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V 2 .0t4.
MOURN NOT FOR THE DEAD.
Weep not for the dead, the hallowed dead,
Who hare early passed away.
From these scenes of trouble, toil and pain,
To the realms of endless day!
Zrourn not for the dead, the unconscious dead,
Who the silent graveyard share.
For the tearful eye, and the painful head,
Have never an entrance there.
Weep not for the dead, the mouldering dead,
Since theirs is a peaceful rest ;
Not a murmuring thought, nor an envious dream
Shall find a slumberer's breast.
Mourn not for the dead. the sanctified dead,
Who would ask no tears of thee;
Let the living share thy pitying care,
On life's tcmp•istnou; sea.
Weep not for the immortal dead,
V. here no - midnight 3hadowings come,
In that far off land the sainted blest
Hare found them a batter home.
rlttt tar.
EAGLE EYE
A. TALE OF THE FOREST.
CITAPTER I
"Nany tales
Yet linger in our lonely vate,,,
rp pathh!ss wood, and defile narrow,
1% here erst the Savage drew his arrow."
The most picturesque period in the history
of every country is said to lie that when the
ancient rough and wild manners of a barbar
ous age are just becoming innovated upon
and contrasted by the illuminations of learn
ing and the instructions of religion.
From this interesting period in the history
of our own country, my little story bears date.
To those who would recoil from a narrative
where incidents of Indian life arc mingled,
because of the cruelties practised by these
children of nature upon their enemies, I
would say, such stains of character are not
peculiar to any tribe or nation of men. If
we review the history of civil wars and dis
sensions, that have convulsed enlightened
and christian nations, down to the present
struggle in China, we shall find in each a
parallel to the darkest deed of savage fury.—
Through the medium of juAice and charity
we may see good in all, though none are all
good.
Iu one of the western counties of the Key
stone State, in sight of the canal that now
drags its weary length along her fertile lands,
there stands, or stood, some years ago, a
tall cylindrical rock, that seemed to pierce
the sky in its solitary loftiness. About its
base lies a heterogeneous bed of stone - 4, from
which, in times, gone by, a stream gushed
forth, and sent its waters singing and gurg
ling over the rugged surface. Near by cir
cled the quaint wigwams of the Youghiouga
ny village. Here and there might be seen,
suspended like the oriole's nest, feam the bow
of a tree, the little clingy papoose in its cra
dle of bark, crowing and Lighting the sweet
breeze that rocked it, while its m Aber busi
ed herself in her daily task of providing food
for her lord and family.
A hostile engagement had just been con
cluded between this and a neighboring tribe
of the Ojibwas. The men ha I passed round
the conclave. Its blue wreaths of uppowac
smoke were curling up through the whisper
ing leaves of the dark hemlocks, like incense
in the dim arches of sonic old cathedral, as
their chief, Big Hawk, stood forth to address
them in the brief, cogent manner peculiar to
their pointed, impressive eloquence. Hewas
tall, vigorous, and handsomely formed. His
dark, copper-colored face and person was gay
ly painted; his deer skin robe dyed a brill
iant red, and upon his regal brow rested a
stuffed hawk with expanded wings ; through
a bore in his right ear hung a thin green
snake that wound itself gracefully about his
neck and completed the costume of this man,
honored by his tribe as a warrior, orator, and
hunter.
As he essayed to speak a shrill scream
from his squaw suspended his voice; the
whole council seized their arms, strung their
bows and arranged themselves for battle.—
But a more novel disaster had occurred. The
infant son, and only child of their chief, had
suddenly disappeared from the grassy bank
of the little stream, where its fond mother
had often permitted her little obese grub of'
savage royalty to luxuriate in unfettered de
light; while she, with the intuitive love of
ornament common to woman, soughtfor scar
let hips to adorn her full round arms and
neck, that "needed not the foreign aid of orna
ment," and wild flowers to eke out her scan
ty toilet. All was sympathy and Commotion
throughout the village, men and women join
ed in the search for the child, with an earn
est desire to avert the dreadful consequences
of their Chiers anger from the unhappy
mother, "Evening Star," whom they loved
for her gentleness and beauty.
One after another returned dejectedly to
the village without tidings of the child. At
length an old veteran was seen approachinc ,
in tut trot, by which Indians travel so fast,
bringine , with him a stripling of the tribe of
their late enemy-.
Ile stood before the Chief covered with
Mood and wounds, but fierce and undaunted.
When they interogated him concerning the
lost child, he remained scornfully silent; when
they threatened him the stake he struck his
smarting wounds and bade them defiance.—
During this fruitless inquisition Evening Star
in her beauty and wretchedness appeared.—
She wore a turtle of soft moss, ingeniously
matted into a kind of cloth, around - the bot
tom of which she had fastened a wreath of
wad flowers; upon her arms were bracelets
of scarlet hips ; her feet were cased in neatly
fitting moccasins ' • and around her head she
wore a coronet of blue wampum, from be
neath which fell her soft shining hair, like a
sheet of costly jet, without a curve over her
neck and heaving bosom. The rich glow had
faded from her cheek, her large star-like eyes
swam in tears, her voluptuous lips, parted in.
the intensity of agonizing suspense, showed
their lines of pur.; pearl ; while her slender
form quivered like a reed shaken by the
wind,
:1 .50
.75
- 50
WILLIAM LEWIS,
VOL, XII,
As the spark of hope lit for a moment in
the Chief's bosom by the appearance of the
wounded boy died out, despair seemed to
wring his brave heart ; and turning fiercely
upon his squaw he flourished the unerring
tomahawk above her head. She meekly bow
ed to receive the cruel stroke. But with the
speed of lightning the Indian boy darted for
ward and intercepted the blow. A flush of
interest now fired his wan cheek, he acknowl
edged that, being aroused from the stupor of
death by the pain of his stiffening wounds,
he had wandered in search of water, even to
the shadow of the great rock; while refresh
ing himself in its stream, he heard the
scream of a bald ealge, saw her spread her
broad wings from her nest on the pinnacle of
the rock, and after circling through the air,
swoop by the side of the stream, and then
wheel away to the eyrie with the papoose.—
He gallantly offered to scale the walls of her
airy citadel, and if possible recover the child.
In wonder and doubt they all repaired to the
rock. lla began his ascent by embracing the
column with hands and feet, and urging him
self upward with great agility. Arriving at
the top he found to his great joy that the
fierce mother-bird was absent from her brood
in whose midst the young prince lay quietly
amusing himself with his long-beaked com
panions. With a cry of joy he descended
and placed the little feromi ut in his happy
mother's arms. The grateful father embra
ced the boy, adopted him into his family, and
named him "Eagle Eye." The young men
encircled him and danced their wild dance of
joy to the music of their yells.
CHAPTER H.
"So the red Indian, by Ontario's side,
*Nursed hardy on the brindle panther's hide,
As'iades his swarthy race, with anguish sees,
The white man's cottage rise beneath the trees
When the tide of European emigration af
ter many discouraging ebbs, began in full flow
to flood the wide shores of America; wave af
ter wave encroached upon the rights of the
red man ; step after step he conceded to his
pale brother ; until it became evident they
were a legionary race—that, ultimately,
would usurp their boundless forests and ex
terminate them. Roused by these convic
tions they became a scourge to the people
they had once welcomed to their shores, as
Bair beings from a better world.
William Penn. through his mildness, dis
interested love of justice, and his sincere phi
lanthropy, preserved the colony he founded
from the bloody vengeance of the Indians.—
lie entered on a treaty of peace with them,
that remained unbroken for the space of sev
enty years. In his message he tells them:—
"The great God has been pleased to make
him concerned in their part of the world, and
that the king of the country where he lives
has given him a great province therein; that
lie does not wish to enjoy it without their
consent; that he is a man of peace; that the
people whom he sends are of the same dis-,
positron; and that if any difficulty should oc
our between them, it might be adjusted by an
equal number of men on both sides." To
which they reply in their metaphorical and
picturesque style :—"We are happy in hav
ing buried under grcund the red axe, that
has so often been dyed with the blood of our
brothers. Now, in this sort, we inter the
axe and plant the tree of peace. We plant
a tree whose top will reach the sun and its
branches spread abroad, so that it shall be
seen afar off. May its growth never be sti
fled.and choaked; but may it shade both your
country and ours with its leaves. Let us make
fast its roots and extend them to the utmost
of your colonies. May the Great Spirit allow
us to rest in tranquility upon our mats, and
never again dig up the axe to cut down the
tree of peace ! Let a strong stream run un
der the pit to wash the evil away out of their
sight and remembrance. We now make the
covenant chain of friendship. Let it be kept
bright and clean as silver and not suffered to
contract any rust. Let not any one pull
away his arm from it." As the colony ex
panded, these denizens of the forest., being
liberally rewarded for the soil quietly relin
quished it and fell back into the denser
wilds.
Among the many in Europe, now looking
to America as a place of refuge from oppres
sion and religious persecution, stood Robin
McLeon. He determined to quit the bonny
locks and heath-clad hills of Scotland, and
set up his altar in the gloom of an unknown
land, that he might worship his creator accor
ding to the dictates of his conscience. When
he had made ready his little household for the
perilous journey, he was called to the bedside
of a dying sister, with whom he had been at
variance. "God is merciful," said Mrs. Wil
der as she clasped her brother's hand, "my
moments are numbered, but if you will take
my poor child to your heart and be a father
to her, my spirit can depart in peace. In the
hope that she might become a peace-offering
between us, I have named her Irene, which
is peace." In that solemn hour all former
bickerings were forgotten, and the lonely or
phan was kindly adopted by Mr. MeLeon,
to whom she became "as a savoury odour of
sweet herbs." But to his plain practical
wife she was "naught but a fasheons lassie."
The soft radience of her gentle beauty, the
redundancy of her golden curls, the agile
grace of her figure, and perfect mould of her
dainty hands and feet, seemed to exasperate
her aunt's temper towards her.
Patrick Mulican, an astute sprig of shela
leh, their assistant man of all work, was not
long in discovering the way matters stood.—
Pat'had an eye for the beautiful, and secret
ly worshiped at this limitless shrine.—
Prompted by a generous sympathy for the
sad and lonely condition of the lovely orphan,
he would often endeavor to relieve the tedi
um of a long evening, by recounting to her
wonders he had seen in this wild land of
their adoption and among its still wilder in
habitants. To the novel loving mind of Ire-
na these tales, often the chimeras of his own
brain, had the fascination of a syren's voice ;
her heart panted for the moment when she
too should behold and mingle with these dark
wonders of the forest, whom her imagination,
as well as her entertainer's, encircled with
the halo of romance.
A short distance from their rude dwelling,
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just over the borders of their clearing, slept a
small picturesque lake, overshadowed by
tall pines that locked their dark branches in
to a verdant sacreen, and gurded it from the
too intense heat of the sun—as the canorous
winds swept apart their glossy crests, glints
of golden sunlight kissed the clear waters
' and started their " breeze-ridden ripples."—
A few yards distant, in view through a vista
in the pines, the earth swelled into a hill,
adown whose rocky side a little stream pour
ed its waters in a miniature cataract into the
level bed below—whence they glided, 'neath
a low arch-way of alders and ferns, imper
ceptibly into the smiling lake. Hither Irena
would steal in moments of leisure, to gather
wild flowers—to watch the arrowy fish glan
cing through the lucid water—to dream of
home—of her sainted mother—to shed the
filial tear unseen by the cold gray eyes of her
stern aunt—anon, to chant wild legends of
her native land, while the tuneful birds caro
led their songs in the branches above her.
To this retreat, on a sultry Sabbath morn
ing, while a heavy veil of mist hung its white
folds down upon the earth, Irene was pursu
ed by the kind-hearted Paddy. The phleg
matic temper of Mrs. McLeon, had appeared
unusually morose and exacting that morning;
more than once he had marked Irene's lips
quiver, as the harsh tones of her aunt's voice
grated upon her ear in unmerited rebuke.
" I will strike while the iron's hot," solilo
quized Pat, "and by the beard of St. Patrick,
I will offer her my heart and hand, for it's
myself that could never permit avert the
winds to harm mavorneen,"
With this resolution he enetered the sacred
precincts of his lady's bower, and, as became
a true knight, dropped upon his knee before
her and poured forth his tale of love.
Irene was amazed—but, in a moment, her
sense of the ridiculous overcame her surprise.
Of the stumpy, awkward figure, half recum
bent before her, little was visible save the
broad, thick shoulders, which a hint at a
neck connected with a large round head, sur
mounted by a hirsute thatch of carrotty hair,
from the eaves of which a pair of pale blue
crossed eyes were ogling her. To complete
the attractions of Pat's person, we must add
a rubicund nose, thick peppering of dark
freckles and a mouth whose up-turned corn
ers and long upper lip gave the whole a com
ic expression, and contrasted so vividly with
her own reflection in the glassy lake and the
lovely scene around her, that she could not
refrain from .burying her face in her hands
and slyly indulging her mirth.
Suddenly from the hill above came the
quick sound of an animal s feet, and in an
other instant a fine deer foaming and bleed
ing dashed clown the hill and away through
tho thick pines. But his pursuer, a majes
tic Indian, stood as if transfixed upon the
brow of the hill, his arrow unshed from his
drawn bow, his eyes scintillating, and his
form appearing to dilate, as the thin wreaths
of mist melted away. To the entranced gaze
of Irene he seemed the tutelar deity of the
wood; nor was it possible fn. Pat to turn her
eyes from him or prevail upon her to fly ;
with the blundering of a true son of Erin, he
began to wring his hands and cry, "och hone?
och hone ! the lady's crazed." And ran to
the house for help. Mrs. McLeon treated the
story with contempt, but her husband snatch
ed his gun and ran to the lake, followed by
Pat armed with a cudgel ; when they gained
the lake no traces of the fair girl could be
seen ; day after day wore away—the nearest
Indian settlement was visited—the country
round was scoured through hill, wood and
vale, with no success. Sorrows never visit us
singly, but in companies; and Mr. McLeon
received intimation from an old squaw, who
crossed his path in the woods, of au intended
attack upon his house and family by her
tribe in consequence of the disappearance of
one of their men, whose loss they charged
upon him ; he sought by kind messages and
presents to sooth his savage neighbors, and
convince them of his innocence and ignorance
of the fate of their lost member. Yet he felt
no time was to be lost in preparing to meet
them as enemies should they come as such.
After barricading the doors and windows of
his house, and counseling his family to re
main quiet and watchful ; he mounted his
horse and rode with all speed to summon
their nearest neighbors, but the clay was far
advanced, night came on apace, the clouds
grew dark and lowering, the low distant
thunder announced the coming storm which
increased in violence until it became a tem
pest, the earth and the heavens were blended
in one dark chaos; the driving rain, blinding
lightning and terrible thunder, seemed har
bingers of the dissolution of all sublunary
things. In this hour of sublimity and awe,
the terrible war-whoop of the savages Yough
iouganys froze the blood of the helpless
watchers. They soon effected an entrance
and seizing Mrs. McLeon, who presented her
self to screen her children, scalped her, and
were proceeding to set the house in flames ;
when Eagle Eye whose supposed death they
came to avenge, bounded in among them, as
if borne on the wings of the storm, and was
recognized with yells of savage enthusiasm.
lie averred no injury had been done him
by the pale faces; besought them to spare
their victim's life, and return to their homes,
which they instantly and silently did,
CHAPTER 111.
" 'Tis vain to struggle with our destiny,
Resistance but Latire firpily links the chaiu
Which binds us to our doom."
Since we last saw Eagle Eye he had min
gled much with the wnites, as their settle
ments approached his own. With the obser
ving habits of an Indian, he had picked up
much of their manners and language ; felt a
growing admiration fur their arts, civiliza
tion, and gentle virtues ; which, however, he
carefully concealed from his tribe, who would
he knew think he had compromised his char
acter, and look upon him with suspicion ever
after.
On one occasion as he was returning from
a visit to the colony, whither he went osten
sibly to trade with the whites, he made his
way to Irene's favorite haunt, known to him
in boyhood. He had just deposited himself
on the grass to rest when Irene's elastic step
-PERSEVERE.-
HUNTINGDON, PA., AUGUST 6, 1856.
caught his quick ear—he glided, with the
noiseless ease of a serpent, beneath the arch
of alders and ferns, that hid the mouth of the
little stream, and stood knee deep in water,
watching with breathless ecstasy the unsus
pecting girl. Thence forward he grew list
less and moody, always hunting alone and
seldom bringing in any game, but never fail
ing to gain some point near the lake, where
unobserved he might gaze on the "light of
Dawn," (the name he gave her,) whom he
loved with all the fervor of his wild, impetu
ous nature. Near the summit of the hill,
above the lake, was the low wide mouth of a
cave of blue limestone, running back into the
earth some fifty or sixty feet, containing two
distinct apartments. Through the more re
mote of these murmured a subterraneous run
let, In these wide halls had grown up spar
ry columns in all manner of grotesque shapes;
and from the solid arch above innumberable
fantastically irregular stalactites reached
down their glittering points, musically drip
ping the filtered water on the mimic band be
low. The echo in this cave was so remarka
ble that even these faint silvery sounds, with
the melancholy flow of the little stream, were
repeated by a thousand soft whispers which
gave Indians a dread of the place, believing
it to be the haunt of evil spirits. For this
reason, Eagle Eye, less superstitious than
the rest, felt it to be a place of security, and
thither would repair after his clandestine vis
its to the lake, and ponder upon the means
he should adopt to secure the Light of Dawn
as his bride, and free himself from his tribe,
and the old squaw, Keoba, who had deter
mined to make him her husband. Upon the
morning that we beheld Patrick Mulican on
his knees before Irene, the idea of a white ri
val first dawned upon him—he at once resol
ved to place the matter beyond doubt by se
creting her in the cave until something more
definite could be devised. In the cave then
—pillowed on the soft moss, and curtained
by his blanket to keep off the drippins, and
attended with the most delicate and respect
ful care by her wild lover, but at the same
time watched with the argus eye of jealousy
—lrene remained four days. Fascinated by
the story of his deep love, she consented to
become his bride if he would make his home
among her people. Until that arrangement
could lie made lie insisted upon detaining her
as his ward ; dreading the espionage of old
Keoba he had not presented himself at the
village and. thus hastened the denouement he
sought to avert. On the night of the storm,
when the familiar war-cry of his tribe reach
ed him in his retreat his error flashed upon
him, springing from the cave he hoped to
reach the scene in time to prevent the dread
ful tragedy such sounds preluded. In his
haste he did not observe the basilisk eyes of
the old squaw, as he dashed down the hill ;
nor did he suspect that, while he was perfor
ming an act of justice and mercy, her skin
ny arms were bearing off in malice his great
est earthly treasure. And poisoning the ears
of his friends against him, by a cunning story
of the evil spirit, who she said appeared to her
and directed her to the haunted rave to find
Eagle Eye and the White Witch. That he
bade her carry her to the medicine man, that
he should. give her to the flames, and then
all depart towards the far off land of the
" - Railer of waters," or be delivered into the
hands of the pale faces, who were coining in
great numbers to destroy them. It was instant
ly agreed that Eagle Eye should be dispatched.
to treat with the pale warriors ; and in his
absence the dreadful sacrifice should be made.
At this juncture Eagle Eye reached the vil
lage with the band of warrior's from Mc-
Leon's. Smothering his ihdignation at Keo
ba's treachery as lie beheld. his Light of
Dawn, pale and trembling, among the dusky
Indian maids, he defied her in his heart and '
despaired not of circumventing her designs.
Through the night he watched by the mat
upon which Irene slept, confiding in his care;
and on the morrow placed her in the wig
wam of Little Hawk, whose life lie had once
saved, while ho accepted his commission to
'treat with the whites. At Mr. McLeon's he
was recognized as their friend preserver and
assured tnat no army was abroad, that only
a few friends remained with the family to
protect them from further violence. A ehil,
ling sensation crept around Ecagle Eye's
heart as he listened. Confused images of
dread, mingled strangely in his mind with
thoughts of Irene. On tne wings of love he
sped back to the village, and rushing
through a collected crowd of its dark inhabi
tants, beheld old Keoba lighting the fagots
piled high around a victim lashed to the cruel
stake—and that victim the Light of Dawn !
With the fury of a lion he hurled the wretch
from her diabolical work; scattered the burn
ing fragments over the astonished crowd, cut
the cord that bound Irene's white arms auove
her head, and received upon his frantic bo
som the lifeless form of the unhappy girl.—
At first, incapable of realizing the terrible
misfortune, lie tried by every art to recall the
broken spirit, till the sad truth burst like a
lava, flood upon him, scaring his brain ; and
lie arose from his labor of love a raving ma,
niae, so terrible that all feared to approach
him and snatching the beautiful remains of
his beloved. from the ground, he fled from
them and. none dared to follow.
Bat silently folding their tents and turn
ing their backs upon the scene of this trage
dy—
They bend their course where twilight reigns sublime,
O'er forests Silent hlllet3 the birth of time.
CHAPTER IV.
Lay her i' the earth;
And from her lair and unpolluted flesh,
l!,lay violets spring.—/famiet.
Time sped on and from his wings. that
bear a balm fin- every wound, fell upon the
111c.Lcon's that hush of hears that succeeds
despair.
Patrick Mulican was now fully domesti
cated. in their home. his hive fur the
beautiful Irene, formed an indissoluble tie
between him and her uncle. Mrs. MeLeon,
whose wound from the scalping-knife had
never cieatrised, bore patiently her affliction,
and by a subdued gentleness of manner and
a watchful attention to the comforts of others,
sought to atone for her share in their past
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sorrows, and to soothe the twinges of re
morse in her own bosom.
At the decline of a day in the dreamy
se t
son of the Indian summer, the little family
was grouped before their humble dwelling,
gazing on the rich and varied beauty of the
forest's dying hues, bathed in the mellow
light of closing day, and talking of the sad
events that had clouded their brief sojourn
in this land of beauty; when an old woman,
with gray, disheveled hair arid tattered gar
ments, approached. Mr. McLeon recognized
in the emaciated, travel-worn being the old
Keoba, who had been the precursor of evil
to him, and involuntarily shrank from her.
But she exclaimed, commandingly, "man
follow me, I come to show you Eagle Eye
and the pale woman he stole from you, before
I sleep upon my mother's breast," pointing
to the earth. And stalking from them in
haste left no time for refusal. They followed
to the brow of the hill, here she signed Pat
to enter the cave. But Pat drew back from
what appeared a dark abyss. Casting on
him a look of scorn, she beckoned Mr. Mc-
Leon on, and stretching forth her arms per
formed various incantations as she slowly
entered the cave cautiously followed by Mr.
MeLeon. Astonishment at this vast abode
of silence and solitude, gave place to the
keenest anguish as he discovered it was also
the abode of death; locked in his cold em
brace he beheld the marble-like remains
of the lamented Irene, serenely beautiful in
her dreamless sleep; untouched by the hand
of decay; and kneeling by her mossy couch
the wasted corpse of the once proud warrior,
Eagle Eye. The spirit of his deathless love
seemed to hallow this great mausoleum, and
to murmur through it at this invasion by
the living.
When the first burst of anguish was over
Mr. MeLeon poured forth his heart in prayer
that in death she had not been made to feel
the bitterness of protracted agonies, and that
he should now be permitted to give her the
last sacred rites of christian burial. Issuing
from the cave to inform his family and pre
pare for their first grave in the wilderness;
he perceived that the old squaw had disap
peared, lint at the mouth of the cave lay a
bunch of green uppawae, bound by the shreds
of a red scarf he had given her on a former
visit, by which simple token he knew she
had departed in peace and good will. Upon
a little knoll—
When Spring her earliest visits paid,
And St - tinnier s lingering blooms delay'd,
repose the simple nameless graves of the de
parted. The care of this sacred spot Pat
arrogated to himself; above the pulseless
breast of the savage Brave he laid his bow
and arrow and magnanimously trained over
the silent mound the wild arbutes. But
with reverential hand and pure taste he cul
tivated fragrant white violets in the form of
a cross on the green grave of the sinless
martyr Irene.
Years after, when the snows of age lay
white upon his brow, might the faithful Pat
be seen, religiously as Old Mortality. endeav
oring to perpetuate this honored dust, show
ing that—
'True love's a holy Mine
And when 'tit, kindled, ne'er can die."
"Do what thy hand findeth."
There are two kinds of men, those who do
what they find to their hand, and those who
idle away life, pretending that what offers is
beneath them. Sydney Smith, the wit, is
an example of the first, as Haydn, the artist,
is of the last. Both had ordinary advantages
in the outset, both had considerable
both lived through nearly two generations.
both were Englishmen, and both moved in
the same society. Nor was the profession of
either such as to give him any superior
chances of success. Yet Sydney Smith died
in his bed, after a life of more than average
felicity, while Haydn perished by his own
hand, after long years of poverty, suffering
and dishonor.
Nor was ever the great truth, that "as a
man soweth so shall lie reap," more striking
ly- exemplified than in poor liatlyn's beggary
and suicide. With sufficient merit to have
earned a decent competence in more than
one branch of his profession, he haughtily
refused to work on any pictures except sucn
as belonged to what he called high art. Ile
considered himself insulted if asked. to paint
a portrait, sneered at Wilkie for the latter's
Fiddler," spoke contemptuously of
Landseer fur painting dogs, and declared
that if he could not exercise genius on heroic
themes, if he could. not delineate a Belisarius
or a Curiolarms, and cover half an acre of
canvass, he would starve. And starve he
did, fur the simple reason that neither had
he the ability to paint such pictures, nor did
buyers want them.
if Haydn had starved alone, his folly
would have been less. But he had a family
who suffered incessant privations as the re
sult of his obstinacy. A man's first duty in
this world is to his wife and children; if he
can earn them food, he has no right to leave
them to beg. Nur was this all. Often, in
in order to escape bailiff's for the time, Ira-
dyn would borrow money which he knew lie
could never return; and the day after lie left
the sponging -house, he would begin again
the old career, which he was well aware
must lead to similar catastrophes. Ile sneer
ed at painting portraits, but did not scorn
petty acts of dishonor. e said it was be
neath him to stoop from "high art," but it
was not beneath him at last to cheat. This
is strong language, but when a man, who
might pay his dents, refuses to do so on the
plea that he will nut condescend to unpleas
ant work, lie acts like a rascal, no matter in
what eloquent phases he disguises his con
duct, nu matter how successful he may have
played the sophist with his conscience. if
ail men emulated such examples, the world
would soon be merely a den of scoundrels.
if every person acted on Hadyn's doctrine,
and shirked such labor as was not agreeable,
few of us, we fear, would come honestly even
by our bread and butter. it is by the "sweat
of the brow," not by play, that men must
earn their subsistence.
Sydney Smith was the very opposite of
Hadyn. In early life, he was an unbenifieed
Editor and Proprietor.
NO. 7.
S. E. W.
clergyman, but instead of living on his friends,
be supported himself by teaching; and hav
ing been, at last, appointed to a rectorship,
he gave up the brilliant society of London,
and buried himself in an obscure Yorkshire
village. As he did this, from a sense of du
ty, so he did manfully all other duties, never.
seeking the excuse that they were too petty,
too laborious, or too far beneath his-,genius..
Celebrated for his wit, he sought to he as
famous for his common sense; the delight of
cultivated circles, he did not scorn to talk on
equal terms with the most rustic of his
parishoners; stinted in his means, he wasted
no time in idle regrets, but bravely narrowed
his desires within the limits of his income.
In a word, whatever his hand found to, do,
that he did. Gradually, as a just reward, as.
the prize earned by his self-denial, success
came to him.. And now that he is dead, and
his life is known, in its smallest details, it is
rather for his manly discharge of duty than
even for his wit, that Sydney Smith will be
remembered.
r()_lscflit CC£X Its.
FRIED BEEF STE Ali.—Season your steak:
with salt and pepper, and fry them in hot
lard. When dune, dish them, add a, little
flour to the fat they were fried in, pour in a
little water, and season with pepper and salt
to the taste : give the gravy one boil and pour
it over.
SMOTHERED STEAK.—Take one dozen large
onions, boil them in very little water until
they are tender. Pound and mash a beef
steak, season it with pepper and salt, put it
in a pan with some hot beef dripping, and
fry it till it is done. Take it out, put it on ; a
dish, where it will keep hot. Then, when
the onions are soft, drain and mash them in
the pan with the steak-gravy, and add pep
per and salt to the taste. Put it on the fire,
:tad as soon as it is hot pour it over the steak
and serve it.
INFLAMMATORY R lITI:MATIS3I.-A gentle
man wishes us to publish the following for,
the relief of suffering humanity. He says
lie has known a number of cures made by it,
and all of them in a short time. Half an
ounce of pulverized saltpetre, put in half a
pint of sweet uil. Bathe the parts affected,
then a sound cure will speedily be effected.
To MAKE POT-PIE CRUST AND, HAVE IT
LIGHT.—To one pint of sour milk add one
tea-cup of sour cream or two-thirds of a cup
of butter, one egg, saleratus, and mix hard
like bread. Never roll it or cut it, lint nip it
off in pieces the size you wish. Boil it half
an hour, and yon will always have it as light
as a puff,
To MAKE, PAN or; Chtromx. CAKES.—To one
quart of sour milk acid the yolk of four eggs,
saleratus enough to sweeten the milk, put in
flour to make a batter ; beat the whites of the
eggs to a froth, and stir it when you com
mence to bake ; they are much' better than
the common way of mixing them.
StrAnen OR SALOON CAKE.—Take one cup of
butter, one of sugar, one of sour milk, one
tea-spoonful of saleratus, one cup of starch,
two cups of flour, three eggs, spice to suit
your taste, bake three quarters of an hcur.—
Add the whites of the eggs last ; and stir it
ten minutes before baking.
COMMON GINGER7BREAD.—IIaIf a pound of
butter, half a tea cupful of ginger, one pint
of molasses, two pounds of flour, one table
spoonful of salooratus. nub the flour and
butter together and add the other ingredients.
Knead the dough well.- 101 l it out, cut it in
cakes, wash them over with molasses and wa
ter, and bake them in a •moderate oven.
PLAIN GI NG ZR-BREAD.—Three pounds of
flour, a quarter of a pound of sugar, half an
ounce of ground ginger, half a pound of but
ter, molasses sufficient to moisten the flour.—
Cut up the butter in the flour, add to it the
sugar and ginger, and stir in molasses barely
enough to moisten the flour, as it will become
softer by knead"ng. Knead the dough well,
roll it out in sheet, cut it in cakes, place them.
on tins, wash them over with molasses and
water, and bake hi a cool oven.
HA= DrzEAn PUDDING.—Pat one quart of
milk in a kettle, butter a few slices of „bread
and crumble them in till thick; then beat up
three ens, sweeten and spice, and when the
milk is scalding hot, pour in the egg, star
well, take it up. and serve.
THE FAMOUS T. CHARLES INDIAN" BREAD.
—Beat two eggs very light, mix alternately
with them one pint of sour milk or butter
milk, one pint of fine Indian meal, melt one
tablespoonful of butter and add to the mixture ;
dissolve one teaspoonful of soda or saleratus
in a small portion of the milk and add to the
mixture ; beat all hard and bake in a quick
oven.
licxxs.—One pound of butter cut fine in
to two and a half pounds of flour, six table
spoonfulls of yeast, two pints of milk, two
glasses of rose - water, two spoonfuls of spice ;
set them to rise until you can beat tea eggs,-
add one pound of sugar. half a pound of
flour, both sifted ; put them in tur pans, and
let them rise from the space of three or four
hours.
CA:minion A REMEDY rOR MICE.—Any one
desirous of keeping seeds from the depreda7.
tion of mice, can do so by mixing pieces of
camphor gum in with the seeds. Camphor
placed in drawers or trunks will prevent
' mice from doing them injury. T 13.1 little an
imal objects to the odor, and keeps a goLct
distance from it; he will seek food elsewhere.
BAKED BEEF AND YPRKSUIRE PUDDING.—
Rub salt on a piece of beef, put it on bars,
which should fit your dripping 7 pan, set it in
the oven, with a gill of waiter in the pan, and
when it is half done, make the pudding in the
following manner:—Beat four eggs very light;
the yolks in a pan, the whites in a broad dish.
When the yolks are thick stir in a pint of
milk, and as much flour as will make a bat :
ter, but not a thick one. Then stir in the
whites which must be whisked 'very dry ; do
not beat the batter after the white is ilk;
lastly stir in a teaspoonful of dissolved car
bonate of ammonia. Take out the meat,
skim all the fat off the gravy, pour in the
batter and replace the meat ; put all into the
oven again, and cook it till the pudding is
done. You should make batter enough to
cover your dripping pan about half ;in inch
deep. When the meat is dished, cut the pudgy
ding in squares, and place it round the dish,
the brown side up.
GIBLET PlE.—Wash and clean your giblets,
put them in a stem-Tan, season with pepper,
salt, and a little butter rolled in flour, cover
them with water, stew them till they are very
tender. Lino the sides of your pie dish with
paste, put in the giblets, and if the gravy is
not quite thick enough add a little More but ;
Mr rolled in flour. Let it boil once, pour in
the gravy, put on the top crust, leaving an
opening in the centre of it in the form of Ey
square ; ornament this with leaves of the
paste. Set the pie in the oven, and when the
crust is done take it out.
DUTCH CAK.E.—Two and a half pounds of
flour, one pound of butter, one pound of 5i4.7.
gar, a little yeast cinamon, nutmegs, twq
glasses of rose water, some carrant, or raisins