VOL. 47
The Huntingdon Journal
J. R. DITaBORROW,
PUBLISHERS AND PROPRIETORS
Office on the Corner of Fifth and Washington street..
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Professional Cards
BF. GEHRETT, M. D., ECLEC
• TIC PHYCICIAN AND SURGEON, hay
ing returned from Clearfield county and perma
nently located in Shirleysburg, offers big profes
sional services to the people of that place and sur
rounding country. apr.3-1872.
DR. H. W. BUCHANAN,
DENTIST,
No. 22311 Street,
HUNTINGDON, PA
July 3, '72.
DE. F. 0. ALLEMAN can be con
sulted at his office, at all hours, Mapleton,
Pa. [march6,72.
CALDWELL, Attorney -at -Law,
•No. 111, 3d street. Office formerly occupied
by Messrs. Woods & Williamson. [apl2,'7l.
DEL A. B. BRUMBAUGH, offers his
professional services to the community.
Office, No. 523 Washington street, one door most
of the Catholic Parsonage. [jan.4,'7l.
EJ. GREENE, Dentist.
• moved to Leister's newbuildil
rentingdon.
GL. ROBB, Dentist, office in S. T.
• Brown's new building, No. 520, Sill St.,
Huntingdon, Pa. (ap12,'71.
TT GLAZIER, Notary Public, corner
• of Washington and Smith streets, Hun
tingdon, Pa. [jan.l2'7l.
C. MADDEN, Attorney-at-Law
TT
• Office, No. —, Hill street, Huntingdon,
Ps. [ap.19,'71.
JFRANKLIN SCHOCK, Attorney
• at-Law, HUNTINGDON, PA.
jane26,'72-6m,
JSYLVANUS BLAIR, Attorney-at
• Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Office, Hill street,
hreo doors west of Smith. Dan.4'7l.
It. PATTON, Druggist.
and Apoth
c, ,• (wary, opposite the Exchange Hotel, Hun
ingdon, Pa. Prescriptions accurately compounded.
Pure Liquors for Medicinal purposes. [n0r.23,'70.
JHALL MUSSER, Attorney-at-Law,
• No. 319 Hill at., Huntingdon, Pa. [jan.4,ll.
R. DURBORROW, Attorney-at
ur • Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will practice in the
several Courts of Huntingdon county. Particular
attention given to the settlement of estates of dece
dents.
Office in he JOURNAL Building. [feb.l,ll
W. MATTERN, Attorney-at-Law
J
• and General Claim Agent, Huntingdon, Pa.,
Soldiers' claims against the Government for back
pay, bounty, widows' and invalid pensions attend
ed to with great care and promptness.
Office on Hill street. Dan.4,'7l.
IT ALLEN LOVELL, Attorney-at
• Law, Huntingdon, Pa. Special attention
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prosecuted with fidelity and dispatch.
pH" Office in room lately occupied by R. Milton
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• at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa., will attend to
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Office on the south side of Hill street, fourth door
west of Smith. [jan.4,ll.
RA. ORBISON, Attorney-at-Law,
♦ Office, 321 Hill street, Huntingdon, Pe.
Emay3l,7l.
JOHN /COTT. S. T. DROWN. J. Y. BAILEY
SCOTT, 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 street. Ljan.4,'7l.
TW. MYTON, Attorney-at-Law, Hun
•• tingdon, Pa. Office with J. Sewell Stewart,
Esq. [jan.4,'7l.
viT ILLIAm A. FLEMING, Attorney
at-Law
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.
Hotels.
MORRISON HOUSE,
OPPOSITE PENNSYLVANIA R. R. DEPOT
HUNTINGDON, PA
J. H. CLOVER, Prop.
April 5, 1871-Iy.
NVASHINGTON HOTEL,
S. 8. BOWDON, Prop'r.
Corner of Pitt Ja Juliana Sts.,Bedford, Pa. mayl.
EICHANGE..HOTEL, Huntingdon,
Ps. JOHN S. MILLER, Proprietor.
Jaivory 4, lant
Miscellaneous,
COLYER & GRAHAM, PAINTERS.
Shop No. 750 Hill Street,
(2d door'from S. A. Henry & Co's.,)
Huntingdon, Pa.,
*ill do all kind of painting cheaper than any
firm in town. Give them a call before applying
elsewhere. I may tim.
ISAAC TAYLOR & CO. m N
--AIIPAC
TURZRS OP Hemlock, Pine, and Oak Bill Tim
ber and Shingles, Osceola, Clearfield county, Pa.
They make a specialty of furnishing to order all
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HEMLOCK .AND BILL TIMBER.
Orders taken and any information given by M.
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Jan.24,1872-6mo.
A. BECK, Fashionable Barber
R
and Hairdresier, Hill street, opposite the
Franklin House. All kinds of Tonto. and Pomades
kept on band sad Art sale. 'D5p12,11..-dm
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PASSED AT THE
FIRST SESSION OF THE FORTY-SECOND
AN ACT to establish the pay of the en
listed men of the army.
Be it enacted by the Senate and House
of Representatives of the United States of
America in Congress assembled, That from
and after the first day of July, eighteen
hundred and seventy-two, the monthly
pay of the following enlisted men of the
army shall, during their first term of en
listment, be as follows, with the contingent
additions thereto, hereinafter provided :
Sergeant majors of cavalry, artillery,
and inantry, twenty-three dollars.
Quartermaster sergeants of cavalry, ar
tillery, and infantry, twenty-three dollars.
Chief trumpeters of cavalry, twenty-two
dollars.
Principal musicians of artillery and in
fantry, twenty-two dollars.
Saddler sergeants of cavalry, twenty-two
dollars.
First sergeants of cavalry, artillery, and
infantry, twenty-two dollars.
Sergeate of cavalry, artillery, and infan
try, seventeen dollars.
Corporals of cavalry and light artillery,
fifteen dollars.
Corporals of artillery, and infantry, fif
teen dollars.
Saddlers of cavalry, fifteen dollars.
Blacksmiths and ferriers of cavalry, fif
teen dollars.
Trumpeters of cavalry, thirteen dollars.
Musicians of artillery and infantry,
thirteen dollars.
Privates of cavalry, artillery, and infan
try, thirteen dollars.
Hospital stewards, first-class, thirty dol
lars.
Hospital stewards, second-class, twenty
dollars.
Hospital stewards, third-class, twenty
dollars.
Ordnance sergeants of posts, thirty-four
dollars.
Sergeant majors of engineers, thirty-six
dollars.
Quartermaster sergeants of engineers,
thirty-six dollars.
Sergeants of engineers and ordnance,
thirty-four dollars.
Corporals of engineers and ordnance,
twenty dollars.
Musicians of engineers, thirteen dollars.
Privates (first-class) of engineers and
ordnance, seventeen dollars.
Privates (second-class) of engineers and
ordnance, thirteen dollars.
SEC. 2. That to the rates of pay above
established one dollar per month shall be
added for the third year of enlistment, one
dollar more per month for the fourth year,
and one dollar more per month for the
fifth year, making in all three dollars' in
crease per month for the last year of the
first enlistment of each enlisted man ail=
ed in the first section of this act. But this
increase shall be considered as retained
pay, and shall not be paid to the soldier
until his discharge from Ahe service, and
shall be forfeited unless he shall have ser
ved honestly and faithfuly to the date of
discharge. And all former laws concern
ing retained pay for privates of the army
are hereby rescinded.
SEC. 3. That all the enlisted men enu
merated in the first section of this act who
have re-enlisted or who shall hereafter re
enlist and the provisions of the act of Au
gust fourth, eighteen hundred and fifty
four, shall be paid at the rates allowed in
the second section of this act to those
serving in the fifth year of their first en
listment : Provided, That one dollar per
month shall be retained from the pay of
the re-enlisted men, of whatever grade,
named in the first section of this act, du
ring the whole period of their re-enlist
ment, to be paid to the soldier on his dis
charge, but to be forfeited unless he shall
have served honestly and faithfully to the
date of discharge.
Sze. 4. That enlisted men, now in the
service, shall receive the rates of pay es
tablished in this act according to the length
of their service, and nothing contained in
this act shall be construed as affecting the
additional monthly pay allowed for re-en
listments by the act of August fourth,
eighteen hundred and fifty-four.
Approved, May 15, 1872.
[GENERAL NATURE—No. 66.]
WITH
AN ACT to establish a system of deposits,
to prevent desertion, and elevate the con
dition of the rank and file of the army.
.13e it enacted by the Senate and House of
Representatives of the United States of
Jimerica in Congress assembled, That any
enlisted man of the army may deposite his
savings, in sums of not less than five dol
lars, with any army paymaster, who shall
furnish him with a deposit-book, in which
shall be entered the name of the paymas
ter and of the soldier, and the amount,
date, and place of such deposit. The
money so deposited shall be accounted for
in the same manner as other public funds.
and shall pass to the credit of the appro
priation for the pay of the army, and shall
not be subject to forfeiture by sentence of
court-martial, but shall be forfeited by
desertion, and shall not be permitted to be
paid until final payment on discharge, or
to the heirs or representatives of a deceas
ed soldier, and that such deposit be exempt
from liability for such soldier's debts :
Provided, That the government shall be
liable for the amount deposited to the per
son so depositing the same.
SEC. 2. That for any sums of not less
than fifty dollars so deposited for the pe
riod of six months, or longer, the soldier,
on his final discharge, shall be paid interest
at the rate of four per centum per annum.
SEC. 3. That the money value of all
clothing overdrawn by the soldier beyond
his allowance shall be charged against him
every six months, on the muster roll of
his company, or on his final statements if
sooner discharged. The amount due him
for clothing, he having drawn less than
his allowance, shall not be paid to him
until his final discharge from the service.
SEC. 4. That the system of deposits
herein established shall be carried into ex
ecution under such regulations as may be
established by the Secretary pf War.
Sze. 5. That the amounts of deposits
and clothing balances accumulated to the
soldier's credit under the provisions of
sections one and three of this act shall,
when payable to the soldier upon his dis
charge, be paid out of the appropriations
for "pay of the army" for the then current
fiscal year.
SEC. 6. That all acts and parts of acts
inconsistent with the provisions of this act
are hereby repealed,
Approved, - May 15, 1872.
BUSINESS CARDS,
CONCERT TICKETS,
LEGAL BLANKS,
PAMPHLETS,
United States Laws,
[OFFICIAL.]
LAWS
OF THE
UNITED STATES
CONGRESS.
[GENERAL NATURE-NO. 65.
HUNTINGDON, PA., JULY 3, 1872
Ufa uoto' getvtr.
Speak Kindly.
When ushers in the orb of day,
And birds are warbling on the spray.
And bees commence their humming,
When dew-drops glisten in the sun,
And housewife has her work begun.
Speak gently.
To smooth the cares of every day,
And lighten burdens by the way,
And cheer the panting spirit,
Through all affairs of daily life,
And free the mind of painful strife.
Speak kindly.
When night succeeds the day of toil,
And evening hours we would beguile,
And rest upon our couches,
Not knowing but some loved one near.
Before the dawn may disappear,
Speak kindly.
To cheer the downcast, bruised heart,
And smooth the pang of sorrow's smart,
And calm the Ironbled breast;
To wake the erring to reform,
And hold from evil ways to turn
speak kindly.
Kind words are balm to every soul—
They tend to make the wounded whole
And strengthen well the spirit;
Then let us smooth the path of life,
And cease the pains of cares and strife,
Be always, speaking kindly.
Zhe cftorg-Ztilet
The Pot of Gold ;
0 - 11,
THE WIDOW'S STRATAGEM,
BY CARL CANTAB.
DEACON BANCROFT, though a very good
man in the main, and looked up to with
respect by all the inhabitants of the town
of Centreville, was rumored to have, in
Yankee parlance, "a pretty sharp eye to
the main chance"—a peculiarity from
which even deacons are not always exempt.
In worldly matters he was decidedly
well-to-do, having inherited a fine farm
from his father, which was growing yearly
more valuable. It might be supposed that
under these circumstances, the deacon,
who was fully able to do so, would have
found a help-mate to share his house and
name. But the Deacon warn wary. Ma
trimony was to him, in some measure, a
matter of money, and it was his firm re
solve not to marry unless he could thereby
enhance his worldly prosperity. Unhap
pily, the little town of Centreville and the
towns in the immediate vicinity contained
few who were qualified in this important
particular, and of those there were proba
bly none with whom the Deacon's suit would
have prospered.
So it happened that year after year pass
ed away, until Deacon Bancroft was in the
prime of life—forty-five, or thereabouts—
and still unmarried, and in all human pro
bability likely to remain so. But in all
human calculations of this kind, they reck
on ill who leave widows out.
Deacon Bancroft's nearest neighbor was
The widow Wells, who had passed thro'
one matrimonial experience, was some three
or four years younger than Deacon Ban
croft. She was still quite a buxom, come
ly woman, as widows are apt to be. Un
fortunately the late Mr. Wells had not
been able to leave her sufficient to make
her independent of the world. All that
•'le possessed was the small, old-fashioned
house in which she lived, and a small
amount of money, which was insufficient
to support her and a little son of seven,
likewise to be enumerated in the schedule
of her property, though hardly to be class
ed as "productive" of anything bat mis
chief.
The widow was therefore obliged to take
three or four boarders to eke out her scan
ty income, which of course imposed upon
her considerable labor and anxiety.
Is it surprising that.under these circum
stances she should now have bethought
herself of a second marriage, as a method
of bettering her condition ? Or again,
need we esteem it a special wonder if, in
her reflections upon this point, she should
have cast her eyes upon her next neigh
bor, Deacon Bancroft ? The deacon, as
we have said, was in flourishing circum
stances. He would be able to maintain a
wife in great comfort; being one of the
chief personages in the village, could ac
cord her a prominent social position. He
was not especially handsome, or calculated
to make a profound impression upon the
female heart—this was true—but he had
a good disposition, was kind-hearted, and
would no doubt make a very good sort of
a husband. Widows are, I take it, (if any
shall do me the honor and read this story,
I trust they will forgive the remark,) less
disposed to weigh sentiment in a second
than a first, and so, in the widow's point of
view, the deacon was a match.
Some sagacious person, however, has
observed that it takes two to snake a match,
a fact to be seriously considered ; for in
the present case it was exceedingly doubt
ful whether the worthy deacon, even if he
had known the favorable opinion of the
next neigisbor, would have been inclined
to propose changing her name to Bancroft,
unless, indeed, a suitable motive was
brought to bear upon him.
Here was a chance for some finessing,
wherein widows are said, as a general
thing, to be expert.
One evening, after a day of ' very fa
tiguing labor, the widow Well sat at the
fire in the cosy sitting-room with her small
feet resting upon the fender.
"If I am ever so situated as not to have
to work so hard," she murmured, "I shall
be happy. It's a hard life, keeping board
ers. If I was as well off as Deacon Ban
croft.--"
Still the widow kept up her thinking,
and by-and-by her face brightened up.—
She had an idea which she resolved to put
into execution at the earliest possible mo
ment. What it was, the reader will dis
cover in the sequel.
"Henry," said she to her son, the next
morning, "I want you to stop at Bancroft's
as you go to school, and ask him if he will
call and see me in the course of the morn
ing or afternoon, just as he finds it most
convenient"
Deacon Bancroft was a little surprised
at the summons. However, about eleven
o'clock he called in. The widow had got
on the dinner, and had time to sit down.
She appeared embarrassed.
"Harry told me you would like to see
me," he commenced.
"Yes, Deacon Bancroft, I do; but I'm
very much afraid you will think strange
of it—at least what I have to say to you.
The deacon very politely promised not
to be surprised, though at the same time
his curiosity was visibly excited.
"Suppose," said the widow, casting,
down her eyes-,-"mind I am only suppos
ing a case—suppose a person should find
a pot of gold pieces in their cellar, would
the law have a right to touch it, or would
it belong to them ?"
The deacon pricked up his ears.
"A pot of gOld pieces, widow ! Why,
unquestionably, the law would have noth
ing to do with it."
"And the one who had formerly owned
the house couldn't come forward and claim
it, could he, deacon ?" inquired the wid
ow, further, with apparent anxiety.
"No, madam, unquestionably not. When
the house was disposed of, everything
went with it, as a matter of course.
"I am glad to hear it, deacon. You
won't think strange of the question, but it
happened to occur to my mind, and I
thought I would like to have it satisfied."
"Certainly, widow, certainly," said the
deacon, abstractedly.
"And, deacon, as you are here, I hope
you'll stop to dinner with us. It will be
ready punctually at twelve."
"Well, no," said the deacon, rising,
"I'm obleeged to ye, but they'll be expect
ing me at home."
"Was it possible," thought he, "that the
widow could really have found a pot of
gold in her cellar? She did not say so,
to be sure, but why should she have shown
so much concern to know as to the propri
etorship of treasure thus found, if she had
not happened upon some." To be sure,
so far as knowledge extended there was no
one who would be in the least likely to lay
up such an amount of gold; but then the
house was one hundrel and fifty years old,
at the very least, and undoubtedly had
many occupants of which he knew noth
ing. It might be after all. The widow's
earnest desire to have him think it was
only curiosity, likewise gave additional
probability to the supposition.
"I will wait and watch," thought the
deacon.
'At any rate, deacon," said the widow,
taking a steaming mince pie out of the
oven, "you won't object 'to taking a piece
of my mince pie; you must know I rather
pride myself on my mince pies."
The warm pie sent forth such an odor
that the deacon was sorely tempted, and
after saying, "Well, really," with the in
tention of refusing, he finished by saying,
"On the whole, I think I will, as they look
so very nice."
The widow was really a good cook, and
the deacon ate with much gusto the gen
erous slice which the widow cut for him,
and after a little more chatting upon some
unimportant subjects, withdrew in some
mental perplexity.
It so happened that Deacon Bancroft
was one of the directors in a Savings In
stitution, situated in the next town, and
accordingly used to ride over there once
or twice a month to attend meetings of the
board.
On the next occasion of this kind, the
widow Wells sent over to know if he could
carry her over with him, as she had a lit
tle business to attend to there.
The request was readily accorded. Ar
rived in the village, Mrs. Wells requested
to be set down at the bank.
"Ha! ha!" thought the deacon, that
means something." .
aed ,Ittliingl however, but deter
mined to come back and find out, as he
readily could from the cashier, what busi
ness she had with the bank.
The widow tripped lightly into the office,
pretending to look very nonchalant.
"Can you give me small bills for a five
dollar gold piece?" she inquired.
"With pleasure," was the reply.
"By the way," said she, "the bank is in
quite a flourishing condition, is it not?"
"None in the State on better footing,"
was the prompt response.
"You receive deposits, do you ?"
"Yes, madam, we are receiving them
every day."
"Do you receive as high as —five thou
sand dollars ?"
"No," said the cashier, with some sur
prise; "or rather we do not allow interest
on so large a sum. One thousand dollars
is our limit. Did you know of any one
who-"
"It is of no consequence," said the wid
ow, hurriedly; I only asked out of curios
ity. By the way, did you say how much
interest you allowed on such deposits as
came within your limit ?"
"Five per cent., ma'am."
"Thank you ; I only asked for curiosity.
What a beautiful morning it is."
And the widow tripped lightly out.—
Shortly afterwards the deacon entered.
"How's business, Mr. Cashier ?" he in
quired.
"About as usual."
"Have you had any new deposits late
ly ?"
"None of any magnitude."
"I brought over a lady, this morning,
who seemed to have business with you."
"The widow Wells ?"
"Do you know," asked the cashier,
"whether she had any money left her late
ly ?"
"None that I know of," replied the dea
con, pricking up his ears. "Why, did she
deposit any ?"
"No, but she inquired whether we re
ceive deposits as high as five thousand dol
lars."
"Indeed !" ejaculated the deacon. "Was
that what she came for ?"
No ; she exchanged a gold piece for
small bills."
"Ha !" pondered the deacon, reflective
ly. "Did she give any reason for her in
quiries?"
"No ; she said she only asked from cu
riosity."
The deacon left the bank in deep
thought. He came to the conclusion that
this "curiosity" veiled a deeper motive.—
He no longer entertained a doubt that the
widow had actually found a pot of gold in
the cellar, and appearances to indicate that
its probable value was at least five thousand
dollars. The gold piece which she had
exchanged at the bank appeared to confirm
this story.
"I rather think," said the deacon, com
placently, "I can see into a millstone about
as far as most people"—a statement, the
literal truth of which I deny any one to
question, though as to the prime fact of
people's being able to see into a millstone
at all, doubts have now and then intruded
themselves on my mind.
Next Sunday the widow Wells appeared
at church in a new stylish bonnet, which
led to such remarks as these—
"How much vanity some people have,
to be sure."
"How a woman, that has kept boarders
for a living, can afford to dash out with
such bonnets is more than I can tell ; I
should think she was old enough to know
better."
This last remark was made by a young
lady just six months yo anger than the
widow, whose attempts to catch a husband
hitherto proved utterly unavailing.
"I suppose she is trying to catch a sec
ond husband with her finery. Before I
would condescend to such means I'd—l'd
drown myself."
In this amiable speech the young lady
unwittingly hit upon the true motive. The
widow was intent upon catching Deacon
Bancroft, and she indulged in a costly
bonnet, not because she supposed he would
be caught by such finery, but because it
would strengthen in his mind the idea that
she had stumbled upon hidden wealth.
The widow calculated shrewdly, and the
display had the effect she anticipated.
Monday afternoon Deacon Bancroft
found an errand that called him to the
widow's. It chanced to be about tea time.
He was importuned to stay for tea, and
somewhat to-his own surprise, actually did.
The politic widow, who knew the dea
con's weak points, brought out one of her
best mince pies, a piece of which her guest
partook with zest.
"You'll take another piece, I know,"
she said, persuasively.
"Really, I'm ashamed," said the deacon,
but he passed his plate. "The fact is your
pies are so nice I don't know where to
stop," he said, apologetically.
• - 1:) o you call ihesW nice ? 7 ' said the wid•
ow, modestly.
i‘l shouldn't want any better," said the
deacon, emphatically.
"Then I hope if you like them you will
drop in often to tea. We ought to be more
neighborly, deacon Bancroft."
Deacon Bancroft assented, and he meant
what he said. The fact is, the deacon be
gan to think the widow was a very charm
ing woman. She was comely, and then
she was such an excellent cook ! Besides,
he had no doubt in his mind that she was
worth a considerable amount of money.—
What objection would there be to her be
coming Mrs. Bancroft ? He brought the
question before her one evening. The
widow blushed—ia fact, she had never
thought of such a thing in her life—but,
on the whole, she had always thought
highly of the deacon, and, to cut short the
matter, accepted him.
Some weeks after the ceremony, the
deacon ventured to inquire about the pot
of gold which she had found in her cellar.
..‘Pot of gold !" she exclaimed in sur
prise, "I know of none."
"But," said the deacon, disconcerted,
"you know you asked me whether you
could claim it."
"0, for ! deacon, I only asked for curi
osity."
"And was that the reason yon mule in
quiries at the bank ?"
"Certainly. What else could it be ?"
The deacon went to the barn, and for
about half an hour sat in silent meditation.
At the end of that time he ejaculated, as
a closing consideration : "After all, she
makes good mince pies."
It gives fne pleasure to state that the
union between the deacon and the widow
proved a very happy one, although to the
end of his life he could never quite make
up his mind about "The Pot of Gold."
;Altarling for the 'A:IC(II4m.
Conversation
Conversational power is a gift of birth.
It is some men's nature to talk. Words
flow out incessantly, like drops from a
spring in the hill side—not because they
are solicited, but because pushed out by
an inward force that will not lie still. We
have known persons whose tongues ran
from the rising of the sun until the going
down of the same. One sentence ran into
another as continuously as one link in an
endless chain took hold in another link.—
We always marvel whether they do not
wake up of nights and have a good talk all
to themselves, just for the relief it would
give them. From this extreme there is
every degree of modification until we come
to the opposite extreme, in which men seem
almost unable, certainly unwilling, to utter
their thoughts. Some men are poor in
simple language. They have thoughts
enough, but the symbols of thought—
words—refuse to present themselves, or
come singly and stingily. Others are silent
from the stricture of secretiveness. Others
are cautious, and look before they speak,
and before they are ready the occasion has
passed.
In regard to language itself, the habit
of reading pure English, and of employing
it every day, is the best drill for a good
talker. People always act more naturally
in their everyday clothes than they do
when dressed up for Sunday, and the rea
son is, that they are unconscious in the
other. It is so in speech; if one allows
himself to talk coarsely and vulgarly every
day and out of company, he will most as
suredly find it not easy to talk well in com
pany.
Habit is stronger than intention, and
somewhere the common run of speech will
break through and betray you. To con
verse well at some times requires that you
shall converse well at all times. Avoid on
the one side vulgarism, all street colloqui
alisms, even when they are - not vicious;
for bywords and slang sentences amuse
only while they are new. As soon as they
become habitual they corrupt your lan
guage, without any equivalent in amuse
ment.
On the other extreme, avoid maniloquent
and high flown language of any kind.—
Nothing is more tedious than a grand talk
er. Everybody laughs at a pompous fellow
who lugs into his conversation big words
or pedantic expressions. The best lan
guage in the world is that which is so
simple and transparent that no one thinks
of the words you use, but only of the
thought or feeling which they express.—
Beecher.
To Those Interested ,
For the benefit of a certain class, who
think that the composing room of a prin
ting office is general "loafing grounds," we
submit the following rules, which we have
no objections to being lived up to the ful
lest extent:
1. Enter softly.
2. Sit down quietly.
3. Subscribe for the paper, or pay your
subscription, if in arrears.
4. Pay for it in advance.
5. Don't touch the type.
6. Keep nine feet from the devil.
7. Don't talk to the compositors, their
minds are engaged.
8. Hands off of manuscript, copy or
proofs.
Gentlemen observing these rules will
greatly oblige the editor and need not fear
the devil.
Ladies, who sometimes bless us with
their fair presence for a short time, are
not expected to keep these rules.
Boys unaccompanied by their fathers
are requested to keep their pockets and
mouth shut Girls are exempt from this
rule.
POVERTY is a hard task master.
A Singular Adventure.
A great number of persons who knew
the celebrated Dr. B-, of London,
have often beard him relate the following
anecdote:
One day he had procured the bodies of
two criminals who had been hung, for the
purpose of anatomy. Not being able to
find the key of the dissecting room he or
dered them to be deposited in an apart
ment continguous to his bed room.
During the evening he wrote and read
late. The clock had just struck one,
when all at once a dull sound proceeded
from the room containing the bodies, and
the doctor went to see what could be the
cause of the unexpected noise. What
was his astonishment, or rather his horror,
on discovering that the sack which con
tained the bodies was torn asunder, and
that one of them was sitting in a corner !
Poor Dr. B—, at this unexpected ap
parition, became transfixed with terror,
which was increased by observing the
dead and sunken eyes of the corps fixed
upon him, whichever way he moved.
The worthy doctor, more dead than
alive, now began to beat a quick retreat,
without, however, losing sight of the ob
ject of his terror. But the spectre has
risen and followed him ; his strength fails,
the candle falls [from his hand, and he is
now in complete darkness.
The good doctor has, however, gained
his apartment, and thrown himself on his
bed, but the fearful spectre has still fol
lowed him—it has caught him, and seizes
hold of his feet with both hands. At this
climax of terror the doctor loudly ex
claimed:
"Who ever you are, leave me !"
At this the spectre let go its hold, and
moaned feebly these words:
"Pity, goOd hangman ! have pity on
me!"
The good doctor now discovered the
mystery, and regained by little and little
his composure. He explained to the crim
inal who had so narrowly escaped death,
who he was, and prepared to call up some
of the family.
"Do you, then, wish to destroy me ?"
exclaimed the criminal. "If lam discov
ered, my adventure will become public,
and I shall be brcught to the scaffold a
second time. In the name of humanity,
save me from death !"
The good doctor then arose and procur
ed a light. He muffled his unexpected
visitor in an old dressing gown; and having
made him take some restoring cordial, de
sired to know what crime had brought him
to the scaffold.
He was a deserter.
The good doctor did not well know
what means to employ to save the poor
creature. He could not keep him in his
house, and to turn him out would be to ex
pose him to certain death. The only way
was to get him into the country; so having
made him dress himself in some old clothes
which the kind doctor selected from his
wardrobe, he left town early, accompanied
by his protege, whom he represented as an
assistant.
When they had got into the open coun
try, the wretched creature threw himself at
the feet of his benefactor and liberator, to
whom he swore an eternal gratitude; and
the generous doctor having relieved his
wants by a small sum of money, the grate
ful creature left him with many blessings
and prayers for his happiness.
About twelve years after this occurrence
Dr. B— had occasion to visit Amster
dam. Having gone one day to the bank,
he was accosted by a well-dressed man—
one who bad been pointed out to him as
one of the most opulent merchants in the
city.
The merchant asked him politely if be
was not Dr. B—, of London; and on his
answering in the affirmative, pressed him
to dine at his house, which invitation the
worthy doctor accepted. On arriving at
the merchant's house, he was shown into
an elegant apartment, where a most
charming woman and two lovely children
welcomed him in the most friendly manner;
which reception surprised him the more,
coming from persons he had never before
met.
After dinner the merchant, having ta
ken him into his counting-house, seized
his hand, and having pressed it with
friendly warmth, said to him :
"Do yon not recollect me ?"
"No," said the doctor.
"Well, then, I remember you well, and
your features will never be obliterated from
my memory—for to you I owe my life.—
Do you remember the poor deserter ? On
leaving you I went to Holland. Writing
a good hand, and being also a good ac
countant, I soon obtained a situation as
clerk in a merchant's office. My good con
duct and zeal soon gained for me the con
fidence of my employer and the affections
of his daughter. When he retired from
business I succeeded him, and became his
son-in-law; but without you, without your
care, without your generous assistance, I
should not have lived to enjoy so mnch
happiness. Generous man ! consider
henceforth my house, my fortune and my
self as wholly yours."
The kind doctor was affected even to
tears; and both these happy beings parti
cipated in the most delightful expression of
their feelings, which were soon shared by
the merchant's interesting family, who
came to join them,
"The Old Woman,"
It was thus, a few days since, we heard
a stripling of sixteen designate the mother
who bore him. By coarse husbands we
have heard wives so called occasionally,
though in the latter case the phrase is more
often used endearingly. At all times, as
commonly spoken, it jars upon the ear and
shocks the sense. An "old woman" should
be an object of reverence above and be
yond most all other phases of humanity.—
Her very age should be her surest pass
port to courteous considertion. She has
fought faithfully "the good fight," and
come off conqueror. Upon her venerable
face she bears the marks of
_the conflict in
all its furrowed lines. The most grievous
of the ills of life have been hers; trials un
told and known only to her God and her
self, she has borne incessantly; and now, in
her old age—her duty done ; patiently
awaiting her appointed time—stands more
honorable and deserving than he who has
slain his thousands or stood triumphant
upon the proudest fields of victory. Young
man, speak kindly to your mother, and
even courteously, tenderly of her. But a
little time, and you will see her no more
forever. Her eye is dim, her form is bent,
and her shadow falls graveward. Others may
love you when she has passed away—kind
hearted sisters; perhaps she whom of all the
world you choose for a partner, she may love
you warmly,passionately; children may love
you fondly, but never again, while time is
yours, shall the love of woman be to you as
that of your old, trembling mother has been.
NO. 27.
Ivoung the tivoidt.
The Better Love.
Human love is ever meet,
Though uncertain 'tie, and fleet
. .
As - a
fitful vision :
Woe to man if this be all,
All that he his own may call
Of the joys Elysian.
Smiles as bright as morning sky,
Passing soon from lip and eye,
Briefer than the morning;
Tender words of love and truth
Changing oft to words of truth,
Or of cruel scorning.
But the love of God is sure,
All through life it will endure,
Pure and satisfying;
Sweeter e'en than mother give
Is the love that will receive,
And unfold us dying.
Never creature loved so well,
Ne'er did mortal bosom swell
With so warm a feeling.
As the tender love and faith
Which in Jesus' life and death
Had its fond revealing.
No Lazy Christians
There is no better place from which to
see heaven than a carpenter's table or a
mason's wall, or a merchant's counter, if
the heart be right. Elisha was plowing
in the field when the prophetic mantle fell
upon him. Matthew was engaged in his
custom-house duties when he was com
manded to "follow." James and John
were busily engaged in mending their nets
when called to be fishers of men. Had
they been snoring in the sun, Christ would
not have brought their indolence into the
Apostleship. Gideon was at work with a
flail on the threshing floor, when he saw
the angel. It was when Saul was with
fatigue hunting up his father's asses, that
he got the crown of Israel. The "prodi
gal" son would not have been reformed
and have wanted to go home, had he not
gone into business, although it was swine
feeding. Indeed, it is not once in a hund
red times that a lazy man ever becomes a
christian. There is but little hope for the
man that has nothing to do. It is not
when idleness, but while like the Bethle
hem shepherds watching their flocks, that
the glory of God will shine about you and
there will be joy in heaven among the
angels of God over your soul penitent and
forgiven.
Death.
Are you prepared for a visitation ofthat
grim destroyer, Death ? You know his vis
it must come sooner or later, and when he
comes will you be prepared to cross that
dark river with your phantom guide ? Are
you prepared to appear before that tribu
dal above, whose Judge is God, and whose
wrath consigns the wicked to everlasting
punishment in a lake of fire ? You attend
the funeral of a friend whose life was cut
short by death, and shudder when you
know that he died unprepared to meet his
God. Do you think of the time when
death shall command you to accompany
him ? He takes the rich, the old and the
young, the king and theslave, without any
distinction as to their station in life.
When Death has laid you on a bed from
which you will never rise in this life, then
you think of the unknown future which is
before you, and call upon God to delay
death until are you prepared to go. Cries
and entreaties are in vain, however, and
you arc compelled to obey death's call.
Then why do you delay making peace with
God so that when the shadowy form of
death calls you to come, you can go with
out fear ?
The World's Work
Our eternal lives are not made up of
great occasions, and our greatness is not in
superhuman and exhaustive effort, but in
gradual growth, and this is nourished by
little daily acts and sacrifices and efforts
which call into exercise every faculty of
soul and sense ; and the lives which most
deserve to be called sublime are those
which the world and history take little ac
count.
The lives of men and women around us
are, for the most part, commonplace, and
we could not afford to have it otherwise.
If all of them were reaching occasions of
rendering themselves sublime, how would
the world's work be done ?
The world's work is tiresome, perplex
ing, uncongenial, and sometimes, and for
some people of necessity, it is very disa
greeable and menial service, yet in the
spirit In - which this work may be conceiv
ed and carried forward to the end, there is
sublime purpose and consecration, be the
end ever so humble.
Patience
But let us see to it, my friends, that
none of us should fancy that because we
find it hard to exercise patience, therefore
we may be excused seeking to exercise it
at all. Many people act as if they thought
that because they have no special need of
patience, therefore they may do without
patience altogether. Many a man appears
to think that the hasty temper or the over
anxious disposition which he received from
nature, is to be received as an excuse for a
constant fretfulness, or for occasional out
bursts of impatience which are humiliating
to Christian character, and destructive to
Christian peace. But while we admit that
no human being can tell how honestly any
Christian man has striven with the evil
heart of nature, how bard the law of the
mind has fought against the law in the
members : while we remember that we may
partly know what a man has done, but
cannot reckon what he has resisted ; let
us not forget that temptation is rarely so
strong as to destroy responsibility, or to
excuse transgression.
How to Ruin a Son
Let him have his own way ; allow him
free use of money; suffer him to rove
where he pleases on the Sabbath day; give
him free access to wicked companions ;
call him to no account for his evenings; furn
ish him with no stated employment. Pursue
any one of these ways, and yon will ex
perience a most marvelous deliverance if
you have not to mourn over a debased and
ruined child. Thousands have realized
the sad result, and have gone mourning to
their graves.
THERE is born within every man the
germ of both virtue and vice. The devel
opment of one or the other is contingent
upon circumstances.
WE must not speak all that we know,
(says Montague,) that were folly • but
what a man says should be what he thinks,
other ise it is knavery.
CHRISTIAN parents should require their
children to keep early hours at night.