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Original forUnu
For the Bradford Reporter.
THE HONORED BLADE.
WUHTEN' ON SEEING THE SWOBD OF THE LATE C-APT.
JOHN M'COKD OUTER.
BY w. G. s.
It hangs within the homestead hall,
l'iisi honored sword, on the wainscot wall,
!!ri;i gin : sad memories
. it ,'t.r who girt it to his side,
k hi- noble youth with a patriot's pride ;
v i 1< iding the van through a life-blood tide,
][,. v.hantly fought and bravely died
Ni nth Spottsylvania's trees.
Tin. 's a history in that glittering steel,
That makes an aged father feel,
Although liis heart is broke,
JI, . joy in losing such a sun,
in sii.li a cause, with work well done,
Than if his traitorous hand had won,
A - . I'ter lor a Southern throne,
With one ilisloval stroke!
*
•• A ;tt from Company I." The blade
I'll-- vouug commander took, and said,
• I pledge my life —my all;
st u I l y me strong men in the fight,
S- .ke for your country and your right,
And Heaven gr ant our eyes the sight.
Columbia rescued by our might,
And boudineu from their thrall."
i hat sword upon Virginia's soil,
I: iaugcr's dire knew no recoil —
Twas drawn in Freedom's name ;
Ai.tietam, Frederick, Chancellor,
An 1 Drainsville—mid the cannon's roar,
Wherever fiercest raged the war
Ai.dri Ulrst was the carnage gore—
increased brave OUTER'S fame!
11. died when foremost on the field,
l; .tlnT than to a traitor yield,
Ami that true blade disgrace ;
o\vr the Wiklerness's sod,
!i-aks respectful sigh and nod,
While Ir. /. s softly bear abroad *
The pert'iuuc of a soul, with God
V.... li found its Resting Place.
I i. .ei n.iw his gallant face,
N i • i sped his hand, nor viewed his grace,
But yet I mourn his fate ;
•w. !i admiration is awoke,
That when I hear his good name spoke,
- MI! is grieful with the stroke
V i.i h many a loving heart has broke
An 1 left disconsolate !
T ida, Sept. 11, 18G5.
For the Bradford Reporter.
THE OMEN.
BY SYBIL PARK.
A white cloud sailing o'er the sky,
A meadow's cooling shade,
With softest pillow heaped and high
Of new-mown fragrance made.
A blackbird singing on the thorn,
The July's russet gold,
Swept downward by the breeze of morn
In many a misty fold
•• If the white cloud fades no more away
In the ether clear and blue,
By this, I know he'll come to-day,
My soldier brave and true."
1 w itched the omen prayerfully,
As we wait for blessings bright—
It L. iutiful and carefully,
It spread its wings of light.
<iii. moiacut—and my heart stood still,
Our hopes are sometimes vain,
b.-ur GOD! the dreadful boding chill
Of that sad moment's pain,
1 ii: ■ ight the token fading slow
And wearily my eyes
V> re shut to all the shilling glow
Of those still summer skies.
The blackbird sang his sweetest lay,
The yellow lights swept down,
Au 1 ill the purple hills that day
Were such a royal crown,
i 1 uild not pray, I dared not look—
II" omen might be there,)
Its .sence I could never brook,
N r half the wild despair.
"bii.it. f..st asleep! is that the way?
My . etheart waits for me,
G:> t ph. re on the new-mown hay,
Oh' happy soul and free."
1 M. ill not tell you of the rest,
It is not best you know
that the white cloud down the west
s P r,, i I wide its wings of snow.
n-r'- 9, INGS.
PijftWlllMMU*.
UNDER SUSPICION,
CHAPTER I. —THE ARREST.
ncle Joseph, will you sec to the lug
-1 "Mainly, madam," I replied. I always
' : tuy brother's second wife, "madam;"
' t.'-ver quarreled, but each thought that
her was the most disagreeable person
- u "iverse; and as we each knew what
!; "I thought, it may be imagined our
I w 'as not of a very cordial kind, j
, : ' s,:e to the luggage, and then took
i , " ® r the party for the York express !
- Great Northern Railway.
' 1 Minutely we had a compartment to
( v es, that is, Mrs. Webster, my niece
") ru - and myself.
'""a, iny dear, you look as ill as you
r .' i uo one would think that to-mor
was your wedding-day."
,J look ill,mamma?"said Clara,dream-
Y
frirft n °* Inore sense at your age, a
j *c-nty-fi V e, uh j breaking her heart for
ken ,i' d J? a a n wll ° for four years has not ta
slightest notice of you."
E. O. GOODRICH, Publisher.
VOLUME XXVI.
" Why, it was one of the conditions, Mrs.
Y\ ebster, that he should not write," I ex
claimed.
Clara said nothing,but looked her thanks
at her old uncle.
" However, Uncle Joseph, he ought to
have come back and taken his dismissal
quietly. I have no patience with these poor
men blighting a girl's chance of getting
well settled in life in this way ; however,
thank goodness, it's all over now, the four
yoars are gone this three months and to
morrow you will be the happy wife of a
man whose age will command your respect,
and whose position will secure you every
comfort."
"And one,mamma,whom nothing on earth
but my solemn promise to my poor father
would make me call husband."
" \\ T ell, my dear, it's fortunate for youe
future interests that you made that promisr
I'm sure that Mr. Tredgar is a man after
my own heart. If I hadn't other views for
my children's sake, I should have set my
cap at him myself."
" I'm sure, madam, Mr. Tredger would
feel oidj' to much honored if he knew your
sentiments ; the candid avowal of them is,
I think, highly calculated to add to Clara's
happiness under existing circumstances."
" Well, you know, Uncle Joseph, I am
candid to a fault."
"Decidedly, madam, most decidedly," I
replied, a remark which caused Mrs. Web
ster to read a yellow-covered novel for
some time in silence, though shortly after
wards she dropped asleep.
Clara stole to my side of the carriage !
and leaned her head on my shouldei.
" 0 uncle, 1 wish I were dead ; can it be ;
so very wrong to die? lam so wretched ; 1
I dread to-morrow ; oh ! why will not Cod
pity me, and take away my life ?"
"My dear Clara, don't, there's a good
child ; it's wicked to talk in this way ; life j
must be born ; 1 have felt as you feel, and !
yet I live, and am not positively unhappy, j
only a vague, shadowy regret for what ;
might have been stands like a cloud be- 1
tween me and any happiness that migh be I
mine. Yours are keen sufferings, but bear j
them patiently, and use will dull the pain."
" But, uncle, why did he not let me hear
from him, as mamma says."
" Because he was a man of honor ; the
four years were up only last April,and this
is but July; who can tell where he is ?
Wherever he is, he is faithful and true, I
know."
" Oh! uncle, Cod bless you for these
words. 1 know it too, but what can Ido ?
I cannot delay longer ; my poor father's
dying words, my solemn promise to marry
this man, my stepmother's persecutions—
what can I do ? Three months have I
fought, and now I wish I could lie down
and die. O uncle, is there no escape ? I
have such a dread that he will come back
after I am married, and then—oh ! it would
be worse than his death to see him ! The
temptation—oh ! why cannot 1 die ?"
" Poor child ! my poor child !" was all I
could utter.
Bound by a vow made at her father's
deathbed, she was going the next day to
marry a mau who was old enough to be
her father, and who, but for the fact of his
persisting in bis claim, spite of her openly
expressed dislike of him, was esteemed a
very good kind of man.
True, Clara was beautiful and accom
plished beyond the average of woman of
her class,and it would be a struggle to mau
to give up such a prize, backed as lie was
by the assurances of the stepmother that it
was only a girlish fancy,and that love com
ing after marriage was more to be trusted
and more lasting than if it came before, 1
confess I was but a poor counsel, for under
such circumstances, still I loved her very
truly ; she was almost as my own daugh
ter, for I was a childless widower, and I
would have given my life to save her. But
it was impossible, and to-morrow would
seal her late.
it was not a pleasant journey, that. Mrs,
Webster read and slept at intervals the
whole time, and when she slept (Jlara nes
tled close to me.
We arrived at York about six o'clock,
and just as the train was slacking speed
into the station, a guard jumped on to the
footboard, locked, or unlocked the door.and
remained there until the train stopped.
"Have you all the parcels, madam?"
"All, thank you, Uncle Joseph, except
my umbrella —oh ! that's under the seat,"
said Mrs. Webster.
" Now, guard, unlock this door."
" Are you with that young lady, sir ?"
pointing to my niece,
" Yes, certainly ; unlock the door."
" Better not make a fuss, sir,"
" Fuss ! what do you mean ?"
" Step into my office. I dare say it's all
right. Better not say too much here you
know."
Y\ r e followed him through the little crowd
of passengers and porters, accompanied by
a policeman in uniform. As we passed we
heard fragmentary observations of a most
pleasing kind.
" Which is it ?" said some one.
"It's the girl, 1 think."
" No, it's the old woman ; she looks as
though she'd do any one a mischief if it
suited her.')
" Old man looks too soft for anything,"
and so on.
We went into the office, and I indignant
ly turned to the station master,
" What is the meaning of this, sir?"
"Oh ! it's very simple, sir ; a telegram
has arrived from the police in London with
orders to stop this young lady ; her® it is."
I took it, and read :
" The young lady looking very ill, dress
ed in black silk mantle, white straw bon
net with white llowers, is to be detained at
the station till the arrival of the officer by
the afternoon mail. She is seated in the
middle of the third carriage from the end
of the train. Her present name is Clara
Webster. To avoid the possibility of a
mistake,she has a diamond ring on the third
finger of her left hand, with the words
'From Herbert,' engraved on the inside."
It certainly was a correct description,
and, the name—there might be two Clara
Webster, though.
" Let me see your left hand, dear."
She pulled off her glove, and there was
the ring.
" Let me see that ring with the diamond
in it V
" Uncle, what does this mean ? Is any
thing wrong at home ?"
" I'll tell you presently, dear; give me
the ring."
TOYVANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., SEPTEMBER 21, 18(15.
She took it off, and gave it to me, and I
read 'From Herbert' on the inside.
" YY hy, that's the ring Mr. Langley gave
you ?"
" Y\ hat has lie to do with this?" said
Mrs. Webster. "Perhaps he "
" He what, madam ?"
" Perhaps it did not belong to him, I was
going to say."
I saw it was no use to struggle ; when
the officer came down he would explain the
mistake.
" Where can we wait?" I said.
" Y\ ait, Uncle Joseph, what for?"
" Madam, this telegram orders the arrest
of your daughter, and her detention here
till the arrival of an officer from London."
" But what for ?"
" 1 cannot tell you ; it is useless to com
plain ; we must wait."
" I shall do nothing of the kind ; I shall
at once go and get my brother and Mr.
Tredgar to come down."
" Pray don't, madam ; there's no occa
sion to make more noise about this matter
than can be helped."
" I shall remain with Clara ; you had
better go on and say we are corning very
soon."
" Your instructions don't exclude this
lady or myself?" I asked.
" Not at all, sir ; you are both free to go
at any time, but the young lady must
st a)'."
" Where ?"
" Well, sir,l 'm sure there's some mistake,
and was so from the moment I saw the
young lady, so if you'll give me your word
not to go away, I'll takr you into my house,
out of the bustle of the station."
Mrs. YWbster went oil", and Clara and I
went out of the house.
" Can't say, my dear ; it will be some
thing to laugh at by-and-by, though it's j
not pleasant now."
" But about the ring ! —do you think it
possible, what mamma said?"
" Possible ! my dear, it's ridiculous. It's :
a hundred years old, and I daresay belong-'
ed to his mother before lie gave it to you."
" I can't think what it can be."
" Don't think about it. It's a mistake,
that's all ; it will all be cleared up in a few
hours. We'll have some dinner, and pass
the time as well as we can."
" Do you know, uncle, I feel almost glad
of this ; it seems like a break in the dull
ness ; it puts off my wedding at least a
week ; mamma herself could not press it
for to-morrow, after this."
YY'e had dined, and got to be quite cheer
ful and laughing over the blunder as we
sat at the window, when a rap at the door
startled us both.
"Come in."
A gentleman entered.
" Miss Webster ?"
Clara bowed.
" Miss Clara Webster," he said, reading
the name from a letter.
Clara bowed again.
He handed her a letter, which she open
ed and read, and dropped on the floor, ex
claiming : "Thank God ! thank God ! 0!
uncle, I am so happy," then fell into a chair
fainting.
I picked up the letter, and calling the
people of the house, very soon brought her
to and were once more alone with the bear
er of the note, which ran as follows :
TREDGAR HALL.
" Mr. Francis Tredgar presents his com
pliments to Miss Webster, and begs to state
that he must decline the fulfillment of his
promise to make her his wife. The unhap
py circumstances of Miss Webster's public
arrest, on the charge of being in possession
of a diamond ring, stolen by her former lov
er, will at once account to her for this de
cision : Mr. Tredgar's wife must be above
suspicion.
" Mr. Tredgar begs also to inform Miss
Webster that the services of this solicitor
Mr. Make, (the bearer) are at her disposal.
" Well, Mr. Blake," said I, "you see we
shall not require your services ; I shall wait
the event, arid, if it is not cleared up, shall
employ my own solicitor in the matter.—
Will you present my kind regards to Mr.
Francis Tredgar, and express my own and
my niece's admiration of his gentlemanly
courtesy and kindness ? I would write to
him, if I did not consider that a correspon
dence with such a miserable,cowardly scoun
drel was too utterly degrading to be thought
of."
" 1 shall faithfully convey your message,
sir ; and allow me to assure you that I was
quite ignorent of the contents of the letter,
and that it shall be the lasttime 1 overbear
one from him ; and now, as you will not let
me help you as his solicitor, allow me to
proffer my services as a friend."
" With all my heart, Mr. Make ; come in
here a few minutes before the train comes
in, and we shall be glad of your help."
" Was I not right, uncle dear?" Said
Clara, as soon as we were alone. "Oh !
you can't tell how happy I am ; I can live
now. 0 this glorious mistake ! It's the
most fortunate thing that ever happened to
me in all my life. Now, wou are glad,
uncle, aren't you ?" and she came up to
me,
" With all Hope's torch lit in both her eyes."
and kissed me, and would have me speak,
" Yes, darling, I am glad—more glad
than 1 can find words to tell. Your late,
linked to such a man as this scoundrel,
would have been a living death. I am
heartily glad, Clara."
CHAPTER II. —THE OFFICER.
" This way, sir. The young persou is in
my house ; she gave her word not to at
tempt to leave ; the old gentleman is with
her."
This we heard through the door as the
station-master came along the passage.—
Our friend, Mr. Blake, had arrived some
time before.
The station-master entered, and behind
him a tall broad-shouldered man,with bushy
beard and moustaches concealing all the
lower part of his face.
" Will you have a light, sir?" said the
station-master to the officer.
" Thank you, no."
Clara started at the sound of the voice,
and laid her hand on mine.
" Now, my good man," began Mr. Blake,
" perhaps you'll explain this matter. You
telegraphed down from London to stop this
lady, and here she is. Now, if you please,
explain."
" This gentleman," I said to the officer,
"is my niece's legal adviser, I assume it
as a mistake ; still, we shall be glad of
your explanation. You are a detective," I
presume ?"
REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER.
" No, sir, I am not ; my name is—"
" Herbert ! Herbert ! my dear Herbert !
it is you !"
Clara had gone to him, and he had clasp
ed her in his strong arms, while her face
was hidden in his great beard.
"My own! my darling! my own dar
ling ! —she loves me still !"
But why describe their meeting ! Mr.
Blake said to me at once.
"My dear sir, 1 am not wanted here,
and 1 doubt if you are," and we left
them.
In half an hour we thought it probable
we might be less in the way, and we went
in. They sat on the sofa at a most suspi
ciously great distance from each other,
and looked as happy and foolish as possi
ble.
" And now, my dear Herbert, please to
explain to us what has taken you at least
half an hour to make clear to my niece "
" Well, my dear uncle—l may call you
' uncle.'"
" Oh. yes ; a month sooner is not much
consequence."
" Don't, uncle," said Clara.
" You know how I went away, with just
enough to pay for tools, and outfit and pas
sage. I went to California, to the dig
gings, and was lucky, got a good claim,
worked it, made a little money, took shares ,
iu a machine, worked the claim, improved j
the machinery, became manager director, !
and got rich ; started six months ago to j
come home for Clara, took the fever at Pan-1
ama, was down for two months there, not
able to move hand or foot, and arrived only :
last night in Liverpool. There I met an
old friend, and heard all the news ; poor !
Webster's death, the promise, and the rest, ;
arid above all, that to-morrow was the day. j
1 started by the first train to get to London, ;
thinking the marriage would take place,
and that I should be in time. Looking out j
of the window of the coach as the trains were i
passing each other at l'etersborough, I saw j
Clara with her mother ; I did not see you ;
I was mad ; the trains had started ; I
could not get on. There was Clara going !
from me, and 1 from her, as fast as express j
trains could go. What could Ido ? I knew
noth'ng of where she was going and yet
my information was positive that she was ;
going to be married to-morrow, solely be
cause she would keep her promise.
"Can you wonder at my doing as I did ?
The train did not stop till it reached Lon
don, and I found that by the time I had j
hunted up the address to which you had .
gone from the servants at home ; I should ;
have lost the last train, and not been able '
to get here till long past midnight. YY'hat !
to do I could not think.
" In the carriage in which I sat somebody '
had been talking about the murderer, Taw-;
ell, and the telegraph, the police on the j
doorstep, and so on. It all flashed on my j
mind in an instant.
" 1 went to the telegraph-office, and look- ]
ing in, there was only a young lad there.— I
I went in and called him.
" Can you telegraph to York for me."
" Certainly, sir.'
"I wrote the telegram you saw.
" Yen must sign this, sir."
" No I must not, young man,' and 1 drew
him towards me by the shoulder. 'My
name's Field, Inspector Field ; you under- j
stand ?'
"Oh ! certainly, air. Did you catch that j
man the other day? 1 heard of it from one !
of our clerks.'
" Oli, yes, caught him safe and sound ; \
he's in Newgate now.'
" Indeed, sir,' said the lad.
" You'll send that at once ; the train's j
due in less than an hour. I'll see you do ;
it.'
" He did send it, and as I heard the click,
it was like the throb of a new heart the
click, click, click, it was like the throb of a
new heart circulation fiery blood in arteries,
for 1 knew it would enable me to see you, :
Clara, dear, and then 1 came down, as you
see, by this train, and feel disposed to em-!
brace all the telegraph clerks in the king
dom."
" Well,young man,it's a dangerous game. !
1 suppose you're aware it is an offense
not lightly punished to pretend you're an
officer of police," said Mr. Blake.
" My dear Mr. Blake, if it was death on
the instant of discovery, and 1 was in the
same strait,l should do the same thing over
again."
" You must find a prosecutor, Mr. Blake,"
said Clara, " and as 1, the principal person
concerned, am not going to prosecute the
officer, 1 think he will escape."
" But why," said I, " did you not tele
graph to Clara direct ?"
" Because I feared that Mrs. Webster
might possibly have prevented our meet
ting."
Mr. Blake lett us with his eyes twinkling,
and muttered something to me about "ser*
vitude for life."
A month after this I had the pleasure of
giving away to Herbert, and in two months
more I had the pleasure of reading in the
Timet the announcement of the marriage of
Mrs. Webster to Francis Tredgar, Esq., of
Tredgar Hall, to which ceremony 1 need
scarcely say I was not invited.
Clara and Herbert and 1 live together,
and to this day he is spoken of among his
intimates as Herbert Langley, "that active
and antelligent officer,"
THE CHANGES OF LlFE. —There are many
griefs in this world, but many good and
pleasant things also. We might be happy
if we would ; but we are too selfish as if
the world was made for us alone. How
much happier should we be, were we to
labor more earnestly to promote each
other's happiness. God has blest us with
a bouse which is not dark. There is sun
shine everywhere—in the sky, upon the
earth there would be in most hearts if we
would look around us. The storms die
away, and the bright sun shines out. Sum
mer drops her tinted curtain upon the
earth, which is very beautiful, even when
autumn breathes her changing breath upon
it. God reigns in Heaven. Murmur not at
a creation so beautiful, who can live hap
pier than we ?
SINGULAR. —It is said that the rose of
Florida, the most beautiful of flowers,emits
no fragrance ; the bird of Paradise, the
most beautiful of birds, gives no songs ;
the cypress of Greece, the finest of trees,
yields no fruit; dandies,the shiniest of men,
have no sense ; and ball-room belles, the
prettiest of creatures in the world,are very
often ditto—only more so !
THE ASIATIC CHOLERA.
What is is and how to manage it.
BY AN EXPERIENCED PHYSICIAN.
I—THE DIAGNOSIS.
The lirst two stages ol cholera consist of,
lirst, diarrhoea ; secondly, of a species of
vomiting, wherein the patient does not gen
erally experience nausea, but simply throws
off fluid from the stomach, as in the emetic
operations which accompany dyspepsia or
indigestion ; then commence the cramps,
which, in some cases are not very severe,
in others frightful and most agonizing;
this stage almost immediately succeeds the
evacuations of what has been aptly termed
" rice water," from its similitude to that
substance ; and indicates conclusively that
the natural fmces have been entirely dis
charged. This fluid is thrown off from the
multitude of minute blood-vessels situated
on the surface of the intestines, and con
sists of the serum, a fluid principle of the
blood. It is the discharge of this fluid,
from the commencement ol the diarrhoea,in
corporating with the ordinary contents of
the bowels, causes the fluid state of the
evacuations, which pass generally without
pain or much inconvenience, and therefore,
cause no alarm until the whole fluid por
tion id the blood is thus discharged ; su
perinducing the third stage <>f debility,
cramps, blue skin, loss of pulse,e dd sweats,
clenched lingers, cold tongue, and an inde
scribable coldness of the whole body. The
vomiting slill continues, with continued
evacuations, with violent cramps, difficult
breathing, and loss of the power of speech,
and a terrible loss of the substance around
the eyes, causing them to sink even deeper
than in those ola corpse ; and this in so
short a space as to be incredible by those
who may not have witnessed it.
All this is the r[f\ct of the diarrhoea,which
is so insidious as to give no concern to the
patient until the vomitings commence, and
wnicli produces, nevertheless, the loss of
all the circulating fluid of the blood-ves
sels, and those terrible results called "chol
era." In fact, the disease is not cholera
rnorbus, hut rather a diarroea of an insidi
ous and most extraordinary character ; and
had it originated in this country, or in Eu
rope, would no doubt have been so con
sidered and classified ; but the Asiatics,
(indifferent judges in such matters,) are so
wanting in reflection that they obserYe
only the sensible changes which appear to
wards the close ; and disregard the diar
rhoea, being so freejfrom pain,and not calcu
lated to excite alarm, but which is never
theless the real malady.
To illustrate more clearly my ideas on
this disease, 1 will state the effects pro
duced by the operation of bleeding with
the lancet, until faintness is produced ;
then indicate the similitude of this state
with the cholera ; and afterwards point out
tho difference iu the symptoms, and the
cause of that difference.
When the lancet is inserted in the arm
of a patient to effect a copious flow of
blood, he experiences no inconvenience un
til a considerable quantity has been taken
away ; and if he should be lying down, the
quantity may be quite large before any
constitutional effect manifests itself. In
surgical practice, when it is desirable to
produce faintness, the patient is bled stand
ing, and the effect is more rapid, caused by
the gravitation of the blood, which in an
erect posture, inclines downwards, leaving
the brain, heart and lungs without stimu
lus ; faintness is the immediate conse
quence ; but iu a recumbent position,these
organs maintain their action for a much
longer time, because the loss of a consider
able quantity is required before the vol
ume iif circulating fluid is sufficiently re
duced to cause a suspension of the funct-
ions of those vital orcans, and to produce
syncope or faiuting After some minutes,
the arteries contract upon the reduced mass
of blood, reestablishing the relation be
tween their capacity and their contents ;
trie circulation recommences, the patient
revives, and, maintaining a horizontal po
sition, is soon relieved But any one who
has been present at this phenomenon of
syncope, will have noted the cramps and
nausea which generally accompany it ; in
this case, the surface of the patient is very
pale ; while in cholera, it is equally re
markable lor the blue color of the whole
surface. The reason is obvious ; in the
evacuations of water by means of the co
pious sweats and the diarrhoea, all the col
oring matter of the blood remains behind,
and lor the want ot fluid, ceases to circu
late ; the arteries continuing to pulsate,
precipitate these particles into the minutest
vessels, and there deposit the oxygen they
may have acquired in passing through the
lungs, and absorb carbon, which imparts
the blue color to the skin ; and this change
of color is the only difference there is be
tween the last symptons of cholera and
those of excessive blood-letting.
II —THE REMEDY.
Let inc here say that these curative di
rections may be relied on. I have seen,
professionally, two or three hundred cases,
and many more in hospitals. In my own
practice I have not lost a single one.
Summarily, remember always, that this
disease is of the intestines solely, com
mencing with diarrhoea until two or three
evacuations per day, causing, generally, no
pains, and so slight as to cause no alarms.
This is strictly, and in itself, the disease ;
and in distinction from ordinary diarrhoea,
must be stopped, and this cannot be done
with too much promptness
Indeed, immediately that the epidemic
influence manifests itself in a community,
the inhabitants should adopt a stringent
diet, avoid all purgatives and every pur
gative aliment, living principally on rice in
its various modes of preparation, fresh
meats (that is, not salted,) roasted or
boiled, or beef or mutton. Boiled eggs,
chicken-broth or soup, very little salted,
and warm drinks, in place of cold ones.
Avoid as poisonous all acid fruits and veg
etables. Even potatoes have been dis
charged undigested after a lapse of twenty
hours, and that b}' a robust man, previous
ly of good health. Every kind of fermen
ted drink, as beer, ale, porter and cider, is
also very bad. In no case, during the pre
valence of the disease, should warm or fresh
bread be used, and none less than a day
old.
Should one feel attacks, by the diarrhoea
or dysentery, the most perfect quiet in bed
should be enjoined, with a light and nutri
tious diet, with warm drinks, with injec
tions oi laudanum, in one or two table-
per Annum, in Advance.
spoonfuls of warm water, a dose of lauda
num being a teaspoonful to a tablespoon
according to the force of the diarrhoea. If,
with this treatment, the diarrhoea is
checked, although the debility of the stom
ach continues, or, so to speak, the inclina
tion to vomit, it is of no consequence ; the
same thing occurs in taking blood from a
patient in the ordinary way. His nausea
is of no importance, neither his faintness
and prostration, provided the bleeding is
stopped, because, so soon as this is effec
ted, all these cease spontaneously. So, in
this disease, suppressing the discharge
from the blood-vessels of the intestinal ca
nal by opiate and astringent injections, the
patient is saved. At the same time, he |
might take ten or twelve drops of satura
ted tincture of camphor, as a restorative j
and anti spasmodic cordial, every hour, un
til it produces a copious perspiration. At
the same time, lie should be kept well cov
ered in bed, with hot bricks or bottles of
hot water at his feet.
An excellent preparation to stop the di
arrhoea is the chalk mixture, and is pre
pared of
i oz. of Prepared Chalk ;
A oz. of Tincture of Ciiio ;
1 oz. Elixir Parigoric ;
2 dr. Powder Gum Arabic ;
2 dr. Powder Sugar ;
3 oz. Peppermint Water.
In cases of violent diarrhoea, a wineglass
l'ul may be taken at once ; when not so vi
olent, a tablespoonful every two hours, or
oftener, il the evacuations continue.
Mustard-plasters on the bowels, when
there is much pain, are of excellent effect.
As soon as the patient feels himself re
lieved, he believes himself cured and able
to go about his usual occupations, and is
generally anxious to go out ; this, how
ever, is extremely hazardous ; and, that the
cure may be thorough aud complete, he
should be kept in bed and wholly quiet for,
at least, two or three days ; a relapse is
fatal.
1 should caution against the use of laud
anum by the mouth, in place of injection,
first, because its action is less prompt upon
the intestines, the seat of the disease ; aud,
secondly, il taken in to the stomach it ob
structs and oppresses its functions, con
fuses the brain, and renders respiration diff
icult, by injection, none of these evils are
perceptible
The chalk mixture, in many cases, is all
that is necessary, if administered early ;
but the opiate injections are invaluable,
and the camphor ought to be taken at the
same time.
It is necessary to inculcate the greatest
cleanliness of person and habitation ; qui
etude of mind ; to avoid fruits and vege
tables ; not to use strong or fermented
liquors, or to eat, except very lightly; thus
an attack will be avoided, and when not
so, it will be rendered less dangerous.
PAPER-A NEW ERA IN ITS MANUFAC
TURE,
The manufacture of paper lias long been
involved in great difficulties. These have
grown chietly out of the nature of the ma
terial of which it has been made—the best
paper being almost exclusively made from
rags. The supph- of these, though the im
mense demand for them has systematized
it to a great extent, has always been liable
to harassing and injurious contingencies,
resulting mostly in the foreign markets.
Within the last few months, too, we have
had an instance of an oft-recurring danger
in the possible introduction of the infection
from the Russian plague or cholera. It
may he that our fears have greatly magni
fied this dtyiger, but it ha- seriously affec
ted us in times past, and is likely to again,
as large quantities of the rags come from
the infected cities, aud they are peculiarly
calculated to couvey the infection. They
come from the houses of lower classes; they
have been amassed in foreign cities in the
quarters where disease is most likely to
rage ; and they are, in their nature, firmly
retentive of such matter.
Then, too, often, as in the late war, for
eign exchange was very rnnch deranged,
duties on foreign imports were necessarily !
large, and the paper-makers, or rather the
paper-consumers, sutler from that source.
The only remedy for these evils lies in
the discovery of a raw material—native,
or produced near home—abundant, sure,
and a natural product, incapable of con
veying or developing disease. For this
purpose the suggestions have been almost
innumerable ; the faculty of invention,
under the pressure of the almost infinite
advantages to be gained, and of the very
imperative need which is so widely felt,
has shot out in every direction in zealous
search of the much-wished-for material.
Straw has been largely used, and for many
purposes has answered admirably, but for
newspapers it is of an unpleasant surface,
brittle texture, and involves difficulty in
working. Corn-husks have been used to
some advantage. Basswood has been quite
extensively employed, but with less satis
factory results. Hundreds of other substan
ces have been tried and found wanting, or
yet lie in the realm of suggestion awaiting
the capital and the courage to test them
At this juncture we find the problem in
the process of solution at our own doors,
under the auspices of a company embrac
ing some of our best known citizens, and
in a factorj- situated at the further extrem
ity of the town. On Red Hook, at the foot
of Dikeman street, fronting on the river,
stands the factory of the Fibre Disintegrat
ing Company. The various buildings of
which the factory is composed cover, with
their adjacent ground, thirty-two regular
city lots. The main building is of brick,
with gable-roof, and looks, as you drive
toward it from Van Brunt street, like some
spacious Dutch dwelling which has served
its purpose and fallen into the hands of the
"terrible children" of Modern Improvement.
If our readers will accompany us we will
give them our impressions—entirely unsci
entific —of the very interesting process by
which this Company is giving daily practi
cal answer to the question, "How" can we
become independant of foreign rags ?"
The material employed ia this factory is
bamboo from Jamaica. This is imported in
large loose bales, the wood cut into fagots
of some three and a half to four feet in
length, and split in halves, thirds, and
quarters. The wood in this condition is
dry and hard, with the* fragments of the
unfibrous partitions, which in the tree oc
cur at every foot or so, clinging to it.—
Owing to the time which has elapsed since
cutting, the cells of the bamboo have be
come partly filled with hardened gum,
which with the silica is foreign matter,
interfering with the use of the fibre for
paper.
The cane is first soaked in salt water
made lukewarm by the warm water con
densed from the steam which is used in a
subsequent process. It is then taken out
and thrown in small bundles before the
great "guns." These, in this factory, are
five in number. They consist of cylindri
cal pipes bent double, the lower arm for
ming the gun. These lie horizontal, and
are twenty-four feet in length, four of them
being twelve inches in diameter and one of
them fifteen. Before their muzzles is a
large high room, bare of contents, with its
windows covered with wire screening. The
bamboo is crammed into the guns; sham
is let on to a pressure of one hundred and
eighty pounds to the square inch, so that
it is really a gas, and where it jets from
the crevices of the faucets shows a brill
iant blue.
NUMBER 17.
After the bamboo has been in the guns
for about twenty minutes the engineer
carefully opens a valve in each gun and
allows the water which has condensed
from the steam to flow back into the vat
where the wood is first soaked. He then
sounds a shrill, fierce whistle of a couple
of seconds' duration to warn the laborers
fifty feet distant at the other end of the
room, gives a quick, sharp pull to the
mammoth trigger, and instantaneously a
deafening explosion startles the unaccus
tomed ear, and the air beyond the muzzle
of the gun is filled with a dark brown cloud,
through which fragments of greater or less
size fiy in bewildering confusion. One
after another the five guns are discharged,
each with the same prolonged, thunderous
burst of sound, and each adding to the
mass of dusty matter in the air. Follow
ing our courteous guide around the build
ing on the outside (for no one is allowed
to cross the path of the discharge, even
when the guns are not loaded,) we find at
the other end of the room a pile of torn
fibrous stuff, looking very much like very
coarse and dark brown tow, but mingled
with a gummy substance.
The fibre in this form, cut up by a ma
chine resembling a "straw-cutter," is then
carried to the next floor by means of a
simple elevator, and then put through the
process of "breaking down " It is thrown
into a tank capable of containing - some
10,U00 gallons, and there is turned in upon
it a "spent liquor" or weak alkaline solu
tion used in the next process. When re
moved from this tank it is passed into two
immense boilers, the alkaline solution re
ferred to is let in upon it, and it is boiled
for several hours under a pressure of sixty
pounds.
From the bottom of these boilers it is
again shot horizontally into an immense
receiving tank of some ten tons capacity,
whence it is passed into a horizontal cylin
der revolving in water, and thoroughly
washed. From this bath it comes forth
clear of the gum, and is of a paler blown
color, and in consistency a fibrous pulp,
thoroughly clean and disintegrated, but un
inviting to the non-professional eye. It is
next put into presses and comes out in the
form of gigantic circular cakes, like cheeses
in shape, when it is either sent to the paper
mills or put through the milling process in
the factory. Beyond this point we do not
see that the process differs from that em
ployed on other pulp. It stands now a
firm, soft, strong material, ready, by the
varied manipulations of the manufacture,
to be converted into hardware paper, blott
ing paper, wrapping paper, boards for
binding or box making, or any of the other
numerous forms which paper pulp assumes.
The surface of good "news" paper made
from it is of a satin-like softness and deli
cacy, takes an impression clearly, fully,
and with great accuracy, is extremely pleas
ant to handle, and is far more durable than
that made of rags.
The Red Hook or Brooklyn Factory is
doing a large business, and preparing to
do a larger one. A new engine is in pro
cess of erection, and when completed the
establishment will turn out twelve tons
daily. Some idea of the extent of its work
now may be gathered from the fact that
its reservoir for salt water, drawn from the
bay, is of a capacity of thirty tons, and
that there is used an average of 500,000
gallons every twenty-four hours.
The patent for this "blowing" process
was, we believe-, granted to Mr. A. S. Ly
man, of Massachusetts, several years since,
but the "Disintegrating Company" own the
patent for the United States. They pro
pose to erect a lorge factory at Carondelet,
opposite St. Louis, Mo., and already have
nearly completed the arrangements for it.
They have had in operation at Elizabeth
port for some time a large factory, now in
temporary suspension, to be refitted and
started with twenty great guns. The last
named two factories will use sugar-cane, it
being a peculiarity of the process that its
operation extends with apparently equal
effectiveness to all fibrous material of the
kind alluded to, and we are not sure but
to all of any kind. The cane will be less
expensive in the first place, and less expen
sive in its manufacture, since the greener
from hardened gum the material is, the
more simple, rapid, and complete is the
disintegration. The conditions of economy
are complete at Carondelet, where the raw
material grows at the doors of the factory,
and Ilenry C. Carey's idea of a complete
commercial correspondence and equilibrium
is first realized in a formerly slave State.
Perfect as this process seems, it of course
met with obstacles. These, with patience,
intelligence, aud skill, have been and are
being steadily overcome, and a still higher
development is sure to be speedily attained,
though we are not now at liberty to indi
cate the means by which the attainment
will be accomplished.— Brooklyn Union.
A DOCTOR advertises in a country paper,
that 'whosoever uses the Vegetable Univer
sal Anti Purging Aromatic Pills once, will
not have cause to use them again.' We
rather think they won't.
A COTEMDORARY, noticing a postmaster
says ; "If he attends to the mails as he
does to the females, lie will make a very
attentive and efficient officer.'
PARODOXICAL though it may seem we have
known persons to become very limber from
the effects of taking a stiff glass of brandy.
SOME husbands are driven to take a smile
at a tavern because they get no smiles at
home.
No one ought to enjoy what is too good
for him ; he ought to make himself worthy
of it, and rise to its level.
IT is a dangerous thing to treat with
temptation, that which ought at first to bo
rejected with disdain and abhorrence.
WHEN a wealthy friend promises to leave
you a house and lot, it is not always best
to take the will for the deed.
WE may do a very good action and not
be a good man, but we cannot do a very ill
one and not be an ill man.
WHY is necessity like a great many law
yers ? Because it knows no law.