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Lines suggested by seeing a" Winter Scene," painted by
Miss M. S. W.u.soN.
THE LOST TRAVELLER...
Chilled with the north winds piercing blast,
A traveller urged his tired steed,
Thinking each mile would bring at list, -
A respite to his long tried speed.
While from Katandin's snow eap'd crest,
The howling winds swept down abreast :
Or played among the lofty pines,
Like demons filled with maddening wines;
The sun had run his wonted race,
And dreary night came on apace ;
The moon looked forth among the stars,
Broad as the shield of warlike Mars : -
And yet the traveller onward rode,
But found, alas 1 no kind abode ;
With every blast an icy dart,
Seemed piercing to his freezing heart;
The storms wild shriek, the wind's low sigh,
All whispered to hint, "thou must die."
He felt it in his shortening breath,
And knew, aim! that this was death.
While binder still the wild winds blew,
see he Rills upon the snow.
He dreams of home: 0! joy he secs,
His prattling boy haste to his knees;
His lovely daughter lisps his name,
And asks why thus so late be came;
Ho clasps his Wife, in close embritee,
And feels her kiss upon his face.
The scene changes : and again,
He grasps hid Selim's flow ing inane,
Mounts and calls his faithful Tray,
And to the forest hasten assay;
Follows the trail ( f the antlered deer,
Or bids his hound to bring them near.
'Tis past! thy dream of home is o'er,
Thine eyes shall see thy boy no more ;
No more thy wife's warn, honeyed kiss,
Thy soul shall thrill with love's sweet bliss ;
Alas! no loving daughter now,
Shall wipe the cold damp from thy brow.
Ali! sec his noble wearied steed,
Bend o'er him iu his hour of need,
Utters a shrill and piercing neigh,
Then views his master in dismay.
His faithful dog crouched by his side,
Sends forth his wailing. , far and t` ide s
For round his master, snow and sleet,
Are weaving that a winding sheet.
Mass.s_sarti A, Pa.
From Dirk , lis* —Household. 'Words."
A CURE FOR ENNUI.
It was ten in the morning, and I had just
risen, when Dr. Elliot entered my apartment.
"Ah ! doctor," said I, in a feeble voice, "you
see a poor young man who is fast going to
the grave. I am surrounded by everything
that wealth can purchase, but at twenty-five
cars of age, have lost all sense of enjoyment.
Iy ex.istence is a burden, and I only desire
death. I have consulted the most eminent
physicians in London, but they can do noth
ing for me."
"They were right," replied the doctor, ab-
"Then must I die ?"
"Yes, undoubtedly, when you arc eighty
"Heavens do you know a remedy?"
"Perhaps, perhaps. Let me see, Sir
Thomas, have you abused the pleasures
which youth and fortune have procured for
"I have used them, but never abused
"What are your first thoughts upon awa
"Vague and undefined.''
"Have you ever been in love ?"
"Alas ! I have no strength to love or hate."
"Do you like the theatre ?"
"It is a bore."
"Do you like the pleasures of the table ?"
"I have no appetite."
"Do you enjoy the beauties of nature ?"
"I only see clouds and shadows."
"You are very sick ; but not incurable."
"Do you believe it ?"
"I know it; but you must make a great
"What is that ?"
"You must renounce your country, your
friends, and the use of your fortune. You
must forget you are Sir Thomas Wentworth,
and the immense wealth you. poLess.. You
must go to Switzerland, taking with you on
ly a hundred guineas to buy some goats and
a little cabin. You must live there for a
year, breathing the pure mountain air, and
laboring with the sweat of your brow to gain
an existence, which all the diamonds of
Indies cannot purchase."
"You forget; i cannot travel—l have no
"It will return. There exists in society a
class of men. .among whom your malady is
extremely rare. These are the poor ; in
their ranks you must mingle. Depart, then,
as soon as possible. Return in a year, and
you will return cured. There is but one
- plank between you and shipwreck; renounce
it, and you are a dead man."
So saying he took his hat, and politely
wishing me a pleasant journey departed.
I deliberated upon his advice, and conclu
ded to follow it. To my steward I gave di
rections concering my affairs, and the next
day embarked from Dover, without acquain
ting a person of the object of my journey, or
I supported the fatigue of traveling better
than I anticipated, although I gave up all
hopes of ever looking upon my country or
or kindred again.
After a journey of three weeks the snowy
summits of the Alps rose before me. At this
sight I was seized with a profound sadness,
and I felt sure that I should never leave
them alive. I arrived at Berne in dejection
of spirits, and remained there two days to
make my arrangements, and finally decided
upon the valley of Lauterbrunn for my habi
tation. I rose at six, took a guide, and be
gan my march; but the grand and imposing
scenes of nature were not in harmony with
my physical strength, and what to others
would have been a source of unbounded
pleasure, was to me a suffering. We stopped
for the night in the valley of Grindenwold,
and in the morning, for the first time in
many months, I had a good appetite.
At sunset, I arrived at my destination.and
entering the first house, I asked the hospital
ity of the inmates, which was cheerfully ac
corded ine. In the morning I assumed a
shepherd's dress, and left the friendly roof,
not to enjoy the charms of nature, but to in
dulge in my own sad reflections.
I had taken but a few steps when I heard
the sound of music, and the village rapidly
filled with people to attend divine service.—
The crowd proceeded towards the church,
and awaited the entrance of the pastor, a
venerable man, inspiring respect and esteem.
Hardly were the services concluded, when
the flutes and hautboys were heard anew,and
a young man and woman knelt before the al
tar and received the nuptial benediction.—
Happiness and gaiety shone in all faces. I
glarwed towards the seat occupied by the
young girls of the valley, and observed one
with her eyes fixed upon me. Her beauty
was more delicate and noble than that of her
companions, and occasionally a tear would
steal from beneath her eyelashes. Her sad
ness gave her an additional charm in my
eyes : "Like me, she is unhappy," I said ;
"but happiness will soon smile upon her,
while with me death only will put an end to
Next followed a ball, and two hundred
young people danced merrily to the sound of
the same instruments we had heard in the
church. Seeing a strange young shepherd
reclining in the shade of an ancient pine,
some of the dancers approached and invited
me to join in their amusement; but I declin
ed, and they abandoned me to my own reflec
tions. The young girl with whose beauty I
had been so struck was nut among the gay
throng; she had disappeared immediately
upon leaving the church.
After the rustic ball, the girls, hand in
hand, singing gaily as they went, advanced
to the foot of a high hill, whose summit was
covered with ice. All at once they started
and rushed full speed up the slippery emi
nence. They seemed like a troop of angels
ascending to heaven. But what was my ter
ror when they began to descend in the same
rapid and perilous manner. With great
speed they came sprin g ing down the declivi
ty, their hair unbound and floating in the
wind, while their lovers at the base of the
hilt, with their arms extended, received them
with innumerable kisses.
Fur tlio Globe
"Happy shepherds!" I exclaimed, "how I
envy you !"
Upon arriving at the house, I learned that
my guide had purchased fur me a flock of a
dozen goats, and a little cabin upon one of
the neighboring mountains. The transaction
had consumed almost all my money, and if I
wished to live, I must labor like my new
companions, no rieber than any of them.
My dwelling was neat, and furnished with
everything necessary for comfort—a bench, a
table, and - a
bed, a little hard to be sure, but
soft enough for the robust limbs of a tired
My first few days were frightful. The is
olation in which I lived, the coarse fare, to
which I was unaccustomed, the violent exer
cise in following my goats over steep rocks
and precipices, all combined to drive me to
de, , ,pair. Soon I had not strength to leave
my cabin ; a burning feaver consumed me,
and my senses were lost in delirium. I re
mained ten days hovering between life and
health. Sometimes believing myself in my
own country, sometimes I seemed to see at
my bedside the young girl whom I met at
church, but her sweet face was soon oblitera
ted by others.
Finally, after a lethargic sleep, my reason
returned, I inquired, "Where am I 2" A
voice replied, "Ile is saved." I opened my
eyes and. perceived two females, one of mid
dle age, who had uttered the exclamation;
but the other fresh as spring, and beautiful us a
new born flower, gazed at me in silence.—
"These are the two angels," I said, in my
own language, "that have saved my life."—
My words they could nut understand, but my
sentiments, 1 am sure they did.
Marie and Laura, as they were called in
the valley, were beloved by all the inhabi
tants of Lauterbrunn. They delighted in
good deeds and often climbed the mountains
to carry assistance to sick cottagers. Their
dwelling was not far from mine, and as soon
as they learned of my illness they hastened
to tend me. Thanks to their care, I recover
ed, and became a frequent visitor at their
cottage. Gratitude made it a duty, and love
made it a necessity.
I applied myself diligently to the study of
r language, and, with Marie and Laura,
for instructors, I soon acquired great profi
tiency in it, and could converse freely with
the shepherds upon the mountains. Obliged,
like them, to earn my own living, I soon be
gan to value my hard earned necessaries,and
to forget the existence of luxuries. After a
hard day's work, I thoroughly enjoyed my
evening meal of coarse bread and goat's milk.
My sleep was peaceful, and visions of Laura
danced through my dreams-
I suppose that Marie and Laura were na
tives of Lauterbrunn. They wore the cos
tumes and. spoke the language of the coun
try; but I could not hut observe a marked dif
ference between their manners and those of
the simple Swiss shepherdess. The latter
possessed a charming naturalness, and at the
same time an air of rusticity ; Marie and
Laura possessed the same naturalness, but a
high-bred refinement and cultivation with it.
They were calculated to adorn any station,
In the meantinae, ativity and the pure , air
of the mountains, accomplished miracles in
my behalf. I could climb the steepest rocks,
and the most slippery paths, I pursued the
chamois into almost inaccessible retreats,and
leaping a frightful chasm was a mere amuse
ment. After being so feeble, I rejoiced in
my strength, and acquired v a wonderful vital
ity and energy.
Ono day I reached the summit of the Schel.
deg and contemplated the seem) around nae
—high rocks, steep precipices, apparently
bottomless abysses; while far, far beneath
me, lay in miniature, the smiling valleys of
Tautarbrunn and Grindenwold. A few light
clouds hovered down the horizon, and looked
like floating mountains.
I was lost in admiration at the glorious
scene, when suddenly a terrible noise, like
thunder reverberated through the mountains.
This fearful sound increased, and a thousand
echoes repeated it. I, safely cut of the reach
of the avalanches, began to ascend with
great rapidity, when I heard a piercing cry,
and upon a neighboring eminence, a young
woman stretching her arms imploringly to
wards me. I flew towards her, and received
the unfortunate girl fainting in my arms ;
bore ber from the dangerous spot. One mo
ment more, and I should have been too late.
It was Laura, and no other than Laura,
whom I had rescued from death. I felt my
self endowed with new strength, and carried
her in my arms without perceiving the
weight of my precious burden. I dashed
down the mountain with the agility of a cha
mois, never stoping to breathe until I reach
ed the dwelling of Marie.
Laura, tempted by the serenity of the at
mosphere, had ventured upon the mountain
to collect some plants, and was surprised by
the avalanche in . the midst of her occupation.
After this day I assumed the entire charge
of Marie and Laura. On Sundays and fete
clays, I escorted them to the village, and join
ed in the dance with the young people upon
the green. These were the happiest moments
of my life, for I asked of heaven no greater
felicity, than that of seeing Laura every
In the meantime my year of exile had
nearly expiried. My health was entirely re
established, and to my expectations of death
bad succeeded all the hope of friendship and
love. I thought of my friends at home, but
could not decide to leave a country to which
I was indebted for the greatest of all benefits,
health; and besides, how could I abandon
Laura; I could more easily • have renounced
The principal events of our existence are
independent of our will. Our designs are at
the mercy of circumstances, likealeaf at the
sport of the wind. I. entered one evening
the cottage of my neighbors, and found them
both in tears, Marie weeping in the arms of
Laura, and saying—
"Oh ! my daughter what will become of
us? Where shall we take refuge? If I
were alone, I could drag through the few
days remaining to me, but I cannot see you
"Do not despair, my dear mother," said Lau
ra; "I am well, and can work and support
us both until that happy day shall come,
which will restore us to our country and
rights. Be consoled then, and do not be un
happy about my welfare."
This scene made so deep an impression up
on me, that I was no longer master of my
self, and entreated them to acquaint me with
their misfortunes, and I would shed my last
drop of blood in their cause.
Laura burst into tears and exclaimed,
"Soon we must part forever."
"Forever Laura ? ah I I would rather die
a hundred times. No, I will only abandon
you with life."
"It is necessary," she continued: "Heaven
and man have decided, and we must sepa
rate. We are compelled to fly from the peace
ful country where I had just begun to know
happiness. I confess it before God, you are
the only person here I regret leaving."
At these words I fell upon my knees before
her, and pressing her hand to my lips, ex
claimed, not knowing what I said: "Laura, I
will follow you everywhere—your destiny
shall be mine. I here swear to love you eter
"Stop," said Marie, stepping between us,
"Tom, my daughter never can be yours.—
The rank our families occupied in France for
bids it. Would to heaven we had been born
in this smiling valley, where the• same for
tune, the same education, would have made
us equal. But it is not so. Laura is the
daughter of the Count de Manville. The
blood which flows hi her veins is illustrious.
She cannot dishonor it by allying herself with
a poor shepherd. Misfortunes attench,nt up
on a terrible revolution have expatriated us,
and deprived us of our estate. M. de Blan
ville was massacred before my eyes, and I
escaped from France—not that I cared for
my own life, but to save my daughter from
the axe of the executioner. I believed that
in this retired part of Switzerland I had se
cured a peaceful retreat, where the storm
could no longer break upon us ; but I was de
ceived. A decree from the Republic of Berne,
commands all French emigrants to quit Switz
erland, and allows them but three days to
seek another asylum. Alas.! in what part of
the world can we find a shelter from our per
At these words she burst into a torrent a
tears, I .approached bar respectfully, and
''The poor Tom is not worthy of being the
husband of Laura, but whatever may be the
place of your new exile, do not forget one
who will never forget you."
I left the cottage, not trusting myself to
look again at Laura. The next morning at
sunrise, I started for Berne, -where business
detained me for two days. Immediately upon
my return, I called at the cottage of Madame
de Blanville, to renew my offers of assistance
and to say farewell.
Laura looked pale and sad, but her mother
greeted me with a face radiant with joy, and
showed me a letter just received from 33erne..
It was as follows
MADAHE:-A man to whom you have un
consciously rendered a most important ser
wiee, has just become apprised of your cruel
situation. Permit him to offer you an asy
lum in his country. Depart at once for Lon
don ; inquire there for the residence of Sir
Thomas Wentworth: his house is at your ser
vice, and you will there receive every atten
tion and respect that a son can offer the dear
I am, madarde, very respectfully,
is from lleave,u," cried Madame de,
HUNTINGDON, PA., JANUARY 7, 1857.
Blanville. "How could I ever doubt the good
ness of Providence. I have tried in vain to
recall that Sir Thomas Wentworth, but I am
sure this is the first time I ever heard his
name. There is something very extraordina
ry about it; what do you think of it, Tom?
What do you advise us to do?".
"If you. would deign, madame, to take coun
sel from a shepherd, you will accept the offer
of Sir Thomas Wentworth. Circumstances
are pressing and haste required. He can
have no motive for deceiving you, and I be
lieve him an honest man; and an honest man
always regards his promises."
"But we do not know him."
"When you see him you may recognize
him, and if you have forgotten the service
you have rendered him, it is very plain that
he has not,"
During this scene I glanced at Laura. She
did not partake of the joy of her mother, but
was wrapt in melancholy. I approached her,
and taking her hand, said:
"Oh, Laura, how happy is Sir Thomas, he
can offer you an asylum and console you."
"Console me! ah, Tom, the death of my
father and our separation are misfortunes for
which I can never be consoled."
The next day, Madame de Blanville and.
Laura left the valley. The instant of their
departure was the signal for mine. We took
d itferent routes. They dared not pass through
France, but made a circuitous tour through
Germany and Holland. I, not fearing the
axe of the executioner, and desirous of re
turning as soon as possible, passed directly
through. France, and was soon in England,
and awaiting with an indescribable impa
tience the moment when I could welcome the
two beings so dear to me.
One morning I was alone in my library,
thinking of Laura, and. bitterly regretting
that I had ever lost sight of her, when my
servant announced the arrival of two stran
When I entered. the drawing-room, Mad
ame and Mademoiselle de Blanville approach
ed. me with grace and dignity. The eyes of
Laura were modestly cast down, but I noticed
traces of sadness upon her brow. Her moth
er's anxiety of mind, my change of costume,
and the luxuries by which I was surrounded,
all prevented her recognition of me. She
placed in my hands the letter she had receiv
ed from Berne. I took it, and pretended to
"Yes, Madame, it is I who offer you an asy
lum. My house, my fortune, my life, all that
I possess, is yours. I promise you the res
pect, the attention of a son, for the most ten
der of parents. I will keep my word, even
if your daughter should refuse to unite her
fate to that of the poor shepherd Toni."
'Atithese words a vivid flush mantled upon
the cheeks of the young girl. She raised her
astonished eyes, and cried:
"Good God! it is Tom! Torn himself!"
Her surprise, that of Madame de Manville,
and my transports of joy, prevent me from
describing the scene that ensued. I can only
leave it to the imagination of the reader.
In a few days, Laura became Lady 'Went
worth, and for three years I have been the
happiest of husbands. Everything is bright
about me, all nature is smiling, and every
day I thank Heaven for having preserved an
existence so filled with charms. To Dr. El
liot, lam indebted for all my felicity. With
agreeable duties and pleasures, my whole
time is occupied, and I have not experienced
a moment of ennui since ray departure for
We commend the following communication
of a fair correspondent to the attention of the
old and young of both sexes—to some for ed
ification to others reproof
A correspondent of one of your cotempo
raries having treated this subject in a power
ful, but, as I deem, one-sided matter, I pro
pose to offer my views in relation to the mat
Admitting the general fact that very many,
if not the majority of marriages are unhap
py, we dispute the proposition that this un
happiness is usually the cause of the hus
band ; and most women are, when first mar
ried, soft, pliable creatures to be moulded to
good or ill by the master hand of the husband,
and that most men, by their bad treatment,
pervert the nature of their wives, and thus
introduce domestic discord. The fact is, that
both are partly to blame, and society more
than either. Marriages are unhappy because
neither men or women are so educated as to
make it otherwise, Among the causes of
this unhappiness may be reckoned the haste
with which matrimony is sometimes entered
upon ; the man led blindly on by his feelings,
and the woman snatching at the offer lest she
may never get another, without the least re
gard to fitness, affection, or any other worthy
motive, In such marriages, the love which
is all on one side—that of the husband—soon
dies away ; and when the ardor of the honey
moon is over, the wife must be .content with
civility in public and indifference in private,
for the rest of her life, Verily, she gets her
reward„ and has no right to complain.
Another source of matrimonial happiness
is the fact that people generally do not mar
ry young enough, Men are deterred by an
exaggerated idea of the expenses of main
taining a family, and women postpone it un
til they can "better themselves" pecuniarily.
The former waste their youth and means in
drinking and dissipation, and the latter frit,
ter away their affections in idle flirtations.—
How can we expect a man who has forgotten,
if he ever felt it, the respect inspired by the
gentle virtues of a mother, or a sister; who
has carefully avoided the refining influences
of virtuous 'female society, and lost by unwor
thy association the power of appreciating it;
and who is incapable of enjoying any pleas
ures but those of the grossest sort, to resign
his precious liberty, forego his cherished
amusements, and in short, to sacrifice his sel
fishness on the altar of domestic happiness?
And how can we expect a young lady fed on
flattery, accomplished in ignorance, doating
on jewelry, despising work asdegrading, un- ,
able to comb her own hair, and regarding
man as a gold producing-machine, to give up
her accustomed gratifications, and occupy
.i . 1 ...,.... - :.T.:::. ... :. * . i . :::...
-•;,....:. --.,, ~,.. .
_ . N
herself with the petty details of housekeep
ing? No "we cannot gather grapes of thorns
nor figs of thistles."
The notion that it is imprudent for very
young persons to marry, is totally fallacious.
Experience has proved this in innumerable
cases. As soon as a young man is able to
support himself, he is able to support a wife,
and the sooner he takes one the better. Let
him select a sensible young woman, suited to
himself in age, disposition and circumstances,
win her and marry her ; and if they are not
happy nothing on earth could make them so.
One instance: Edward married at twenty-one
the girl of his choice, Maria. He was a poor
clerk; she had no dowry but good sense and
a loving heart. They commenced housekeep
ing cm the humblest scale; but love and the
sunny cheerfulness of youth enriched pov
erty itself, while the grace and neatness of
the wife threw a halo of refinement around
their humble home. Industry and frugality
which never descended to meanness, increased
their worldly goods, until by degrees they '
rose to affluence. After fifteen years of wed
lock, their affection is as w arm as it was in
the flush of youth ; and the husband prizes
the kiss which sweetens his departure, and
the smile which welcomes his return, as high
ly as when they were bestowed by the blush
Such might have been the history of hun
dreds of surly, selfish old bachelors, and
sour, snappish old maids, if they had only
been more wise and less prudent. Such
might have been the history of hundreds of
jarring couples, if, instead of waiting for a
noontide sky and freight, they had, with
suitable partners, launched their bark on the
unknown sea of Matrimony, in the morning
of life, with love for a cargo and hope for a
Another cause of matrimonial unhappiness
among people who are moderately attached,
and might have been moderately happy if
they did not expect too much of each other,
is the fact that wives are too exacting. They
don't know what is best for them when they
insist upon hearing exactly what detained
the husband beyond his usual time. It is
perhaps much more conducive to their happi
ness not to know. When a husband returns
in the evening or at night, fatigued with
business or pleasure, he does not feel dis
posed to entertain himself by " confiding" to
his wife. If it were necessary to enlighten
her, no doubt he would do so; and when he
volunteers no information about his business,
her wisest course is not to task his invention
by asking him questions. In order that the
matrimonial machine should work well, it
is necessary that the wife should entertain
the most unwavering confidence in the moral
rectitude of her husband. Anything calcula
ted to shake this confidence must tend to
diminish the happiness of both ; wherefore it
has been said "A woman's greatest happi
ness is to be most carefully deceived."
Many other cases of matrimonial misery
might be cited, all tending to show that the
blame dces not rest entirely on the lords of
creation ; but enough has been said, and
these remarks arc tco far extended already.
There are a few gems in the following pret
ty piece of mosaic:
"No snow falls lighter than the snow of
age ; but none is heavier, for it never melts."
"The figure is by no means novel, but the
closing part of the sentence is new as well as
emphatic. The Scripture represents age by
the almond-tree, which bears blossoms of the
purest white. "The almond-tree shall flour
ish"—the head shall be hoary. Dickens says
of one of his characters, whose hair was
turning gray, that it looked as if time had
lightly pushed his snows upon it inpassing."
"It never melts"—no, never. Age is in
exorable; its wheels must move onward; they
know not any retrograde movement, The
old man may sit and sing, "I would I were
a boy again," but he grows older as he sings.
lie may read of the elixir of youth, but he
cannot find it; he may sigh for the secrets of
alchynay which is able to make him young
again, but sighing brings it not. Ile may
gaze backward with an eye of longing upon
the rosy cheeks of early years, but as one
who gazes on his home from the deck of a
departed ship, every moment carrying him
farther and further away. l?oor old man !
he has little more to do than die.
"It never melts." The snow of winter
comes and sheds its white blossoms upon the
valley and the mountain, but soon the sweet
spring follows and smiles it all away. Not
so with that upon the brow of the tottering
veteran ; there is no spring whose warmth
can penetrate its eternal frost. It came to
say, its single flakes fell unnoticed, and now
it is drilled there. "We shall see it increase
till we lay the old man in his grave; there it
shall be absorbed by the eternal. darkness, for
there is no age in. heaven."
Yet why speak of an age in a mournful
strain? It is beautiful, honoreble and elo
quent. Should we sigh at the proximity of
death, when life and the world are so full of
emptiness? Let the old exult because they
are old; if any must weep let it be for the
young, at the long succession of cares that
are before them. Welcome the snow, for it
is the emblem of peace and rest. It is but
a temporal crown, which shall fall at the gates
of paradise, to be replaced by a brighter and
4e—A conceited young coxcomb met a
handsome young lady on a narrow, muddy
-crossing, a few days since. He stopped and
"Ah! lam D2.itto3n—stopped by BJEL an
"And I," said she, 'brushing by him, "am
like the angel—stopped by an ass;"
The exquisite wilted !
r"Pat, you have dated your letter a
week a head, It is not so late in the month
by one week, you spalpeen."
" Troth, boy, indade an' its jist myself
what is wantin' swate Kathaleen to get it in
advance of the mail. Sure I'll not care if
she gets it three days afore its written, me
Editor and Proprietor.
A Snow of Age.
An Adventure in the Arctic Region
The readers of Kane's narrative of his re
cent Arctic expedition- could hardly have
failed, to read the following passage • with
almost breathless interest; so
were the lives of Kane and his men depend ?
ent upon the sequel. We copy, it for the
benefit of those of our readers who have not
read the work, wait the remark that it de ;
scribes a scene which transpired after the
explorers had abandoned their vessel, azzd
were making a desperate; and; as it must
have appeared to them at the time, almost,
hopeless attempt to reach a civilized spot
where they could obtain that aid, in the
shape of food, rest and sleep, which was so.
necessary to their existence. They . were'
upon a short allowance of food, had were
almost fathishing, With still a long journey
"Things grew worse and worse with us;
the only difficulty of breathing came back
again, and our feet swelled to such an extent
that we were obliged to cut open our canvas
boots. But the symptom which gave me
most uneasiness was our inability to sleep.
A form of low fever which hung by us when
at work had been kept down by the thorough
ness of our daily rest ; all my hopes of escape
were in'the refreshing influence of a halt.
It must be remembered that we were now
in the open bay, in the full line of the great
ice-drift of the Atlantic, and in boats so frail
and unseaworthy as to require constant bail
ing to keep them afloat.
It was at this crisis of our fortunes that
we saw a large seal floating—as is the cus
tom of those animals—on a small patch of
ice, and seemingly asleep. It was an as,Oil t ;
(seal,) and so large that I at first niisiook it
for a walrus.—Signal was made for the Hope
to follow astern, and, trembling with anxiety,
we prepared to crawl down upon him.
Peterson, with the large English rifle, was
stationed in the bow, and stockings were
drawn over the oars as mufflers. As we
neared the animal, our excitement became
so intense that our men could hardly keep
stroke. I had a set of signals for such occa
sions, which spared us the noise of the voice;
and when about three hundred yards off, the
oars were taken in, and we moved on in deep
silence with a single scull astern:
He was not asleep, for he reared his head
when we were almost in rifle shot; and to
this day I can remember the hard, care worn,
almost despairing expression of the men's
thin faces as they saw him move ; their lived
depended on his capture.
I depressed my hand nervously, as a sig
for Peterson to fire. McGary hung upon
his oar, and the boat, slowly but noiselessly
sagging ahead, seemed to me within certain
range. Looking at Peterson, I saw that the
poor fellow was paralyzed by his anxiety ;
trying vainly to obtain a rest for his gun
against the cutwater of the boat. The seal
rose on his fore-flipperg, gazed at us for
moment, with frightened curiosity, and coiled
himself for a plunge. At that instant, sim
ultaneously with the crack of our rifle, he re
laxed his long length upon the ice, and at
the very brink of the water his head fell help
less to one side.
I would have ordered another shot, but no
discipline could have controlled the men.—
With a wild yell, each vociferating according
to his own impulse they urged the boats upon
the floes. A crowd of hands siezed the seal'
and bore him up to safer ice. The men seem
ed half crazy ; I had not realized how much
we were reduced by absolute famine. They
ran over the floe, crying and laughing and
brandishing their knives. It was not five
minutes before every man was sucking his
bloody fingers, or mouthing long stripes of
Not an ounce of the seal was lost. The in
testines found their way into the soap kettles
without any observance of the preliminary
home processes. The cartilaginous parts of
the fore-flippers were cut off in the melee,
and passed around to be chewed upon ; and
even the liver, warm and raw as it was, bade
fair to be eaten before it had seen the pot.—
That night on the large halting-floe, to which,
in contempt of the danger of drifting, we
happy men had hauled our boats, two entire
planks of the Red Erie were devoted to a
grand - cool:ing fire, and we enjoyth rAW
and savage feast.
Many years since; a gentleman in Newing
ton, a parish of Weathersfield, Conn., who
was a very religious and conscientious man,
married one of the most ill-natured and troub
lesome women who could be found in the vi
cinity. This occasioned a universal surprise
wherever he was knovvn, and one of his
neighbors ventured to ask him the reasons
which had governed his choice, Lie replied;
that having but little trouble in the world,
he was fearful of becoming too much attach
ed to the things of time andsense, and thought
that by experiencing some afflictions, he should
become.more weaned from the world, and
that he married such a - woman as he thought
would accomplish this object. The beSt part
of the story is that the wife hearing the rea-:
sons why he married her, was much offended
and out of revenge, became one of the most
pleasant and dutiful wives in town; declaring
she was not going to be mane a pack-horse
to carry her husband to heaven,
PRESIDENT PIERCE.—The New Bedford
Express says, in speaking of Gen. Pierce's
"Since the do s of Jackson, no adminis
tration has had so violent an opposition to
contend against; and as we have often stria;
like the administration of-Jackson; posterity
will do it s justice—history will set it right upon
the record, and the young American of com
ing time will proudly point to the name of
Franklin Pierce as one of the patriotic Presi
dents of olden time, who was alike proof
against the whirlwinds of fanaticism, the
storms of sectionalism, the earthquakes of
disunion, and the thunders from the 'three
thousand J.Vew England clergy!' "
ter - What is a coquette? A young lady
of more beauty than sense; more accomplish
ments than learning ; more charms of person
than grace of mind; more admirers than
friends; more fools than wise men for atten
dants; now to finish the answer, Huntingdon
is full of them, for we would not have to go
any distance, before we could find a hatchet
faced fool, or a tallow.-faced num-skull. Take
the paint and powder off, and what are they?
Nothing more than poor pitiful creatures—a
mere compound of hoops, cotton, "lily-white,'f
rouge and a f fectation c` Does anytin pit®
TUE ROYAL MoNsTEß.—Dickens gives the
finishing touch to a miniature pen-and-ink
portrait of Henry the Eighth, by saying that
''he was a most intolerable ruffian, a disgrace
to human nature, and a blot of Nood and
grease upon the History of England t"
would be difficult to crowd more stubborn
truth into smaller space.