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Lmy3l;7l C E. F LEM IN 0 , Attorney-at-Law, Huntingdon, Pa., IJ. office in Monitor building, Penn Street. Prompt and carehil attention given to all legal business. [augs,'74-6mos WILLIAM A. FLEMING, Attorney-at-Law, Hunting don, Pa. Special attention given to collections, and all other legal business attended to with care and promptness. Office, No. 229, Penn Street. [apl9,'7l School and Miscellaneous Books. GOOD BOOKS FOR MIR FARM, GARDEN AND HOUSEHOLD. The following is a list of Valuable Books, which will be supplied from the Office of the Huntingdon JOURNA 1.. Any one or more of these books will be sent post-paid io any of our readers on receipt of the regular price, which is named against each book. Alien's (R7L. St L. F.) New American Farm Book $2 &CP Allen's (L. F.) Amerifsu Cattle.. 2 50 Allen's (R. L.) American Farm Book 1 50 Allen's (L. F.) Rural Architecture 1 50 Alien's (IL. L.) 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PUBLISIIED -IN TERMS : 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 00000000 PROGRESSIVE REPUBLICAN PAPER. 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 FIRST-CLASS 5000 READERS WEEKLY, It finds its way into 1800 CD 0 17' ! P DIAL' 'TIN , PM: 4c glitsts' *bur "Ever Believe Me Affectionately Yours." Chambers' Journal.] Ever believe you true I Dear friend, Your words so precious are that I Can but repeat them o'er and o'er, And kiss the paper where they lie. How shall I thank you for this pledge, This sweet assurance, which destroys The doubt that you my love repaid, And chan t ies all my fears to joys? Ever believe you true? I will I hold you to this written gage This shall console me, now you're gone ; Still next my heart I'll bear the page ; By day and night, where'er I go, It shall my prized companion be, And if a thought would 'gainst you rise, This from all blame shall set you free. Ah, need I say, believe me true? You know how tender, yet bow strong, This heart's emotions are, how half Of all its throbs to you belong ; How fain 'twould burst its prison walls To nestling beat against your own ; How joyous 'twas when you were near, How sadly yearning now, alone. nth, 'till the weary life is done, Though we again may never meet, Let's not forget the by-gone days That like a dream passed, swift and sweet; Still let thy knowledge of my love Thy faith in humankind renew ; Let that great love still for me plead, And, to the last, believe me true I Ely *torß-Ctiltr. VELORE VERE. A dazzle of golden hair, the gleam of eyes heavenly bluo, sweeping lengths of pale, lustrous silk, and a smile that was the very radiance of all beautf; thin is what illuminated for an instant, the dark old ball of the hotel at Westworld. I hurriedly touched Sloewick's arm, as the 1 vision passed. "It is Miss Vere," he said. "And is she E: ,pping here ?" "They came in the stage this morning —Miss Vere and her father." I took a turn upon the piazza and came back again. "Why does a woman like that come here, Sloewick ?" "It's quiet, healthy, and out of the way of all excitement. The old gentleman has been ill, and Miss Velore is devoted to her father." "You know them, then ?" "Not much now-a-days. We used to go to da.icing school together when we were children." "Sloewick," I exclaimed, "you don't say you are a dancing man !" "Not eminently," be replied, with a smile and a frown. He didn't look like it, certainly, with his gloomy black eyes, his neglected black hair, and his rusty dress. I had been told at the commencement of my acquaintance with Sloewick that he used to be a great beau, but since my association with him he had been so taciturn, unchivalrous, and negligent of his toilet, that I had quite forgotten the rumor. At sunset that evening, Miss Vere sat on the piazza with her father. Sloewick gave me an introduction, and went away. I wondered at his declining ti , e seat ste kindly offered him, that he tr,)liLd very shabby and u-inviting in as„ , , , t, going away through the trees. -Poor fellow," I thought, "something has happened to mar his fortunes. Miss Vete looks after him with a glance of per plexity. I presume she used to find him agreeable. Well, let him keep his secret. He has trouble enough, I dare say. It must be rro l'fication, that gives him such savage moods." And so I dismissed the subject, and turned to Miss Vere's sapphire eyes. "We will stay all summer, if papa's health improves," she said. Her father was fond of her. She seemed the light of his life. She read to him, sang to him, walked with him, drove with him. At the table she prepared his food, while he waited like a child. She arranged his diet, superintended his toilet, tyran nized over him with a fairy wilfulness that was both beautiful and tender. Like all other men, I loved her. Like all womanly women, she was kind to me. She did not coquette with me. She neither scorned nor encouraged me. She thought that by-and-by I would understand that it was impossible. We were walking in the fields one eve ning, Mr. Vere, his daughter and I. The sun was going down, and cast red shadows on the river, the little brown boats rocking on its bosom, the children playing on its banks and among the trees. "Now, papa," said Velore, "isn't this a thousand times nicer than Long Branch ?" _ _ Her father smiled and nodded—satisfied with anything that pleased her. "It is so pleasant, papa," she continued, "that I think Helen had better come up for her vacation." "Very well, my dear." "Helen," said beautiful Velore, turning to me, "is my little adopted sister. She is sixteen now, but a little thing—a mere child—and is yet at school. She will like Westworld, I know." "I hope she will come then," I said ; but I wondered, a little uneasily, haw her appearance would effect my relations with Velore. Would she devote herself to the invalid, leaving Velore more open to my attentions ? or would she appropriate her to my exclusion ? "There !" exclaimed Velore, suddenly. "I Pee a white azalea in flower." And before I could anticipate the movement, she had fled across the road and plunged into the recesses of the dark wood there. "Shall I stay with you, Mr. Yore, or had I best follow her ?" I asked, turning to the aged man at my side. "I think she had rather you would re main with me," he answered, glancing nervously at a heavy country wagon that was then approaching the bridge. "She will take care of herself; but go, if you like." t 0 .-1 13.. 0 03 "No," I said, giving him the support of my arm, as the wagon thundered over.— "She is coming back already," added, as the dust fell, and showed Velore, in her picturesque dress, emerging from the twinkling birch shrubbery. She came up —pale, agitated, distracted. " Velore, what is the matter ?" asked her father. "Has anything happened to alarm you, Miss Vere r I questioned, hurriedly. "I am not frightened," she answered, hastily drawing her father's hand within her arm. "Come, we must go. It is getting far too late for you to be out, dear PaP ll2 "And you did not get your azalea," he said. HUNTINGDON, PA , FRIDAY, AUGUST, 24 1877. "No," she replied ; "but never mind, I can get it another time." Mentally making a note of the scot, I resolved to see her safely home with her father, and then return for the flowers.— The moon was in the right quarter to come up brilliantly at eight o'clock. I could gather the large white clusters of bloom easily by its light. As we came in sight of' the hotel, Velorc said in a thoughtful tone : "Mr. Derford, how long have you known Mr. Sloewick ?" "Only since last spring," I answered. She was silent for a moment, then she said : "He seems to me to have grown very singular." • "Others have remarked it," I replied, "but I have made his acquaintance so lately"— She interrupted me with slightly ex cited manner. "He used to be a gay, frank fellow. lle is like—he is like"—She hesitated, then concluded with a gesture of abhorrence "a ghoul!" I looked at her with surprise. She said no more. She was silent until she reached the hotel. Then going with her father to their rooms, she bade me good night in her usual manner. Whett she had gone, I turned instantly back toward the bridge. The moon was coming up round and full. The air blew in my face dense and dewy. I walked rapidly up to the road, and hurriedly en tered the wood. The light fell in broken patches through the branches upon the shrubs of flowering clusters, deliciously fragrant in the dew. As I rapidly broke the brittle stems I started at the sound of bushes crackling behind me. Turning I saw the dark figure of a man gliding off through the trees. "Some poor tramp taking a night's rest here. I have disturbed him," I thought. My hands were already full of the lavish bloom, and I turned away. The next morning I presented the flowers to Velore. "What ! Did you get them there ?" was her first exclamation. "Yes, I went back last night." "How kind and thoughtful of you.— But, Mr. Derford, did you see no one ?" "No ; all was as quiet and beautiful as a scene of enchantment. Yes," I inter rupted myself, "an old straggler stole off through the bushes as 1 was gathering the flowers!' I saw her shudder as she turned away. Four days later little Helen Vere came. She was a petite thing, but very pretty, with a torrent of bronze curls that almost enveloped her dainty figure. I could not but notice that at this time Sloewiek was so moody as to be almost uncivil. Seemed to regard me with a furtive dislike—l who had always wished to be his friend—that made me most un comfortable. I had no feeling for him but one of pity. I thought him ailing, unhappy. I would have rendered him any relief in my power. So I said to Velore. She turned very pale, appeared about to tell me smething, but stopped. "Did you ever think," she said, after a moment, "that he might not be quite— quite sane ?" "No indeed !" I answered. "Oh, that is quite impossible." She heard me eagerly. "I am glad you think so," she said. At dinner she was missing. Mr. Vere was petulant. "Where could Velore be ? He would not dine without her." But Helen and I coaxed him to his place at the table, and she did her best to take her sister's place. It was strange what had become of her. Singularly enough she had gone to walk alone at about eleven o'clock during the forenoon. Making only a feint of dinner, yet doing that that old Mr. Vere might not have his anxiety increased by perceiving mine, I set forth to find her. It was five o'clock in the afternoon.— The sun was gliding toward the west.— Velore had been gone nearly all day. As time passed, her absence began to have a terrifying significance. "Keep Mr. Vere quiet, if possible," I said to Helen, who showed a womanly composure I had hardly expected under the circumstances. But there was a strained, absent look in her eyes that filled me with compassion. '•I will get out some men, and scour the whole neighborhood before nightfall. She will surely be found." But it was nearly dark before I could get efficient help. About seven o'clock, however, three men rode away in different directions while I took the road to the bridge on foot. A thunder storm was coining up ; it was almost dark. The lightning that cleft the heavy purple of the sky was sharp and zig-zag. I had nearly reached the bridge. The thunder clouds gathered so thickly in the sky that almost entire darkness enveloped me. I hurried on, but stopped upon the bridge, with a hand on the railing. In spite of the rattle of now fast descending rain, I could hear the soft gliding of the water that I could hardly see ; and I fancied there was an ominous significance in that almost inaudible flow. I listened, shud dering at the loneliness, and straining my frowning gaze into the black tide. A savage clutch—fast, furious blows raining upon my defenceless head, into my eyes, upon my gasping mouth. I was down, and beaten blind and deaf before I could make a stroke of resistance, so powerful and overwhelming was the attack. I can seem to see what I never knew— my enemy raising my passive body, and casting it over the railing of the bridge into the water, the lightning playing over us and the solitude of nature around. I came to my senses making half ef fectual efforts to swim. Having been an adept at swimming from a child, I think it was almost impossible to drown me, half dead as I was I paddled about in a half unconscious state for a while. At last my senses clearing, I realized my situation, and struck out collectedly, but feebly, for the bank. When I crawled up the grassy slope I put my hand to my temples, which felt strangely, and found them slimy, with my own warm clotting blood. I stood for a while unableto tell which way to go and still somewhat dazed. I did not even have the thought to fear the reappearance of my enemy. I only felt desperately the need of a place of rest and refuge, and unable to tell my location stumbled blindly and dizzily about in the dark until a stroke of lightning showed me a winding path in the hillside leading to a road above. I pulled myself up by the bushes, and by nervous excitement, and sheer force of will, I worked my way back to the hotel. I staggered up to the door, pushed it open into the ball, and my first words were— had they found Velore ? The groups who stood then. , talking cried out and recoiled. My face was like a horrible mask . , literally covered with my blood. My clothing was wet, muddied and torn, and they told me afterward that my eyes glared like a wild man's. I was very much excited for I was in the first stages of brain disorder, and I wandered recklessly about the room ; but I recollect seeing Helen weeping and be seeching them to take care of me. All is a dream from that time, but I was put to bed, and a physician sent for. Not until I was entirely recovered, and able to leave my room, and then they were forced-to do it, did they tell me that the body of beautiful Velore Vere had been found in the woods, near the bridge, nt terly without life ; and when examined, discolored marks about the throat showed that she had been strangled to death. This was six weeks later. The body had been taken to the Vere burial place, but her betrothed, a noble gentleman, the ser vant said, had come down to Westworld and taken charge of everything, though greatly racked with grief. Mr. were had been taken home very ill, and Helen had, of course, gone also. My love cream had turned into a hor rible nightmare, and ended in an awful reality. A year passed. As was natural, the first sharp shock of this most painful expe rience occupied my thoughts but I could never recall that fatal time without a shud der. One night, at a sacred concert, I saw the face of Helen Vere. It was more beautiful than ever, matured by the chast ening influence of suffering. She was dressed in deep mourning, and by her side sat a man of peculiar elegance and dignity. watched Helen Vere a sharp jeal ousy of her companion's attention stole over me. There seemed between them, to my attentive eyes, the familiarity of a close sympathy. I saw her slip her little black gloved hand within his ; I observ ed when she grew weary he supported her. When the concert was ended I hastened to approach them. Helen seemed startled and agitated by my appearance, but gave me her hand and introduced me to Mr. Alfred Sutton. A few wadi aside in formed me that this was Velore's betroth ed. She urged me to visit her. I did so. Her father was dead. She lived in her beautiful house alone.• How greatly she had changed from the gay little school girl of hardly more than a year back I She bad lost all the abandon of girlhood, even the bloom, but she was very lovely, and as I watched ber a new pang of jealousy of Mr. Alfred Sutton rose in my breast. But in a little while I understood her better. Her feeling for her sister's betroth ed husband was only sisterly; his love for her only brotherly. Carefully, tenderly I sought and won her. Siz months after our marriage a gentle man came in a carriage to my house, and asked to see me alone. I conducted him to the library, and closed the door. He was a man of polished address, and evidently of strong character. He intro duced himself as Dr. Vaux of the private insane asylum at Hillside. At this an nouncement I felt a slight consternation and bewilderment, that I think was appa rent in my manner. _ _ _ "About a year ago," said he, after some preliminaries, "I received a patient whose name may not be unknown to you—Mr. George Sloewick." "6nod Heavens I" I cried "You know him !" "1 have known him very well." "Yes. He was placed in my care by his father; pronounced insane by his fam ily physician. I have given his case the best care and particular attention, but he is incurable. At present his physical strength is fast failing; in short, I fear he is dying. But as life fails reason returns. and as I now consider his state perfectly natural, and his reason lucid, I feel re• quired to treat his wishes with indulgence. He desires to see you, and I ha/e come for you. ,, I rose and began looking for my hat. When a servant had brought it, I followed Dr. Vault to his carriage. I was too confused to observe what course we took. I only realized with a sudden thrill, that we stopped at last before the portals of the asylum. My companion gave me some refreshments for I was, I confess, very nervous, and then I followed him through several light, pleasant corridors to the door. "Is he quite prepared to see me ?" I asked. "He is waiting," was the reply. I was ushered into a chaMbWof moder ate size. The light was subdued. A wo man stood at the side of a bed fanning the ghastly face among the pillows. The head was shaven, the cheeks deeply fallen ; I never should have known George Sloewick, not even by his voice. "Come close," he said, in a strained whisper, motioning me to his bedside. Dr. Vault placed a chair for me, and stood with a hand upon my shoulder. "I can talk only a moment" said Sloe wick, with a painful effort. "I killed her— I killed Velure Vere. You see I had money hid there under a chestnut tree, all the money I could get. My dog saw me bury it. He was a sagacious brute: He dug it up, and I killed him for it. I was burying him near the spot, and I was all marked with his blood, you know, when she came and saw me. I thought she asw all, for there lay the bags of money as the dog had pawed them out of the dirt. It was all the hidincr b place I had ; I thought she would tell, and I had determined to kill her. Perhaps, after all, she did not see the money ; I don't know; but I pre tended sick the next day, and told her that I was in great trouble, and wanted to talk with her. She promised to meet me near the bridge, She came. I strangled her, then I hid all day in the woods. At night I heard you calling her. I stole out, and tried to kill you too; I thought I bad. Then I ran away and got safe to the city. No one ever suspected me. "You see I'm dying now. Don't let any innocent man suffer for what I did. The money is there now under the chestnut tree. You will know it, because it is splash ed with Sultan's blood." He stopped here. He evidently wished to say more, but was unable. The dootor started forward and raised him to a sitting position. When he laid him down he was dead. As Sloewick had said, the money—some five thousand dollars—was found; but no one appropriated it, and it was donated to a charitable institution. Two of Rothchild's maxims were, to never buy anything that was not strictly worth the money paid for it, and to never have important transactions with an un lucky man. tJect ( . 0 1 istelim. An Enormous Tax on Flour. The New York Tribune of Saturday morning says ! Ex-Governor Cadwalladc_ C. Washburn, of Wisconsin, in conversa tion with a representative of the Tribune recently, gave a history of a patent fcr milling wheat, which threatens to impose a tax of millions of dollars on the flour consumers of the country. He said : "I am particularly interested just now in fighting the infamous patent right swindle which is going to levy tribute on every loaf of bread made in the country. You haven't beard about it ? Why, it's ma king a great sensation in the West. It's a long story, but I can give you the gist of it in a few moments. I am, by the way, the largest miller in the United States, my mills being at Minneapolis, Minn. All millers are now using what is called the high process of grinding ; which was gen erally introduced in this country about 1871, but had been in use in Europe about fifty years. I will explain the terms of high and low grinding. Low grinding means the bringing the upper or running mill-stone low down and in close proximity to the nether stone, by reason of which the largest amount of flour is derived from the first grinding, but, as necessarily must be the case, a great deal of the outer coat ing of the wheat, together with the em bryo, would be reduced to such a fineness as to go into flour, and a separation was impossible. The high grinding is the di rect opposite of the low, and the object is at the first grinding to get rid of bran at once and make as little flour as possible. This is done by blowing the bran off the coarse-ground grain or middlings, and af terwards grinding fine the small white granules. I bought my machines in France. This improved process is now absolutely indispensable to successful mill ing. Deprive any miller of it and he is ruined. "A ring of speculators in Washington have lately got hold of an old patent, never used, and have got it reissued so as to cover all the machines for affecting the process I have described. It is called the Cochrane patent. After quietly taking out the reissue, they went on without making any noise and took a suit up to the Supreme Court, with a man of straw for defendant, and as no real defence was made, they easily obtained a decision based on an opinion given by Justice Miller Now this gang of patent swindlers are at tacking the heaviest millers with suits, ex Ipecting to terrify all the others. They have singled out the Jewells, of Brooklyn, the ilexalls, of Richmond and my mills at Minneapolis. They have put me under bonds in the enormous sum of $250,000, pending the conclusion of injunction pro ceedings " "I learn that the rascals propose to be magnanimous, and to grant lie,enses to such millers as will recognize the validity of their patent, for the moderate sum of $6,000 for each run of stones, which for this city alone amounts to the vast sum of $1,200,000. While primarily this great sum would come from the millers, really it all comes out of the farmer and con sumer at last, and they are the real people most interested in the defeat of this enor mity. As there are over 6,000 run of stones in the United States, this license will amount to $36,000,000. We are going to bring this great outrage before Congress next winter and try to have the patent canceled. The grain growing sec tions of the West are indignant at the ex l i - posure of this enormous fraud, and the grain-consuming East ought to be equally aroused, for the attempted tax on the chief necessary of life affects both-alike." The Arab Steed. A writer says of the Arab horses : Rear ed under an open shed, and early habitua ted to the sight of man, to the sound and glitter of weapons and to all the accesso ries of human life, the colt grows up free from vice or timidity, and even acquires a degree of intelligence that surprises a stranger. Barley and dates are their chief provender; but the grass in the pasture grounds, in the selection of which much care is taken, is the ordinary nourishment of an Arab horse. Of water the allowance is kept purposely scant. A good Nejdec will canter twenty-four hours in summer time, and forty-eight in winter, without once requiring a drink. Raw meat, dried, is occasionally given in small quantities when extra exertion is required; lucerne grass is employed for lowering the tone. Geldings are very rare. The color that most frequently occurs is gray; then comes the chestnut; then white and sorrel ; mot tled gray and black are now and then to be found ; dark bay never. Colts are ridden early—too early, indeed —in their third or even second year, and are soon broken into a steady walk or can ter, and to the ambling pace which is the especial favorite with Arab riders. Ra cing, an Arab amusement from time imme morial, and the game of "jerzed," a kind of tournament, or mock fight, with blunt palm sticks, highly popular throughout the peninsula, complete the training as to wind and pace. Saddles are seldom used in Neid, and stirrups never; but both are oc casionally employed in Hijah and Yeman. So it is also with bits—the place of which is taken in Nejd by halter ropes, the real guidance of the animal being almost whol ly effected by the pressure of the .rider's leg and knee. Shoes, too, are of rare oc currence, nor are they needed in the light, sand-mixed soil of the central provinces. On the other hand, the hoofs are often rubbed with grease, to counteract the dry• ing effect of the heated ground. Of all the niceties of grooming, docking and clipping excepted, the Arabs are mas ters; and their natural kindness to aid mals—a quality which they share with most Orientals, together with the care ev ery reasonable man bestows on a valuable article of property—insures to an Arab horse good treatment at the hands of its owner. But Arab horses do not common ly enter tents, nor play with women and children ; nor, in a general way, do they share the family meal, nor are they habit ually kissed and cried over, as the imagi nation of some narrator has suggested. An Arab riding for his life has, indeed, been known to give his only morsel of bread to his horse rather than eat it himself—an act in which self-preservation had as large a share as affection. Lastly, the standing prohibition of horse selling from Nejd has really nothing more romantic in it than narrow minded application of the princi ples of protective monopoly; in other eas• es, reluctance to conclude a bargain simply indicates that the offer made was insuffi cient. A Mystical Plant. Human cunning and human creduli'y have dowered with mystery certain plants which are worthy of being considered the most beautiful and passive of creative ob jects. One plant at least has been said to utter shrieks on being torn from the eartl and to have avenged the violence by cans in„ the death of him who removed it. This plant was the mandragora of the poets, the mandrake of scripture, a species of the Solance or nightshade tribe ; the belief in whose qualities as a sedative or a charm was as old as the days of the child. less Rachel. Indigenous to the East, where probably its uses as an anodyne and soporific were early known to the initiated, it may be that in order to enhance the wonder of its effects and prevent the extirpation of the root by its too common use, miraculous powers were imputed to it, and superstition hedged it round with fabled terrors. The evil reputation of' the plant procured it subsequently the name of Atropa mandragora, by which our oldest botanists distinguish it; a name borrowed from the most terrible of the Fates, At ropos, and since transferred to its relative, Atropa beladonna (dwale. or "deadly night shade.") So potent and valuable were the medical uses of the root at a time when few anodynes were known, that the ancient Romans made it. the subject of a weird ritual, without which they would ha-e deemed it impious to have taken it from the earth. The operator stood with his back to the wind, drew three circles round the root with a point of a sword, poured a libation on the ground, and, turning to the west, began to dig it up. The root of the mandrake, a plant with a tap root, fre quently forked, as we see that of the radish, t and covered with fibrous rootlets, was easily convertible into a grotesque likeness of the human form. In the times of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth, little images made of mandrake roots, called abrunes, were imported in large numbers from Ger many, and fbund a ready sale in England. The fable of the wondrous powers of these vegetable idols was easily accepted by our superstitious ancestors, and the peddlers who traveled about from place to place with cases of them drove a brisk trade.— Sir Francis Bacon had them in his mind's eye when he wrote, "Some plants? there are, but rare, that have a mossy or downy root, and likewise that have a number of thread-like beards, as the mandrake, where of witches and imposters make an ugly image, giving it the form of a face at top of the root, leave those strings to make a broad beard to the foot." It is to the credit of the old herbalists, Gerard and Turner, that they both essayed, without fear of consequences, to dig up and ex amine for themselves the dreaded man drake, and lost no time in publishing the fallacy of the weird stories told of it. Fashionable Suicide. Mistress Fashion has also decreed n. tight glove for the hand and a compress for the foot. It prevents the flow of the blood, causes discomfort and injury. No matter if the hand calls for No. 6i or 7, a glove half size less may be used, and is used in multitudes of cases; it can be pulled, pushed and stretched until fairly adjusted; the palm of the hand is folded almost to gether ; the round, fat wrist puffs up, but a stout hair pin will settle that. "This glove has got to be buttoned, if I never get to church," said a young girl just ta king the first society lessons—a persistency worth a better service. After both hands are thus imprisoned, there is nothing left but to hold them in position, for they will hold nothini , else, as they are rendered useless. Ladies sit for hours in this way, the blood pressed away from the extremities —where ? towards the brain and heart.— Said a lady just returned from a walk : "I am so glad to get home and get a wrap per; my dress hurts and my gloves hurt and lam tired out." The feet must also suffer in this unequal war. Too small shoes are purchased, with the assurance that they will stretch, the voice of the shopkeeper prevailing over the voice of wisdom. Cold. feet and painful swellings and an ungraceful carriage are the result. A lady said to me : "My hand is large; I cannot help it—it is the result of con stant practice. No very small or delicate hand can render the themes of the grand old masters of song." Just then her ser vant brought in a jar of fruit, which she could not unloose, but our lady fair, with one twist of the trained hand, that had been expressing silent notes into enchant ing strains of sound, removed the cover. Oh, I think that a grand hand? A friend tells me of a beautiful lady in this city whose arms were paralyzed from the use of what is called "Flake White," a face powder in common use. She left it off and is well and better looking without it. This evil is widespread, and endangers life; hair dyes produce violent pains in the bead, injure the brain, and sure in time to pro duce paralysis and death. As if there were not enough suffering in life. It is Newfoundland Dogs. Few people know that there are hardly twenty genuine Newfoundland dogs in the United States. The name and breed are so popular and familiar that to all but an extremely small minority the assertion will appear absurd. Nevertheless it is strictly correct. The thoroughbred Newfoundland dog has been gradually losing his identity through miscegenation. The secret of his fast approaching extinction not being more easily observed, lies in the fact that after a mixture of breed between a Newfound- land and any other species, more of the form and characteristics of the forager de scend to the offspring than occurs in any other instance of interbreeding among dogs. On this account animals that have hardly two-thirds of the genuine breed in them, and which are really fine specimens are frequently boasted of as splendid New foundland dogs. If he be still living, an old man known as "Batty" Sullivan in the island from which the dog derives its name is the last surviving preserver of the un mixed breed of Newfoundland dogs. Sev eral years ago the writer last saw him, and then the old man was master of the last genuine specimens of the noble dogs. Old "Batty" had then about fifteen full grown pets—looking as big as Shetland ponies— perfectly web footed, with massive paws over three inches in diameter, and heavy, glossy, coal-black curls all over. Very few men have such frank and honest faces as those splendid brutes possessed. Hyd rophobia is unknown among the pure breed. "Batty" made a living by selling his dogs at a high price almost exclusively to Span ish and Portugese sea captains. He strangely nurtured the prejudice of never selling a male and female to the same pur chaser. The Truth of the Mirror. Mirrors have been in use since the days when Eve made her toilet by the streams o" Paradise. And all her dauthers—ay ! and her sons, too, if the truth must be told—have resorted to them whether in the form of the clear fountain, or the pol ished steel, or the modern looking-glass. What house does not possess a mirror ? from the large cheval mirror, with its gor geous gilding, by the aid of which the high born beauty arrays herself for the ball, reflecting the floating lace, the wreath bound tresses, and even the satin-shod feet, down to the little cracked disk, bound with red-painted wood, hanging on the wall of the garret where the poor seam stress plies her task, in which she smooths her hair, and sees it growing gray so soon, and in which she looks upon the face of her only friend ! It is not with the outward form but with the morale of the mirror we have to do ; and we presume that the morality of a mirror consists in its truths—a virtue, we believe, capable or producing every other. Many are the accusations brought against the Mirror on the score of flattery ; but we set them down as groundless. "You look very beautiful !" says the Mirror, as one looks into it with glancing eye, a cheek of damask, and a brow of snow. She who looks therein twines the sunny curl round her finger, and, with a smile that shows the pearly teeth, acknowl edges the truth, and that consciousness makes her lovelier still. It is an exaltieg thought that she is the fairest thin!! in Nature ; and she can no more help rejoic ing in it than the flower can help expand ing in the sunshine or cease waving in the breeze. "You are very plain, miss!" pronounces the Mirror ; and the quiet mile that answers says: "I know I am. But I want to look as well as I can, for all that." "And you will be an old maid," resumos the Mirror, though with a little shade of hesitation. "Even E 0 I" is the return. "I think it possible for an old maid to he happy. Af fections which have no near objects in which to expend their wealth need not therefore lack, in a world like this, th eir legitimate exercise." "But if, after all, your affections and your sympathy.ahould meet with no return ? If these should be as unsought as your love ?" The lip quivered a little, and the eyes were suffused ; but the Mirror answer ed itself : They will servo to beautify your own soul." "Your are growing old," the Mirror whispers daily to the man and woman of the world. Aix ! would they but listen to the solemn truths it preaches from the text of their gray hairs. But he does not stop to notice the hard lines of eager wordliness that have gathered round his lips and on his brow ; and she whose glass sees her only as she is, as she arrays her self in her false graces, forgets that life is wore false still. Be consoled, good Mirror ! Thou art not the only negl2cted truth-teller in the world. How to Live Long. They live longest, as a class, who lead calm and even lives, mentally and physi cally, who are most exempt from the tur moi Is and shocks and strains which are incident to human existence, and who are assured of to-morrow's bread. There is no one thing which has such a direct influ ence in promoting longevity as an assurance, felt to be well grounded, of a comfortable provision for life, for all the ordinary wants of our station. Not long ago a man died in a poor house in England, where he had been taken care of for ninety years; he had no anxieties for to-morrow's bread ; he had no quarter's day to provide against, in default of which wife and children would be turned into the street from the doors of the elegant brown stone mansion ; he had no note to meet in bank, which if not paid by a day or an hour would invole protest and financial ruin. Ah, this load of debt, how it grinds one's manhood to powder ; how it agonizes. the sensitive heart; how it shames a man's honor; how it has driven to desperation,to drunkenness, to suicide, to murder ! How the anguish of it takes the energy and health ont of a man, and makes him pine and languish for weary days and weeks on beds of thorns, which pierce through the body into the soul! Su, one good way to avoid sickness and premature death, is to avoid debt.— Journal of Health. A Door Scraper, We have just perfected an invention which will probably relieve us in the fu ture from the persecution of life insurance agents and book canvassers. It is in the nature of a patent combination reflex ac tion door-scraper. We fasten it down by the side of the lowest step in front of our house, and wait until a book canvasser comes aloag, which one is tolerably certain to do within fifteen or twenty minutes. The canvasser stops to scrape his boots, while he thinks up some new and vigorous exaggeration with which to impose on us. As his foot touches the iron, two clamps fly over his instep and hold him fast, a steel claw suddenly shoots up his leg and grabs his trousers; a trap flies open in the pavement, and the victim his hauled into a coal cellar, where we have an infuriated Irishman engaged to mellow him and flatten him out with a scoop-shovel. We allow the Irishman a royalty on the re mains, and he seems to be animated by an earnest desire which promises rich reaultik If the machine works well we shall either buy a graveyard or a medical college. In the meantime persons in want of bodies for dissection or other purposes will please apply.—Max Adder. What they do in Africa. Cameron "Across Africa" says.that on the death of' a Urua chief it is the custom "to divert the course of a stream, and in its bed to dig an enormous pit, the bottom of which is then covered with living wom en. At one end a woman is placed on her hands and knees, and upon her back the dead chief, covered with his beads and treasures, is seated, being supported on either side by one if his wivol, while his second wife sits at his feet. The earth is then shoveled in on them, and all the women are buried alive, with the excep tion of' the second wife. To her, custom is more merciful than to her companions, and grants her the privilege of being kill ed before the huge grave is filled in. This being completed, a number of male slaves —sometimes 40 or 50—are slaughtered and their blood poured over the grave, after which the rive,: allowed to resume its course." NO. 33.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers