The above estimate may be somewhat ex aggerated, but it still remains an undisputed fact that more work is performed on Sun day, in France, than in any other civilized country, and there is a great deal of force in Macaulay's observation that " Man, the ma chine of machines, requires repairing and winding up once a week, so that he may re turn to his labors on Monday with clearer intellect, with livelier spirits and with re newed corporeal vigor." The low pay received by the working classes of Hungary, and the long hours of service, day in and clay out, exacted from the working classes of France, may be one reason why the American workmen, with shorter hours and better, can so easily compete with them. " Wherever you find high rates of wages, you are almost certain to find the low costs of production, so far as labor is concerned." This may be in part accounted for by the contrast between our own condition and that of foreign countries. An Austrian manufac turer once said : " Our operatives cannot do the work performed in American factories, because they do not eat enough to admit of the sustained exertion." Man must, like all other pieces of mechan ism, be supplied with enough of fuel, in order to perform work in a satisfactory manner. So, too, in the matter of hours of labor, when the human machine becomes exhausted a satisfactory performance of work cannot be expected ; and the tendency in this country toward lessening the hours of daily labor, with the increased one of machinery, is one which is certain in time to accomplish the result of adding to the productiveness of our working-men, and at the same time, giving them larger opportunities for the enjoyment of life. Dutch has been using myrtle green writing paper of late. E LANCE. THE FRE Then I listen to the stream, Making noises that would seem But the moment of a dream Within my pensive mind. All the sounds of love and fear, All the voices—far and near, Falling on my deafened ear, Fail to penetrate the region of m O'er my memory sweeps a gale, Breathing some mysterious tale, Till I feel my lips grow pale And find relief in sighs, O'er my thoughts are brightly cast Tints of color from the past, Glories that are fading fast As the sunset's glory fades befor As I stroll o'er fenceless fields, Seeking joys that nature yields, Such ns every flower conceals From men with evil hearts— Then I muse upon the bee, Poised on vibrant wings is he, O'er the flowers of the lea, Seeking treasures sweet, conceal After toil of day is done, Cares depart me one by one, But I: know not whither gone— My wishes fill their void. This soft hour at the close of day, Clad in livery golden gray Draws me by its grand display Of sweet music-making voices n Parent birds now cense to sing, Vesper bells begin to ring Gentle breezes with them bring, A chorus from abroad. Peaceful moves this caravan, Through the land where sinful mm Grasps whatever wealth he can, Caring little what his duty is to AT SUNSET JOIN SMITH When the sun is sinking low And I see the evening glow Lightly resting—soon to flow Off from the distant hill ; Then I linger in delight, Musing o'er this natural sight, Parting day will kiss " goodnight,' And the blush upon the mountait
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers