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For the Bradford Reporter.
A VOICE FROM HEAVEN.
I shine in the light of God,
His liken -ss stamps my brow,
Tliroue 1 ' 1' - shadow of death myfeethave trod,
And I reign in glory now.
X'o breaking heart is here,
X' - keen and thrilling pain,
\"o wasted cheek where the frequent tear,
liath rolled and left its stain.
Xo sin. no grief, no pain,
Safe in my happy home,
Mv bars all fled, my doubts all slain,
Mv hour of triumph come.
Oh. friends of my mortal years,
The trusted, and .he true,
VuU aie walking still in the vale of tears,
liut I wait to welcome you.
Do I forget! Oh, no !
Nor memory's golden chain,
Shall bind my lieart to tlie hearts below,
Till they meet and touch again.
Each link is strong and bright,
And love's electric flame.
Flows fivelv down the river of light,
To tlie world from whence I come.
1 have found the joy of heaven,
am one of an angel band,
To my head a crown is given,
A harp is in my hand.
Then why should your tears roll down,
And your hearts he sorely riven,
For anothi r gem's iu the Saviour's crown,
And another soul in heaven. A. P.
ptoliattflMiS.
ACONITE.
There arc not, 1 fancy, many scenes ;
... -re animated than the view commanded ;
y the elevated recreation-ground adjoin-'
ing Plymouth called the Hoe, on a line !
sunnier i veiling. Looking inland, the sub- i
'.ii'h.ii. -enures and villas stretch far away
till tl.ry Income lost or dotted among the'
• hint foliage so pleasantly relieved by ;
blue hills of Devon. Turn seawards,
. 1 the picture is a bright and glorious
■-De. Immediately below us, and, as it
under our very feet, lies the Sound, '
tii as an inland lake and glittering as j
■i .-i.eet of glass ; not a movement on the
roc, except the almost imperceptible!
: pie following the Hip of the oar, or the j
tying brightness which marks the track j
-I the sailing boat.
Studded with vessels of all sizes, from a
::t.m of-war lying at anchor to a fishing
lit, not a sound is heard except the sub
!• 1 and melodious cry of the sailors as
•hey toil at the capstan ; the expanse of
i is broken only by Drake Island, and
..•■long break-water with which its refuge
tiid lighthouse, is abruptly but delightfully
crminated ;by the refreshing green and j
leep, ricfi shadows of the woody part of j
ho Mount Edgecumbe, where the syca
mores and chestnuts bend over the water J
•dge ; and then, with every graduation of j
...Rural color, the landscape molts away in-j
■ the faint blue of far-off Cornwall.
It was on an evening like this, after the '
dors of the day, that I strolled across the
he Hoc, and so down to the water side to
uramon one of the watermen, always in
> u'hness, for an hour's sail. Seated com
brtahly and indolently in the stern, we
■ ek< <! our way among the vessels in the i
- uml, and passing by the island I have j
iK-iiti .ned, with its batteries, and stccr
ng west of the breakwater, made for a
-taut point 011 the Cornwall side, which is j
ho v.st break in the sea view from the !
To. Opposite this end of the breakwa
• , and where stands the lighthouse, the
onl makes a sudden bend, and with a bold j
urve terminates in the headland I have
: 'ist indicated.
hi the midst of this bay, and concealed
it tirsi view by the woods and hills of the
■ tit Edgecombe estate, lies the little vil
' f Oavvsand, a place that in the balmy
ys of smuggling bore no very good rc
tv. Whilst staying at Plymouth, I had
n heard of hut had never before seen it,
y i determined to land at the point, dis-
: "ii'ge the boat, and walk quietly home,
v Cawsand in my way, a distance of
'.< nor eight miles.
\ more delightful half hour's walk by
side of the hill, with wood and flowers
" each side and stretching down to the
-'■uigly beach, it is impossible to conceive,
■ the sweet and balmy air of this Dev
—!'ire summer, combined with an almost
- uthern climate the varied and pictures
i"e scenery of home. I had seated my
- ! on a stonewall before descending the
' l :; which led to the village, and was con
"-nplatinir lazily the calm and peaceful
t that lay before me, with the singular
: narrow streets, and quaint, old-fashioned
■'Wcelings, where you might literally shake
"atids with a friend across the way from the
; T windows. Influenced, perhaps, by the
! m and stillness around, 1 was tailing iu
) 11 sentimental train of thought, and won
;||g how crime and violence could find
1 way into a placid nook like this,
: 11 I was roused, with close to my ear,
A fine evening this, sir !"
' speaker was an elderly man, appar
; "b. v about sixty years of age with all
figns of a sea faring life about him, the
; 1 nz' d face, gray hair and good-humored
- 'I. common to his order. By no means
■ qmsed to converse, I accepted his re
■■■■"* us an invitation, and we were soon
viged in an annimated chat. He had
"" ut one period of his life, 1 learned, a
. ust-guardsman, and had some good sto
alout the smugglers and his encount-
E. O. GOODRICH, Publisher.
VOLUME XXVI.
ers with them, and his recollections dating
back to near half a century, we at last
came to talk of the doings of the press
gang.
" Do you remember then ?" I asked.
" Oh, easy enough, he replied, " though
I was but a youngster at the time ; but
then, with what I've actually seen or heard
say by others, I seem to know as much as
if I had been ' pressed ' myself."
" Then you were never pressed ?" I ask
ed.
" Never myself; perhaps I was too
young, otherwise I don't know how it was
I kept clear of them. In places near sea
port towns espeecially, it was nothing at
one time to have the gang come down and
carry off all the likely young fellows they
could find. Why, bless you, master," he
continued, " it was a common thing for one
of them to come all by himself, and per
haps in another kind of dress, so as you
mightn't suspect him, and, going about
among the taverns and shops, get to know
where the sort of men were to be found,
and then, returning with the rest of the
gang, carry them off aboard ship, without
a by-your-leave or a good-bye to your
friends or family."
" But they never ventured into private
houses !" I exclaimed, bearing in mind the
national boast of an Englishman's castle.
" Well," replied my companion, " I don't
go so far as to say they would go to burst
a door in ; but if they found it open, why,
in they went ; and many a scrimmage took
place in those days, and many a nasty
knock put nails into coffins as constables
or crowners never heard of. I knew to one
case," he continued, with the accent and
phraseology of Devonshire, "when a young
fellow—ay, and as likely a one as ever
drawed breath—was took away the very
night before he was married, and in sight
of his sweetheart and his friends too ! It
was a strange matter, that was, altogeth
er," he added almost to himself.
" Pray tell it," said I becoming interest
ed.
" It's a long story, master, and it's diy
work talking," he replied, with a signifi
cant twinkle in his eye, though his face
maintained its gravity.
" So it is," said I, " and the warm weath
er has made me thirsty ; suppose we step
in here and lay the dust, then, perhaps,
you'll favor me with it."
My new acquaintance requiring no fur
ther invitation, 1 led the way to a little
tavern I had noticed standing apart from
the village, and there, seated in the cool
parlor overlooking the bay, supplied with
rum and a pipe of tobacco, while I confined
myself to a remarkably unpleasant com
pound which the sign-post proclaimed as
' home brewed,' after preliminary draws
and puffs, he commenced his story.
' You see, mate,' he said, becoming more
familiar in his convivality, ' this isn't alto
gether a story of the press-gang, as you'll
find before I've done, and it made a good
deal of talk at the time as 1 remember,
though I was only a lad ; but you see the
crowner's quest set all things right, and
after that it was no use asking further
questions. It must now be nigh fifty
years ago—fifty years,' he repeated, half
closing iiis eyes, and pausing, as his mind
traveled over the space which had brought
so many and great changes even to that
quiet little village —' that an old sea-faring
man they called Captain Meredith lived—at
least, that is to say, lodged—in the house
of a widow named Penhyrn. You might
sec the spot from the brow of the hill, for
the luiuse itself has been pulled down since
then. Well, he might have been a captain
or not, 1 don't pretend to say, it is certain
lie bad a bit of money put by, and lived
comfortably enough. Some said he had
been in the smuggling trade, and made
money that way. However, it don't much
matter ; he was well respected, and
though he had no wife living, lie had a
daughter, as was called Ellen, and the pret
tiest lass in Cawsand and for miles around.
Well, now, this old widow had a sou nam
ed Paul, and strange article he was ! 1
remember him, a little bandy-legged chap
with red hair, and the people used to call
him ' Doctor.'
" Was he a surgeon, then ?" I interrup
ted.
" I'm going to tell you. He had been
'preuticed to a chemist in Devonport (we
used to call it ' Dock 'in those days,) and
after his time was out, he had been stop
ping with his mother to take care of her,
or perhaps because he couldn't find a situ
ation readily for himself. The old widow
had put something by, 1 suppose, and
Paul had been at home about a year, when
the captain came to lodge there with his
daughter. This Paul's room was at the
top of the house, where his light would be
seen burning at a time of night when all
honest folks were in bed and asleep.—
Sometimes he would be met in the morn
ing returning with his arms full of weeds
and plants, which he used to take up stairs
to the ' doctor's shop,' as they called it."
" Ah ! a botanist ?" I remarked.
" 1 don't know about that," replied my j
friend, slightly puzzled, " but the people
said he made pizen out of them. Any way
once when Paul was passing by the black
smith's, the dog ran out and bit him, and
the next day Paul was seen to give him a
piece of bread and the dog was dead with
in an hour. The neighbors blamed him
for it, and I recollect, when a youngster,
calling after him, 'There goes I)r. Night
shade !' and his stopping and saying,"' If I
had to doctor you, rny lad, you wouldn't
shout so loud.' Well, very shortly after
Ellen and her father had been lodging at 1
the widow's house, it was clear to see that j
Paul wished to court her ; whenever she j
went, sure enough, Paul wasn't far behind, I
and things went on this way for about six j
months, when, one dark and wintry night, I
wind blowing great guns, and the sea run
ning high, we saw signals of distress from
some vessel oil' the point there. There |
was 110 life boat in the place, and our small
craft couldn't have lived an hour in such
weather. In the morning we saw no signs
of the vessel, and we had supposed she
had gone down, and all aboard lost ; how
ever, we heard in the day, that one of the
poor fellows had escaped, and, though cut
and bruised, had contrived to crawl up the
point there, where he had been found by
Captain Meredith, who brought him home
to his own lodging and nursed him. He
was a fine young fellow, an orphan, as he
said, by name William Randall ; and had
been working his way to Liverpool in hopes
to obtain employment. The clergyman of
TO WANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., SEPTEMBER 28, 18G5.
the place—you may see the church on the
right as you go towards Edcumbe Ferry
heard of this, and becoming a good deal
interested in the young man, offered him a
place as gardener or general servant or
other. Ilill was a handy chap, and soon
made friends with people, and they persua
ded 1 iim to stop here instead of going to
Liverpool, as lie intended, lie didn't want
much pressing, for any one could see that
there was a girl in the case, and that girl
was Helen Meredith, and it didn't want
mre than two eyes to see that she liked
him. The folks used to jeer Paul about
Ins nose being out of joint, and Tom Trc
vellian the blacksmith, as owed him a
grudge for the dog, used to say, ' Well,
Doctor, how's your nose this time V But
they say the doctor only used to turn white
and rub his hands ; it was away he had,
and he did the same when he gave the dog
the bread. Well, things prospered so well
with young Randall, that at last he made
up his mind to ask the captain for his con
sent ; and as the old fellow was a jolly, ea
sy going customer, and liked Bill very
much besides, it wasn't long before he gave
it. Just about this time, the folks in the
village were frightened by the report that
the press-gang were out; that they had
been as far as Plympton, four or five miles
from the town there, and hud pressed one
or two men. The captain and Ellen want
ed to put the marriage off, but Bill wouldn't
hear of it, and, strange to say, Paul, as
was his worst rival, as you may say sided
with him. Well, on the very day after the
wedding, a strange man as hadn't been
seen in the village afore, called at the
house to speak to Paul, and a neighbor as
happened to be present at the time,
sa d afterwards, that she had seen
them talking together on the road to
Plymouth. Now, mind me, iu the evening,
and just as they were sitting down to sup
per and drinking healths, Paul who was
late, ran into the room, leaving the door
open behind him, and iutreated William to
look to himself, as the press-gang were al
ready in the village ; and afore poor Bill
could get away, the press-gang were inside
and had seized him, and in spite of his
struggles and Ellen's cries, and Paul's en
treaties, carried him to the beach, where a
boat lay ready, and took him away."
" Is that all ?" I asked.
" Not exactly mute," said my friend, fin
ishing the mm, " the strangest part has to
come."
So, replenishing his glass and refilling
his pipe, he continued :
" Well, every one of course was very
much cast down at this, but poor Ellen par
ticularly ; however, for many months she
kept a brave heart, always telling the cap
tain she knew William would return, and
they should be happy yet ; and d'ye see,
no one liked to tell the poor thing different,
although but very few thought they'd see
him again. At any rate, it was clear Dr.
Paul didn't, for after awhile he began to
pay his addresses to her, and this time more
in earnest than before ; but it was no use.
Ellen would have nothing to say to him at
all.
" Now, about two years after they had
pressed poor Will, when it was getting on
towards winter time, —there had been a
good deal of dirty weather about, and sev
er vessels had been lost on the coast, there
was a report that several crews had been
paid off, and then Ellen made up her mind
more than ever that Willian would return,
when one day a neighbor comes in and
says he heard that a vessel like the Spitfire
—that was the one William out in—had
gone down off the Sicllys, and it was
feared that all hands had perished ; he had
it, he said, from a party who was told so
by Paul, who had learnt it when he went
over to Devonport the day before on some
business. This was bad news for the poor
lass, but I believe she still hoped and pray
ed for her sailor sweetheart, and all along
kept or. telling the captain that he would
live to see her and Will Randall bride and
bridegrom yet ; but about a fortnight after
this Paul comes in, in a great taking, and
shows the captain a bottle, which had been
picked up on the Cornish coast, no doubt
having drifted in ; and on it was a paper
saying the Spitfire couldn't live the night
through, and praying that whoever found
the bottle would, for heaven's sake, send it
on to Captain Meredith, of Cawsand, with
the last prayers of poor Will."
' This was dated back, and was about
square with the day when the Spitfire was
said to have gone down ; and so now there
seemed no hope at all, and so poor Ellen
seemed to think at last, for she got paler
and weaker every day, and moved about
like one who had nothing to live for. To
make matters worse,the captain had got into
debt, and difficulties got bigger and bigger.
Well, one day, all 011 a sudden, the doctor
goes to him and offers to marry Ellen out of
hand, promising to discharge all the cap
tain's obligations, and stating his long and
strong attachment had induced him to make
the proposal. The captain, as you may be
lieve, didn't much fancy Paul for a son-in
law, but a last he relented, and, pressed by
his debts and his troubles, urging Ellen to
accept him. The poor lass refused tor a
long time ; but when she found her fath
er's welfare and liberty depended on it, and
besides had lost alljj hope of ever seeing
William again, at last she consented.'
'But you don't mean to say that they
were married at last V I interrupted.
'ln two or three months they were, and
a pretty couple they must have made ; she
with her tall figure and pale fate, and he
with his red head and bow legs shambling
along by her side. They were married at
Millbrook Church (on the hill, sir),and Will
Randall's old master read the service. They
said Ellen didn't cry or faint, or have any
nonsense of that kind, but went through her
share quietly and camly enough, while the
doctor seemed all abroad. Now, it seems
this very evening, just about dusk, when the
captain had gone out to smoke his pipe,
that Paul, who had gone up stairs, heard a
terribly loud scream and rushing back into
the room where he had left Ellen, finds her
fainting dead away on the floor, and Will
iam Randall himself kneeling by her side.
' William used to say afterwa ds, that
he could not forget Paul's face when they
' saw one another for the first time ; he used
!to dream of it, he said, and he had many
and many a time seen the faces of strong
I men who had been struck down in the heat
j and passion of battle, or who had died vio
j lent deaths in various ways ; but Paul's
j face he, said, reminded him'of a picture he
I had once seen, when quite a little lad, of
REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER.
the Devil, which he had forgotten till their
eyes met that night. When Paul had re
covered his surprise he said not a word
about the marriage ; but when William
said he had just left Plymouth and hadn't
seen a soul in the village yet, he suddenly
seemed delighted at meeting him again,and
insisted on their drinking together. He led
Ellen into another room, where, he told
Will, his mother would attend to her, and
shortly after returned with two glasses of
stiff grog, which he put on the table be
tween them. ' Now, Will, old mate,' says
lie, ' we'll drink to your return home,' he
says. But what about Nelly, my poor girl?'
says Y\ ill. ' Never mind her,' says Paul,
'mother will soon bring her round, and
meanwhile let's drink the grog ; but first
ot all let's simt the door and be snug. So
Paul shut the door, and coming back lo the
table, says, ' Now, Bill,' he says ' here's
your jolly good health and on heeltaps!'
and they both emptied their glasses.—
' William,' says Paul, after a while, ' how
do you feel ?' ' Quite well, Paul, my hear
ty thankye,' says Will. 'Do you,' says
Paul, grinning, ' then you won't for long,
William Randall,' says be, getting white
and trembling ; ' we've a long account, to
settle, and now it's done.' ' What d'ye
mean V asks Will in surprise, as you may
be sure. ' I've never injured you !' ' Yes
you have !' says Paul. ' Didn't you step in
between me and the girl 1 had set my heart
on ? Didn't the neighbors jeer and mock me
and drive me almost nuid V
' And didn't I swear to be even with you,
come what might ? And I am ! I am !
When you were pressed,' getting worse and
worse, ' I put the gang upon you ! I
brought the account that made them think
you were dead? and now that you have
returned alive, you find tin- woman you
loved the wife of the man you despised !'
' It's a shameful lie,' cries Will and 1 shan't
believe it.' ' Its true,' says Paul, ' for we
were married this morning ; but true or
false it's all the same to you, for I tell you,
Will Randall,' and paul turns very pale,
and rubs bis hands, 'yon are poisoned. You
drank the brandy and in an hours time you
are a dead man.' ' Paul Penbyrn,' says
Will, speaking calm and low, you've play
ed a deep game, but you've made one mis
take : 1 heard of your trick with the press
gang, and I knew you to be a rival of mine,
and you've owned to other treachery. But
when a man 1 knew hated me, and looked
as you did when we met just now, sudden
ly became my friend and asked me to drink,
1 grew suspicious, and while you closed
the door, I changed the glasses.'
' When Ellen heard the fearful cry that
Paul gave, she ran in, pale and weak as
as she was, and found him all twisted to
gether like with rage or pain, and foaming
at the mouth from the poison he had swal
lowed.'
' Aconite V I asked.
' 1 don't know rightly what it was called,'
said the Coast guardsman, ' but it was very
strong, for Paul, they say, died within the
hour, and before the two lie had tried to
keep asunder.'
' A strange tale,' I said, rising to go.—
' It's as good as a play.'
' It's better than most of 'em,' said he,
knocking the ashes out of his pipe, ' for this
is true. Good night, sir."
Ax OLII MAID'S REFLECTIONS. — Well, here
I am in the chimney corner, darning stock
ings ! Pleasant occupation for my birth
day, truly ! Twenty-nine years ago since
1 came into the would. But it won't do to
let that be known ; I told Miss Snap to-day
that I was twenty-three—l did not tell her
how much older 1 was ! She said indeed !
in a very emphatic tone, as if she didn't be
lieve it ; aud then the wretch had the im
pudence to tell me that I hud six months
the advantage of her. She's thirty if she's
a day ! It's strange how some people will
lie ! If I had lost my front teeth and was
obliged to wear false curls, 1 wouldn't try
to pass mysell off for twenty-two.
I wonder whether 1 was always cat out
for an old maid ! Not but I'd rather Lean
old maid ten times over than marry some
folks. There's Sally Snap ! I verily be
lieve she'd give up all chance of a seat in
the Kingdom of Heaven, if she could only
get an offer from John Smith, the wood
sa\vyer, and he glad of the chance ! It's
strange what some people would be willing
to do for the sake of a husband ! For my
part, I wouldn't take John Smith if he'd
go down on his knees before me,and threat
en to shoot himself if I didn't.
Heigh ho ! It's rather dismal sitting
here alone in the evening, with nothing but
a cat to keep you company. To be sure
it's better than to have your life worried
out by a parcel of children, with a brute of
a husband, that will stonn like a house on
lire, if a button happen to be off his shirt
and you don't sew it on directly. Heaven
preserve me from such a fate !
Hark, there's the bell ! Goodness gra
cious ! i( it is'nt John Smith himself, and
I've got my morning dress on, and my
hair isn't combed. I wonder what he wants!
What if he has come to make me an offer !
I think, on the whole, if he should, that I
would take compassion on him—just to
spite Miss Snap. Wouldn't she feel like
tearing my eyes out—that's all.
AMONG the patients which Doctor S
had atoiie time, was one to whom he had
recommended a diet of chicken. While he
was still under the doctor's care, it chanc
ed that he with Dr. S and a number of
other friends, was invited to a gentleman's
dinner party, given by a mutual acquain
tance. The principal dish was fowls, and '
as the patient sat on the right of the host,
the plate was passed to him first. The man
helped himself freely—more so than polite
ness allowed—not only to the annoyance
of the host, but of Dr. S also, who hap
pened to sit at the farther end of the table,
and who began to think that his chance
was slim. Gassing for a moment at the
contents of the patient's plate, the blunt
man asked, in a tone of half rebuke, half
ridicule.
" Hallo, Jones, what are you doing ?"
" Why, Doctor, you told me I must cat
chicken," the patient replied.
" Yes, I know I did ; but I didn't tell you
to make a hen-coop of yourself retorted
the man of physic : amid the roars of the
entire table. *
WHY is a man who has just carried his
carpet bag on shore from a steamboat like
the owner of the scil? Because he is poss
essed of landed property.
GRIEF IS SHOUT, JOY IS LONG.
" Hast thou cast us of!' forever ?" —Pkullu lxxiv.
When the tide of bliss is highest,
When we closest clasp the toy,
Then the heart feels grief is nigliest,
Trembles, looking on in joy ;
Singing softly, sighing sadly,
"Joy was never made to last,
Soon the sky shall be o'ercast,
And the voices ringing gladly,
And the pulses leaping madly,
To death's stillness shall have passed."
When the flood of grief is swelling,
Deep is calling unto deep,
Then the soul in darkness dwelling,
Sits apart to wail and weep ;
Wailing always, weeping weary ;
Says, "It is perpetual sorrow,
To-day, to-morrow, each to-morrow
Rising in the darkness dreary,
Setting on the evening dreary,
Only grief from time shall borrow."
Soft! a voice is drawing nearer,
"Sweet, my love, why lost in woe ?"
Whispering ever, whispering clearer,
"Rise, my dove, and mourn not so ;
Smooth again thy milled plume,
Thou shalt sing a better song,
Gii-d thy spirit and be strong;
In the life beyond the tomb,
In the light beyond the gloom,
Grief is short, and joy is long."
"I am lord of land and sea,
Hide thee underneath my shield,
All my love is pledged to thee
In summer's sun and harvest field ;
And my covenant thou shalt know
Where the loving shall not sever,
Where the storm-cloud darkens never,
Tides will neither ebb in >r flow,
Wandering ships shall never go,
And rests the shining sea forever."
GREAT EATERS.
Great eaters never live long. A voraci
ous appetite, so far from being a sign of
health, is a certain indication of disease
Some dyspeptics are always hungry ; feel
best when they are eating, but as soon as
they have eaten they endure torments so
distressing in their nature as to make their
unhappy victims wish for death. The appe
tite of health is that which inclines to eat
moderately, when eating time comes, and
; which when satisfied leaves no unpleasant
reminders. Multitudes measure their health
by the amount they can eat, and of any ten
persons, nine are gratified at an increase of
weight, as if mere bulk were an index of
health ; when in reality, any excess of fat
ness is, in proportion, decisive proof of ex
isting disease, showing that the absorbants
of the system are too weak to discharge
their duty ; and the tendency to fatness, to
obesity, increases until existence is a bur
den, and sudden deatli closes the history.
Particular inquiry will almost invariably
elicit the fact that fat persons, however ru
bicund and jolly, arc never well, and yet
they arc envied.
While great eaters never live to an old
age, and are never for single day without
some "symptom," some feelings sufficiently
disagreeable to attract the small eaters,
those who eat regularly of plain food,
usually have no "spare flesh," are wiry and
enduring, and live to an active old age.—
Remarkable exemplifications of these state
ments are found in the lives of the centen
arians of a past age. Galen, one of the
most distinguished physicians among the
ancients, lived very sparingly after the
age of twenty-eight, an died in his liuud
dred and fortieth year.
Kentigern, who never tasted spirits of
wine, and had worked hard all his life,
reached 185 years. Jenkins, a poor York
shire fiishermao, who lived on the coarsest
diet, was one hundred and sixty-nine years
old when he died. Old Parr lived to a hun
dred and fifty-three ; his diet being milk,
cbcese, whey, shall beer and coarse bread.
The favorite food of Henry Francisco, who
lived to be one hundred and forty, was tea,
bread and butter, and baked apples. Fph
riatn Pratt, of Shutesburg, Mass., who died
aged one hundred and seventeen, lived
chiefly on milk,and even that in small quan
tity ; his son Michael by the same means,
lived to be 103 years old.
Father Cull, a Methodist clergyman,died
last year at the age of one hundred and |
five, the main diet of his life having been
salted swine's flesh (bacon) and bread
made of Indian meal. From these state
ments, nine general readers out of ten, will
jump at the conclusion that milk is healthy,
as are baked apples and bacon. These
conclusions do not legitimately follow.—
The only inference that can be safely drawn
is from the only fact running through all
those cases—that plain food and a life of
steady labor tend to a great age.
We must not expect to live long by do
ing any one tiling which an old man did,
and omit all others, but by doing all be did,,
that is work steadily as well as eat mainly
a particular dish.— Hall's Journal of Health.
BITTOXS.— These were used in England,
byway of ornament, so far back as the
tenth century ; but it was not till the com
mencement of the fourteenth that they were
adopted as a necessary part of attire, rib
ands or lace having been used in their
stead. The manufacture of buttons is not
mentioned as a separate trade till about the
middle of the seventeenth century, when
the importation of foreign buttons made with
the needle was prohibited. Soon after this
tlie invention of metal buttons took place,
to encourage which, a penalty of 10s was
imposed, 1 <>oo, on every dozen of buttons
consisting merely of a mould, covered with
some kind of cloth as the garment ; and
the importation of metal buttons was pro
hibited.
DEMOCRATIC nominations, uow-a days, are
laughable commentaries upon the party
which, only a year ago, solemnly resolved
in National Convention assembled, that
"the war is a failure," and which in almost
every State adopted planks opposing the
war in every possible shape. Now these
same men are on the continual hunt for
Soldiers to accept nominations for the va
rious State offices. In Pennsylvania they
have just nominated a Colonel for State
Auditor. By-and-by these partisans, who
used to denounce "Lincoln's hirelings,"will
begin to claim that they were original war
men, and the only true friends of the sold
-1 iers.
per Annum, in Advance.
A MOMENT J)F HOEBOE-
For twenty-three years old Jake Willard
has cultivated the soil in Baldwin Count}',and
drawn therefrom a support for himself and
wife. He is childless. Not long ago, Jake
left the house in search of a missing cow.
His route led hirn through an old, worn-out
patch of clay land, of about six acres in
extent, in the centre of which was a well,
twenty-five or thirty feet deep, that, at
some time, probably, had furnished the\ in
mates of a dilapidated house near by with
water. In passing by this spot an ill wind
drifted Jake's "tile" from his head, and ma
liciously wafted it to the edge of the well,
and in it tumbled.
Now Jake had always practiced the vir
tue of economy, and lie immediately set
about recovering the lost hat. lie ran to
the well, and finding it was dry at the bot
tom, he uncoiled the rope which he had
brought for the purpose of capturing the
truant cow, and after several attempts to
catch the hat with a noose, he concluded to
save time by going down into the well
himself. To accomplish this, he made fast
one end of the rope to a stump hard by,and
was soon 011 his way down the well.
It is a fact, of which Jake was no less ob
livious than the reader hereof, that Ned
Wells was in the dilapidated building
aforesaid, and that an old blind horse, with
a bell on his neck, who had been turned out
to die, was lazily grazing within a short
distance of the well.
The devil himself, or some other wicked
spirit, put it into Ned's cranium to have a
| iittle fun ; so he quietly slipped up to the
j horse, unbuckled the strap,and approached
i with a slow and measured " ting-a-ling " to
| the edge of the well.
" Dang the old blind horse 1" said Jake—
"he's a comin' this way, sure, and ain't got
no more sense nor to fall in here. Woa,Ball!"
But the continued approach of the "ting
a-ling" said just as plainly as words,that old
Ball wouldn't "whoa." Besides Jake was at
the bottom, resting before trying to "shin"
it up the rope.
"Great Jerusalem!" said he,' the old cuss
will be a-top o' me 'fore I can say Jack
Robinson. Whoa ! dang you, whoa !"
Just then Ned drew up to the edge of the
well, and with his foot kicked a little dirt
into it.
" Oil ! Lord !" exclaimed Jake, failing 011
his knees at the bottom of the well ; "I'm
gone now!—Whoa!—Now I lay me down
to sleep—Whoa! Ball—l pray the Lord my
soul to—Whoa! now—Oh,Lord have mercy
on me !"
Ned could hold in no longer, and fearful
that Jake might suffer from his fright, he
revealed himself.
Probably Ned didn't make tracks with
his heels toward that well. May be Jake
wasn't up to the top of it in short order.
May be not. I don't know. But Ido know
that if Jake finds out who sent this, it will
be the last squib you'll get from me.
WHY MEN FAIL.— Mrs. Stowe says that
people of small incomes, if they deny the
palate to please the imagination, can adorn
their homes with many gems of art. The
following incident maj r be suggestive to
many who find their incomes inadequate to
their wants.
A young merchant, who had just failed j
business, having spent in four years a leg- i
acy of ten thousand dollars, in addition to i
any profits realized, was met by a thrifty
young mechanic, who had formerly been on
terms of intimacy with him. During the
conversation which ensued, the merchant
said to him—"How is it, Harry, that you
have been able to live and save money 011
the small sum which you have received for
your service, while 1 found it impossible to
live in my business with a good round ten
thousuud dollars to back me ?"
" Oh, said the mechanic, " that is easily i
understood. I have lived with reference, j
mostly, for the comforts and tastes of my
self and family, while you lived mostly
with reference to opinions and tastes of
others. It costs more to please the eye
than to keep the back warm and stomach !
full."
THE NEW YORK DEMOCRATIC CONVENTION.—
The character and work of the Democrat- j
ic Convention reminds us of a little illus- j
trat ion in the form of a fable. A wolf 1
caught a skunk, and was about to slay him, j
when the skunk said : " Don't kill me ; j
I'm a wolf." " You a wolf ? Let me hear j
you bark." " I can't bark right, because j
I've got a bad cold." But your clothes
don't look like a wolf's." " Oh! mine
were stolen ; these are my little cousin's."
" But you havn't a wolfs ears." "Because
my ears were trimmed." The wolf, half !
convinced, was about to leave, when he
suddenly stopped, snuffed the atmosphere
a moment, and exclaimed: "You may
bark like a wolf, and wear the clothes of
a wolf, and show the ears of a wolf, but
no wolf ever had such a bad smell about
bim as you." And so the poor skunk died.
—Albany Evening Journal.
GIVE THE CHILDREN FRESH Alß.— Some par
ents make the great mistake of keeping
their children in doors during cold weather.
Such a practice is pernicious in many re
spects. It enfeebles the bodies of children,
and renders them peculiarly liable to be
attacked by colds and coughs. A child
| should have its feet well shod with socks
and boots, its body well wrapped iu warm
clothing, its head and ears securely pro
tected from the cold ; and then be let loose
to play in the keen, bracing, winter air.—
By this means its body will become robust,
and its spirits be kept bright aud cheerful;
whereas, if a child be shut up in the house,
it will become fretful and feverish,and per
haps wind up with a severe attack of ill
ness.
SOUTHERN POOR WHITE FOLKS.— About sev
en miles from Richmond I saw a man lay
ing under the shade of a tree, assiduously
chewing tobacco. Aiter saluting biro, aud
after several questions, to which 1 received
lazy yeses and noes, I asked him to what
churches the people of that neighborhood
usually went. " Well, not much to any."
"What are their religious views ?" "Well,
uot much of any." "Well, my friend, what
are your religious views ?" I asked. The
man answered slowly and sheepily, " My
own 'pinion is, that them as made me 'll
take care of me."
A BIRD that always faces the storm—The
. weather-cock.
A CONTENTED TABMEE-
Once upon a time, Frederick, King of
Prussia, surnamed "Old Fritz," took a ride,
and espied an old farmer plowing his acre
by the waj'side, cheerfully singing his mel
ody.
" You must be well off, old man," said
the King. " Does this acre belong to you
on which you so industriously labor?"
" No, sir," replied the farmer, who knew
not it was the King. "I am not so rich as
that; I plow for wages."
"How much do you get a day?" asked
the King
" Eight groschen," (about twenty cents),
said the farmer.
"This is not much," replied the King.—
"Can you get along with this ?"
" Get along and have something left."
" llow is that ?"
The farmer smiled and said : " Well, if
I must tell you—two groschen are for my
self and wife; with two i pay my old debts;
two I lend away, and two 1 give away for
the Lord's sake."
"This is a mystery which I can not solve,"
said the King.
" Then I will solve it for you," said the
farmer. " I have two old parents at home
who kept me when I was weak and needed
help, and now that they are weak and need
help 1 keep them. This is my debt toward
which I pay twogrosheua day. The third
pair of groschen which I lend away I spend
for my children, that they may receive
Christian instruction. This will come handy
to me and my wife when we get old. With
the last two groschen I maintain two sis
ters whom I could not be compelled to
keep. This it what I give for the Lord's
sake."
The King, apparently well pleased with
the answer, said : " Bravely spoken, old
man. Now I will also give you something
to guess. Have you ever seen me before?"
" Never," said the farmer.
"Iu less than five minutes you shall see
me fifty times, and carry in your pocket
fifty of my likenesses."
"This is a mystery which I can not un
ravel," said the farmer.
" Tuen I will solve it for you," said the
King. Thrusting his hand in his pocket
and counting him fifty bran-new gold pieces
into his hand, stamped with his royal like
ness, he said to the astonished farmer, who
knew not what was coming : " The coin is
geninue, for it also comes from our Lord
God, and lam his paymaster. I bid you
adieu."
THE "SEVEN STARS."— EarIy iu the days
of our childhood we learu one important
fact —that there is a "man in the moon ;"
and straightway we proceed to ask our
mother a number of pointed questions
about the matter. She satisfies our curios
ity by telling us that he was placed there
long ago, for stealing a head of cabbage,
and that he has ever since been kept at
hard labor, "piling brush," or collecting
branches of trees as they are trimmed
off by the axeman, preparatory to burning
them out of the way. And when we look
at the moon, and see a dark figure upon
its disc, somewhat resembling, in outline,
the shape of a man, and near it aa addition
al dark spot which might or might not be
•a pile of boughs, we go a great deal further
than our mothers—we believe the story ;
and having believed it, we scarcely resolve
in our iniuds, never to commit a theft lest
a similar fate should be ours. And thus
the silh* fable at ouce becomes an impor
tant engine in forging and forming the
character of the man.
The Indian mothers have a story some
what like that of the "man in the moon,"
which they tell to their children as our
mothers tell the story to us—with this diff
erence, however: they believe the story
themselves, while our mothers do not.—
Here it is :
NUMBER 18.
"Very long ago seven little boys took it
into their heads to have a feast after the
manner of their fathers, and they went to
their mothers praying for permission. Their
mothers refused, after which they decided
to rebel and have the feast anyhow. They
procured a little white dog to sacrifice ;
and, having placed it upon the fire, they
commenced dancing around as they had
seen their fathers do on momentous oc
casions. While they were thus engaged
they were suddenly caught up by some in
visible power and carried off through the
air. Their mothers heard their cries and
came forth from their lodges, only to see
them mount higher and higher, until they
took their places among the stars in the
sky, to dance on forever and ever."
When the Indian mother tells this story,
she points out the seven stars of the Plei
ades ; and the embryo warrior trembles to
think w r hat an awful fate might befall the
youth who was so thoughtless as to disobey
Lis mother.
THE JUDGE AND HIS DEMIJOHN.— A good
joke is told of a Judge iu New Hampshire.
He always kept a demijohn of good Jamaica
in his private office for his particular friends.
The Judge had noticed for some time that
on Monday morning his Jamaica was con
siderable lighter than be left it on Saturday
night. Another fact had established itself
in his mind. His son Sam was missing
from the parental pew in church on Sundays.
One Sunday afternoon Sam came in and
went up stairs very heavily when the Judge
put the question pointedly to him!—
"Sam, where have you been !"
"To church, sir," was the prompt reply,
"What church, Sam ?"
"Second Methodist, sir."
"Had a good sermon, Sam ?"
"Very powerful, sir ; it quite staggered
ine."
The next Sunday the son came home
rather earlier than usual, and apparently
not so much "under the weather."
His father hailed him with, "well, Sam,
been to the "Second Methodist" again to
day.
"Yes, sir."
"Good sermon, my boy ?"
"Fact was, father, I coulden't get in ;
the church was shut up, and a ticket on the
door."
"Sorry, Sam, keep going, you may get
good by it yet."
Sam says that going to the office for his
usual refreshments, he found the "John"
was empty and bearing the following label:
"There will be no service here to-day ; the
church is temporarily closed."
A DESIRABLE MEMENTO. —In several of tlio
Pyrenees the mountaineers are in the huhit
of training' animals for the purpose of ex
hibition. The Perfect of Pefpignan recently
passed through one of them in company
with an oflicer gendeartnes. The latter
pointed out to the magistrate a women
whose husband, a boar trainer, had been
devoured by his pupil when instinct got
the better of education.
"I have nothing left," said the woman ;
"I am absolutely without a roof to shelter
nie and the poor animal."
" Animal 1" exclaimed the astonished
Prefect; "you don't mean to say that you
keep the bear that devoured your hus
band !"
"Alas 1" she replied, "it is all that is left
to me of the poor dead mail."