1JL U PER ANNUM INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE.
:
florsday Morning, May 5, 1869.
■ SWtttt
SPRING.
BT ALKKKD TBKXTSOH.
Dip down upon the Northern shore,
0 „weet new year, delay in)? long ;
Thou dost expectant nature wrong,
Delaying long ; delay no more.
What *ttvs thee from the clouded noons,
. Thy sweetness from its proper place ?
Cat trouble lire with April days,
i Or sadness in the summer noons ?
H
Bring orchis, bring the fox glove spire,
The little speedwell's darling bine,
Deep tulips dashed with fiery- dew,
laburnums, dropping wells of fire.
0, thou, new year delaying long,
Delajest the sorrow in my blood,
That longs to burst a frozen bud,
And flood a fresher throat with song.
Sow fades the last long streak of snow :
Now burgeous every luar.e of quick
About the flowering square, and thick
Br ashen roots the violets blow.
Now rings the woodland loud and long,
The distance takes a lovelier hue,
And drowned in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless song.
Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
' The flocks are whiter down the vale.
And milkier every milky sail
On winding st ream or distant sea.
Where now the scamew pipes, or dives,
In yonder greening gleam, and fly
The happy birds that change their sky,
To build and brood, that lives their lives.
From land to land, and in my breast
Spring wakens too ; and my regret
Becomes an April violet,
And buds and blossoms like the rest.
Stltdtb ®ale.
Who Sitteth in Judgment."
THE STORY OF AJ 01 TOAST.
CONCLUDED FROM LAST W£F.K.
"Good eveuing, madam," said the lawyer,
is a lady, closely veiled, a moment after en
ered the library; " pray be seated ; here take
ibis arm chair near the register. The night is
A wild ODC for a lady to venture out. Pray,
that may be your business with me, madam."
" I have business of great moment with Mr.
Thorne," the lady replied, in a low, husky tone,
and I would speak with him alone, and where
there will be no fear of interruption, or of be
rig overheard."
The lawyer went to the door just in time to
catch sight of the retreating form of John, who
had been doing servant's duty at the key-hole.
Shutting; the door lie turned the key, and
wheeled in front of it a large screen. He then
Jiifcw down the curtains, aud closed tightly the
window shutters, and taking the large arm
chair near his visitor, and as he supposed, cli
ent, he signified that he was ready to hear
i at she wished to communicate.
The lady, without uttering a word, slowly,
and with a quiet, determined deliberation,raised
her veil and confronted the lawyer :
" Great God !" he exclaimed, as he met her
iue, starting up and staggering forward. " Is
this Jenny Irw in T" Then, quickly recovering
mraself. he resumed his seat, and drawing up
near to bis visitor, asked her, in a hoarse whis
per, what, in the name of God, had brought
her there, and what she would have of him.
" 1 come, Gilbert Thorne," she said, "to have
a final reckoning with you "
" A final reckoning with me ? Did we not
have it six years ago ? and did you not sign
an agreement, under oath, that you would
never call upon me, seek me, speak to me, or
in any way interfere with me, or address me
again ? What do you mean, Jenny Irwin ?"
"1 mean this—that wheu, six years ago, you
bred of me, and wished to cast me off, per
haps for another love, perhaps"—
"No, no ! Stop there, Jenny ; stop there,
lou know full well that it was not for another
' or e. You know well that my sense of duty
aone drove me to the step ; that I provided
handsomely for you"—
"False ! It is false, Gilbert Thorne. You
• t me worse than penniless—helpless, frieud
■ess, hopeless, homeless, aimless !"
" Nay, nay, Jenny ; be just. If you wish to
obtain more from me tell me so plainly; but
( lo not deny what I have really done. Give
me the credit of, at least, generosity toward
you. Did I no t settle ten thousnud dollars
upon you, in cash, when you signed that con
tact, which you have this night broken ? Did
not do more than one niau in a thousand
could have done ? Could I have, done more J"
Now, hear me, Gilbert Thome," she re
ined, in a slow, still voice, and with much
emotion; "let me say what I have to say
w tomit interruption ; let us not quarrel to
,ll£ , but let me simply call to your mind
some tlnngs which you may have forgotten,
known*"*' P cr ' I, P s i which you have never
, "V her *° proceed, resting his el
hinrt ''°J' * desk ' and head upon his
half ' 8,1 a f ln £ D P° n Iter with an abstracted,
half sorrowful expression.
1 ou doubtless remember, Gilbert Thorne,
pet to * n 'Pht. N'ou will never for-
Ynn n i Ve ca " e^'. 1 a gain to your mind.
next n „i il , M y brother Dick i
eve L , ; 11 was a W Christmas
for a I ?•* Do , t ' arid ' car celj thought
ried r after . whether yon were mar
• or not ; you said fair things to me then ;
er < ", came a welcomed at my fath
- board. ; you were not rich, then, Gilbert
®v G from it - well > y° u - to win
m - T Gve ; you won it."
A - ,; ght tremor rau over the woman's frame,
a* .
THE BRADFORD REPORTER.
and drawing her hand across her forehead, as
though to soothe its pain, she went on :
" Then my brother Dick went away to Cali
fornia, and who so kind and who so brotherly
in his attentions as you ? Then came the news
of his death—shot by some traitor hand ; pur
suing his solitary way over the mountains;
then my mother's illness ; for Dick was all her
love—her death /"
Another pause, and again the hand was
pressed upon the forehead. Again she went
on :
"We thought you very kind then, Gilbert
Thorne. It was better, perhaps, for father
that he went as he did- better him and bet
ter for me—fathers are very blind, and mine
was blinder than all the rest, or he might have
seen what I too late understood. Was it
strange, when he felt the chords of life loosen
ed from "earth, that he should have thought
you the most worthy of the sacred trust of be
ing his daughter's guardian, and the executor
of his will ? Oh, fate ! oh, fate ! how cruelly
thou doest use us ! Well, well, Gilbert Thorne,
you were my guardian. The world reputed
ray father rich. All that lie left on earth was
in your keeping—his fortune—aud his daugh
ter. You did not take that daughter to your
home, and cherish her as a sister, as you prom
ised upon his dying bed—No, no. JJut lam
as much to blame, perhaps, as you, for what
followed, with only this difference : There was
no excuse for you, as you were a man of ma
ture years, a husband and a father, while I was
only a girl of a loving heart—loving as a wo
man—without knowing or understanding what
a fearful thing it is for a woman to embark all
the rich freight of her affections on one who
can never fill to her the sacred relation of a
husband: —well, well, I became your mistress;
but God above can bear rue witness, 1 knew
not what 1 did. I only knew that I loved you,
worshipped you with all of the intensity of a
strong heart's first affeetiou."
Again a pause and again the same hand
pressed upon the brain, and again she goes on
in a softer, lower, and more tremulous voice
than before :
" I was very, very linppv in those brief, few,
; months, Gilbert. I say it with shame, but yet
1 cannot help but say it. I used to watch for
your coming the few times a week which you
spared to me, oh ! so eagerly, so earnestly. T
have thought sometimes that much might be
I forgiven me for what I tried to be then. I have
1 remembered since that sometimes you used to
! tell me about my father's property, and some
! times we went in carriages and signed papers in
1 courts and in lawyer's offices, and that after
many months' you told me that my father's es
tate would little more than pay his debts and
the expenses of administration. I remember
that I never scarcely heeded what you said,
and that 1 only cared for the money as it was
of need to you. I never even thought that you
could wrong rae, for I knew you loved me, and
I was beautiful and worthy of being loved. I
can recall all the foolish, yet tender sophistries
with which I used to reconcile myself to my
fate I would say, ' I can never be bis wife ;
but I will be to him such a tender and devo
ted friend, so true so disinterested, ever watch
ful of his interests, ever patient, enduring, and
loving, that he will cling to me more fondly
than ever husband to wife, and hold me in
such close relationship that nothing on earth
can ever break the tie which binds us togeth
er.' Oh! weak and simple fool!—you little
thought that at the very moment when you
were building such airy castles, the cherished
object of theni all was planning to crush them
| down to earth !
" I well remember the night which decided
my fate. I have thought of it many times, and
never without bitterness and hate until to-day.
Von came to me as usual, and after our little
supper—how sweet those little suppers were ?
' —you told me that a great change had come
over you ; that your daughter was coming up
—your wife, a good, faithful woman, was suf
fering from your neglect ; that your friends
shunned you ; that your own conscience smote
you ; and many other things of like import ;
and then,to cap it all ,that [IC IS the cause. You
; said you had determined, while it was yet in
your power, to break, at a single stroke, the
ties between us, and that each must go our
ways, never to meet again. You told me that
it had been a matter deliberately thought of
| by you, and that, from the love which you had
borne for me, you could not let me go unpro
vided for, and that, to satisfy your conscience
and your heart, and to insure for me a pcr
, manent support, you would divide your fortune
I with me, and settle upon me the sura of ten
the>usn>'ft dolhrs in r/lsh. , '
" Oh, Gilbert Thorne, what a wretched,
wretched, night was that! When life came
hack to me, after the full realization of your
puqiose had left me insensible upon the floor,
and I found myself lying upon the bed where
you had placed nie, while you, bending over
me, chafed my temples, and sought by every
tender epithet, to bring me back to reason—-I
felt all broken, and as though life was worth
no further struggle. You asked me many,
very many things—if I would promise never
to see you more—if I would sign a paper, and
if I would be satisfied to take teu thousand
dollars, and call all things square. I said yes!
—yes—yes —to everything. What did I care
for? what was ten thou sand dollars to me ?
Well, you left me, and promised to come the
next evening. You came, and with you came
a friend—you said a brother lawyer—to wit
ness the settlement, and to make out the
papers. 1 remember I signed a great many
documents. You told me to be calm, and not
to let the stranger see me affected, as it would
injure you if I did so. I was calm. I signed
everything you told me to, and then, whei.
all was finished you handed me a paper and a
little book, and told me that there was ten
thousand dollars in the bank, for me, which I
might draw at any time. The stranger said it
was all correct, and he thought Miss Irwiu
bed received a liberal settlemeut; and then he
went away."
Here site paused again, and this time she
pressed both hands upon her temples—remain
ing mute for many minutes.
The lawyer sat firm in his chair ; he had
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH.
" RESARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER."
not moved a muscle, and only the contraction
of his brow told of the warfare within his
heart and brain.
Again she went on, slowly and distinctly,
but her vioce was very low and soft :
" You closed the door of our little home that
night, Gilbert Thome, upon the most wretched
being God ever permitted live. You went
awav from the spot which, in my foolish pride,
I had thought was the dearest one on earth to
you—without even looking back, and without
a single tear. I watched you through the
curtain from the window. I said surely, sure
ly, he will return ; he cannot, cannot mean it
—never, never, to see me again. I saw you
reach the corner ; I said, he will turn hack
now ; he cannot go ; the magnetism of my
strong love will bring him hack again;—he
will come back ! You turned the corner ; and
like an arrow through my heart, came the
conviction, that you were gone from me for
ever. I fell insensible upon the floor, and,
many hours after, I was found by a neighbor—
sick in heart, and body, and mind—ready to die.
"Now 1 come to your crime—and my dis
grace and sorrow. You thought you did a
generous thing, perhaps, when you gave me
so large a sum as ten thousand dollars ; but
what did I know of ruouey t I scarcely knew
the difference between a hundred and tea
thousand dollars. I had always been cared
for in that respect, and had never been taught
to take care of myself, or to believe I should
ever be thrown upon my own resources. I
will not dwell upon what followed. I loved
you so sincerely and so devotedly that I had
great difficulty in keeping my oath that 1
would not seek you—but I kept it. With
returning health 1 sought new associations,
and about this time learned that the gin-cup
would drown much misery. Well, I lived a
gay life. I had no one to love—to tie to bind
me to virtue or a higher niin. You took from
me everything but ten thousand dollars —and
that soon followed. Then came more misery,
more degradation, more shame ; my beauty
began to fade ; my temper grew violent.
Through my ignorance and improvidence,
poverty came at the time when, having a little
chil l, I found myself friendless and without
the means of getting bread ; then death came,
and took away mv little hoy; then I was com
pelled to pawn jewels to bury the little child ;
then my appetite for drink grew more and
more, and one by one, everything went to the
pawnbroker's, until, after long weary years of
sorrow, and sickness, and wretchedness, and un
happiness, and misery, and crime, 1 came to
be the miserable outcast to whom you threw
the paltry coins this evening in the Park.''
" What !" interrupted the lawyer. " were
you the wretched being who crossed my path
this evening, to whom I threw some change ?"
" Yes!" .-he replied "1 am the same. Three
picayunes and a dime, and 1 have laid it out at
interest —where I think it will help me to bet
ter life. Put don't interrupt me till I have
finished what I have to say. I am going away
to a distant country to live—l cannot live here
more ; and before 1 went, 1 determined to
come and tell you plainly how well 1 have
come to understand the great wrong which
you have done me, as well as those who are
sleeping under the snow, away over the river
in 'Greenwood' I understand it all !
" Al, Gilbert Thome ! I might truly have
said to you, in the language of the wronged
and gentle Tamar, ' This evil, in sending me
away, is greater then the wrong thou didst un
to me.' You took me a child, as it were, from
the home of my dead parents, with no one in
the wide world to love but you. You took
from me everything I had in life, and left me,
more than ever before, unfit to take care of
myself. You thrust me out into the world
without a purpose or an end, or anything to
cling to —with passions of whose existence,
but for you, I might never have known,
wrecked at the first breaker of life—with ap
petites needing but the excuse of wretched
ness and remorse to kindle into a never-dying
flame—with not a friend, a hope, or anything
to prize, with none to counsel, none to encour
age, none to aid, none to advise, none to warn,
none to befriend, and none to love—thus you
thrust me out in the world, and in the place of
all these you gore me ten thousand dollars!
" Would it not have been better, Gilbert
Thorne, had you kept your ten thousand dol
lars, or my dead father's money, whichever it.
was, and have kept me too. Would it not
have been more like a man and a Christian—
yes, better in the sight of God, had you turned
my too loving heart to its best account, and
permitted me to have lived out my little
dream ? 1 should never have troubled you or
yours. The little child who sleeps now in
Greenwood might have lived to some good
purpose. I should have been contented al
ways in my little home—oh, so happy ! If I
could have seen you only once a week, or even
month, then this great grief might not have
come to me, ar.d life might have been put to
better purposes. But your selfish heart had
other piaus, and poor Jenny's life must be
sacrificed to minister to your ambitious and
worldly pride. But the day of reckoning will
surely conic, and you will yet feel that you
might have atoned for the great first wrong
which you did to Jenny Irwin, had you cher
ished, and protected, and turned to its highest
account the true and earnest love which she
bore to you. When that time comes, Gilbert
Thorne, I wish yon to remember this night, and
to call to mind that I came here on this Christ
mas eve, the anniversary of our first meeting,
to have a final reckoning with you. I come not
for money ; you have placed the last in my
hands which I shall ever receive from you—
three picayunes and a dime —l only come to you
to say that I know if nil now ; I know the
source of the riches of Gilbert Thorne."
The lawyer's face grew dark.
" But I come uot to upbraid you ; I come
not to expose you ; I come not to do you any
harm ; I only come, ere my departure, to bid
you a kindly farewell, and to tell you that out
of the great sorrow and wretchedness which
has made me the miserable outcast which I
bad come to be, a holier, better spirit utters a
full forgiveness for all the evil which I have
received at your hands.
" This is all I have to say, Gilbert Thorne;
all the reckoning I come to make, and now,"
slowly rising, " may the great God, through
the intercession of Him whose nativity the
ceremonies of this night commemorate, keep
you aud yours from all evil and harm, and not
visit the sius of the fathers upon the chil
dren."
As she said this she had risen to her full
height, and her upturned face was lit with a
radiance which it had never known before.
" Oil ! Jenny, Jenny," groaned Gilbert
Thorne, throwing himself at her feet, "for
God's sake curse rue. Do not say you forgive
me. This is my punishment ; 1 see it all
now."
"Gilbert Thorne," she rejoined, and a deadly
pallor overspread Iter features, " this is no
time for impiety ; my carriage is waiting, and
I must go. I have said all that I have to say:
but kneel with ine one little moment, that I
may intercede for YOU "
Her voice was singularly distinct, but very
soft and low, and faint tremors ran through
her frame. The strong man was bowed ; he
knelt beside the outcast, and she, whom nil
men reviled, off-red up for him a petition to
the Throne of Mercy, which was taken up by
angels, and borne to Him who suffereth not a
sparrow to fall to the ground unheeded. The
words of that prayer dwell ever in the mem
ory of Gilbert Thorne. Tears came back to
him as when a child. The agony of the strong
man, bowed, pen may not describe. In vain he
pressed her to stay. In vain he told her that
the house and nil was hers : that he would
go forth, and leave her to her possessions ;
that lie would work as a galley slave, any
thing to make up for the wrong which lie had
done.
Blie only said ; "Too late, too late ! All is
prepared for iny departure, and I must not,
cannot stay. We part now, Gilbert Thorne,
and let it be quickly over. Good bye !" And
she took his hand in both of hers, and pressing
it once only to her heart, glided from the
room. Once she only turned to look hack as
she threaded the dimly l glited hall ; once
only she paused, and through the open library
door she -aw the lawyer, with clenched hand
against his forehead, and heaving breast,
standing in resolution and agony, combating
the impulse which hade him follow her wliere
ever she went, and snatch her from a fate
which was already half foreshadowed in his
mind.
She opened the street door, and as the cold
wind rushed in, wrapping her frail form in its
chill embrace, and moaning through thr hall, it
seemed to seek to drive her hack again, say
ing "Go not forth ; go not forth." A moment
only she paused, while her shuddering frame
had need of all its resolution to urge her
forth into the desolate night. Perhaps, in that
brief moment, standing in llie half open door,
looking out upon the falling snow, she hud a
lingering hope that a kindly hand might he
laid upon her shoulder, drawing her back from
the fell purpose on which she was bent. Hut
no protecting hand came at the last moment,
to detain her; no sympathetic voice to bid her
stay. She closed the door, and forth into the
desolate storm she went, out into the bitter
night, amid the drifting snow and pitiless
winds, leaving a blessing upon the threshold,
which she was never to recross again, for him
wiio had been the cause of all her ruin.
On the :27th of December, 185-, the daily
papers of the great metropolis contained
among their city items the following announce
ment. :•
" Dr. Mil FHOM IXTEMPEKAXCE AM) Hxi'OSl KK Cl)l i-t
mas morning Officer Sayles, while patrolling his heat at
day-break, found, partly covered in the snow, on the steps
of a house in Fifth avenue, the hody of an abandoned wo
man, commonly called Wild Jen : hut whose real name is
supposed to have been Jenny Irwin.
She was taken to the dead-house, where an inquest was
held—Verdict: " Died trrm intemperance and exposure."
She is supposed to have lost her way in the storm, while
leturuing intoxicated from some revel the previous night,
ami becoming bewildered and chilled, sought refuge on
the steps where was found. She will he buried in Poller's
Field.
Thus ended the life of Jenny Irwin.
*******
It boots not now to record the secret satis
faction which mingled with the remorse of
Gilbert Thorne, as reading his. morning paper
over the rich breakfast service, he learned for
the first time the fate of Jenny Irwin. The
world thrives well with him ; honors and
riches wait his every step. They talk of ma
king him a Judge, and if they do, as they
doubtless will, it requires no great gift of proph
ecy to write bis future life.
The ermine will fit him gracefully and well,
to the world ; his judgments will be clear, and
impartial, and fair, to the. world ; bis actions
will be above reproach, to thr world ; lie will
be a constant church-goer and a devout Chris
tian, to the world, he will write a book upon
some hackneyed subject of the law, which shall
to the world appear very profound and learned,
and then, after not many years, he will die.—
The courts will lie closed out of respect for his
memory ; for it is meet that Justice should
pause to weep when a good man dies. His
distinguished brethren of the bench will meet
in solemn conclave, and pass " Resolutions'" of
condolence with his afflicted family, expressive
also of their high sense of his public and pri
vate worth, and of the irredeemable loss to
the country. There will be a meeting of the
Rar, over which the distinguised Judge " will
be called to preside." That bright luminary
and celebrated advocate, David Little, Esq ,
will pronounce his stereotyped eulogy. Coun
sellor Slasher will recall sonic hnppv rcminis
cence of the departed greatness, and will tell
how " he knew him intimately and well, and
that he held it ainoi.g the proudest recollec
tions of his life to have been the friend of such
a man." The head of the great firm of Drag
on. Bully k Dunn, the great special pleader,
will " add his mite" to the occasion, and in a
"few brief remarks" will move himself and his
audience to tears ; and then the usual " Reso
lutions" will be passed, and the Bench and
Bar will attend his funeral. The Church of
the " Holy Moncy-bavs" will be crowded.—
Sextou Goldboy, in his
" Customary cuff of solemn black "
will opeu the carriages of tue great " law
givers" who come to pay their last tribute to
departed worth. He will lead deerepid men
decrepid both in mind and body —who still
dole justice from the bench ; and venerable
white wiars, who had long since retired, feeling
that their age had gone beyond their Judge
ship—through waves of criholine.impregnahle.
save to the accustomed eye The Rev. Dr.
Silvereup will read the well-known service
with peculiar miction, and in a short funeral
sermon, will lake good care 1o speak in no un
measured terms of praise of "the divine calling
of those who sit h judgment," and of that no
ble profession of which the departed was so
distinguished a member Then a grand cava I
cade of prancing horses, and sable plumes, and
gay equipages, will drive with measured tread
aud in mournful array to " Greenwood."
Then a monument, with appropriate inserip
tions and emblematic designs, will be erected
to his memory Perhaps Justice, with blinded
eyes, holding the sword and scales, is not out
of place, surrnountiug the tomb of the departed
Judge ! Perhaps the inscription,
1N MEMORY OF
HOW, GILBERT THORNE,
JUDGE OF THE CIRCUMLOCUTION COURT
Died —lß—, .El—.
P'p learned and erudite Counsellor -the up
right and impartial Judge—the faithful
and affectionate husband—the loving
father and the devoted friend
distinguished alike for his
public benefactions
nnd his private
charities !
may answer well for the world's eye, and for
the world's judgment ; but when the time
comes, ax it surely will, those of us who may,
perchance, he present, may find a different
record written upon the docket of that great
court whose judgments are eternal. Then vou
and i, dear reader, and all of us, may see—
guided by a light, of which we can form no
present conscption—how fallible are ail human
decisions, how blind all earthly opinions, and
how unjust the judgments of the world ? Then,
standing at that great bar,where, written upon
our conscience, the deeds of life are brought
to light, each his own accuser and defender,
you, and I, and Jenny Irwin, and Gilbert
Thorne, and all of us, will learn uhy sitteth in
judgment !
TSTKHI'KRAN'CK.— What hopes so precious
that it has not withered f What career so
promising that it has not arrested ? What
heart so tender, what temper so tine, that it
has not destroyed ? What things so noble and
sacred that it has, not blasted ? Touched by
its bell tire flame, the laurel-crown lias been
changed to ashes on the head of mourning
genius, and the wings of the poet scorched by
it : he who once played in the light of sun
beams, and soared aloft into the >kies, has
basely crawled in the dust. Paralyzing the
mind even more than the body, it lias turned
the noblest intellect into drivelling idiocy.—
Not awed by dignity.it has polluted the ermine
of the .Fudge. Not scared away by the sanct
ity of the temple, it has defiled the pulpit, lit
all these particulars, I speak what I know. 1
have seen it cover it with a cloud, or expose
to deposition fr* 111 tlie office and honors of
the holy ministry no fewer than ten clergymen,
with some of whom 1 have sat down at the ta
ble ot the Lord,'and all of whom J have num
bered in the rank of acquaintances or friends.
Guthrie.
(IFANN AUAIVST VN/SAR LAXOIAOE. —There
is as much connection between the words and
thoughts as is between the thoughts and the
words ; the latter are not onlv (lie expression
of the former, but they have a power to react
upon the soul, and leave the stain of their cor
ruption there. A young man who allows him
self to u<e one vulgar and profane word, has
not only shown that there is a foul spot upon
his mind, but by the utterance of that word,
he extends that spot and inflames it. till by in
dulgence it will polutc and ruin the whole soul.
I>? careful of your words as well as your
thoughts. If you can control the tongue that
no improper words are pronounced by if, you
will soon l>e able, also, to control the mind,
and save that from corruption. You extinguish
the fire by smothering it, or by preventing bad
thoughts bursting out in language. Never
utter a word any where which you would be
ashamed to speak in the presence of ttie most
refined female, or the most religious man. Try
this practice a little while, and you will soon
have command ot yourself.
WHAT CAN" YOR I>o.—" Wlmt is your name?"
said a Now Orleans merchant to a half-horse,
half-alligator sort of a fellow who applied to
him for employment.
"My name's leabod Wing wlicu 1 am at
home" was the answer.
" Whore was von bom ? "
" 1 was born nowhere—but was picked np
out of the Mississippi, floating down stream on
a raft."
" What can yon do if I employ yon ?"
" I can whip twice mv weight in wild cats
—swim np Niagara Falls—twist a rope with
three live rattlesnakes, and climb seven trees
at once. Of course the merchant employed
him, right off.
tizjf Persons who are too shy and and
aw kward to take their dnc part of thehusTing
world, console themselves by assuming that
the active and forcible qualities possessed by
t' e real actors in life's stirring scenes, are in
compatible with others which they choose to
deem higher and more important."
The company of a good-humored man
or women is a perpetual feast ; he is welcome
everywhere—eyes glisten at their approach,
and difficulties vanish in tlwir presence
Franklin's indomitable good humor did as
much for his country in the old Congress, n-
Adams' fire or Jefferson's wisdom ; he clothed
wisdom with smiles, and softened contention.-
mituL into acquiesei.ee. Keep in good humor.
VOTj. XJX. —KO. 48.
LITHUGRAI'IIT — WHAT IS IT? —The emrrav
which weekly appear in the columns of
the Scientific American are first drawn, ami
then engraved en wood, and cannot as many
seem to imagine, be lithographed. We often
) have letters from inventors, requesting us to
| lithograph and publish their machines, hot
• lithography is nut an engraving process, but
siuiply the reproduction of a drawing. Again,
j n common printing press would not produce
anything like an impression from a lithograph,
j but a mod i lien lion of the copper plate printing
press needs to IK.* used. Tne name is derived
Iroin two (jkeek words : lit hot , a stone, and
the verb graphu to write.
Lithography was discovered in the year
1800, in .Munich, by a German named Alois
Sciiefelder, who, after suffering a life of pov
erty and privation, gave to the world a process
by which many have made priucelv fortunes.
Hie stone used is a ca'carious slate, and is im
ported from Solen Hofen in Germany. All
limestones absorb grease or oil, more or less,
and this fact is the base of all lithography.
To make what is called a "crayon" drawing
—such as those artistic designs by Jullieu of
Paris-, seen in every print seller's window—the
stone is first prepared by grinding it with fine
sand, atai then washing clean with water-
When dry, the drawing is made on the stone
precisely as on paper, with (instead of a lead
pencil,) a greasy crayon comjioscd of beeswax,
tallow, shellac, lampblack, Ac., and, of course,
is of a greasy nature. Every mark made on
the stone with it, being greasy, cannot be re
moved unless by removing the surface of the
stone with it. The drawing, when finished, is
covered with a weak solution of nitric acid and
gum nrubic, which entirely changes the pro
perties of the surface of the stooe, so that
grease will not be absorbed by it, but the so
lution does not affect the greasy drawing.—
The surface of the stone is then moistened with
a spo- ge and water, and a fine leather roller
covered with a greasy ink is passed over it ;
the printing ink being greasy adheres to the
drawing, because the drawing is greasy, but
cannot adhere anywhere else on the stone, be
cause the stone is wet ; and as water and
greese will not mix, the ink sticks to the draw
ing only. A sheet of pnper is then laid over
it, and a pressure of a rubbing character being
applied,-the paper takes up the extra ink from
the original drawing, and so carries away upon
its surface a perfect "proof" or printing of the
illustration or design.
Portable lithographic presses can be mado
suitable for merchants and others who wish to
issue circulars and the like in their own hand
writing, as they can write an original with a
greasy ink upon paper, and thcu transfer it to
the stone.— Scientific American.
A CAXDID MlXD. —There is nothing thai
sheds so fine a light upftn the human mind as
candor. It was called whiteness by the an
cients for its purity ; and it has always won
the esteem due to the most admirable of the
virtues. However little sought for or practised,
all do it the homage of their praise, and all
feel the power and charm of its influence. The
man whose opinions makes the deepest mark
upon his feliowtnen ; whose influence is the
most lasting and efficient; w hose friendship is
instinctively sought where all others have
proved faithless, is not the man of brilliant
parts, or flattering tongue, or splendid genius,
or commanding power ; but he whose lucid
candor and ingenious truth transmit the heart's
real feelings, pure and without
There are other qualities which are more showy,
and other traits that have a higher place in
the world's code of honor, but uonc wear better,
or rather less tarnish by use, or claim a deeper
homage in that silent reverence which the miud
must pay to virtue.— Greta Learts.
CORRECT SrEAKixc,.-—We adviso all young
people to acquire in early life the habit of
tiMiig good language, both in speaking and
writing, and to abandon, as early as possible,
the use of slang words or phrases. The longer
they live the more difficult the acquisition of
such language will be ; and if the golden age
of youth, the proper season for the acquisition
of language, be passed in its abuse, the unfor
tunate victim of neglected education is very,
probably doomed 10 talk slang for life. Money,
is not necessary to procure this education.—
Every man has it in his power. He has merely
to use the language winch hp reads, instead of
using the slang which he hears—to form his
taste from the best speakers and poets of the
country—to treasure up choice phrases in his
memory, and 'o habituate himse'f to their use
avoiding at the same time, the pedantic pre
cision and bombast, which show rather, the
weakness of a vain ambition than the polish of
nit educated mind.
ft-a)"" A bachelor friend of ottrs, says a cor
respondent, returning the other evening from
a ball in a crowded coach, declared with a
groan that he had not the slightest objection
to ' rings on lti finger o ," but lie had a most nu
eqnivocal objection to "belles on his toes."
Elder Manger, speaking of the time
when he was a b iv: He says it was the custom
of school children, as yon passed a school house
to make a bow. !>ut in tlicsc latter days, as
yon pass a school house, you must keep your
eve peeled, or von will get a snow ball or a
brickbat at the side of your head.
OSfAn Irish gentleman remarkable for his
devotion to the fair sex, one remarked, "nev
er be critical on the ladies. Take it for granted
that they are all handsome and good. A true
gentleman will never look on the faults of a
pretty woman irithrnU shutting his ajts."
Phillips, the Irish orator, speaks thus
feelingly of his birth-place : " There where the
scene of my childhood reminded me how inno
cent I was, and the graves of my fathers ad
monish me how pure 1 should continue.
Hrff If ay nng lady is not able to sport a
riding habit, sue should adopt n walking habit