of the fact. On Sunday only did lie honor 
his sign by getting behind it. Between 
church hours he diligently read the maga¬ 
zines, retiring to this uncongenial region lest 
he should worry his mother by a display of 
literature not appropriate to the day. Had 
he by chance seen a possible client coming 
up the gravelled path he would have sum¬ 
marily locked the door. 
IJis friends were troubled by such strange 
conduct. It bocamc the general impression 
that though Hunt was a clever fellow, he 
was altogether too easy for a lawyer. Not 
content with astonishing his friends by neg¬ 
lecting business during the day, he occasion¬ 
ally perplexed his mother by sitting up half 
the night. What could he be doing, alone 
in his room ? 
Oliver took remonstrances in good part, 
hut did not profit by them. “Why,” lie 
would say, “ how can I do anything until 1 
get a client?”—a consideration which seem¬ 
ed to satisfy himself if it tailed to quiet the 
apprehension of his advisers. 
One morning, more than three months af¬ 
ter that one which witnessed the adjustment 
of his sign, Judge Suaw, an old family 
friend, said to him : 
“ 1 am disappointed in you, Oliver, dis¬ 
appointed.” He spoke with some warmth. 
“ Why, man, how do you expect to do any¬ 
thing unless you are in the proper place to 
do it V His office is a young lawyer’s proper 
tarrying place, whet her anybody comes in or 
not. We are losing confidence in you, Oli¬ 
ver. If you don't do something to show 
yourself in earnest, wo shall conclude you’re 
not made of the right stuff. Gel yourself 
into court. I don’t believe you have seen 
the inside of a court-house this term. Bring 
a suit against somebody. Make A pica. Go 
it, strong on anything or nothing, Tm the 
judge, you know. Til help you along. I 
thought too much of your father to let his 
son fail the first time he conducts a suit. 
Take ray word for it, you’ll succeed.” 
“Thank you, Judge, rtianlc you,” said 
OlStver. “ 1 am glad to hear you say 
so: it gives me courage. The fact is,” he 
continued, with some hesitation, “ i have a 
suit on hand,— a very important one. In¬ 
deed, though I have said nothing about it, it 
has bothered mo a good deal of late. 1 —I 
think I shall bring it before the court in a 
day or two.” 
“Right, Oliver, right," said the judge, 
greatly pleased. “ Cautious, T see; you don't 
want to be over-confident. Tt looks well.” 
Then, in a more confidential tone, “ Is the 
case an important one? Any money in¬ 
volved ?” 
“ Twenty llumsund, at least,” replied Oli¬ 
ver. “ If I am successful it will he the 
making of me, while if I fail ”— 
“ Oh, you won’t fail — the word isn’t in 
the book. Didn’t I promise to help you? 
When do you bring it In? in a day or two, 
you say? Suit your own convenience. 
Docket's full, but we’ll crowd it. in, if wo 
have to be irregular and crowd something 
else out." 
“ Let me see,” said Oliver, with an air of 
deliberation, “you mustn’t do anything ir¬ 
regular on my account. Besides, t he defend¬ 
ant is a person who might object to having 
any more stir made than is necessary. This 
is Monday. 1 will bring the matter before 
your honor by Thursday.” 
“Good,” returned the judge; “keep up 
your courage,” and he walked away briskly. 
“Twenty thousand, at least; something 
worth while," lie soliloquised. “Oliver is a 
deeper fellow than 1 took him to he. He 
knows how to lo op his own counsel, too.” 
Meanwhile, Oliver had looked at his 
watch, ordered the carriage, and was ran¬ 
sacking the garden for a gorgeous bouquet, 
lie did look rather deep, and there was an 
odd expression on his face which the keen¬ 
est. observer would have been at a loss to in¬ 
terpret. 
lie arranged his flowers with the utmost 
nicety, and then bestowed an equal amount 
of care on the adjustment of his neck-tie. 
The carriage being ready, he took a final 
survey of himself in the. glass, and drovo 
away. 
He drove directly to a large house, situated 
in the midst of spacious grounds. It was 
evidently the residence of a man who pos¬ 
sessed both wealth and true refinement. The 
house was substantial, the surroundings ele¬ 
gant. lie gave the hell a business-like pull 
and waited. Soon a light step and a rustle 
were hoard. “ Ah, the defendant in person,” 
he thought. “I am honored.” A young 
lady appeared, and, after greeting him pleas¬ 
antly, said: 
“ You sec I am ready. I shan’t keep 3 011 
waiting a minute." 
“ And here is your reward,” said the law¬ 
yer, gallantly tendering Ihe bouquet. 
“ Beautiful!” Her eyes danced. “ You 
have arranged them with exquisite taste— 
for a lawyer,” she added, archly. 
“ 1 tried to make it presentable,” was the 
dry response. 
They were now in the carriage, and the 
gentleman drove on in dogged silence. The 
lady glanced at him timidly, and said: 
“ How anxious you look to-day, Mr. 
Hunt, and how silent 3 r ou are! Arc j’ou 
engaged in a suit at last? I don’t believe 
you are, for I am at a loss to know where or 
when a «licnt could catch you. Papa is 
quite concerned about you.” 
His daughter also looked “quite con¬ 
cerned,” though she spoke lightly. She was 
evidently a friend of long standing, who 
tried to disguise her own anxiety, and at the 
same time give a mild reproof. 
Oliver felt the reproof, for his color rose. 
After a long silence he said: 
“ You are right. 1 ought to be ashamed 
of myself for not pushing things more. But, 
Fanny, I really am engaged in a suit. It is 
a very important one—against a lady, too, 
or rather the defendant is a lady. In fact, 
so much is at stake that. I cannot conceal my 
anxiety as to the result, and am not sur¬ 
prised that my face betrays it.” 
Fanny was penitent in an instant, hut: 
only said,— 
“ Who is the plaintiff?” 
“ I am.” 
“ Who is the defendant?” 
“ You are.” * 
She started. • 
“ You are mysterious—explain yumrself.” 
“ When I first became interested in this 
suit,” said Ol-rvim, “ 1 hardly know. I sud¬ 
denly found myself prosecuting it with the 
greatest ardor, though in a quint way. I 
have been both client and lawyer. You 
have unconsciously been tlio defendant. 
Hitherto, I have pleaded iny cause, by actions 
only, which I acknowledge was not business¬ 
like, inasmuch as my actions were not. cal¬ 
culated to inspire, and, as it appears, have 
not inspired, confidence iu the breasts of 
either judge or jury. But now I shall put 
my plea into words and address it to the 
judge himself. Will the defendant appear 
in Judge Shaw’s library this evening, -at 
eight o’clock precisely?” 
Defendant’s face was hidden by the trou- 
quet, but she said,— 
“ I will be there.” 
“ Good,” rejoined Oliver, in a lawyer-like 
voice. Then it suddenly became very un- 
lawycr-like. 
“ My dearest girl,” I 10 said, “ don't make a 
strong defence. I know my cause weak 
enough; though, believe me, it seems weaker 
than it really is. O, Fanny, if I had the as¬ 
surance that your heart will plead for my 
client, even though your judgment compels 
you to make a st rong defence, I would take 
courage.” 
“ 11. does—it will. But you know, Oliver* 
that your client’s inattention to his profession 
is not in bis favor, and lias already prejudiced 
the judge against him.” 
“If he is against the client he Is Jor the 
lawyer,” rejoined Oliver, laughing. “ lie 
told mo as much this morning. Ho said 
that he would do his utmost to help me. I 
doubt, lliougb, if he would have spoken so 
encouragingly had he known the mature of 
my suit. But I hope, nevertheless, to prove 
my client not altogether so thoughtless* a 
character as he has the credit of being.” 
“01 hope so,” said Fanny, earnestly. 
Oliver whipped up his horse, and they 
were soon at the gate again lie assisted 
her to alight, in profound sllencp, and she 
hurried in. He drove slowly hoi Ac. 
Precisely at eight, Oliver presented him¬ 
self at Judge Siiaw’b door. Being ushered 
into the library, he found Fanny already 
there. She looked up brightly and omilert, 
but said nothing. The judge immediately 
referred to the morning's conversation, in 
part recorded. 
“ 1 was a little hard on you, Oliver, this 
morning,—a little too hard, I fear. 1 thought 
you had nothing on hand, ami as a friend of 
your late father 1 took the liberty of saying 
a word to his son. But it seems you’ve had 
an eye to business all tlm while, though I 
must say nobody would havo known it, cctcrit 1 
paribus” and the judge smiled blandly—at 
his own learning, probably. 
“ Who’s your client?” 
Now Oliver hod been expecting Ibis 
question, but its abruptness startled him. 
“I am.” 
The judge’s eyebrows suddenly lifted. 
“ I expect to plead my own cause,” Oli¬ 
ver continued. 
“ Hunt, eh? versus, whom?” queried the 
judge. 
“ Siiaw.” 
“ Hunt versus Shaw ?” 
It was the judge’s turn to start. 
“Yes,” said Oliver, Miss Fanny over 
there is the defendant.' 
The judge looked hard at Fanny, who 
didn't look at him at all. 
“Look here, Oliver,” he began at length, 
his wrath rising, “ this won’t do. You have 
been trifling with me. What do you mean, 
sir? 
The judge was getting into a heat. Oli¬ 
ver cast a despairing glance towards Fanny, 
which seemed to give him courage, for he 
immediately said — 
“ Ahem!” 
“ Well, sir,” said the judge. “ What are 
you waiting for?” 
“ May it please the court!” said Oliver. 
The court looked more mystified than 
pleased, but contrived to nod, in so curt a 
manner, however, that Oliver derived little 
encouragement from it. 
“ ] told your honor, this morning, Oliver 
continued, “ that I should bring in the mat¬ 
ter by Thursday. On consultation with the 
defense we deemed it bxpedlcnt to presept 
onr cause to-night^ provided your honor 
would grant us a lyfcartng. Wc have no wit¬ 
nesses to he exhumed, on cither side, and 
whether the d/ffense will have anything to 
offer remain^ 1 o be seen. I hope to state my 
client’s co r ja so satisfactorily, and plead his 
cause so successfully, that the learned judge, 
who, by the way, has promised me his hearty 
co-operation, will have no difficulty in ar¬ 
riving at a decision in my client’s favor. 
** In the first, place, sir, I must state that I 
love your daughter, devotedly , and have some 
reason to believe that she is not wholty in¬ 
different to me.” 
The effects of this shot were immediately 
visible. The judge looked harder than ever 
at Fanny, while that young lady showed 
evident signs of consternation. Oliver re¬ 
sumed : 
“ I am aware that my career as a lawyer 
has not been such as to justify me in asking 
the priceless gift of her love. Even had I 
the assurance to prefer such a claim, I know 
both her and .your honor too well to think 
that it would be regarded with favor. I be¬ 
gan the study of law, not because 1 liked it, 
but because I hoped to gain from it strength 
of mind, clearness of thought ami soundness 
of judgment. My tastes have ever been for 
literature; and even in my college days I 
was a furtive contributor to some very re¬ 
spectable journals. 1 have continued to 
write more or less ever since, and so well 
have my efforts been received that I am de¬ 
termined to devote my attention to literature 
exclusively. A short time since I was pf- 
fered a share in the management ancl editor¬ 
ship of the Universal Eagle. 1 accepted the 
situation without hesitating longer than was 
sufficient to convince 111 c that the terms pro¬ 
posed wero reasonable. And now I only 
desire an assurance from your daughter that 
she will accompany me to the scene of my 
new labors, and your own approval. I have 
kept my literary proclivities a secret, partly 
because of a dislike to have my productions 
recognized and criticised by friends, and 
partly because 1 know that an editorial life 
was among the last, things Which my father 
would have chosen for me, and I wished to 
fully demonstrate my ability and aptitude 
before saying anything. In view of these 
considerations, I entreat your honor to give 
that confidence to my client, which I am 
sure lie will never forfeit.” 
The plaintiff sat, down, wiping the per¬ 
spiration from the lawyer’s face with tho 
client’s pocket handkerchief. 
Tho judge had by this time cleared his 
somewhat mystified wits, taken a rapid hut 
careful survey of tho situation, and formed 
his decision. He said: 
“lias tho defendant anything to offer? 
Come, Fanny, what can you say for j r onr- 
sclf and against the plaintiff? Can you 
prove that Oliver oughtn’t to havo you ? 
I must say that, so far, tho suit is in his fa¬ 
vor, and unless you make, a pretty strong 
defense, I shall bo obliged to render a de¬ 
cision for the plaintiff.” 
“ May it please the court,” said Fanny, 
“ I fear I on .11 make but a weak defense. 
Oliver already knows that my heart pleads 
for him, and my reason says nothing against 
him. And while I honor him for not asking 
me to he his wife while his character seemed 
unstable and bis life purposeless, 1 am glad 
that he has been able to clear away all 
doubts and show himself so worthy and no¬ 
ble ; for, dear papa, 1 love him better than 
all the world besides, and would a great deal 
rather he would be an editor than a lawyer, 
I am sure.” 
This unlaw 3 r er*like speech caused Oliver 
to make a very unlawyer-like movement, and 
ihe defense was so utterly defenseless that 
she came very near disappearing in tho 
plaintiff’s arms. 
“Iky, hey!” said the judge, “a pretty 
argument, surely. Why, Fanny, you give 
up without a struggle. I decide for Oliver 
— for the plaintiff, I mean." 
“Really, now, Oliver, .you wero deep, 
weren't you,” pursued the judge. “ You ras¬ 
cal : But what about the twenty thousand, 
eh, Oliver ? Well, well, wo won’t quarrel 
about it now. She’ll have that much at 
least—thirty, likely enough ! ” 
Then again: 
“An editor is it? I’d rather you’d been a 
lawyer; but it’s hard sailing against the 
wind. If Fanny’s suited, it doesn’t matter. 
God bless .you both,” and the judge retired 
precipitately. When they were alone, Oliver 
said: 
“ Do 3 'ou remember once saying that I 
was too fanciful for a lawyer?” 
“ Yes,” returned Fanny, “ and I think so 
yet; but I didn’t say you were too much so 
lor an editor." 
“ At any rate,” said Oliver, “ I have been 
successful once.” 
“Entirely,” rejoined Fanny; “you out¬ 
witted the judge.” 
Ijoicf filisccilann. 
SUNSET SONG. 
Beautiful fun, you are going, going,— 
Sinking from sight in the glistening sea. 
Like molten gold It Is flowing, flowing, 
As It did when my darling went from me. 
Buam ou him tenderly, beautiful sun! 
Ht? clay ts beginning, as ours is done. 
Fair sweet stars, you arc shining, shining. 
From the heaven's<leuj> arch of glorious blue; 
Do you not see 1 am pining, pining. 
For the tenderin'--wges sent through you ? 
Bright, ble-wed stars, you have look'd on my love; 
Give me llis message, sweet star*, from above. 
Summer night breeze, you nro sighing, sighing, 
Mournfully over the glistening strand. 
Like a pitying ghost to my plaint replying ; 
Bay, do you come from that distant laud ? 
My forehead Is touch'd by a spirit's light kiss, 
And the murmuring fulls to a song like this: 
“ Patience, dear henrt.! Time is fleeting, fleeting; 
There's a true love watting beyond t he sea. 
Though the time snems weary f the hour of meeting 
A full repayment for all will be. 
Then patience, dear heart, till that joyful day.” 
Aud in cohoes of “ patience” it dies away. 
---- 
LETTER OF WILLIAM PENN. 
While tho Great Republic continues to 
exist, the name of this eminent philanthro¬ 
pist will not he forgotten, as the founder, in 
peace, justice and honor, of the great State 
which bears his name, and which forms the 
keystone of the arch of freedom. Having 
compounded a claim of his family against 
the British Court by accepting a grant of 
land in the American wilderness, with a 
royal charter for governing the panic, he 
then founded a great State where men could 
worship God according to their own con¬ 
sciences, in peace, toleration and quiet, un¬ 
harmed by any one. 
In taking possession of this domain, Penn, 
unlike all the Colonial founders who have 
coino and gone before and since bis day, 
never dreamed of seizing any part of it with¬ 
out the ft'ee consent of the savages who 
already inhabited it. Beneath the great, 
never-to-be-forgotten elm tree, (upon whoso 
site in Philadelphia a monument now stands 
to commemorate the event,) the Indians were 
called together, Penn informed them what 
ho wished to do, and asked them their price 
for tho ground which he desired to occupy. 
They met him in tlio same spirit, smoked 
the pipe of peace, and told him what they 
wanted—all of which Penn cordially agreed 
to, and what is still more, faithfully kept his 
word, though not more faithfully than the 
poor Indians with whom he bargained ad¬ 
hered to theirs. 
Voltaire, the French satirist, in com¬ 
menting upon this most remarkable trans¬ 
action,— the more remarkable because It 
stands alone by itself, and has never been 
successfully imitated or followed by any 
Government since that time,—declared in 
liig bitter way that “ it was the only treaty 
ever ratified by Christians without an oath, 
and the only one that was ever kept by 
them." On liis departure for his Colonial 
possessions, W.M. Penn left behind him the 
following letter to his family, which is well 
worth general perusal at this and all other 
times: 
“My Dear Wife and Children -.—My love, 
which neither sea, nor land, nor death Itself can 
extinguish or losson toward you, most endear- 
edl.v visits you with tender embraces am! will 
abido with you f 01 ever; and may tho God of 
my life wateli over you, and bless you, mid do 
good in this world forever. Some things are 
upon my spirit to leave with you in your respec¬ 
tive capacities, as I am to 0110 a husband, and 
to the rest, h father, if I should never sco you 
more m this world. 
“My dear wile! Remember thou wast. the 
love of my youth, and much tho joy of my life. 
The most bdloved, as well as tho most worthy of 
all my earthly comforts; and the reason of that 
love was more thy inward than thy outward ex¬ 
cellencies, which yet- were many. God knows, 
nnd thou Knowest, that I cun say It was a match 
of Providence’s making; nnd God’s image In us 
both was the first thing, and the most amiable 
aud engagin',- ornament In our eyes. Now that 
I am to leave thee, and that without knowing 
Whether I shall ever see thee more in this world, 
take my counsol into thy bosom and let it dwell 
with thee in my stead while thou livest.” 
After some advice about Godliness and 
economy, he says: 
“ And now, my dearest, lot me recommend to 
thoo my dear children —abundantly beloved of 
me, as the Lord’s blessings n nd the sweet pledges 
of our mutual and endeared affection. Above 
all things, endeavor to brood them up in tho 
love of virtue, and that holy, plain way of it 
which wc have always lived in, that the world in 
no part of it get into my family. 1 had rather 
they were homely than finely bred as to out¬ 
ward behavior. Yet 1 love sweetness mixed with 
gravity, nnd cheerfulness tempered with sobri¬ 
ety. Religion iu the heart lends into this true 
civility, teaching- men and women to be mild 
and courteous iu their behavior, an accomplish¬ 
ment worthy indeed of praise. 
“ Next, breed thorn upon a love of one another. 
Tell them it is the charge I left behind me, and 
that it is tho way to have the love and blessings 
of G@Dupon them. Sometimes separate them, 
but not long; and allow them to send and give 
each other small things, to endear one with an¬ 
other. Onee more, 1 say, tell them it was my 
counsel they should be. tender aud affectionate 
one to another. For their learning, be liberal. 
Spare no cost, for by such parsimony all is lost 
that Is saved. Hut let it be useful knowledge, 
such as is consistent with truth and goodness, not 
cherishing a vain conversation or idle mind. 
Be sure to observe their genius, and do not cross 
it as to learning. Let them not dwell too long 
on one thing, but let their change be agreeable, 
and let all their diversions have some little bodi¬ 
ly labor in them, "’hen grown big, have most 
care for them, for then there arc most snares, 
within as well as without. When marriageable, 
see that they have worthy persons in view, of 
good life, and good fame for piety and under- 
sUnvding. 1 desire no wealth, but sufficiency, 
and bo sure their love be dear, fervent and mu¬ 
tual, that it may be happy for them. 1 choose 
not they should be married to earthly, covetous 
kindred; and of cities and towns, and of con¬ 
course, beware. Tho world Is apt to st ick close 
to those who have lived nnd got, wealth there. 
A country life and estate I like best for my 
children." 
He tbus addresses his children : 
“ Bo obedient to your dear mother,—a woman 
whoso virtue and good name is an honor to you, 
for she hath been exceeded by none in her timo 
for her integrity, humanity, virtue and good 
understanding—qualities not usual among wo¬ 
men of her worldly condition nnd quality. 
Therefore, honor nnd obey her, my dear chil¬ 
dren, as yotir Mother, and your lather’s love and 
delight. Nay, love her, too. for she loved your 
father with a deep and upright lovn, choosing 
him before all her many suitors, and thougli she 
bo of a delicate constitution and noble spirit, 
yet she descended to the utmost tenderness and 
care for you, performing the pulnfulcst acts of 
service to you In your infancy, as a mother and 
a nurse too. I ohargo you before the Loud, 
honor and obey, love and cherish your dear 
mother.” 
After a number of other affectionate coun¬ 
sels, lie thus turns particularly to bis elder 
boys. Could these injunctions he bettered, 
iu any day or generation ? 
“And as for you, who nro likely to bo con¬ 
cerned in the government or Pennsylvania, I do 
charge you before the Loud Goo and His holy 
angels, to be lowly, diligent and lender—fearing 
God, loving tho poople, and hating covotousncss. 
Let justlco ha ve its impartial course, and tho 
law free passage. Though to your loss, protect 
no man against it—for you arc not above the 
law, but the law above you. Live, therefore, 
the lives you yourselves would have the people 
live, and then shall you havo right and boldness 
to punish tho transgressor. Keen upon tlio 
square, Tor God secs you. Therefore, do your 
duty, and bo suro you eoc with your own eyes, 
and hear with your own ears. Entertain no 
flatterers; cherish no informers for gain or re¬ 
venge; use no tricks; fly to no devices to sup¬ 
port or cover Injustice; but lot your hearts bo 
upright before the LORD, trusting in Him above 
the contrivances of men, and none shall be able 
to hurt or supplant yon. * * * * * 
“Finally, my dear children, loro one another 
with a true, endeared love, and your dear rela¬ 
tions on both sides, and take cure to preserve 
tender affection to each other among your chil¬ 
dren, often marrying within themselves, so as it 
bo without the bonds forbidden by God s law, 
so that they may not, like the forgetting, un¬ 
natural world, grow out of kindred, and ns cold 
ns strangers, but as becomes a truly natural and 
Christian stock, you, and ycurs after you, may 
live In the pun* and fervent love of God towards 
ouo another, as becoming brethren In tho spirit¬ 
ual and natural relation. 
“So, farewell to my tlirico dearly beloved wifo 
und children. 
“Yours, as God plcnsoth, in that which no 
waters can quench, no time forget, nor distance 
wear away, but remains forever, 
“William Penn. 
“ Wormlnghurst, 4th of fltb mo., 1083.” 
-«►-»-»- 
CHEERFUL PEOPLE. 
God bless the cheerful person! — man, 
woman or child, old or young, illiterate or 
educated, handsome or homely. Over and 
above every other social trait stands cheer¬ 
fulness. What the sun is to nature—what 
God is to the stricken heart which knows 
how to lean upon Him, are cheerful persons 
in the house and by tlic wayside. They go 
unobtrusively, unconsciously, about their 
silent mission, brightening up society around 
them with the happiness beaming from their 
faces. AVu love to sit near them; we love 
the glance of their ej’c, the toms of their 
voice. Little children find them out, oil! so 
quickly, amid the densest crowd, and, pass¬ 
ing by the knotted brow and compressed 
lip, glide near, and, lay mg a confiding little 
hand on their knee, lift their clear young 
eyes to those loving faces. 
SANDWICHES. 
Dearer that Life—Fashionable funerals. 
An Object of Interest—Seven-thirties. 
The winds merchants pray for—The trade 
winds. 
High “Words — Conversation on Mont 
Blanc. 
Men who take things as they come along 
—Thieves. 
The flowers of speech spring from the 
root of the tongue. 
A Yu at goes most against a farmer’s grain ? 
— His mowing machine. 
Be temperate in diet. Our first parents 
ate themselves out of house and home. 
A gentlemen looking at his watch after 
midnight cried, “ It's to-morrow morning! I 
must bid you good-night.” 
Common swearing argues iu a man a per¬ 
petual distrust of his own reputation, and is 
an acknowledgment that he thinks his bare 
word not to be worthy of credit. 
If love and affection could be won with 
gifts and jewels, then, indeed, would love 
have its price; but it is not so. Affec¬ 
tion sinings from the heart only; no gifts 
can produce it. A child’s love is won more 
truly by a parent’s fond embrace and lass 
than with glittering toys. 
