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LET HIM REST.
"Heroic spirits war not with the dead."
Let him rest—
He has done with light and life,
And his ear is closed to strife*
Though he tro.l the path of shame,
r ouch, oh, touch not now his name ;
Wtiocan tell the grief he bore,
lire he fell to rise no more 7
Many thorns his feet have pressed
Let him rest—let him rest !
Let him rest—
For he knew it not on earth ;
From the banquet-hall of mirth
•lander beckoned him away,
Laughed to see bis hopes decay ;
A'd he brooded o'er his woe,
Till in death he found repose.
F. very flower that love had blessed
Quickly faded—let him rest.
Let him rest—
While you drop a friendly tear
Over his dishonored bier ;
Once his soul, like thine, was pure
f ou'd'st thou all his wrongs endure,
And receive no spot or s'ain 7
\S nisper not his faults again.
Oruel thorns his feet have pressed—
Let him rest —let him rest. Roi.lix.
fHi art l l uj.
i TIIN IMf HINT- :
BT .1 All AM ALLEN, C. S. SURVEY IXG SERVICE. ;
J\ the summer of IS4-9, fate laid tny lines in
the pleasant places of Southern Texas, and 1
there many an exciting taste of wild backwoods
life, the recollection ol which, will be some
thing fjr me to think about when my strength
of smew and elasticity ot muscles have lied,
and my hair is silvered o'er w itli the frosty touch
ot age.
One of the most stirring ol these memories
is that ola buffalo—or more properly a bison
hunt, in which I played the part of hero—
though I came unpleasantly near being the
victime instead. I had not as v t killed one of
these monsters of the prarie, and when J re
turned from an unsuccessful chase after them,
my two companion^ — a tough old German, and
a St. Louis lawyer, who had sought to exter
minate the germ of a pulmonary complaint in
the balmv atmosphere of Texas—used to laugh
at me ruthlessly. This, of course, piqued my
vandy a little, and I determined to be even with
them.
I had on going to the western wilds, adopt
ed a!! the external accompaniments of a genu
ine ranger. I flattered myself that I was a
good shot with the rifle, and never went from
our ranche without my trusty "Brownie" slung
oxer rr.v shoulders. 1 was a good rider, and if
1 was only going a quarter of a mile, I invari
able bridled my handsome bay "Charley." 1
also affected the vanity of a buckskin suit,
stringed at the seams, Indian' fashion ; a slouch
felt hat, a wide collar rolled well back, and a
gav silk kerchief, tied in a large bow, with
waving ends. The ere-while lawyer declared
that I reminded him of the trappers he had
seen in St. Louis—but only onthestage—and
the old German averred that "dese yer dandy
hunters was wort' shu-t noiin't all."
For my own part, I knew very well, that il
I had a fair chance, I could kill as much gamp
as anybody, 1 had already brought ir, as many
ducks, geese, squirrels, and ether small deer,
as either Hans the German, or Rawley the
lawyer; and the buckskin from which my
habiliments were made, was taken from animals
Which had been killed by the deadly charge of
"Brownie." Therefore, I laid my unsuccessful
attempts at bison-killing, entirely to bad luck,
and determined to show my companions that 1
was as good a backwoodsmen as they, at the
first favorable opportunity.
It was with this intention, that I mounted
Charley, one fine morning, and set off, with a
gxrdly supply of atritnunilion, some jerked ven
ison, and a flask in my haversack.
"Brownie" was slung across my back, mvspurs
jingled at rny heels, and as I galloped out into
the fiesh sweet air, of the divine Texan morn
ing, I felt so invigorated and courageous, that
I made an inward vow not to return until I had
slain at least one buffalo.
I rode for some hours, without perceiving
any signs of the game I sought, but toward
noon 1 .descried, at an immense distance on
a piece of rolling ground, a herd of dark,
shaggy objects, which I instantly recognized
as buffaloes. I rode into a small point of for
rst near by, called in western parlance, an "oak
opening," and dismounting, took a hasty lunch
of \ enison, washed down by a draught of my
| flask, for the ride had fatigued me. Still, I
kept a sharp lookout upon the herd of bisons,
which were grazing, and did not" wander far
!rom 'he spot where I first desciTed them.—
At tfie expiration of a few minutes, during
which time I had watered Charley, and al
lowed him to crop the grass about biin, I re
mounted, considerably refreshed, and with
"Brownie," loaded and capped, under mv arm,
I rode around the herd, in a circuit of some
two miles, to gel fo leeward of them. Arriv
ing at a suitable point, I raised myself in the
stirrups, clenched my rille firmly in my right
band, and touching Charley with my spurs ,r ave
him the reins. * ° I
Over the prairie sod we fiew, toward the'
L .. IV 1 • .
buffaloes, now quite near, and soon got close
enough to alarm them. VV ith a unanimous
movement, they lowered their shaggy heads,
erected their tails, and made the earth "thunder
to their tread. But G'hailey was fleeter of" foot
than they, and was rapidly gaining upon them.
When 1 fancied ] was within fair rifle-shot, I
took as good an aim as mv motion would al
low of, and pulled the trigger, singling out a
fine fat cow as my mark. She made a treinen
nous hound, and I expected to he beside
her carcass in a moment, hut it seemed that J
had only grazed her, for she ran on with the
rest.
Plainly it would not do to fire from the sad
die, while Charley was going at such a pace. I
| reined him in, reloaded my rifle, and again
; started in pursuit of the herd. This time,!
j came much nearer to them, as I wished to have
j time for a more deliberate aim. When I |
jso near that I felt the earth tremble under the I
| incessant trampling of their hoofs, and could |
: see the foain flung from their panting mouths, |
j I stopped my horse, took a careful sfoht at i
another huge cow, and again fired. Just as my
linger touched the trigger, however, an immense I
brown bull dashed before my aim, and the s
bulmt intended for the cow, found a place in t
his flank instead.
He stopped with a tremendous bellow, and
did not resume his flight until the rest of the
herd had nearly passed. Bur by this time the
chase had began to tell upon Charley. Ijj s
pace was not so fast as at first, and bis nostrils
were widely expanded. Thinking that I couhi
overtake the wounded bull easily enough, 1
again stopped to reloaJ "Brownie," and keep
ing my eye upon my former mark, sent anoth
er shut after him. This als took effect. The
held thundered on, leaving their wounded
com; anion fo-hind, and I dashed towards him
with a wild Indian veil of triumph, forgeltino
tfcat I had no charge in rr.y rifle in- >' n- R
I - •' y again,, tvu! ••••!..!
if /ivry, and it was not until 1 was quite close
to him that 1 remembered how difficult it would
be to shoot at buffalo with an empty gun. 1
felt for my powder-flask, but alas! it no longer
hung at my side !
At once it struck me that in loading the last
lime I had broken its string, and it bad doubt
less dropped into the thick prairie grass, where
to look lor it, would be quite as hopeless a task
as "hunting for a needle in a hay-stack." -By
the time I had recovered from the terrible
shock of disappointment occasioned by this
discovery, 1 was startled by Charley's rearing
upon his hind legs in such a manner, going at
full speed as he was, as to nearly throw me
over backward.
The 01-ject which had given my faithful ani
mal such a fright, was the body of a Ca.r.an
che Indian, lying prone upon the ground, II is
scalp was gone, antl a knife wound in his chest
showed plainly enough that he had fallen a
victim to the inherent vindictiveness ol his
race.' Familialized, hv my backwoods life, to
all forms of death and danger, and being ac- '
customed (o regard tiie 'Ted-skins" as an in
ferior race, Ibis sight excited no feeling with- i
in me save the single or.e ol disgust, and I was j
about to follow the wounded buffalo, hoping,
that my two shots might prove fatal to him,
when I noticed a Camanche spear lying in the
grass, near the body of the Indian. Although i
but little versed in the art of wieldingjthis weap
on, it was at least better than my shoit hunting
knife, and I was so bent upon killiing my game,
that I hail thought of attacking him on foot,
with this little instrument.
I wheeled Charley about, then, and possess
ing myself of the spear, gave vigorous chase to
the bison once more. As I drew nearer him
—an easy matter, lor the wound in his haunch
disabled him lor fast running—he stopped, and i
lowered his immense bovine head, rolled his
glaring eyes horribly upward, and bellowed
forth a deep-chested note of defiance. It was j
clear he meant to stand at bay, and sell his lite !
•s dearly as possible.
I was under such headway, that I could not
rein in, until almost upon the huge brute. By
turning mv horse however, 1 passed the bull,
and in passing gave him a blow with the sptar.
i Another bellow, and a mad plunge at Charley's
! side, was the result cf this third wound. For
j tunatrlv, we escapeddhe attack, St a desperate
i fight ensued, in which nothing but the fleetness
of Charley, and the exhausted condition of the
bull, prevented me from being worsted almost
attheoutset. 1 wheeled about him, driving
the sharp spear-head into his neck and sides at
every turn, and at length he stood, head down,
i trembling from loss of blood, his tongue hang
! jng from his mouth, and his tail lashing Ins
I sides in the frenzy of impotent rage.
Again I advanced, aiming my weapon just
■ back of his fore-sholder, where the heart lies,
I to give the death-blow, when he gathered his
whole strength for one last effort, and meeting
me half way, we met with a terrible shock.
Over we went, buffalo, man, and hors<\ pell
mell. with a crash like the fall of a giant
oak.
1 remember how in that awful moment, the
! seconds seemed like ages to me. My whole past
i life flashed through my memory, and I seemed
to review all the 3cts and incidents I had known.
| I felt that death stared me in the face, and that
I 1 should never meet my friends, nor see my
I home again. But it was ordered that I should
, not die then. A beneficent Providence, who
i sees all things, held my destiny in the hollow
of his hand, and naught could prevail to change
r , my fate. Ihe horrible brute had driven his
horns deep into the breast of my poor Charley,
and now sprang upon us both, with bis sharp
i hoofs, trampling over our prostrate forms.,
, How T ever escaped the tread of those feet,
and the struggles ot my dying charger, I can
not imagine, but I received but a few trifling
wounds, and the fear'of a sudden cruel death,
was the greatest suffering I was called upon to
bear.
j As T lay, partially shielded by Charley's
body, fqickly drew my hunting knife, and;
when the bull came upon me, with a hoof on i
either side of my hpad —fairly pinning rr.e to J
the ground. I made one ghastly cut from one i
side ol his throat to the other, aided by the j
superhuman strength which sometimes aids us '
in the hour of mortal terror. The prairie-le
viathan raised himself with a covulsive shud
der, and drawing back with a demoniac roar
which has rung in my ears ever since, foil dead
by my side!
I'oran hour, I could nof collect mv energies
enough to think or act connectedly. I laughed,
I wept, J prayed, I shouted, and I sung; far
more like a lunatic, than a sane man. At
length I became calm, and saw, by the declin
ingsun, that I must hasten back, as 1 must
now travel afoot. Jt was late at night ere 1
reached the "oak-opening," where I had
lunched that morning, and but for the intense !
brilliancy of the Texan moonlight, I should !
have been hopelessly lost on the trackless
prairie. As it was, f could s*e the distant
forest outline distinctly, and on reaching this
pou.t, knew my way homeward to the ranche.
My companions would not at first believe the
la.'ej told ; but I finally convinced them, by |
.-.howing (f.e marks of the bull's hoofs upon ;
the skirts of my buckskin coat, and bv the trav- I
el.vained condition! of my habiliments "ener- !
I ally. * " °
Ihe next day, we went to the scene of mv
encounter, and as the wolves haJ not yet
; Inched the caicass of the bison, I skinned it,
that J might have a trophy of mv fight. The
skin now covers rny lounge, in tft is room where
I am writing.
-My sorest grief was for my horse. Poor
( bar ley ' 1 mourn-d his !o<s as 1 have since
mourned that of a friend. He was so trusty
so kind—so noble. I |>ati rnanv oilier fine
steeds afterwards, but could never find one to
hll his place. I killed my buffalo, hut at a
i ;ould hardly have paid, had I known
COI'IIAGE IN WOMEN.
There is a branch of general education which
is not thought at all necessary for women :as
, regards which, indeed, it is well if they are not
brought up to cultivate the opposite. Women
are not taught to be courageous. Indeed, to
some persons, courage may seem as unnecessary
for woman a-. Latin and Greek. Yet there are
few tilings that would tend to make women
happier in themselves, and more acceptable to
those with whom they live, than courage.—
I'here are many women of the present day,
sensible women in other things, w hose panic
. terrors are a frequent souice of discomfort to
, themselves and those around them. iN'uw, it is
a great mistake to imagine that hardness must
go with courage ; and that the bloom of gentle- !
ness and sympathy rr.ust ail he lulbed ofl'by
that vigor which gives presence of mind,!
enables a person to be useful in peril, and makes >
the desire to assist overcome that sickliness of :
sensibility which can only contemplate distress
and difficulty. So tar from courage being un
feminine, there is a peculiar grace and dignity
in those beings who have little active power
i of attack or defence, passing through danger
; with a moral courage which is equal to that of
the strongest. We see this in great things. We
perfectly appreciate the sweet and noble digni
ty of an Anne Boleyn, a Mary Queen of Scots,
or a Marie Antoinette. We see that it is grand
for these delicately bred, high nurtured, help
less personages to meet Death with a silence and
confidence like his own. There is no beauty
lin fear. It is a mean, ugly, dishevelled crea- ;
r lure. jVo statue can be made of it that a wo- I
man would u ish to see herself like.
We may be quite sure that, without losing j
any of the most delicate and refined of feminine !
| graces, women may be taught not to give way !
to unreasonable fi-ar?, which should belong no
more to the fragile than to the robust.
THE TREE GEM'LEMA.V,
j Such gentlemen as a certain author describes ]
in the following paragraph, are nut to be met ;
every day ; and should any unmarried lady j
chance to find one, we advise her to secure him 1
forthwith, as one of lire most perfect works
from the atelier ol the Divine Architect :
"Show me a man who can quit the brilliant
j society of the young to listen to the kindly
I voice of age—who can hold cheerful conversa
tion with one whom years have deprived of all
charms ; show me the man who is willing to
; help the dt formed, who stand in need ot help,
as it the blush of Helen mantled on his cheek ;
show me the man who would no sooner look
j rudely at the poor girl in the village than at
the well-dressed lady in the saloon : show me
the man who treats unprotected maidenhood as
h* would the heiress, surrounded by the power
ful protection of rank and family :show me he
| that abhors the libertine's gibe—who shuns him
as the blasphemer and traducer of his mother's
sex who scorns, as he would the coward, the
ridiculer ola woman's reputation ; show me a
ran who never forgets for an instant the deli
cacy and respect that is due to a woman, in
any condition or class, and you show me a true
■ gentleman."
I A Good Idea. —There is a rule in a debating so
. ciefy that we have heard of, which is, "that any
t gentleman wishing to speak more than half an
r hour, shall have a room to himself.''
Freedom of Thought and Opinion.
BEDFORD, PA., FRIDAY MORNING, MARCH 19, 1858.
j THE POOR MANAS ANGEL.
A dark angel, with heavy wings, stood bv
the side ot an Atheist, the room was the
home of a poor man ; the poor man looked very
sorrowful, but by his side, unseen, stood a
bright angel.
■Don t know, Jake," said the poor man,
crouching closer to the little brazier ot coals;
place SeemS l ° me th ' 3 Wor,d ' s a mi S ht y mean
"The world's good enough; it's the people
hat is jn it," said the philosopher Jake.
'\vel), J don't know, I tell you," sard the
poor man ; "here's this cold weather. If a man
ain't got no work, jest see how it freezes him.
Here 1 am pinched up with the cold, no over
coat, no warm thick clothes, and when I cr Q
out it seems as il the wind owed me a spite and
jest whistled through my bones 'cause it knows
it hurts. Then there's the earth vou crack up
so, don t yield me nothing; only them that can
pay, get the corn and the potatoes. It I should
ask anything of it, it would only give me a
pavin stone 'cordin' to Scripter." The nature
that you talk about and call the great essence,
and all that, is mighty putty sometimes, if a
man s got time to enjoy It, but (ben it rains,
bails, thunders, and snows, and nature likes to
drip down n.y cracks in the wall, and a little
spite fuller than it does on the ground. .Nature
don't give me a coat to wear, and make me a
pair of pantaloons. No, Jake, I'll give in ; I
ain't got as much larnin as you have, but I'll
be blistered if I don't think there's a better place
than this somewhere. Praps your'e honest
'a !u j n vou say there's no Got), and nature's our
mother, an all that but it don't give a poor fel
low any consolation when he ain't got any bread
and butter. That's sol Now when I was a
lithe feller, I had a good mother—yes, Jake I
had so! I have known the time when she was
that hungry she jest up and ciied for herself
3tid me too. And then remember she jest down
and prayed fo the Lord iiial He would send her
some bread, and he sent it ! lie did so!
"Don't believe it 1 All a yarn! Well, I
guess if you'd gone hungry twenty-four hours
) ju >i a believed that bread was bread, and not
yarn, when you got hold of it. I te|| y OU ,
somebody brought a basket chuck full of bread
and meat, ar.d knocked at our door and pushed
il in, and di lot say nothing. Then savs my
mother, say s she: Hob don't never forgit to
pray ; but J haven't minded her once," and the
rough man drew closer to the smoking coals
and hid his face in his hands while the" bright
angel drew closer to him.
" V "' •' 'twan't <ki (or you to talk to me that
way, kn/<'iYs_w."r.n f.l.r
say. Why, it \* as my wife a dying. The poor
thing! 1 hadn't been altogether kind to her,
Jake; it were my spreeing habits, you see, jest
ivgularlv given mysell over to the old one, for
mighty poor pay, 1 tell you. \Y ell, I give her
the rough word many'sthe time, poor soul, and
made tlie tears come into her eyes ollen. But
when she <iud, she jest said the loveliest things
about heaven and forgive me every wicked thing
I'd did, and said she saw angels, and was going
opto her Father in glory and looked so happy !
Ycu may laugh at me if you like tor talking on
like a baby, but that wasn't no sham, that dy-
ing bed.
"Look how God has taker, care of me ? Bel
ter say look how I've took care of myself. Bet
ter say, Bob, you've spent enough money in
drink, and cigars, and betting, and treating, and
fo /ling, to have a little house over your head,
ant! a living wife, too, by gosh ! there that s the
last oath ever you'll hear out of my head. 1
ain't a going to be drawn into believing your
wicked notions, cause 1 know there is a God,
and 1 mean to know Him better nor I do.—
There, I feel warmer now, and more com tort a
bie, and I'm going right over to the preacher
w hat came when my poor Maty died ; and I il
tell him 1 want to meet her there, and ask him
to show me the way."
The dark angel covered his face with his
wing, and the bright angel soared in triumph to
heaven.
VANDALISM OF THE WORLD.
Fancy what we should have had around us
now, if, instead of quarreling and fighting over
their work, the nations bad aided each other
in their work, or if even in their conquests,
instead of ellacing the memorials of those they
succeeded and subdued, lJi< y had guarded the
spoils of their victoi ies. Fancy what Europe
would be now, if the d-licate statutes and 4lem
ples of the Greeks—it the broad roads and mas
sive walls of the Romans —if the nobles and
pathetic architecture of the middle ag.'s had
not been ground to dust by mere human rage.
You talk of the scythe of lime, and the tooth of
lime: I tell you time is scytheless and tooth
less ;itis we who gnaw like the worm we
who smite like the scythe. It is ourselves uho
abolish—ourselves who consume : we are the
mildew and the flame; and the soul of man is
to its own work as the moth that frets AI hen it
: cannot flv, and as the hidden (lame that blasts
! where it cannot illumine. All these lost treas
i tires of human intellect have been wholly de
ist royed by human industry of destruction, the
1 marble would have stood its two thousand
years as well in the polished statue as in the
i Parian cliff— but we men have ground it to
! powder, and mixed it with out own ashes; the
u alls and the ways would have stood—it is
: we who have left not one stone upon another,
and restored its pathlessness to the desert ; the
great cathedrals of old religion would have
! stood —it is we who have dashed down the car
ved work with axes and hammers, and bid the
; mountain-grass bloom upon the pavement, and
the sea-winds chaunl in the galleries.— Ruskin.
OT"The author of the following should be
watched or he might "back out."
A bis? distructivedurk I'll bi,
I'll bid pharewell too every fear,
Then wipe mine weeping I,
An kut mi throat phroin year to year.
PINCH'S CHARGE TO THE JURY
ihe subjoined charge was copied from the
London Punch about fifteen years ago. Not
withstanding the antiquity of the document,
we consider it in some respects, a "model"
charge—it, at least, possessing the merit of
leaving the jury unbiassed in their deliberations
upon a verdict.
GENTLEMEN or THE JURY —You are sworn lr
these cases to decide according to the evi
dence ; at the same lime it you have any doubl
you are bound to give the prisoner the benefit
of it.—Suppose you have to pronounce on the
guilt or innocence ot any gentleman accused ol
felony. You will naturally doubt whether any
gentleman would commit such offence—accor
dingly however strong may be the testimony
against him, you will perhaps acquit him. The
evidence of your own senses is. at least, as credit
able as that of the witnesses ; if, therefore, your
eyesight convince you that the prisoner" is a
well dressed person, you have a right to pre
sume his respectability ; and it is for you to say
whether a respectable person would he likely
to be guilty of the crimes imputed to him.
In like manner when you see a shabby look
ing fellow in the dock, charged for example
for sheep stealing, the decision rests with you,
first whether or not that individual is a raga
muffin, and, secondly, how far it is probable
that a man of that description would steal sheep.
Of course, as has been before said, you will al
ways be guided by tbe evidence ; but, then,
whether the evidence is trustworty or not, is a
matter for your private consideration. You
may believe it if you choose, or you may disbe-
lieve it ; and whether, gentlemen of the jury,
you believe it or disbelieve it, will depend upon
the constitution olyour minds. If your minds
are so constituted that you wish "to find the
prisoner guillv, perhaps you will believe it ; if
they happen to be so constituted that you de
sire to find him not guilt}*, why then very like
ly you will disbelieve it. You are to free your
minds from all passion and prejudice if you can,
and in that case your judgment will be unbias
sed : but if you cannot you will return a ver
dict accordingly. It is not, strictly speaking,
for you to consider what w ill be the effect of
your verdict; but if such a consideration should
occur to you, and you cannot help attending to
it, that verdict will be influenced by it to a cer
tain extent. You are probably aware that
when you retire, you w ill he locked up until
you contrive to agree. You may arrive at
unanimity by fair discussion, or by some of vou
starving out the others, or by tossing up ; and
your conclusion by whichever of these process
es arrived at, will be more or less in accordance
—it is to be hoped re win woi.
gentlemen of the jury, you will come to some
conclusion or other, unless it should so happen
that vou separate without coining to any.
AX EXPENSIVE JOKE.
The day before New Yeai's, two gentlemen, I
well known among the citizens of Brooklyn as
"men of means," named Theodore Polhemus
and William Hunter, met at a saloon in Fulton
street, near Hicks, when Polhemus asked Ilun
t r it he was going to make any calls on New
Year's.— Hunter replied, that he had intended
to make calls, but had no coachman, and in a
boasting manner said that he would give SSOO
for a good looking coachman, at the same time
to Polhemus, "Why don't you take the
job you are good looking, and would make a
splendid coachman." Polhemus acknowledged
the compliment, and said he would serve for
that sum. Hunter then told him to be on band
at two o'clock the next day, ready for sen ice,
but demanded that if he failed to perform his a
<rreement he should forfeit a casket of wine.
The conditions were agreed to, and they parted.
The next day; Mr. Hunter, who resides in I ler
repoir.t street, was at his house about the time
agreed upon ; with him were most of the party
who were witnesses to the bet ol the clay before,
' anxious to see the denouement. A few mo
ments before two. Hunter reminded the guests
of the bet, and remarked that it would be tun it
Polhemus did not keep his engagement.
A moment afterwards Polhemus was announ
ced, and appeared whip in hand, ready for ser
vice. He asked Hunter where his coach was,
when the reply was made that he had none.
Polhemus offered his own, stating that he was
,eady to drive according to agreement. Hun
ter then excused himself, stating that he would
not go out except in his own coach. Polhemus
OflVred to get the best team that could be had
in the city," but Hunter still insisted that he
would not go out. Upon this Polhemus replied
that he supposed his services would not be
required. Hunter replied, "certainly not.
"Iri that case," said Polhemus, "I will take a
zlassof wine. I came here as a coachman and
am now vour equal, but shall demand payment
for my services according to contract, it i
bad failed in performing my part ol the agree
ment, vou would have exacted the penalty, and
1 now demand the S3OO you agreed to give me
for services." Hunter laughed, the wine was
drank and the company parted. No suit Has
been brought for the SSOO, but it will be paid
bv Hunter. Both parties are well known as being
wealthy. The joke was a dear one to the party
i making the wager, but as he is able to stand it,
,t will do no harm, and may tend to make him
more cautious in future how he employs coach
men. The proceeds ol the sport will be appii
dto charitable purposes.— \ew York Courier.
' !£7=A clergyman was endeavoring to instruct
one of his Sunday schollars, a ploughbboy, on
the nature jof miracle. "Now, u.y boy," said
he, "suppose you were to see the sun rising in
the middle ofthe night, what should you call
that?" "The mune, please zur." "No, but,"
! said the clergyman, "suppose you knew it was
'not the moon, but the sun, and that you saw
it actually rise in the middle of" the night—
-1 what should you think !" "Please zur, I should
1 think it was time to get up."
WHOLE AI TIBER 788.
ENGLISH GRAMMAR.
The Comic Grammar says :
But remember, though box
in the plural makes boxes,
The plural of ox
Should be oxen, not oxes.
Io which an exchange paper adds :
And remember, though fleeco
In the plural is fleeces,
-That the plural of gooso
Aren't gooses nor geests*
We may also be permitted to add:
And remember, though fcouso
In the plutal is houses,
The plural of mouse
Should be mice and not mouses.
Gamuts.
All of which goes to prove
That grammar a farce is;
For where is the plural
Of rum and molasses ?
—Acw York Gamuts.
The plural—Gazette—
Of rum, don't us trouble;
Take one glass too much
Aud you're sure to s ee double.
—Brooklyn Daily Advertiser.
CHARLES LAMB'S KARMVG.
Charles Lamb tells his sad experience as a
warning to young men, in the tollowin°- lan
guage
'•1 he waters have gone ever me. But oot
° the black depths, could I be heard, I would
cry out to all those who have but set a foot in
the perilous flood. Could the youth to whom
the Lavor ol his first wine is delicious as fba
opening scenes of lite, or the entering upon
; some newly discovered paradise, look into my
j desolation and be made to understand what "a
: dreary thing it is when a man shail feel him
seif going down a precipice with open eyes and
a passive will—to see Ins destruction and have
no power to stop it, and yet feel it all the way
emanating from himself; to see all godliness
emptied out ol him, and yet not able to forget a
time when it was otherwise to bear about the
piteous spectacle ol' his own ruin ; could he see
my levered eye, feverish with the last night's
drinking, and feverishly looking for to night's
repetition of the folly could he but feel" the
body of death out of which I cry, hourly
with the feebler outcry, to be delivered—it were
enough to make him dash the sparklmg bever
age to the earth in all the pride ol
temptation." °
If you have a young Iriend who may be in
nt on '•rvnofltj, for tfrnmr drink
THE SLANDERED.
A venerable old man says : ''Let the slander
ed fake comfort—it is only at fruit trees that
thieves throw stones."
The old man is right. Who ever saw thieves
throw stones at the birch, maple, or elm-tree ?
The more fruit the tree bears, and the richer
it is, the more it is likely to attract the atten
tion of the thief.
No man that tries to do his duty to his fel
lows and endeavors to live to bear the fruits of
true religion in his daily conduct, can for a .mo
ment suppose that he will pass along through
life without being slandered more or less. Such
a man will of necessity have some enemies;
and these enemies will try in every way to in
jure him, and among others, they will not be
slow in stirring up the polluted waters of defa
mation and slander.
A man who has no enemies is merely a milk
and-water nothing. We would not give threu
tigs for such a man.
He who is anything, who makes his mark in
the world, who does good, will have enemies ■
and, if he have them, he will be sure to be slan
dered.
Perpetual Motion. —A western Correspon
dent of Harper's Magazine gets olFthe follow
"good 'un" :
"I was traveling in Virginia by Stage, and,
spending the night at a country tavern, was
greatly entertained by the talk of, the stage
driver and others sitting about the bar-room fite
in thp evening. One old Codger worked off a
good thing ;
"When I was down to the fair, a good many
years ago, there was a prize offered to the one
who would come the nearest to make a perpet
ual motion. Well, all sorts of machines, of" al 1
shapes and material, were fetched there and
shown, and the makers of them told how long
they would run. As I was walking about a
mong them I seen a sign over a tent:—'.?//
who want to see perpetual motion and no mis
take, meet here.'' So I paid the admission fee,
j and went in. Very soon a queer little man got
I up on a box that served tor a platform, and ad
j diessed the audience: 'Ladiesand 'gentlemen,
! I'm a goin' to exhibit to you the most wonder
j fullest invention you ever seen. It has been
; runnin' for full three years, and if nobody stops
jit it'll run on forever.' And here he unrolled
a long strip of paper. 'This is a tailor's bill!'
j And, as he held it up to the gaze of the people,
' they admitted that, whether the bill was ever
| paid or nut, they had all been sold."
Clear Distinction.— An anecdote is related
of a young preacher at a city church, who had
for his text a verse frotn the parable of the ten
virgins, and in the course of his sermon explain
ed :
•'That in old times it was customary, when
the bridegroom and bride were coming, lor ten
virgins to go out and meet them, and escort
them home. — five of thise virgins were males
and five females.
what does the American Indian dif
ler from a modern lady? The one whoops in
time of battle, the other hoops in time of peace*
[tr-"Don't rob yourself," as the farmer said
to the lawyer who called him hard names.
VOL 1, NO. 33.