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ADDRESS TO THE UNCO,GUID.
BR-ROBERT BURNS,
Oh I ye wha are sae ;laid yoursel,
Sac pious and sae holy,
Yo've naught to do but mark and tell
Your_neebor's faults and' folly ;
'Masa life is like a wed nun rail',
Supply'd store ol water,
The heapet happer's ebbing
And still tho clap plays clatter.
Hear me, yo venerable core, "
As counsel for poor mortals,
• That frequent pass douco Wisdom's door
For glaikit Folly's portals ;
1, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would hero propose defences,
Their donsio tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.
Ye see your state UT theirs compar'd,
And shudder at the niffor,
But cast a moment's fair regard,
What makes the mighty differ ?
- Discount what scant occasion gave,
That purity ye pride in,
And (what's aft mar then a' the lavo,)
Your bettor art o' hiding!
Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop,
What ragings must his veins convulse,
- That still eternal gallop;
Wi' wind and tido fair i' your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o' baith to sail,
It makes an unco lee-way.
Bee social life and goo WA down,
All Joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrify'd they're grown
Debauchery and drinking.
Oh! would they stay to calculate
Th' eternal consequences,
Ar, your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses!
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Ty'd up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty names,
Swipes° a change o' cases :
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination—
But, let mo whisper P your lug,
Yo've aiblins IMO temptation.
Then gehtly scan your brother, man,
Still gentler sister, woman ;
Though they may gang a kennin wrong;
To step aside is human;
One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving why they do it;
And just as lamely can ye mark,
Ilow Air perhaps they rue it.
Who made' he heart, 'Us He alone
Decidedly can try us,
He knows each chord—its various tone;
Each spring—its various bias ;
Then at the balance let's be mute,
We never can adjust it;
What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.
Written for the Flag, of our Union
THE DESERTER.
BY • S YLV.I NUS COBB, JR.
WHILE I was stooping at Port Mahon, a
circumstance happened there which is worth
relating. A friend, named Collins, was with
me at dinner one afternoon. It was in the
summer Of 1842,and towards the latter part
of the month of August, if my memory serves
me rightly. At reny rate, the grapes were
ripening and we had some noble ones upon
our table. As we arose from the board our
host asked us if we were going up to the
barracks. We informed him that we had
made no arrangement of that kind, and ask
ed -him if there was to be any. unusual pa
rade.
"Why, yes,"- he answered, with that pecu
liar Dagoman shrug of the shoulders and
twist of the features,, "there is to be some
thing that we have not had before for_ more
than.a year. A deserter is to be shot."
Collins was "up and dressed," in a twink
ling for going • but I had, little inclination
that way. Only. about a month before, I had
seen three Bedouin Arabs decapitated at
Tripoli for the crime of treason, and I had
no desire to see any more. blood shed after
such fashions, and so I told mine host, whom
we always called, Old. Joe—and that was the
only name
,I evef knew him to possess.
"I suppose, .now, you would rather see
that - deserter escape, than not, oh ?" said Joe,
looking me ,sharply in the face.. • .•
"If his
. only erim.O is desertion, of course_
I should," said I. .
"Well, that is his only crime ; and .more
still : His, mother used to live over towards
Atalaya, on the southern coast, and was sick.
Philip wished to,seeler, and they would not
let him go, so he made his escape. This he
has done three, times, and now they have tried
him and condemned him, to be shOt. .The
last time they took him, they found him _ by_
his motheesbed. -He had, thrown „off. his
military garb, and assumed ,the dress of a
common peasant." , - . •
It's rather-hard .. 4) shoot a man. for such. a
.thing," said ; • - „ , „-
"Ay,"? returned:Joe, with the old, shrug,
"I know it ; but suppose soldiers - 'could be
their own judges of when they might leave
—why, we shouldn't have a soldier in a,
month, you, see they must stick up to the
rules, and so poor Philip Cervera , must be
shot.. But I suppose - you would like to: have
him escape."
I assured the host that I should. Ile ga
zed very carefully about the room, and then
stopping close to me he said, in a tone almost
reduced to a whisper -
"Then.come up to the parade ground.—
Just come up and-see what you ean.see.—
Come." •
I knew from the man's manner that some
thing out of the ordinary course of such events
was going to happen, and. I told Collins I
would go with him. The host was soon rea
dy, and we accompanied-him to the barracks.
They are at the upper end of the : town, :at
the Place d'Armes, the buildings fanned one
bound of the wide enciosure, while the other
sides are bounded by a high; thick wall.—
.As we reached the place, we found the regi
anereto .which the deserter belonged just
forming. Joe pointed out to us. the spot
,where the execution was to take place, and
thither we bent our steps, This spot was
close by the high wall upon the east side of
the enclosure. A stake was driven firmly
into the ground, within •a few feet of the
wall, and half-a dozen soldiers with a corpo
ral were there to guard the premises.
Ere long the regimentviras ready; the band
struck up a mournful dirge, and the proces
sion commenced to move. First rode the of
ficers of the stair, then came the band, and
then most of the regiment following. Behind
these came the six men who were to ,shoot
OHM
WILLIAM LEWIS,
VOL. ,XII,
- the .deserter, and next cume.. the deserter
,himself." He walked betweent'wo sergeants,
with his head bowed, and his arms pinioned
behind him. , Following- him, were .four men
bearing'a rough coffin; and, last of all, came
the company to which the deserter belonged.
It was a mournful scene. The soldiers walk
ed..with slow and, ,measured tread, and even
horses seemed to Eta,' , ie imbibed the sad spirit
of the occasion., ;
The procession marched wholly around
'the place,,and as they '-approached, the f spot
where we stood; the staff and band filed off,
and the regiment was drawn up in a-semi
circular form before the stake. Then the de
serter, his attendants and his company
marched up close to the place of execution.
I now had an to
,see the - face of
the prisoner. It was 'sad and gloomy, but
.1
ever and anon; a some movement occurred
"near him, he wold start with a sudden en
',orgy, which I th ught 'indicated some hope.
He would look quickly about him,----see the
cause of the noise, and thensink back with
an expression of agonizing disappointment.
At length the colonel rode up and waved
his sword towards the poor sergeantwho had
been appointed to conduct the fatal work.--f .
The prisoner looked up and saw the colonel,
and with a frantic movement he rushed to
wards him.
"Senor colonel," he cried, sinking upon
his knees, "I am not guilty ! I never be
longed to your regiment ! lam not a sol
dier ! God knows I never wore a uniform be
fore !"
"Away with him !" cried the colonel, im
patiently. •
"Will you not listen ?" the poor fellow ur
ged, louder than before "Never, never, nev
er was I a soldier !"
"Carry him back," ordered the officer to
the sergent who had come up. And then he
added to the prisoner, after the sergeant had
raised him up : "Why do you still persist in
telling such a falsehood?"
The fellow would have spoken, but the
colonel waved his hand impatiently, and . he
was led - away.
"That has been his plea ever since they
brought him back," explained Old <Toe to me,
as they led the condemned man to*ards the
stake. "He swears he was never in the ar
my before—that he never had a musket in
his hand—and he pretends not to know any,
of his old.companions. When they call him
by name he makes strange of it, and tells
'em he never .saw 'em before."
"Why, that is a curious plea," said I, "Col
a man to make, who, you say, has been two
in the service." -, *
"Verjj curious," returned the: host, with a
shcfke of - the' head - Which,' 'Seemed to leave
room for doubt concerning his mensMig., -
But - we conversed no More; for our atten
tion was now turned to the prisbner. The
rough coffin had been placed againSt the
stake, and the condemned' caused to kneel
thereon. 'The priest now "'approached him
and knelt at his side.
"My son, remember the fate of 'those who
die with a lie upon their lips," commenced
the fat churchman. "Ere you die let us have
the truth. Why did you desert your post?"
"I did not," persisted the youth; but his
tone was lower now; and there was a shade
of hesitation.
"I will not urge you," the priest resumed, ,
"for of course you know; but still yoUr as
sertion is strange and unaccountable. Your
companions all know you—your officers swear
to your identity, and I recognize you as one
-who has been often with me in our church
with your company."
The colonel had drawn near, and he lis
tened attentively to the words which now
passed between the condemned and hi -spir
itual director, The latter urged the youth
several times more to make a fall confession,
but the same assertion was persisted in. The
colonel shook his head and turned_ away, and
in-a moment more the six soldiers who held
the loaded muskets, approached the spot.—
They trembled some, but-their step .was firm,
like- men who have resolved to perform a ter
rible duty. unflinchingly.
.The priest. asked no more questions. The
prisoner had made his • confession, and it re
mained - only for -the- holy father to pray,
which lie did quickly and methodically. • The
sergeant, holding a watch in- his left hand,
and• a-heavy pistol 'in his right,, now approch
ed and-directed that : the prisoner should be
blind-folded. The bandage- wai_paseed over
his 'oyes, -and then -scoured to the stake so
tha.the should not dodge hislie . ad. this
juncture asked mine host if.they''ory had
six men -to fire. • lie' informed me that that'
was , all they' ever employed 'for shooting a'
deserter.' Three -- of the guns were 'loaded
with balls, and three with blank cartridges ;
and when they fired they moved up and pla
ced 'the muzzles of their pieces , to within two
feet of the condemned man's head.
The priest had :arisen and moved back,
and the colonel had ordered the sergeant to
proceed.
."God have mercy!" uttered the unhappy
youth, - Until this moment his whole frame
had been nerved up •to an :anxious listening
attitude, but now his Muscles relaxed, and.
with a deep groan he' gave himself up to his
fate.
The sergeant had spoken the - word
"BEADY" but before he could 'proceed -there
was a movement near the centre of the long
line of men, and in a moment more a soldier
broke through and rushed to the spot where
the condemned was bound.
"Hold!" he shouted, as lie reached the
spot, placing himself between the prisoner
and the executioners. "You would kill an
innocent - man! lam Philip Ccrvera!—l am
the deserter, as you think! Look at me--
look at.= 1"
All was confusion for a few moments ; but
the officers soon. succeeded in restoring order.
"It is! It is! It is Philip!" -
Such, and various other exclamations fell
from the lips of those who stood around. .4.s
soon as I could gain a view of the face of the
new-comer, I found that he so near,ly' resem
bled the prisoner, that I should not have da
red to venture even an assertion upon the
identity of either. They were of the same
size, the same form, and the same features.
Is.l'O. -H;lg.:,
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1 -,... w... zm,,
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kr:r.
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,
In fact, one was the, exact. counterpart of the
other.. •
The - colonel leaped from his saddle and
hastened to the spot.
am Philip Cervern, -B . enor colonel," the
new-comer cried out. ‘-‘Do you not recognize
me?" .-
The commandant gazed. first upon' him and
then upon •the prisoner, and at length he
said:
"By our lady, but this is most strange.—
Sergeant,-.what think you of it?"
- "Why, sir," returned • the man thus ad
dressed, touching his cap, "I,don't know.—l
think ,1 should have to take their own word
for it."
"You are right, sergeant. At any rate,
you may unbind the prisoner."
The youth was unbound, and .then the t*o
were caused to stand up together. The
new-comer had on the very clothes in which
Philip had deserted, and when some of his
companions were called up, they readily
swore that he was the man. Some wore sure
that ho was the man, while . ,-others could not
decide betwen , the two; but not ono now
swore - to the identity of the prisoner.
The colonel reflected upon this a few mo
ments, and then ordered both men to be con
ducted to the barracks;
Collins and myself accompanied our host
back to his house. We tried to get him into
conversation on the way, but he was moody
and silent, sometimes answering in monosyl
lables, but entering into no conversation. -
"It was lifter dark, and Collins, the host,
and myself were playing a game of billiards,
when the door was opened, and in walked
one of the men whom we had seen at the
Place d'Armes ;. either the deserter, or the
other one, and I could not tell which. He
sprang forward and caught old Joe's hand.
"I'm free!" he cried.
"And where is Jo—a—Philip? Where is
Philip?" the host asked.
"Locked up in the guard-house, They
would have him shot to-day, but he claimed
a trial, for he assured them that he could
prove that he was carried away against his
will."
"And when will they try him?"
"To-morrow."
The Bost now came forward, and intro
duced the man to us as Joseph Cavern, and
also informed us that lie was the one we had
seen bound to the stake. We found the
young Man to be intelligent, and well versed in
conversation; and from him we learned that
the man who had come to save him was his
twin brother. We asked him several ques
tions about the desertion, but he gave us in
direct answers, and the subject was dropped.
He only informed us that as - soon as his
brother had sworn that he was Philip Cevera,
and ~ a nnounced that -he was ready to stand
the trial,.he, himself, had been set at liberty:
It was about ten o'clock when Collins and
I retired, and it was sometime ere we fell a
sleep. How long I had slept I cannot tell,
but it must have been past,midnight, When I
was awakened by hearing voices below. I
listened, and could plainly , distinguish the
voice of our host, though I could not hear
what was said. In a few moments more he
came up and entered our room. He noticed
that I was _awake, and asked me if we would
lend him our hats and cloaks a little while
without asking any questions. I told him
yes, though I must say that I broke the
promise on the very next moment by ask
ing him what he was up to. He shook his
head and said perhaps he would. tell me
sometime.
In fifteen minutes after this, I heard. some
one 'go out by the back way, and then all
was still. I remained awake nearly an
hour after this, but heard nothing more.
The clock below struck two, and in a few
moments more I was asleep again.
When we went down in the morning, we
found old Joe alone. . I asked him where
Joseph Cevera was, but he only shook his
head in answer. After break - fast I was on
the point of going out, when the host called
me back.
"Look ye, senor," lie said, in an eager,
earnest tone, "you know so much already,
that I shall feel safer to confess to you the
whole, for were you to tell one word of what
you have seen hero, it might ruin me. You
will be secret.* You know the young men,
and .you cannot wish them harm." , •
I promised, and he proceeded. .
• "The mother of those two nien was
my sister. Sire died over-a; weekago.' 'Phil
ip was in the army, and Joseph was .at home,
They-were twins,, ;is you were told last night.
Philip wished to be with his mother when
she died—it :was• almost a monomania with
.bould nothe allowed:' So 'he
ran. a - way. He washronglit-back again, and
ran away again. And this he did the third
time. That was Philip whom we first saw at
the stake! He' had arranged with his brother
for escape. Joseph was to prepare, himself
With all•the necessary instruments for free
ing himself:from. his shackles and for cutting
his way from prison. .He knew just, where
he would be confined, and consequently ho
knew what he would need' to help him in es
cape. 'With these tools concealed about him,
he came, as 'you saw,, to tale his. brother's
place. He is a bold, dauntless, reckless man,
when only self or the safety of a friend is
concerned, and believed he woUld. succeed.
You know how Philip was released, - and how
his innocent brother was accepted in . his
place. Ha, ha, ha, they let the deserter go,
and took an eel in his place. Joseph had
his irons off within half an hour after dark,
and in an hour more, hehad two of the iron
bars removed from the back window. At
ten o'clock he crawled out; let himself drop
upon the ground, and then scaled the wall.
He came immediately here, and I at once
called . his - brother, and helped prepare for
making a final clearance. Your hats and
cloaks served to help them by. the sentinels,
and ere I left them I saw them on board a.
felucca, below Georgetown, bound for Tou
lon. They are out of sight of land long ere
this. Now you know all; and I know I may
trust you."
Hardly had he ceased speaking when six
soldiers entered the bar-room. The desert
er—Philip Ceveraz-- had escaped! Ilacl we
,
. 1 .:
; 4. 1`
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0
I ~ 3 ' t-4
l e t , r;L , -- 7
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4.
-PERSEVERE.-
HUNTINGDON, PA., JUNE 25, 1856.
1
,
-111' -,e• ..... i.—
. • -0, . .
_seen anything.of him? No. And the soldiers
'went away.
When I went out I found soldiers moving
in all directions, and many times I heard
the same question re - vented which had been
asked at old Joe's. But the deserter was not
form fig Search was also made for the one
who had come soncar being shot on the day
before, but they could - find him no more
! readily than they did the. other.
NO : , long since," a friend- - informed me that
Old Joe was dead. lie was .a good landlord,
and a good man, and I am sure now that the
publication of this cannot harm him, even
should the story ever reach the ear's of those
who so curiously lost the real deserter.
Death of Silas Wright
[Prom Benton's Thirty Years' View, to be published in a
few days by the Appletons.]
Ile died suddenly at the age of fifty-two,
and without the sufferings and -premonitions
which usually accompany the mortal transit
from time to eternity. .A.letter that he was
reading was seen to fall from his hand; a
Physician.was, called ; in two hours ho was
dead—appoplexy'the cause.
Though dying at the age deemed young in
a statesman, he had attained all that long
life could give—high office, national fame,
fixed character and. universal esteem. He
had run the career of honors in the State of
New York—been representative and Senator
in Congress—and had refused more offices
and higher than he ever accepted. He refu
sed cabinet appointment under his fast
friend. Mr. Van Buren, and Mr. Polk,
whom he may be said to kayo elected; he re
fused a seat on the federal Supreme Court ;
he rejected instantly the nomination of 184-1
for Vice President of the United States,
when that nomination was the election. He
refused to be put in nomination for the Presi
dency. He refused to accept missions.
He spent that time in declining office
Which others did in winning it ;. and of those
he did. accept, it might be said that they were
"thrust" upon him. Office, not greatness, was
thrust upon him. He was born great, above!
office, and unwillingly descended to it ;
and only took it for its burdens, and to satisfy
an importunate public demand. Mind,
manners, morals, tempers, habits,
united in
him to form the character that was per
fect, both in public and private life, and to
give the example of a patriot citizen—of a
farmer statesman—of which we have read in
Cineinnatus and Cato, and seen in Mr. Ma
con and some others of the same stamp—
":_ated-14- nttittru—formcc . .l in - no - -schoo1; and
of which the instances are so rare and. long
between.
His mind was clear and strong, his judg
ment solid, his elocution smooth and equa
ble, his speaking always addressed to the
understanding, and always enchaining the
attention of those who had minds to under
stand. . Grave reasoning was his forte. Ar
gumentation was always the line of his
speech. He spoke to the head not to the
passions ;- and would have been disconcerted
to see anybody laugh, or cry,, at anything
he said.. His thoughts evolved spontaneous
ly in natural and proper order, clothed in
language of force and clearness; all so
naturally and easily conceived that an ex
temporaneous speech, or the first draught of
an intricate report, had all the correctness of
a finished composition. His manuscript had
no blots—a proof that his mind. had none;'
and he wrote a neat compact hand, suitable
to a clear and solid mind.
He came into the Senate in the beginning
of General Jackson's administration, and
remained during that of Mr. Van Buren ;
and took a ready and active part in all-the
great debates of those eventful times. The
ablest speakers of the opposition always had
to answer him ; and when he anwered them,
they showed by their anxious concern that
the adversary was upon them whose forte
they dreaded most. Though taking his full
part upon all subjects, yet finance was his
particular department, always chairman of
that committee, when hii party was in pow
er, and by the lucidity of his 'statements ma
king plain the most intricate moneyed:de- .
tails. He had a just conception of the dif
ference between the functions of the finance
Committee of the Senate, and the Committee
of ways and means of the House—so little
understood in these latter times ; those of the
latter founded in the prerogative of the House
to originate all revenue bills ; those of the
former to act upon the propositions froni the'
House,' without originating measures which
might affect the revenue,. so as to coerce ei
ther its increase or prevent its reduction. In
1844 he left the Senate to stand for the gov
ernorship of New York ; and never did his
self-sacrificing, temper undergo a stronger
trial, or 'submit .to a greater • sacrifice. fe
liked the Senate; he disliked the governor
ship even to absolute repugnance. But it
was-said to him.(and truly as thou believed,
and afterwards proved) that the State would
be lost to Mr. Polk, unless Mr. Wright was
associated with him in the canvass; and to
this argument he yielded. He stood the can
vass for the. governorship,earried it—and
Mr. Polk with him; and saved the presiden
tial election that year.
Judgement was the character of _Mr.
Wright's mind ;. purity the quality, of
heart. Though valuable in the field 'of-de
bate, he was still more valued
_at the council
table, where sense and hone Sty are most de
- "minded. General Jackson and Mr, Van
Buren relied upon him as one of the ablest,
counsellors. A,candor Which knew no guile
—an integrity which knew no deviation,
which worked right on, like a machine gov
erned by a law of which it was unconscious;
were the inciorable conditions of his nature,
ruling his conduct in every act, public., and
private. No foul legislation ever emanated
from. him. " - The jobber, the speculator, the
dealer in false claims, the plunderer, whose
scheme required an act of Congress; all
these found 'in his and perspicacity
a detective police, which discovered their de
signs, and in his integrity a, scorn of corrup
tion which kept them at a distance from the
purity of his atmosphere.
His temper. was gentle—iiis manners sun
plc—his intercourse kindly—his habits labo
rious—and rich upon a freehold of thirty
Editor and Proprietor.
acres, in much part cultivated with his own
hand. In the intervals of Senatorial dutiets
this man, who refused cabinet appointments
and presidential honors and a seat upon the
Supreme Bench-=--who measured strength
with Clay, Webster and Calhoun, and onwhose
Accents admiring Senates hung;•.this man,
his neat suit of broadcloth and fine linen ex
changed for the laborer's dress,' might be seen
in the harvest field, or meadow, carrying the
foremost row and doing the cleanest work;
and this not as a recreation -or pastime, or
encouragement to others, but as work, which
was to count in the annual cultivation, and
labor to be felt in the production of the need
ed crop. Ills principles were democratic,
and innate, founded i.n a feeling, still more
than a conviction that the masses were gen
erally right in their sentiments, though some
times wrong in their action; and that there
was less injury to the country from the hon
est mistakes of the people, than from the in
terested scheines of corrupt and intriguing
politicians. Ile was born in Massachusetts,
came to. man's-estate in New York, received
from that State the only honors he would -ac
cept; and in choosing his place of residence
in it, gave proof of his modest, refiring, un
pretending nature. Instead of following his
profession in the commercial or political cap
itol of his State, where there would be a de
mand and a reward for his talent, he consti
tuted himself a village lawyer, where there
was neither, and pertinaciously refused to
change his locality.. In an outside county,
on the extreme border of the State, taking its
name of St. Lawrence, from the river which
washed its northern side, and divided the
United States from British America—and in
one of the smallest towns of that county, and
in one of the least ambitious houses of that
modest town, lived and died this patriot states
man—a good husband (he had no children)
—a good neighbor—a kind relative—a fast
friend—exact and punctual in every duty
and the exemplification of every social and
civic virtue.
How to Lend Money if you Lend at all.
To your friends! As to a pure• business
transaction, you may not be too careful.
.But when a friend of other years comes
along, who has not been as successful as
yourself, whom disappointment or misplaced
confidence, or unavoidable calamity has
pressed to the earth, a friend who was once
your equal in all thing inferior in none,
except perhaps, in that hardinessof charac
ter, which-is a great eidnient of success in
life, don't begin to hem - and haw, and stroke
your chin; don't talk about "buts" and
"whys," and the "tightness of the money
market;" he knows that already—spare him
the intelligence that you "once loaned Mr.
So and So a sum of money, which'was never
returned; he don't want your biography, he
wants your cash. Don't remind him that if
he were to die, you would lose it; that arrow
may sink deeper into his heart than any
'amount of money he could ever fathom, and
then,, close with a recital of this, that and
the - other thin;, which, if really true, could
not materially interfere with your furnishing,'
him the required amount. Ifyou have or
dinary sagacity, you can make up your mind
in a moment, whether to grant the aecomoda
dation or to refuse it. If you are a man and
you designed a refusal, tell him at once in
some kindly way, that you do not feel pre
pared to acceed to his wishes. If on the oth
er hand, you have a heart to help him, don't
do it as if you felt it was a mountain grind
ing you to powder, or as if each dollar you
parted from, was inflicting a pain equal to
a drawina•. of a tooth; don't torture him with
cross-questioning, or worm out of him some
of the most sacred secrets of his life; away
with your inquisitorial, brassy, impertinence;
don't lay him on the rack for an hour at a
time, as if you gloated at the sacrifice of his
manhood, as if you wished to make him go
down on his very knees to win his way into
your purse, away with all we say, and stand
up like a man,. give him a cordial greeting,
let a holy stmslifue light up your countenance,
and speak out before he has - done asking, tell
him how much you are gratified at having it
in your, power to help lum,iand let that help
go out in a full, free soul, and with a good
slap on the shoulder, bid him look upward
and ahead for there's sunshine they for him.
Why the very -feeling in the man's heart as
he goes away. from you, is worth more to hu
mmutY than all the money you let him have,
ten times told. Ile ',goes out of your pres
ence - with' a heart' as .light as a - feather, in
love with all the world, and full of-admiring
i'ratitude towards you. . Ile feels his man
hood, he feels that confidence is rePosed 'in
him, that he is still-a man, and this convic
tion nerves him up to an ambition, to an en,
ergy which are of theruselvesa guarantee of
after success. lie goes to work with will,
which hews down the obstacles andmelts
awaythe icebergs which hede up the ways of
men, and behold in a moment, rough places
are made smooth, and straight places made
plain to him,
Reader! snppose you never get your money
back, 4nd you have a heart so big, that you
can, notwithstanding 11i$ non-payment, give
him at every meeting a cordial smile of
friendly recognition, - can speak to him with,
out ever reminding him of his indebtedness:
it may be that you are, his only friend, but
then you are the world to him, and however
hardly . that world may have dealt with him
your single exception is placed to the .side of
humanity, a thousand times its individual
value; that man can never die a misanthrope,
for he will insist upon it to his latest 'breath,
"there's kindness in . the world after all."
What a grand thing it-is to have a man close
his eyes in death, and one of the last
thoughts of mortality bea,prayer for blessings
on your head. - •
We repeat, then, if you lend your money
at all, do so freely, promptly, do it, witka
whole soul. Do it with a grace that becomes
a man, with cordiality which will do as much
as your money in raising you a friend from
the deprssing - miluences which surround him.
We do not advise the loan of money in any
given case, but write to show in what manner
it should be done, when decided upon, to
bring the most pleasant reminiscences to
yourself hereafter, and to carry with it the
largest adventages to him whoin you wish to
befriend.—Hall's Journal of Health,
We clip the fifflowing paragraph from a
. speeeli made by James Raymond, Esq., of
Wcstminister, formely a Whig in the recent
Democratic Convention of Maryland', and
commend it to the reader's attention :
Mr. President:—lf in a fewrertiarks which
I propose to offer, I allude for s• moment to
my own political position, I beg the Conven
tion to believe that the entire importance
which I attach to it, consists in the fact that
there arc "a few more of the same sort." - I
belonged to the Whig school of politics until
it was apparentto every man that the honored
institution was to be brokenup, and that its
members, in their dispersion, must, of ne
cessity- be governed by their individual pro
clivities in their future associations. The
Know-Nothing deluge was then in its fullest
tide of successful experiment and threatened
to engulph not only the Whig party but the
whole world. But be the consequences
as 'they might, I found it impossible for
me to became assimilated to that nocturnal
fraternity, by going to a Lodge and, being
draWn through the hole of initiation. . I was
-in daily-intercourse with a few other WhigS
and many Democrats, who thought and felt
as I did, that a most unprecedented,• unscru
pulous effort was being Made • to .introduce
,
midnight "onthbotuad 'secrecy, as a Standing
element in the organization of political par
ties in this country. We believed also, that
success in this attempt, would be attended
with the most serious consequences. - That it
would end in the conversion of oar free goV
ernment into the most odious of -all despo
tism, a secret despotism. Such a belief was
well calculated to make Whigs and Demo
crats forget those threadbare, by-gone dis
tinctions, and to organize in such a shape as
would best enable us to co-operate in puttins ,
down so great an evil. A meeting was car,
led for that purpose. The Court house was
filled to overflowing. But like the : Grecian
horse, three fourths of its contents were the
enemies of Troy. The secret politicians had
the politeness to break up our meeting.—
But the very outrage was the commence,
ment of reaction in Carroll county, which
has never ceased, and I trust in God, wilt
not cease, until Know-Nothingisin is driven
from her borders. That very outrage ena,
bled the honest yeomanry of the land to see
with their own eyes, and to hear with their
own ears, what Know-Nothingism was, and
of what it was capable. Upon the conserva
tive, the Constitution loving, law and order
portion of the community, it was a welding
heat. To the Democrats, who will surrender
all for the sake of Union against that unholy
faction ; the Whigs who were co-operating
with them, replied :—"So far as the name
is concerned, you will surrender nothing.--
Our next-meeting shall be under the hickory
tree, and see if the Know-Nothings will
conic and demolish that." It was under the
hickory tree and should have been there at
first. For, Mr. President, what is the use
of a third party, to oppose the combined for
ces of Black-Republicans . and Know-Noth
ings against the Democracy at the present
time ? I leave it to the old line Whigs to
answer the question, and to act accordineiy.
Piely.arn intelligent and _far._ seninee_. in_
theirinmost soul, they prefer Democracy to
Black Republicanism they will be with us,
NO. 1.
The following admirable reasons for re
maining true to the Democratic party ap
peared, some time since, in the Maysville
Express, in reply to 4, query of a Know-
Nothing paper—" Why should any Demo
crat still adhere to such a party?" Tho
Express in noticing this query says:
"We will try to answer. Because it is the
party of the constitution; because it is the
party - which at all times resisted and baffled
the designs of those who whether insidious
ly or openly, made war against its Wise pro
visions; because it is the party which would
preserve this Union by preserving the -con
stitution upon which the Union rests, .bo-.
cause it is the party upon which depends
the equal rights of the citizen, and makes no
war upon his religious belief; because it is
the party whose policy alone has been car
ried into the practical legislation of the gov
ernment, and proved by long experience to
be wise and beneficial; because it is the par
ty which repealed the alien and sedition laws;
because it is the party which crushed the
power of the United Btates .bank, and re.,
pealed the bankrupt laws; because it is - the
party' which recommended and enacted that
wise financial measure, the 'sub treasury sys
tem, by which the government for years has
been able to control its own revenues -with
out the loss of a single cent; because itis the
party which enacted the revenue tariff of
1846; because it is the party which, though
ever opposed by those who now constitute
the Know Nothing party, and all other fac
tious parties, has never been factious .
and has survived the wreck of all parties;
because it is the party I,yhicli is alone, nu- •
tional; and stands like a wall'ef - adamant to:
resist, even °wit° death all, attacksupen our:
glorious Constitution and Ihrion, come, from,
what quarters they May, whether frera Ab
olition' traitors in the-mirk or 'their 'recent
allies in the, south, the secret,. oath. bound or
der of Know,NOthings;, and because it'is ; the
party under whose administration oftho
ernment Our natiOnhas grdwn and *Spored; '
until it hai become , the 'greatest, ...inua happy
and - most- powerful on which .the sun- of •
heaven has ever shone,".. . - -
.4,lsTevir Play-r-Por Children,
A. couple of children--a attic lidy, four,
anir a girl, -sii years of age—belonging to
one of our subscribers in --street, - were ta
ken to a neighboring house to see the corpse,
of an old lady. A few hours after the grand, :
father came home. With a pallbearer's - badge
on- his arni, whi.eh the . .childien • removed and
playdd with: Presently the mother noticed,
the little boy stretched on the lounge, with
his eyes shut and everything unusually still:,
She. said, "E,ddy, what' are .yon. doing ?'r gnswered, "me; playing dead on de Lounge,,
and sister has gone to put crape on the cloor." .
The mother,-,9n - rushing to the door, found two,
sable streamers three feet Icing, flying : from:
the bell-pull, which extricating speedily, Te
n-Loved the, shadow of death &blither thresh;
hold,, and entered thiniful.iliat that sorrow,-
ful sign, was but the evidence of life and in-,
nocence; as fai as she was concerned.,—Ble.
Reptblie,
ser-Biehtor says, "No man can either live
piously. or die righteouslywithout ti wife."---f
Another says to this, 'O, yes ? sufferings and
severe trials purify and chasten the heart."
—Reproof should not exhaust its power on
petty feelings ; let it watch diligently ngainst
the, incurious of vice and leave foppery anti:
futility to die of themselves; _
An Eloquent Appeal. --t
The Democratic Party.
NE3