, began to extol the merits of the sermon to his son. The following short dialogue tells the story: "I have heard, Walter," said the old gentleman, "one of the most delightful sermons ever delivered before a Christian society. It carried' me to the gates of heaven." "Well, I think," replied Walter, "you'd better have dodged in, for you never will have such another chance." A SENTIMENTAL youth, having seen a young damsel shedding tears over some thing in her lap, took the first opportunity to be introduced to her, and made no doubt that she was a congenial spirit. "What work was it that affected you so much the other morning ? I saw you shed a great many tears. Was it Bulwer's last ?" "I don't know what Bulwer's last is," return ed she, "but I assure you I was doing a job which almost kills me. I was peeling onions. NO. 4. Bit om Sink. We All Might Do Good. We all might do good Where we often do ill; There is always the way, If there be but the will. Though it be but a word, Kindly breathed or suppressed, It may guard off some pain, Or give peace to some breast. We all might do good In a thousand small ways-- In forbearing to Hatter, Yet yielding due praise, In spurning all rumor, Reproving wrong done, And treating but kindly The hearts we have won. We all might do good, Whether lowly or great, For the deed is not guaged By the purse or estate ; If it be but a cup Of cold water that's given, Like the widow's two mites, It is something for heaven Live for Something. Live for something ! Life is the divinest of Heaven's gifts to man, and something divine should be got out of it. Put upon the mode of the divine, and endowed with such God-like capabilities and powers, how inappreciably grand arc life's possibilities in the way of achievement for earth and heaven ! In the order of Providence, life's minis try is indeed lofty and sublime. Every man and every woman has his or her par ticular assignment in the duties of respon sibilities of daily life. We are in the world to make the world better; to lift it up to higher summits of happiness and progress; to make its hearts and homes brighter and happier, by devoting to fol lowers our best thoughts and activities. It is the motto of every tiue heart, and the genius of every noble life, that "no man liveth to himself," lives chiefly for his own selfish good. By a law of our intellectual and moral being, we promote our own hap piness in the exact proportion we contrib ute to the enjoyment of others. Nothing worthy of the name of happiness is possi sible in the experience of those who live only for themselves, all oblivious of the welfare of their fellows. That only is the true philosophy which recognizes and work out the principle in daily action, that noble duties, not 117,7.eelfshnese Not to be vriled - a3rny ic;;in7l;;;7l;jarns, But to improve ourselves, and serve mankind." But to live for something, involves the necessity of an intelligent and definite plan of action. More than splendid dreaming, or even magnificent resolves, is necessary to success in the objects and ambitions of life. Men conic to the best results in either department of effort, only as they thoughtfully plan, and earnestly toil in giving directions. Those who have made money, acquired learning,won fame, or wielded power in the world, have always, in every age, and among all people, done so by embodying a well defined purpose in earnest, living action. The reason that thousands fail in their work in life, is the want of a specific plan in laying out their energies; they work hard for nothing, be cause there is no actual result possible to their mode of action. The means are ad justed to the end; hence failure is the in evitable result. Live for something definite and practi cal. Take hold of things with a method and a willl, and they must yield to you, and become the ministers of your own happiness and that of others. Nothing , within the realm of the possible can with stand the man or woman who is intelligent ly and determinedly bent on success. A great action is always preceded by a great purpose. History and daily life are full of examples to show us that the measure of human achievement has always been proportioned to the amount of human da ring and doing. If not always, yet at least often, -"The attempt Is all the wedge that splits its knotty way IletwLat the impossible and possible." Be practical. Deal with the questions and facts of life as they really are. What can be done, and is worth doing, do with dispatch ; what can not be done, and would be worthless, if it could, leave to the dreamers and idlers along the walks of life. Discard the idea that little things are un important, and that great occasions only are worthy of your best thonghts and en deavors. It is the little things of life that make up its happiness or misery, its joy or its sorrow; and surely nothing is trivial that bears on questions so vital and per sonal as these. A kind look is a little thing, but it may fall like a sumbeam on a sad heart, and chase away its sadness. A pleasant word is a small thing, but it may brighten the spirits, and revive the hopes of some poor despondent soul about to give up in despair, before the conflicts and trials of life.—Rev. F. S. Cassidy. Hunger for Heaven. My friends, I am not tired of earthly life beyond what all men, fitted for the life to come, at times are weary of it. I love it in its uses, its labors, and its joys. Its duties give exercise to my faculties, its loves to my affections, its successes to my happiness. I am not morbid, but measure the world through a healthy body, a grow ing mind, and a hope as strong and bra cing as a current of northern air when it bears down upon a camp from the sides of mountains planted thickly with odorous. trees. The pulse of this life is strong within me, my friends many, and my fur tune beyond my merit or my expectation. I am not talking to you as a - disa 4 ppointed, depressed, an unhappy man. Keeping s only what I have, blessed only with my present blessings, I could stay on earth forewr, if it be God's will, and be content.. But, in spite of all this, when my thoughts range out ahead, and canvass my future, I can but feel persuaded that the present, pre cious as it is, does not begin to measure the resources of blessings hidden in the heart for.me. My present state does not per mit me their full reception; does not al low the perfect disclosure of his love. I need the spiritual body, the heavenly lan guage, the celestial sphere of action, the holy companionships, the powers and func tions, the rank and dignity, the privilege and liberty, of the glorified world and state, or ever I shall know the breadth and length and depth and hight of the richness of His love; and I feel persuad ed that by the very drift and movement of time I am being borne toward, and at last shall come to something far better than the good of to-day.—Rev. W. H. Murray. PEACE 18 that harmony in the state that health is in the body. BEHOLD now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers