The globe. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1856-1877, August 06, 1856, Image 1
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One column Professional and Business Cards not exceeding four lines, one year, $3 00 Administrators' and Executors Notices, Advertisements not marked with the number of inser tions desired, Will be continued till forbid and charged ac cording to these terms. 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, .. . ... ..., .. "" ... , .. -...• ( _:, ,:,-.: ..-.,: ~.,.... .‘ ,:f....:., •.:.:;;,..-:.:-. ~ .:. . .......f.:::,. ',;......1... ,. ~ 1. : ::: : :-: . "_:,;.........., .J.,,,,-...- 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 4.1'! -.., ~... ,:.:. ;......: ~.., ~.... 1 1 . je 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