Newspaper Page Text
>ol XXX V.— Whole No. 1877
Rates of Advertisiug.
Ui>e qaare, 18 lines,
1 time 50
•' 2 times 75
3 •' 1.00
" 1 mo. 1.25
•' 3 " 2.50
6 " 4.00
" 1 year 6.00
2 iquares, 3 times 2.00
" 3 mos. 3.50
Communications recommending persons for
office, must be paid in advance at the rate of
25 cents per square.
w. n. irwin,
ATTORNEY A T L A IT,
HAS resumed the practice ofhis profession
in this and the adjoining counties.
Office at the Banking House of Longeneck
er, Grubb &. Co. Jan. 20, IS4B—tf.
GEO. W. ELDER,
ATT O R NE Y AT LA \V,
Lewistown, Mifflin Connly, Pa.
OFFICE two doors west of the True Demo
crat Office. Mr. Elder will attend to any
business in the Courts of Centre country.
August 25, 1849—tf.
Attorney at Law,
"**7"ILL attend promptly to business entrust-
TT ed to his care in this and adjoining
counties. Office one door west ot the I'ost
Office. June 16, '49-ly.
Justice of the Peace,
CAN be found at hie office, in the room re
cently occupied by Esquire Ku!p, where
he wili attend to all business entrusted to his
care with the greatest care and despatch.
Lewistown, July 1, 1648—tf.
Boot A Shoe Manufacturer
MARKET STREET LEWISTOWN.
CONTINUES to manufacture, to order,
every description of BOOTS AND
SHOES, on the most reasonable terms.—
Having competent workmen in hisemploy and
using good slock, his customers, as well as all
others, may rely upon getting a good article,
well made and neatly finished.
January 22,1848 —tf.
Bank of Discount and Deposite.
LOXGENECKEB, GRIBB, k CO.
Casli Capital Paid in §70,006.
T ONGENECKER, GRUBB & CO. have es
j j tablished at Lewistown, Pennsylvania, an
Office of Discount and Deposite, for the trans
action of the regular business of banking.
Drafts and Notes payable in the commercial
cities will be discounted at all times, anddepos
ites of current money will be paid, on demand,
in par funds. Every facility will be afforded to
business men in their negotiations with the
Eastern and Western cities.
Notes offered for discount must lie over one
The aggregate Capital of the establishment
exceeds half a million of dollars.
DAVID LONGENECKEB, JOHN MILLER, M. D.
A. BATES GRCBB, CHRISTIAN BACIIMAN,
JOHN CHRIST, 11. FREELAND,
W. RUSSELL, Cashier.
W. H. IRWIN,
Solicitor and Confidential Agent.
Lewistown, August 25, 1849 —tf.
Cheap Cabinet Wareroom,
A ear J. R. McDowells''a tavern, Valley at.
THE 81BSCRIBER incite# thou; about going to
Housekeeping ar.d toothers that with to purchase
to call at th* above mentioned Warerooin and examine
bin large ftock of Well Made and Uteful Furniture of all
thidi too numerous to mention here Among his stock
they will find an assortment of
CANE SEAT c HAIRS,
which are sold for CASH CHEAPEB than they have ever
been sold in this place. 1 would draw attention to a pa
lent Klaitic Spring Bottom Btdtttad. which can be seen
in my VVareroorn at any time. It can be put up and taken
down in lesa time than the old plan, and without a screw
driver, and the great matter ia that it forma a armso BOT
TOM without a cord or sacking, tbua saving the purchaser
the cost of those articles.
r> COFFINS made to order and funerals attended at
the shortest notice. Either Mahogany, Cherry or Wal
nut can be bad at moderate terms.
Lewistown, December 1, 1549.
The Franklin Fire Insurance
Company of Philadelphia,
OFFICE, No. !G3i Chesnut street, near Fifth street.
Charles N Bancker, George W. Richards,
Thomas Hart, Mordecai D. Lewis,
Tobias Wagner, Adolphe E. Borie,
Samuel Grant, David 8. Brown,
Jacob R. Smith, Morris Patterson.
Continue to make Insurance, perpetual or limited, on
every description of property in town and country, at
rates as low as are consistent with security.
The Company have reserved a large Contingent Fund,
which with their Capital and Premiums, safely invested,
affords ample protection io the assured
The assets of the Company, on January Ist. 18-16, as
published agreeably to an Act of Assembly, were as fol
Mortgages, $690,158 f<s
Real Estate, 108,356 90
Temporary Loans, 121,459 00
Stocks, 51,503 25
Cash, Ac. 45,157 87
their Incorporation, a period of eighteen years,
tbey Dave paid upwards of ont million two hundrtd thou
>*ni dollart losses by fire, thereby affording evidence of
th* advantages of insurance, as well ss the ability and
Imposition to meet with promptness ail liabilities.
CHARLES N. BANCXER, Pntidont.
LHAttt.es G. BANCKSB, Secretary.
for terms apply to R. C. HALE, Lewis
PALMER'S* Business Men's Almanac, for
kale ot this Office.
2 squares, 6 mos. $5.00
" 1 year 8.00
$ column, 3 mos. 6.00
6 " 10.00
" 1 year 15.00
1 column, 3 mos. 10.00
6 " 15.00
" 1 year 25.00
Notices before mar
riages, dec. sl2.
xpsmsraan) jpsnßsassnsi© rss ©a@!E®is SS^psjsj®!JHB 9 aawßsirswsr) ssaißFEflsy ©©tsrsrere-s, ipa^
WE'LL SOT GIVE IP THE BIBLE.
We'll not give up the Bible,
God's holy book of truth ;
The blessed staff of hoary age,
The guide of early youth ;
The lamp which sheds a glorious light
O'er every dreary road ;
The voice that speaks a Savior's love,
And leads us home to God.
We'll not give up the Bible,
God's holy book of truth.
We'll not give up the Bible,
But if you force away
What is as our own life-blood dear,
We still with joy could say—
"The words that we have learn'd while young,
Shall follow all our days ;
For they're engraven on our hearts,
And you cannot erase."
We'll not give up, &c.
We'll not give up the Bible—
We'll shout it far and wide ;
Until the echo shall be heard
Beyond the rolling tide—
' Till all shall know that we, though young,
Withstand each treach'rous art;
And that from God's own sacred word
We'll never, never part.
We'll not give up, <5Lc.
A SKETCH FRfIH REAL LIFE.
fl\ HELEN IRVING.
In the village of R resided Henry-
Livingston, a man of good familv and po
sition in society, upright in his dealings,
and possessing a nature of genuine, unos
tentatious goodness. He was not without
his peculiarities—his faults—but these
were mostly of education and habit, and
affected not the heart—the source of con
It is true, by some of the rigid religion
ists about him, he was looked upon with
mistrust, for the expression and exercise of
his liberal opinions—for he was not one of
those who deem 4 the way of life too nar
row' for any- to walk in, save their own
peculiar sect—but through all his life played
the sweet waters of mercy, 4 seasoning a
justice quite as true as theirs.'
At the time to which I refer, his family
consisted of a wife and two daughters, the
eldest of whom, a girl of fifteen, had been
for nearly- two months an invalid. These
he supported in a simple, quiet style, by
following his profession, that of a lawyer,
in the city- adjacent, whither he repaired
every morning, returning at sunset.
He was not a man of brilliant talents,
and therefore had never attracted much
notice at the bar, but his goodness and in
tegrity had made him numerous friends,
and his time was always fullv occupied.
It was a still, sunny Sabbath afternoon
in July, that Mr. Livingston brought to the
door his horse and carriage, that he might
give his invalid Emily a sight of the green
fields and waving woods, and a breath of
the fresh air.
Ah, it was pleasant to see the faint glow
of delight sent to the sick one's cheek, as
the mother carefully robed her, and placed
her in the carriage, and very pleasant it
was to the father to note the happiness of
that ride—Emily's first release from the
sick room—for business of late had pressed
so urgently upon Mr. Livingston, that he
had no time in the week, to devote to the
pleasure of his child.
Only one who has been ill can realize
the joy with which she saw again the blos
soming vales, the bright streamlets, and felt
the free passing of the breath of heaven—
can understand the feeling of life's precious
ness, the calm, sweet sense of the joy of
existence, that came then. It seemed that
the music of birds was sweeter, in the still
Sabbath air, that the flowers were brighter,
and the leaves of a softer green.
Ah, earth is always beautiful when it is
Sabbath in the heart!
About five miles distant from R was
the populous town of C , where resi
ded Emily's grandparents, and at their door
Mr. Lningston alighted, that his daughter
might see for a while her aged relatives.
They had remained about an hour, and
Emily having recovered from her slight
fatigue, and received the last caresses of
her doating grandmother, to whom she was
namesake and pet, was now ready for her
departure, when on going to the door, their
horse and carriage was nowhere to be seen.
Here was an unexpected dilemma. The
horse, though high spirited, Mr. Livingston
knew to be well trained, and moreover he
had been securely fastened to the ring in
the pavement; there were 110 traces of the
struggle that must have taken place had the
animal endeavored to free himself; there
was but one conclusion; he must have
been most daringly stolen.
It was the first impulse of Mr. Living
ston to institute an immediate search ; but
that was impracticable, for the sun was de
clining, and his invalid daughter must he
at home before night; so after a moment's
deliberation, he repaired to a livery stable,
whose keeper was known to him, there to
procure a vehicle to convey himself and
daughter back to R , and to make ar
rangements for the recovery of his horse
He had often driven the animal to town,
and he found that the people of the stable
needed no description of him. Mr. Smith,
FRIDAY EVENING, MARCH 29, tSSO.
the keeper, readily agreed to despatch men
in pursuit, and after hastily arranging all
necessary preliminaries, Mr. Livingston
hurried back to his daughter.
Although there seemed hardly a possi
bility that the horse should not be speedily
recovered, still he felt some uneasiness,
for the animal was one he had owned for
two or three years, and to which he and
his family were much attached, and he had
some fears that the thief might conceal his
prize, with the intention of conveying Itim
away in the night.
The neighbors had seen Mr. Livingston
return with a horse and carriage not his
own, and the story of his loss was soon
noised about. It was that evening's theme
in every house. Some hoped that if he
caught the fellow he would make him sui
ter, while others rejoiced that the vidian
would be in the hands of a lawyer, who
must know how to manage him.
Mr. Livingston felt that it would be use
less for him to return to C that night.
He could not aid the persons so much bet
ter qualified for the search than he, and ail
that was left for him was to wait patiently
until morning—trusting then to find his
horse recovered, and the reckless perpe
trator of the theft taken into custod\.
And there was waiting in another home
that night—in a dwelling on the outskirts
of the town of C .
It was a cottage home—one of the
'thousand that are scattered over all New
England—often such nestling places of con
tentment and comfort. There was a grass
plot, fresh and green, in front, and an old
elm on the street leaned over and drooped
its shadowing branches over the door, by
whose side well trained roses told of a
ln-doors neatness prevailed, and it might
seem that comfort did also ; but an accurate
observer would have marked the slow
creeping in of neglect—here and then' a
broken piece of furniture, that had not been
repaired—some necessary article lost, that
bad not been replaced—but more than all.
the marks of neglect on the face of the
young wife, who sat watching at the win
dow, sorrowfully listening to the murmur
of the child upon her knee—watching for
him who was the cause of all her grief—
for of late with bitter teachings bad she
learned that indeed she was an inebriate's
wife—that this was an inebriate's home.
Oh, woe for the young bride, be she in
cottage or palace hall, when the lips that
breathed the marriage vow, turn in love to
the intoxicating wine cup !
At the window beyond sat an old man,
the setting sun falling in gold upon his
white hair. He was the father of the ab
sent one, and he also was gazing down the
road in anxious watching.
4 Where can William be ?' he asked for
the hundredth time.
' I cannot think/ replied the low, meek
voice of Mary. 4 Perhaps we had better
not wait any longer/ and there was a very
sickness of the heart in her tones, as she
turned to give the father and her little child
their simple evening meal.
Night came on. Her boy had given her
his good night kiss, and gone to sleep : the
father, tired of fruitless waiting, slept also ;
one bv one the lamps in the houses about
her were extinguished, and she shaded her
own feeble light, and tried to close her eyes,
whose tear fountains grief had long since
Weary with hearkening to every sound,
at length she slept; for, alas ! this was not
the first night she had thus watched and
listened. She had been unconscious but a
few moments when she was roused by
s voices—the old man talking with some one
at the door. Was it he ? No, but she
, heard the name of William, and wrapping
her shawl around her, she hurried to the
A neighbor stood there who had brought
them news. Her husband had been taken
by the oflicer of the law, about tea miles
from C , with a horse and carriage in
his possession, which he had stolen ; had
been brought to town, and was now in the
hands of the constable.
4 WI tere is he .' Let me go to him/
were her first words.
4 It's of 110 use, Mary ; he's locked tip
for the night, and you can't see him until
morning—good night,' and the kind but
blunt neighbor went his way, leaving the
wife and father gazing upon each other in
j At length the old man laid his white
head upon his hands and feebly groaned,
4 My boy a thief! Mv boy a thief!'
The words, like a sound of horror, roused
the young wife
4 Oh, not my husband ! Father do not
say so ! there must be some mistake !
What will become of him—of me ?'
More like the echo of his own thought
than an answer to her question, he mut
tered hoarsely, 4 The JStatc Prison !'
Low as was the sound, it caught the
j quick ear of Mary, and she sobbed wildly.
4 They will not, must not take him there !
Oh, he was not himself, when he did this !
he cannot have meant to steal! my husband
is no thief!'
4 The law looks at what a man does,
I Mary, not at what he means/ said the old
man. 4 1 tell you nothing can save him
from the State Prison.'
Now, indeed, fell on her heart the weight
of despair. Iler husband—he for whom
her love was yet in its freshness—to be
shut up from the world, and from the light
of heaven, and with the black stain upon
his name, to share the fate of a vile felon !
She llung herself on the bed, beside her
infant boy. Oh, must there fall upon his
young head this bitter disgrace ! When
she taught him to say ' Father,' must he
also learn that his parent was a violator of
the laws of heaven and man, and was suf
fering the penalty ?
Memory went back to the time when,
four years ago that very summer, she came
a hopeful, trusting bride, to the plain and
comfortable home love had provided—how
with heart and hand she had labored to
assist her husband, and to keep their skv
Then the dreary time \vhen he was lured
from her side by gay and dissolute associ
ates, and she was left to tears and sad
prayers ; and how on the birth of her boy
hope seemed to come again, for he was in
dustrious and steady for u while, careful
of her happiness, and fond of his home.
Hut this lasted not long; the demon was
upon him, and he gradually went back to
his old habits ; his hands, skilful in his
occupation, were often idle, and there were
times v ben only her own cheerful industry
saved them from poverty.
But he had never, through all, been
wilfully harsh to her; he had weakly been
led by examples and strong passions, and
though he grew careless and neglectful, he
was often penitent, and her heart loved
him still—it could not think him capable
of crime. Hut the remembrance of the
law—the stern, inexorable law—crushed
every bud of hope ; all was sadness.
There was no sleep in the cottage that
night, save thai of the unconscious child,
but ever and anon were heard the convul
sive sobs of the stricken wife, a low moan
from the overchnigcd heart of the aged
It was early in the morning, when Mr.
Livingston returned with his hired vehicle
to C . As he entered the stable the
lirst object that met his eyes was his own
horse quietly feeding, and he was speedily
made acquainted with the capture of the
' The man was more than half intoxica
ted at the time he was taken,' said Mr.
Smith,* the voluble stable keeper, • ad
seemed perfectly stupid about what he had
done. lie is one of a gang of idle, vicious
fellows, that hang around the town, and it
is well that something has brought him to
a stand. A year or two at the State Prison
will be a good thing for him, and teach
him to walk straight in the future.'
• Where is the fellow ?' said Mr. Living
ston, and escorted b_\ the olficious Smith,
whose severest indignation was naturally
excited by theft of a horse, speedily ar
rived at the watch house where the unfor
tunate \Y illiam Milforil was in custody.
Mr. Livingston's face was stern as his
could be as he entered the room, while that
of Smith wore the careless business-like
air of a man who was quite used to these
tilings, and saw but one way to dispose of
What a wretched looking being was the
prisoner who met their gaze. Pallid from
yesterday's inebriation, his eyes sunken
at d blood-shot, his hair hanging wildly
over his forehead, his whole frame trem
bling with terror as he marked their en
By his side was the light form and pale
face of Mary, who had come with the
dawning light to gain admittance to her
husband. Her child was in her arms, its
joyousness a strange mockery in that
Opposite sat the old man, his grey head
bowed, pay ing little heed to those about
Smith was the first to speak.
So, my fine fellow, we've caught you
at last, eh ! Mr. Livingston here will soon
have you where you wont he a stealing
gentlemen's horses and chaises again in a
hurry, I fancy.'
' Indeed, indeed sir,' said the trembling
prisoner,' 1 did not mean to steal; 1 don't
know how 1 coine to take the horse ; it
seems all confused now, but 1 am sure,
very sure, 1 meant to carry them back.'
Oh, yes,' rejoined Smith, ' most pro
bable, that is all very fine, but it wont do
here.' Very likely you were going to see
a sick friend, or to treat your poor lame
grandmother to a ride, eh ? 'J'here has
been a good many valuables stolen within
a month or two, and I'll be bound you've
had your share of die spoils.'
There must have been a softness in Mr.
Livingston's eye, for as the young wife
heard these words, she raised her hands
to him appealing!)', and cried—
* Oh, do not believe him, sir—my hus
band is not a thief. 1 feel sure he did not
mean to steal your horse—he was not him
self, then—lie was unconscious of the
crime he was committing. It is his first
offence. Oh, will you not listen to him,
and have mercy upon him for the sake of
his child ? If you do not appear against
him, the law cannot harm him V
4 There, the old story,' interrupted Smith,
4 you might apprehend rogues from now till
the end of the year, and there wculd always
be plenty of wives and children to beg ■
their pardon. 1 tell you he unfastened the !
horse, and made olf with him, and was
found ten miles from home, after nine
o'clock of a dark night, with both horse
and carriage in his possession. It don't
promise very well; he'll be delivered over
this morning, and I reckon we shall
to try his digestion of prison fare fJFa
During all this time, Mr. Livingston had
listened to the conversation while he had
been strictly observing the persons before
him. He had seen the flush of shame
pass over the face of the prisoner, who by
no means looked depraved—he had marked
the genuine indignation that dashed from
the eyes of the wife, as she heard the
coarse accusations of Smith—and now
when he spoke, it was that he might be j
left alone for a few moments with the pris
oner and his family.
As the door.closed, he turned to Wil
liam Milford, and looking into his face,
with his mild yet intense gaze, said firmly.
' Did you tell the truth when you said
this was no premeditated theft, that it was
done in a time of lawless intoxication V
There was 110 mistaking the fervent
honesty with which he answered.
4 As 1 hope for pardon it was ! Heaven
knows I have done enough in almost
breaking Mary's heart by my reckless con
duct, to deserve the severest punishment,
and this last is crushing her to the earth—
but I meant no crime !'
There was something of sternness in
Mr. Livingston's tone, as he said—
-4 1 consider it no light crime for a man to
place himself, voluntarily as you have
done, beyond the controlling power of
reason, even for a moment. You know,'
he continued calmly, 4 that the act you have
done is sufficient to procure your imprison
ment for one. if not for two years—now
hear me. On the condition that you give
me your sacred promise to touch no more
arything that can intoxicate—to return to
the occupation you have neglected—to
do your duty us a man and citizen, I will
refrain from presenting my accusation, and
will set you free. What say you ?'
Again and again the wretched man es
sayed to speak—the rush of feeling was
too much—but at length he fell upon his
knees and grasped, 4 most solemnly I
4 Heaven bless you sir,' came from the
full heart of the wife. 4 God will reward
you for this—and you shall see that your
mercy on my husband, your trust in him,
has not been for naught.'
The old man, who had listened intently
through all, now rose up, and tottering to
Mr. Livingston, took both bis hands in his,
while the tears coursed over his withered
checks. 4 Take,' said he, 4 the blessing
of an old man and a father, and God send
to you, in the hour of trouble, as sweet
peace as you have brought to this bruised
heart of mine.'
There was a mist in the blue eyes of
Mr. Livingston, and his voice was husky,
as turning to the prisoner he said hastily—
-4 I have but little time to spare this morn
ing, but there is a crowd about here ; I will
i take the child and you in the carriage,
while your wife and father follow. There
; has been expense attending this affair,
which, as an earnest of your good inten
tions, I shall look to you for pay. Not
now, not now,' he continued, as the old
man stepped forward, ' but I shall not lose
sight of you, and some day I will call for
The door was opened, and the eager
group without again admitted. There was
much surprise, and not a little displeasure,
when Mr. Livingston calmly ordered the
; constable to set William Milford free.
Smith had no power to conceal his indig
! nation. 4 For his part he thought Lawyer
Livingston had no right to set such a
scamp at liberty—if thieves and rogues
were to be let loose upon the town there
was no safety for any body—lie intended
to double lock his stable doors without de
To all this Mr. Livingston paid no heed,
but saving that he should return in a few
| moments to settle with Mr. fSmith and
those by his request who had been em
ployed in this affair, for all they had done,
he placed Milford and the child in the
i chaise and drove off.
There were murmurs of discontent
among the crowd—many marvelled, and
some cheered, at what they considered a
foolish leniepcy, and some turned awav
i disappointed at haying lost the 4 fun' of the
That night in the cottage of the Mil
fords, there went up supplications to Heav
j en, from lips that had not prayed for a
weary while before—the prayer of one
humble and contrite spirit, 4 God be mer- \
cilul to me a sinner !'
And from the heart of Mary, the heart
purified by an ordeal of sorrows, rose fer- |
vent thanksgiving, and a prayer for blcs- j
sings on him who had poured through the
thirsty channels of her spirit, a tide of jov
And was not the sleep of Henry Living
ston calm and sweet that night, though an
i erring man had gone unpunished ? There
I rested on his head the love of Him who
i forgave the peuitont—who said, 4 Be ye
also merciful, as your Father in
!\cw Seri* —Vol. I —Ao. 23.
Just after sunset, one cool evening in
October, and a little more than three
months after the occurrence of these
events, Mr. Livingston alighted from his
horse before the Miliord's cottage.
The door was shut, but the window
curtain was up, and by the bright blaze of
a wood lire, the room and its occupants
were distinctly visible.
The old man sat bv the fire with his
little grand child upon his knee, who
laughed and clapped his tiny hands in the
wildest -glee. The table was spread, and
the dishes that smoked upon the hearth
told that the repast waited for someone
Mary was stirring blithely about, get
ting everything in readiness—her cheek
was plump, and its beautiful color might
have been a reflection from the fire's ruddy
glow, but it looked more like the bright hue
of perfect health and happiness.
Just then the door opposite the window
opened, and a young man entered. Was
that William Milford ? With the bright
brow and pleasant eye, and the glow of
I health and cheerful exercise upon his
cheek. It was "pleasant to see the glad
welcome that sparkled in the eyes of the
busy wife, as he greeted her with a ' here
1 am, Marv !' and passing his arm around
her, save her a playful kiss ere he turned
to take the bov, vt hose little arms had
been outstretched to him the moment of
I his entrance.
Mr. Livingston knocked at the door,
which was immediately opened, and he
was greeted with the liveliest demonstra
tions of pleasure by all the inmates. The
color rose to the young man's brow, as he
grasped his extended hand, and there was
> a pride in Mary's tone, as looking from
her husband to INIr. Livingston, she said—
' William and 1 have been hoping to see
you for 3 long time, sir.'
4 And 1 think 1 should have hastened
my coming, could 1 have realized what a
: delightful reception awaited me,' and he
seated himself with the smiling group.
At his request, William Milford related
his past struggles, his present success, and
his iuture hopes.
4 It needs not words, lie added,' as he
finished his recital, • to thank you for all
this. Our cheerful comfortable home —
Marv's triad face, mv own health and hap
piness—are they not all owing to you—
and do they not tell their own grateful
storv ? it is you who has saved me from
destruction, and brought jov again t us
4 Willftim and i have had this ready for
you a good while,' said Mary as going to
an inner-room, she brought forth a small
roll of bills, and placed them in Mr. Liv
ingston's hand. There was more than the
sum required, and he smiled as he looked
them over, and quietly asked the mother
the name of the little fellow who sat in
; the old man's arms.
4 My child has his father's name,'
• Well,' said Mr. Livingston, 4 for your
son William I will deposite this money in
the bank—a little fund to which \ ou and
your husband can add whenever you
choose. It may be pleasant to look upon
it, as the first fruits of your exertions in
the path of duty—no thanks, no thanks,
I wish i' to be so—l shall always feci an
interest in you, and 1 hope from time to
to time you will come and see me, and let
me know how you are succeeding.'
With a last look at the bright cheerful
home, with its happy faces, Mr. Living
ston mounted his horse and rode away—
and as he passed tite prison walls, which
lay upon Iris homeward route, his heart
rose in thankfulness that William Milford
was not there—rejoiced that Heaven had
made him the means of restoring an erring
man, who with no hand to lift him up,
might have been led on deep into sinful
ness and crime.
Imitation of flahogany.
Any wood of a close grain may be made
perfectly to imitate mahogany, by the fol
lowing French process : Let the surface
he plained smooth and then rubbed wiih
a solution of nitrons acid. Then apply
with a soft brush, the following mixture :
1 ounce of dragon's blood, dissolved in
about a pint of spirits of wine, and with
the addition of a third of an ounce of car
bonate of soda, mixed and tillered. When
the polish diminishes in brilliancy, it may
he restored !>v the use of a little cold-drawn
linseed oil. Dragon's blood, as most of
our readers know, is a resin obtained by
incision from certain tropical plants, and
is sold at the druggists, to the varnishers
•and marble stainers. The method is ex
tensively adopted in France, and might
be well adopted in the United States, for
the interior decorations of our dwellings.
DEAD INF VNT FOUND. —The dead hodv
of a female infant was found in the Juniata
river, at Mexico, on Saturday the 9thmst.
in a perfectly nude state. Judging from
appearances it was but a few weeks old,
and had been in the water several days.
The bodv was still sound and might be
identified ; but it is reasonable to presume
that the fate of the child was not the work
of accident, and that it will not be inquired
for. The body was decently interred. —