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ee wis m. grist, proprietor, j A11 |nbcprabcnt Jarnilj ftrfospapcr: |for % |)romotion of tjjc political, Social, Agricultural anb Commercial Interests of t|e Soutji. jTERMS?$3.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 19. YORKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 1873. NO. 47. i ? c f\..~ ?!rio ! ?Un Ann Tho Orinnpll h.ankruntcv affair. She ftimi idler. TOM'S WIFE. We had just finished breakfast. Tom laid down the egg-spoon he had been playing with and looked across at mother. "Aunt Annie, I think I'll take a wife," he said, exactly as he might havesaid. "I think I'll take another cup of coffee." "Take a wife?" repeated mother, by no means receiving the information as tranquilly as it had been given. "What for ?" "Well, I don't know," answered Tom, thoughtfully. "It's a notion I've got in my head, somehow." "All nonsense !" said mother, sharply. "Do you think so ?" said Tom, apparently doubtful, but not in the least put out. "Think so ? I know it. What in the world can you want of a wife ? After all these years we have lived so comfortably together, to bring home somebody to turn tne nouse upside down ! And then what is to become of that poor child ?" The poor child?that was I?reddening at being brought into the argument in this way, was about to speak for herself, when Tom interposed warmly: "I'm sure May knows I would never have any wife who would make it less a home for her?don't you, May?" "Of course," said I. "And Tm sure she knows nothing of the sort," persisted mother, "nor you either, Tom Dean. How can you answer for what a wife ( may take it into her head to do, once you get j her fixed here? You can't expect her to for-1 get, as you do, that May has no real claim on J you." "That I have no real claim on her, I sup-; pose you mean, ma'am," Tom put in for the ! second time, just as I was getting thoroughly I uncomfortable. "But, for all that, I intend to ! keep her?that is," added Tom, with one of his short-sight blinks sideways at me, "as long as she'll stay with me, eh, May? And whoever has anything to say against the arrangement will have to go out of my house to say it?not that I'm afraid of any such result in this case?and, on the whole, Aunt Annie, I should like to try the experiment." Mother smiled grimly, but Tom was so evidently bent on his "experiment," as he called it, that she gave up the argument. "You can dance, if you're ready to pay the piper," she said, shortly. "And, pray, how soon do you mean to be married ?" Tom's face fell a little at this question. "Well," said he, "I can't say, exactly. I j n.,*.nnnn n,n oV.nl] llOOO tr, VlO OfTQ (TPI] firSl.." Oil CV11 iltkf v W wv u>w?< "What!" said mother, openiug her eyes; "why, you never mean to say, Tom, you haven't spoken to her yet ?" "Not yet," answered Tom, cheerfully. "Time enough for that, you know, after I had spoken to you." Mother, as a minister's widow, was not much given to the idle mirth that is as the crackling of thorns under a pot, but now she leaned back and laughed till the tears stood in her eyes. "Well," she said, "if it was anybody else, I should say he was cracked ; but you never were like other people, and you never will be, Tom Dean. But, at least you have fixed on the lady?" "Oh! yes," answered Tom ; "but, if you will excuse me, Aunt Annie, I would rather not say anything about her, just yet; for, if anything should happen, it wouldn't be pleasant for either party, you know." With this veiled allusion to his possible rejection, Tom took his hat and left the room. Our household was rather queerly put together. There was no particular reason why I should have been of it at all; for I was not really related to Tom, nor even to "mother," as I called her, though I am sure we were as dear to each other as a mother and daughter could be. She was the second wife of my father, who, like most ministers, had been richer in grace than in goods, and bad left us at his death with very little to live on. Then it was that Tom Dean had come forward, and insisted on giviug a home to his aunt and me, whom he had scarcely seen a dozen times in j his life before. That was exactly like Tom? j "queer Tom Dean," as his friends were fond : of saying, "who never did anything like any- j body else." I suppose, in spite of his clear | heacl for business, there was no denying he Was ; whimsical; but I am sure, when I think of his unfailing generosity aud delicacy, I can't I help wishing there were a few more such whimsical people in the world. Naturally, at the time I am speaking of, my opinion had not been asked; all I had to do was to go 1 where mother went, and while she gave her j energies to the house-keeping, I gave mine to j growing up, which by this time I had pretty ' well accomplished. But perhaps for that j ">oonn?fnr nnp sees with different eves ,v"J at twelve and eighteen?my position in the house began to seem unsatisfactory to me; ! and the words that morning had put it iu a clearer light since it had been used as an ar- i gument against Tom's marrying. I knew mother had spokeu honestly, believiug that J such a step would not be for his happiness; j but was not he the best judge of that? I knew him, if reflection should bring him round to her opinion, to be perfectly capable of quietly sacrificing his own wishes for my sake, who had not a shadow of claim on him ; so it must be my part to prevent his kindness being turned against him now. Still, it was not so easy to see how I was to provide for myself, in case it should become advisable. What could I do? Draw and sing, and play tolerably, but not in a manner to compete with the hosts that would be in the field against me. Literature? I had read so many stories whose heroines, with a turn of the pen, dashed into wealth and fame. That would be very nice, only?I was not the least bit literary ; I had uever even kept a journal, which is saying a great deal for a girl iu her teens. The "fine arts," theu, being out of the question for me, what remained ? There was some clerkship, or a place in some family, and?there was Will Broomley! That may seem like going away from the point, but it was not. I was matter-of-fact, but I could see well enough what was going on right under ray eyes, and I had a pretty clear idea of what was briuging Will to the house so often as he had taken to coming lately. There was a "situation," theu, that would give me the home-life I liked best and felt myself best suited for; but would it answer in other respects? I overcast the long seam I was sewing twice over, I was so busy trying to make up my mind whether I liked Will Broomley well enough to pass ray whole life with him ; and even then 1 had not come to any decision, when I was called down stairs to Letty Walters. Letty was the prettiest, I think, of all my friends, aud certainly the liveliest. Tom called her the "tonic," and used to laugh heartily at her bright speeches. I suppose it was this that made mother fix on Letty as his choice. When I came into the sitting-room I found a kind of cross-examination going on. It was amusing to anybody in the secret, as I was, to watch mother's artful way of continually bringing the conversation round, as if by chance, to bear on what she wanted to know. But it all amounted to nothing, either because Letty was too good a fencer, or because she had nothing to betray. But when Tom came home, mother took care to mention that Letty had called. "What, the 'tonic'?' said Tom. "Too bad I missed her." "But for your choice being already made," said mother, with a covert scrutiny of his face, "I dare say you might have as much tonic as you liked." i i "But I go on the homeopathic principle, you know," answered Tom, with a twinkle in his eye. j After that mother's belief in Letty'9 guiltij uess wavered. Her suspicions were transferred from one to another of our acquaintance,: j but always with the same unsatisfactory result. "It passes my comprehension," she said to I me, despairingly, one day. "I am positive 11 could tell the right one by Tom's face in a minute, and yet I have mentioned everybody we know." ' L-J_ .1 ? u ? "remaps It is somenouy wu uuu l Auun, ! I suggested ; "some friend of his we have never seen." I "What! a perfect stranger?" said mother j . sharply. Never talk to me, child ; Tom's not j capable of that." j I was silent, for I did not want to worry , her; but that was my opinion all the time. The same evening?it was rather more than i a week since Tom had hurled that thunderi bolt at us?mother began about it openly. I "When are you going to introduce your wife to us, Tom ? 1 suppose you have come | to au understanding by this time ?" "Oh ! there's no hurry," Tom said, as he had 1 said before; but this time he did not speak quite so cheerfully. "The fact is," he continued, with a little hesitation, "there?there's a rival in the case." "A rival ?" repeated mother with unfeeling i briskness. ! "Yes, a young fellow?younger by a good i deal, than I am," and Tom's face assumed an i absurdly doleful look. "He is always there ; now. I confess I don't see my way clear. I'm waiting for her to make up her mind." "And she's waiting, most likely, for you to make up yours," said mother, forgetting in her propensity to right matters, that she was ! playing the enemy's game, t "There's something in that that never oc- I curred to me," said Tom, his face brightening, i Mother saw her mistake, and made a counter- , ! move at once. I "But the ways of my time are old-fashioned now. Young ladies, nowadays, take matters j into their own hands. If she cared for you, , 1 you may be pretty sure she wouldn't have j waited till this time to let you know it?that is, I judge by the girls I am in the habit of seeing; but if this one is a stranger to me"? (here mother riveted her eyes on Tom's face ; oh ! dear, my unfortuuate words !) "as she is an entire stranger, I cannot pretend to form any opinion of her, of course." J "Of course," repeated Tom, absently. "Not that I have any such idea," resumed j mother, growing warmer; "I have said, and ! say again, that to bring a perfect stranger under this roof is not my opinion of you, Tom." I felt mother's words like so many pins and needles; for Tom was looking meditatively across to me, and, though that was just a way j of his, it seemed now as if he were reading in | ray face that the opinion was mine, and that I was meddling in what did not concern me. j I felt myself, for very vexation, getting redder j every moment till it grew intolerable. "It is so warm here," I said, for an excuse, i turning toward the French window. "I am going out to get a breath of air." I went out into our little strip of gardenground ; Tom followed. I thought I should never have a better opportunity to say what I had in my mind to say, so I waited for him by the bench under the old pear tree. "Sit -1 1 ~ " r coi/l "T'wo Qnrnpfliiiwr to ' UUWU iJCIC, 1UIU, X o??u, * * XX 0 -- . say to you." "Have you?" said Tom ; "that'sodd. What is it, May ?" "Tom," I said, still surer now he had misjudged me, and more resolved to set him right, "I want a place." "A place," repeated Tom, puzzled, as well ! he might be, by this sudden and indefinite an-! nouncement; "what kind of a place ?" "I don't know," I said, for indeed, my ideas were of the vaguest. "I thought you might! know, being in the way of those things. Now, | pray Tom," I went on, quickly, "don't fancy | 1 am discontented, or?anything of that sort; j the truth is, ever since I left off school I have j wanted something to do, and have had it in j my mind to speak to you about it." With this I looked at Tom, fearing he might be vexed ; but he did not look vexed ; only ! preoccupied. I "I do know a place, as it happens," he said, j after a while, "only I am not sure how it j would suit you." "That's soon seen," said I. "What is it like ?" "Well, it's a sort of?of general usefulness?" , "Well, it must be to run errands," I said, j laughing. "And where is it, Tom ?" "Well," said Tom, hesitating again, "it's with me. The sooner the better, so far as I ' am concerned," and with that he turned round and looked at me. I knew somehow, in a moment, what it was he meant; and I knew, too, j that I could not have passed all my life with Will Brooinley, and why I could not. I am sure Letty Walters, who interrupted us just then, must have thought my wits were j wandering that evening, and, indeed, they were; for I was completely dazed with the' sudden turn things had taken. But Tom,; who had the advantage of me there, took it i quite coolly, and laughed and talked with i Letty just the same as ever till she weut away. It was pretty late when we went in. Moth- j < /? 1?a/4 1a(V linn l'?!f f inrf in tlio i i Or hilt WUOiO ?c lltlU ICI l llbl, niiibiiug It! viiv | twilight. ; "Wasn't that Letty Walters with you n while ago?" she said, as we came up. "Yes," said I, with a confused feeling of an ' explanation of something being necessary ; j "she just came to bring the new crochet-pat- j i tern she promised me." "H'm !" said mother, as much as to say that she had her own ideas as to what Letty i i came for. j Tom had been wandering about the room j iu an absent sort of fashion, taking up and j | putting down in the wrong places all the j small objects that fell in his way. He came 1 I up and took a seat by mother. I became of: ! a sudden very busy with the plants in the | I window; for I knew he was going to tell her.j T J 1 "Wish me joy, Aunt Annie," said he. "It's ! ) all settled." j j "Settled, is it?" said mother, in anything, , but a joyful tone. "So it's as I suspected all j 1 along. Well, you have my best wishes, Tom ; j | perhaps you may be bappy together, after all,! ' I'm sure I hope so" This wasn't a very encouraging sort ofconj gratulation, and Tom seemed rather taken ' ; aback by it. "I'm sorry you're not pleased," he said, afj ter a pause; "I had an idea somehow you would be." | j "I don't know from what you judged. But there, it's no use crying over spilled milk.! j You'll be married directly, I presume; I must be looking out for a house," and mother stroked her nose reflectively with a knitting* i needle. "What for?" said Tom ; "I thought of keep-! ing on here all the same." "I never supposed otherwise," said mother. , "Ofcourse I did not expect to turn you out | of your own house." "But what is the need of looking for another, I then ?" j "For myself." "For yourself!" repeated Tom, in a tone of utter amazement. "Going to leave us?just now ? Why, Aunt Annie, who ever heard of j 1 such a thing?" ' "Now Tom," said mother, speaking very fast, and making her needless fty in concert, I "we may as well come to an understanding at once on this subject. I am fully sensible of your past kindness?now let me finish?I say I appreciate it, and have always tried to do my duty by you in return, as I hope I should always be ready to do. I wish all good to you and your wife, and shall be glad to help her if ever I can, but to live in the same house with her, is what would turn out pleasan ly for neither of us, and, once for all, I can't do it." "Aunt Annie," said Tom, pushing back his chair, and staring in mother's excited face, | "either you or I must be out of our wits." "It's not me, then, at any rate," retorted mother, getting nettled. Amusement and a certain embarrassment had kept me a silent listener, so far ; but there was 110 standing this; I tried to speak, but could not, for laughing. "I think you are all out of your wits together," said mother, turning sharply. "What ails the child ! it's no laughing matter." "You don't understand each other," I I gasped ; "Oh dear! it?it's not .Letty?un? Oh dear I" and relapsed again. "Not Letty ?" repeated mother, turning to Tom. "Then why did you tell me so ?" "I never told you so, said Tom. "Why, yes you did," persisted mother, "You came in and told me you were going to be married." "Yes, so I am," said Tom, still at crosspurposes. "Now, Tom Dean," said mother, rising and confronting him, "What do you meau? Who is going to be your wife?" "Why, May, of course," answered Tom. "May!" and then after a pause of inexpressible astonishment, it was mother's turn to laugh. "Do you mean to say, Tom, it was that child you were thinkiDgof all the time?" "Why, who else could it be ?" tmid Tom, simply. "Well," said mother, "I ought to have remembered that you never did anything like anybody else. But, still, why in the world did you go to work in that round about way!" "I wanted to see how you took to my idea," said Tom. "And how did you suppose we were to guess your idea meant May ?" mother asked. "Who else could it be ?" repeated Tom, falling back on what he evidently found an unanswerable argument. It was no use talking to him. Mother gave it np with a shake of the head. "And you won't want another house then, Aunt Anne?" said Tom, suddenly. Thatset mother off again ; Tom joiued with her, and altogether I don't think that we ever passed a merrier evening than the one that made us acquainted with Tom's wife. IWiscfUancoH.s finding. LIFE AND WORK. HOW OCCUPA riON AFFECT8 LONGEVITY. It is not generally known, perhaps, us yet, that, with the spread of civilization and cul ture, the average life of man is lengthening, but such is the case, as is conclusively proved by records which have been kept for centuries in succession in numerous places. Carefully compiled statistics show that while, of course, the patriarchal longevity of Biblical days is out of reach, still the average man of to-day, without omulotiug Mothuealoh, hut modestly, after our modern fashion, lives longer than the average man of any of the past centuries of our civilization in which vital statistics have been kept. Dividing occupation into the six very general heads of agriculture, manufacturing, professional, commercial, sea-faring and military, a recent work on longevity gives an approximate idea of the length of the average life in each of these calliugs. The farmer, it seems, lives the longest of them all. In the first place, with less care life is more easily preserved in the country than in the city, owing to the greater purity of the air and freedom of individual action ; and again, the work of the farmer is such as to develop a healthy physical condition. Under these circumstances it is said that farmers have the longest life of any class of men. A recent Massachusetts report shows that the average life of 1000 farmers was 65 years, being 15 years longer than that of professional men, and 25 years longer than that of the same number of merchants. Yet it must be remembered that, in spite of the apparent advantages of the farmer's life, our records from year to year show that far more of pauper insanity is found with them than with any other class. This may be due to their more general poverty and inability to provide for the helpless, or it may not. The manufacturingclasses,shut up in close shops with dust and other impurities in the air, and beginning work in these places very young as apprentices, live comparatively but a short time. Out-door labor, when it does not involve too much exposure to bad weather, is always more conducive to health than work in shops, although in many cases this is the fault of the employers, who, at a slight expense could often increase the health, and so the usefulness of the employes, by consulting some of the simplest laws of ventillation. Working in constrained positions, as dress-makers, tailors, shoemakers and others do, cuts down the average length of life sadly. Blacksmiths are very healthy, and so are letter-carriers, whose exercise is the best, as the most natural, that can be taken. Butchers do not live long, being poisoned by the exhalations of the slaughter houses. Printers, according to an English table, have the shortest expectations of life of any out of twenty-five different sorts of laborers. Persons who work in a temperature much above that of the body are apt to suffer debility in consequence ; as, for instance, bakers, cooks, smelters of ores, operators in many parts of woolen mills, and many others. Miners, of course, and such workmen have less than average lives. Judges, clergymen, lawyers, professors and physicians, taken as a sub-class of professional men, live the next longest average to farmers. The average of all professional lives is set at about 50 years; farmers about 65 years. Among American clergymen the Presbyterians are said to live the longest. Among 406 ministers of all denominations, whose deaths were recorded in 1870 and 1871, in this country, 153, or more than one-third, were beyond 70 years of age. Lawyers and physicians are about on a par. Neither class, save the judges, who have a somewhat different work from the lawyers, is apt to live to any great age, but each averages well. Physicians are very apt to marry, and marriage tends directly to longevity. Scientific men, as they are called, are prone to long life, astronomers in particular. Out of 85 of these students, less than one quarter died under 60 years of age. There is a notion that more distinguished men live somewhat shorter lives than the less distinguished of the same profession. To a certain extent figures corroborate this idea, but it is greatly because a few of the most distinguished die quite early, and so reduce the average somewhat. Many of the most prominent men in all professions have lived to be very old. Literary men shorten their lives by lack of exercise and a general failure to attend to the laws of health. Artists are very apt to live a long time. A dictionary of 1200 artists contains the name of more than 800 who lived beyond 69 years. Titian was 99 years old, and died of the plague then. Bellini was 90 years old, and Murillo t 72 years old at death. Musicians develop of tentimes with astonishing precocity, and die | correspondingly early, as a general thing.! Blowing upon wind instruments proves by figures to be as harmless a practice as its appearance is agonizing; and the air of public i halls is generally so bad that all persons, who i appear there habitually, suffer from it. Soldiers and sailors have hard lives; ten soldiers die of disease where one dies in battle, . ! and the annual death-rate in our army is i about one in 38 soldiers, and one in 42 officers. ! ; Soldiers in battle are in danger of beiug hit J just in proportion to the space they occup}', ; large men being much more susceptible to i j bullets than little ones. Sailors, it is said, 1 average only about 12 years of life after they 1 ; begin to go to sea. Their work is very dan- f , gerous and' arduous. Trades-people do not come up to the average in the length of life. Clerks have many unhealthy things to fight | i atrainst, and are weakened thereby for life, j 1 Merchants average about fiftv years and a ! (half. " . | These are only some of the facts hastily i . grouped together. They do not show us any J j better than the census does how to avoid dy- ] : ing, but they may be of some general interest, i ; especially to those persons, by no means few j in number, whose aim is to do the most breathI ing with the least work. Manifestly, the two j efforts are incompatible. A GOVERNMENT SAVINGS BANK. | Despatches from Washington state that it has been announced in various quarters that among the propositions to be presented to the next Congress will be a new issue of government bonds or certificates bearing a rate of interest not exceeding 3.65 per cent, per annum. It is said that General Butler will propose j the issue of such a bond convertible into : greenbacks at the pleasure of the holder. It has been heretofore reported and believed that the President will advocate such an issue and that it is favored at the Treasury Department. Conversation with a number of the prominent officials about the department indicate thefolI lowing to be the views which a number of them hold, and which will, without doubt, find expression in the forthcoming reports. There is a general disposition to favor the low interest certificates, chiefly because of the belief that it would prevent the deposit of large amounts by the country banks to the city i banks, thus inducing the country banks to rej tain their surplus funds in their own vaults, j for use at a time when they are most needed. It is believed that the suspension of the banks in the city of New York was caused mainly by the demand of the country banks upon them for a large amount subject to draft which had been attracted thither by the paymentTof interest on deposits, and which was invested in call loans, which were not available when demanded. The country banks would not send their surplus to New York if they bad at their j command Government security which they could purchase at par, and which could be 1 converted into greenbacks when demanded. I No such security can now be obtained, except i at a large premium. The English banks hold 1 but a small amount of reserve, but their sur! plus funds are invested in English consols j bearing three per cent, interest, which can j readily be converted in the market into cash, j with a slight depreciation, in any monetary | panic. It is thought that such an issue could also he made of great use to the laboring classes, for if these certificates were issued in sums of 850 the earnings of this class could be safely invested in such funds, civiu? to the Treasury the permanent use oT large sums 1 of money at this low rate of interest. Such ' a bond would, in fact, become a savings bank | for the people, without any necessity for the ! machinery of a savings institution. It is beI lieved that since the panic the confidence of 1 the laboring classes has been shaken in the ' savings banks which have received their deposits and now refuse to return them except ! upon notice of from thirty to sixty days. I These deposits are known to be likely to be J called for only in small amounts, and all that is needed is to offer to the laboring man an j investment which is safe, and which can be ! readily converted into money if required. It : is thought that the government might utilize such certificates, and by the investment of i I half the amount received in 5-20 bonds, reim-1 j burse itself for the whole amount of interest paid upon the new certificates, and at the same time serve the laboring classes in the 'same manner that the laboring men in Engi land are served through the organization of | Post. Office savings banks, without any of the j cumbersome machinery and risk of such in i suiuuous. ! THE UNPROFITABLENESS OF FARMING. j Politicians do not always hit the nail on the head when talking to farmers. As a j rule, a politician at the Fair is the politician j ; still, speaking for political effect. Now and | then, however, he gets astray from politics, and perhaps says something of practical imi port to his hearers. Such was the case with : General Butler, at the State Fair of New Hampshire, when he touched upon the un, profitableness of farming in these words : j It is complained that farming is unprofita! ble. Men are leaving the farm and seeking employment in manufactuies and the trades of the city. New Hampshire, the agricultu1 ral port of Massachusetts, of Maine and Ver' mont, has gone back in population and in i productive agricultural wealth in the last ten years. Without seeking to touch all the rea; sons for it, may we not find it largely in this, that we ask too much of the farm ? Having a capital of 82,000, or 83,000, or 85,000 inj vested in it, we ask that the farm shall supI port our families, educate our children and 1 give us a comparative wealth for old age be| sides. And yet, dp we treat it as other men do ' their buisncss by which they succeed ? If we fail in getting all this from it, we say that farming is unprofitable? We are un* mindful of the fact that in mercantile business only one in a hundred is fairly successful, ! ond only one in a thousand eminently so. Does not farming do as well and better? ! Does only one in a hundred farmers succeed to a competence, and only one in a thousand succeed to affluence? And yet do we not deal with our farms in the same way that we have seen that the nation does with its producers? Do we not take everything off and put comparatively nothing on the land? In every other business of life all the gains J a man gets he immediately puts back into I his business. The merchant increases his ! capital year by year, from gains of the j preceeding year, if he is a prudent man, until j it becomes as large as he can profitably raani age. But if the farmer makes any surplus : on his farm, as a rule, does he return to his j land, either in increased facilities for farming, j in enriching the soil, adding to his stock, or j draining his land? On the contrary, is he; i not much more likely to invest in railroad 1 ? shares, or bonds, or some manufacturing en- j . ... i ? terprise, or iunu it tu oumc nciguuui ; jiu> ! ing taken away from the farm what the farm ! j has brought to him, and ought to be returned j to it again, to make it productive, he leaves it j ! impoverished, and then complains that gains ! do not increase. ' Is not the difficulty that he is continually ! taking away the increase of his capital and : leaving it only what it was at the beginning ? The merchant, as we have seen, increases his capital year by year; but the farmer too frequently takes his and invests in other enterprises, and then complains, that the farm i does not succeed. No farmer that I ever heard of ever mortgaged his farm to buy ma- < i nurn to put on it; yet men frequently do . mortgage their farms for the purpose of bull- J ding a fine house ; and may take all the earnings of the farm for ten years for that purpose. The mortgage, or indebtment, once on a farm,a rule in the past,except in the change of fortune made by the change of prices ari-, sing from the war, remains for years, if not i forever. BURYING THE DEAD IN JAPAN. There is nothing that better defines the! character of any race than their religious \ ideas and custums. There are two religions, j so to term them, prevailing in Japan, and of j very widely differing doctrines and customs. ; The national religion is called the Shintoo, j but Buddhism is even more the prevailing be- j lief. The Shintoos, for example, of whom the j Mikado was "the spiritual head?a sort of j pope?bury their dead in large jars, and in a 1 sitting posture. The Buddhists burn their J dead. The first worship no images or idols; j but the last have huge images, which they ; devoutly reverence. In one respect, however, j there is a curious resemblance, for the Shin- ' toos, if they omit idols, make up for this, in j part, by enormous foxes of stone placed at the entrance to their temples, this animal having some sacred character in their worship. A Buddhist funeral aud burial is solemn, impressive and full of tenderness, in spite of its superstitious features. 'White here takes the place of our black as a mourning symbol. In the centre of a Buddhist cemetery there is a column or pedestal, and, when a burial is to occur, this supports vessels of burning incense, and profusion of flowers in elegantly fashioned caskets. Incense is also burned around the sides of the cemetery. The funeral cortege is preceeded by men carrying white flags and others carrying boquets of flowers, fruits, cakes and delicate confections. The men are all dressed in white. Next comes the priest and a great chair behind him, very heavily carved. Over him an attendant holds a large canopy like an umbrella. . Then follows a procession of men in white, from ten to thirty in number, each having hold of a white cloth reaching to the bier. After this are the pall bearers, the corpse and the mourners. When the pall bearers have placed the bier near the pedestal mentioned above, the priest seats himself in the chair and performs the burial service, the sentences being divided by the tinkling of a small bell, struck at proper intervals by an attendant lad. Finally the priest puts incense into a burning censor, throws a bundle of straw on the heap, aud his part of the service is at an end. Those who attend the funeral go through with the similar ceremonies, ending by sprinkling water on the bier, and the priest retires. The men bear the flowers, fruit, etc., and the mourners now follow the body to the burning lot, which is a square inclosure fenced with stone. The bo dy is in a sort of'barrel, and, after tilling it with combustibles, each member applies a lighted torch and theconsumingprocess is thus begun. The further burning is watched by one woman only. The graves are constantly supplied with flowers?evidently from the belief that worldly appetites and tastes are still felt by those who have died in the flesh. Save the difference in the religious ceremonies, a Buddhist funeral is certainly as solemn,*affecting and impressive as Christian service in other lands.?Japan Correspondence of the Boston Globe. WHOM DO GREAT MEN MARRY I Distinguished individuals show the same diversity of taste that is seen in the lower ranks, and on the whole make worse mistakes. They, however, show the same in choosing wives that they show in managing other people's affairs, whether they be good or bad. Roberts married a farm girl with whom he fell in love while they worked together in the plough-field. He was irregular in his life, and committed the most serious mistakes in conducting domestic affairs. Milton married the daughter of a country squire, but lived with her but a short time. He was an austere, exacting, literary recluse, while she was a rosy, romping country lass, that could not bear the restraint imposed upon her, so they separated. Subsequently, however, she returned, and they lived tolerably happy. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert were cousins, and about the only example in the long line of English inonarchs wherein the nuptial vows were sacredly observed, and sincere affection existed. Shakespeare loved and wedded a farmer's daughter. She was faithful to her vows, but could hardly say the same of the great bard j himself. Like most great poets, he showed j too little discrimination in bestowing his affections on the other sex. liyron married Miss jmudauk to get money to pay his debts. It turned out a bad shift. Benjamin Franklin married the girl who stood in her father's door laughing at him as he wandered through the streets of Philadelphia, with rolls under his arms, and his pockets filled with dirty clothes. She had occasion to be happy when she found herself the wife of one who proved to be a great and good man. Washington married a woman with two children. It is enough to say she was worthy of him, and lived as married folks should?in perfect harmony. John Adams married the daughter of a Presbyterian clergyman. Her father objected on account of John's being a lawyer ; he had a bad opinion of the morals of the profession. John Howard, the great philanthropist, married his nurse. She was altogether beneath him in social life and intellectual capacity ; and, besides this fifty-two years old, while he was but twenty-five. He would not take "No" for an answer, and they lived happily together until her death, which occurred years afterwards. Peter the Great, of Russia, married a peasant girl. She made an excellent wife i and a sagacious empress. Humboldt married a poor girl because he loved her. Of course they were happy. It is not generally known that Andrew i Jackson married a lady whose husband was still living. She was an uneducated but amiable woman, and most devotedly attached to the old warrior and statesman. Edward Lytton Bulwer, the English states-! man novelist, married a girl much his iuferi- j or, in position, and got a shrew for a wife. What Causes Hard Times.?We are; . n 1 x _ I? I rast becoming a nation or scnemers 10 nve i without work. Our boys are not learn-1 ing trades; our farmers' sons are crowding into cities, looking for clerkships and j places in the post-office; hardly oue Ameri- i can girl in one hundred will do house work ; for wages, however urgent her need; so we j are seuding to Europe for workmen, and buying of her artizans millions' worth that j we ought to make for ourselves. Though our crop of rascals is heavy, we do not grow i our hemp; though we are over-run with lads , that deserve flagellations, we import our wil-' lows. Our women (unless deceived) wear i, European fabrics ; our men dress in foreign !, cloths; the toys which amuse our younger children have generally reached us from over j the sea. Hence it is that we plunge deeper i into debt to the Old World. We are like j the farmer who hires his neighbor's son to j cut his wood, feed his stock and run his er- ! rands, while his own sons lounge at the grog- I shops playing billiards, and then wondering ! i why, in spite of his efforts, he sinks deeper and 1! deeper in debt, till the sheriff cleans him out, i I and he starts west to begin again. We must I f turn over u new ieui. vjui uvja ?w?4 j must be taught to labor by qualifying thera-1 selves to do it efficiently. We must turn out J fewer professionals and more artizans, as well as food-growers. We must grow and fabricate two millions worth per annum, that we j now import, and reduce the foreign debt, that we have so long and successfully augmented year by year. We must qualify our clever boys to erect and run factories, rolling mills, tanneries, machine shops, etc.; to open anil j work mines, improve and fashion implements, I and double the present product of their fathers' i farm. So shall we stem that tide of debt that j sets steadily against our shores, and cease | to be visited and annoyed by hard times, j ? 4 KEROSENE AND ITS ABUSE. In view of the many accidents resulting, j either through carelessness or ignorance, in the ; use of kerosene, we give the following rules , and suggestions as furnished by a correspondent of the Savannah Advertiser: 1. Do not buy kerosene below the govern- j ment standard, which is 110 degrees. 2. Do not use a wick that is too narrow for ! the burner. 3. Never turn down the burning wick when j you want to extinguish the light, but blow it j out without disturbing the wick, blowing di-1 agonally into the top of the chimney, or use | a palm leaf fan at the arm's length. 4. Do not use your lamp as a night-lamp by turning down the wick to lessen theflaine. I The reasons for the forgoing rules : 1. The government has fixed the standard at which kerosene may be sold at 110 degrees ; because there is danger of its vaporizing in an ordinary lamp if it is below that standard. The inducements to sell it below that is, that it can be produced for less money. 2. There are four sizes of flat wick burners ; in general use, their numbers are 0, A, Bj and D, or Mammoth. The wicks measure j three-eights, five-eights, one, and one and a half j inches, respectively. This measurement may j not be mathematically exact, but it is the j size given to them by the manufactories, and | is near enough for practical purposes. If you use a wick that is too small, a space is left between the edge of the wick and the ; wick tube which serves as a passage way for j the flame to communicate with the oil in the i lamp. 3 The nearer a lamp is to heing empty the ' greater the necessity of observing rule 3, because the nearer a lamp is to being empty the j more room there is for vapor, and if the burn-! ing wick is turned down, ever so slightly, the j danger is increased of communicating the flame to any gas that might have been formed in the lamp, while if the flame is blown out without disturbing the wick the crust that has formed on the top of the wick effectually closes any little opening between the wick and tube, thus preventing the communication of the flame to the gas when you blow down the chimney. i ? ?i i i j. 4. j\.ii Kerosene uurners art; iuuuc to p?uduce perfect combustion as a prerequisite for a good light. If the wick is turned down to lessen the flame materially, the combustion is not perfect, and the burner becomes overheated, which communicates heat to the lamp, causing the air to vaporize more rapidly than it can be consumed by reason of the imperfect combustion, and (under certain circumstances) causing the lamp to explode. If lamps that are intended for illuminating purposes are used as night-lamps by turning ky atmosphere is produced that is is positively iujurious. If these rules are followed, accidents resulting from exploding kerosene lamps will be far less numerous, and the end will have been attained for which this article was written. THE BANKRUPT LAW. During the financial revulsion which has swept over the country, people have become convinced that the repeal of the present bankrupt law would be of great benefit, for during this crisis they have realized the embarrassment it may occasion. Capitalists who have ample property with which.to satisfy all demauds against them, have been compelled to pay twenty or twenty-five per cent for money, lest if they suspend they would be forced into bankruptcy, aud what property they have be swallowed up by its costly machinery. Such heavy rates of interest are of no benefit to the ' debtor or creditor, and in the end only reduces the amount of assets if continued for a long time. The present bankrupt law works onlv in favor of the obdurate creditor deraan ding his pound of flesh, by giving the oppor-1 tunity of crushing out solvent houses, which, ; by the stringency of the money market, are i temporarily embarrassed. When a house has assets more than sufS- j cient to pay all its liabilities, it does not seem J just and equitable to put it into bankruptcy ! because of some unforeseen financial emergen-1 cy. The law which makes the suspension of ] payment of commercial paper, for fourteen | days, an act of bankruptcy, on account of i which the debtor may be compelled to go into j insolvency regardless of the causes that ope-! rated to produce the embarrassment, ought j not longer to remain in effect. The experience . of the last thirty day3 proves the greatest ar-; guraent in favor of the repeal of a law so ut-! terly antagonistic with commercial security. By the old method of attachment the creditor j was secured, and the debtor had time to ar- { range his affairs without selling his property I for a song, and the utter ruin of solvent houses was prevented. In the present rotten state of our currency those houses doing a legiti- j mate business should be protected and not j crippled by our laws. The present bankrupt j law is one of the causes of our financial woes,! and the best thing Congress can do, at its next j session, is to repeal it.? Woonsocket (R. I.) j Patriot. AST The New York Herald, commenting on 1 the proposition of Postmaster General Cress- j well to establish postal banks, says: "The idea of establishing post office savings ' banks has iu it nothing novel. It has already been practically carried out in Europe, j To the poor laboring man or mechanic who ( has managed, through industry and frugality, to get together a little capital it gives a secu-1 ritv that his hard-earned money shall not be j lost without any error or fault of his own. It I * .? O A1 1 ^ , renders tne savings 01 me peupie ua aeeuie oa i a national currency, pledging for them the j credit and good faith of the nation. In ad- j dition to the great advantage of entire secu-, rity, it affords depositors the advantage of: taking their savings bank with them to any ! < part of the Uniou. If a mechanic now has *\ money deposited in a savings bank, and is ; i suddenly called away to work at a distant lo-! I cality, he is compelled to be at the trouble of; I drawing his money and at the risk of carry- i ing it with him. Under the postal savings I bank system he carries his bank with him 11 wherever he may go, and can draw his bal- p i ance wherever and whenever he may please ' < without disturbing the money. In Europe j s the system has been found to work with ad- j t vantage, both to the depositor and the Gov-: j eminent; and in this country, with its great i distances and its migratory population, its ! benefits would be proportionately greater to ' both." ^ !< New York Lawyers.?A correspondent j c writes: Among those who reap a handsome , e harvest out of the recent panic, the legal fra- j a ternity stands preeminent. An immense I amount of legal practice has been demanded. <' Liach merchant, broker, or banker, who is in , v trouble is obliged to retain a lawyer, and t jome of the complicated cases require more ii bliuil vuw* xnv .rf r when it first appeared before Judge Blachford, brought six well paid lawyers into court, each representing a separate interest. The fees required by these men on this occasion would not be less than $10,000, and the costs of the entire Grinnell suit will probably reach 8500,000. This is a large sum, but it must be remembered that the securities which this house held are valued at twelve millions, and the amount at stake always has a bearing on the legal charges. Our best lawyers value their office time at $50 per hour, which is a very reasonable charge. If you consult one of these men you can in one hour obtain an opinion which may be worth ten times the fee. If, however, you have a case in which a half million is at stake, then instead of a mere $50 per hour, you will be expected to advance a retaining fee of $500, or perhaps $1000. This prevents any one from securing the services of the lawyer thus retained. If the latter sueill flirt noart lia tvi 11 ovnpcf 310 000. and tUCUO ill bite V/UUVj uv, fftAA ? most of this he will expect before it eveu comes to trial. ? ? + How to Treat Flesh Wounds.?Every person should understand how to treat a flesh wound, because one is liable to be placed in circumstances, away from surgical and veterinary aid, where he may save his own life, the life of a friend, or of a beast, simply by the exercise of a little common sense. In the first place, close the lips of the wound with the hand and hold them firmly together to check the flow of blood until several stitches can be taken and a bandage applied. Then bathe the wound for a long time in cold water. "Should it be painful," a correspondent says, "take a panful of burning coals and sprinkle upon them common brown sugar, and hold the wounded part in the smoke. In a few minutes the pain will be allayed, aud recovery proceeds rapidly. In my case a rusty nail had made a bad wound in the sole of my foot. The pain and nervous irritation were severe. This was all removed by holding it in smoke for fifteen minutes, and I was able to resume my reading in comfort. We have often recommended it toothers with like results. A short time ago one of my men had a finger nail torn out by a pair of ice tongs. It became extremely painful, as was to have been expected. Held in sugar smoke for twenty minutes the pain ceased, and it promised speedy recovery." The Foot of a Hokse.?The human hand has often been taken t6 illustrate Divine wisdom?and very well. But have you ever examined your horse's hoof. It is hardly less curious in its way. Its parts are somewhat * more complicated, yet their design is simple and obvious.' The hoof is not, as it appears to the careless eye, a mere lump of insensible bone, fastened to the leg by a joint. It is made up of a series of thin layers, or leaves, of horn, about 500 in number, and nicely fitted to each other, and forming a lining to the foot itself. Then there are as many more layers, belonging to what is called the "coffinbone," and fitted into this. These are elastic. Take a quire of paper and insert the leaves one by one into those of another quire, and you will get some idea of the arrangement of the several layers. Now, the weight of the horse rests on as many elastic springs as there are layers in his four feet?about 4000; and all this is contrived, not only for the convey" * " t - J ? I- .-a - a ance or nis own oouy, duo ior wimusver uuiHfina may hft laid on himr?Jjyral Kmn/> A How the Panic Affects Provisions in New York.?We take from the New York Exjiresa of Wednesday the following comparative view of prices of provisions in that city before and since the panic: Prices before "Wednesday's Panic. Prices. Smoked iiams, per lb 18c. Me. Fresh nork, per lb Me. 12c. Cornea pork, per lb ,.13 to Mc. 12c. Pork sausages, per lb 16 to 18c. Mc. Lard, per lb Me. 12c. Bologna sausages, per lb 20c. 18c. Tripe, per lb 10c. Sc. Mutton sausages, per lb 16c. 12c. Mutton, per lb... 10 to 12c. 8 to 30c. Lamb, per lb 10 to 14c. 8 to 12c. Butter, per lb 38c. 36c. Cheese, per lb 13 to 131c. 14 to 14}c. Turkey, per lb 25c. 21 to 23c. Chickens, per lb 25c. 18 to 20c. Ducks, per lb 25c. 23 to 25c. A steady decline in prices in almost every branch of business is recorded, but it is neither so great nor comprehensive, as one might expect from the general depression consequent upon the unsettled condition of affairs. ? Why Some People are Poor?Cream is allowed to mould and spoil. Silver spoons are used to scrape kettles. The scrubbing brush is left in the water. White handled knives are thrown into hot water. Brooms Imia/* r* on/1 own onon a nni I n/1 ai c ucvci uuug uauu uiu ovvu o|/ui<vu? Dish-cloths are hung where mice can destroy. Tubs are left in the sun to dry and fall apart. Clothes are left on the line to whip to pieces in the wind. The pie-crust is allowed to sour, instead of making a few tarts for tea. Dried fruit is not taken care of in season and becomes wormy. Vegetables are thrown away that would do to warm for breakfast. The cork is left out of the sugar jar, and the flies take possession. Bits of meat are thrown out that would make hashed meat or hash. Coffee, tea, pepper and spices are left to stand open and lose their strength. Pork spoils for the want of salt, and beef because the brine wants scalding. Education of Women.?Commenting upon the fact that not one woman was saved on the fatal Atlantic, although many had the same chance of life as the men, an exchange says : "The strength of women at the crisis of their life depends on their physical culture while children. Let parents be no more ashamed of their girls' brown faces and fists than of their boys. Let them train and clothe them so that they can run and climb and care for and protect themselves. Let them take them with their brothers into the harvest field. A boy is not ashamed of work; no more should be a girl. The refinement that shuts a girl out of God's sunshine, and allows her no rougher work in-doors than to embroider worsteds, or tap ivory keys, or dust a marble mantle, is refining her off the face of the earth to give place to the daughters of the servants of the kitchen." + ? Asiies.?All farmers will find it to their interest to have the oak, hickory and gum, that is down in the forest, turned into ashes. This is a fine season of the year to burn all j ? j 1 :_n_ i *i._ r 1 ueuu wuuu, especially wucrc iuc luicai nua been cut down. You can burn much more and save at the same time more ashes than in the winter and spring. Every three hundred bushels of ashes, well saved and kept dry until the next crop, is the equivalent of any :on of Peruvian guano. Ashes cannot be misapplied on any well drained land, as you nay sow them in the drill, or broadcast, or jompost them. On many farms there is a sufficient quantity of timber that is rotting ;o make a large quantity of this plant-food. \shes are good for all crops. Nothing have ve tried yet that is better. 833" Perhaps it is not generally known that sating a few grains, of parched coffee after mions, will entirely remove the unpleasant >dor from the breath. As this disagreeable ffect is quite an objection to a popular vegetible, 'tis well a specific should be known. 83T The wife of a roofer being asked if she ias not afraid to have her^husband exposed o such danger, trustfully replied, "Oh! he's tisured."