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c itittt drg.
I'M WEARY.
I'm weary, oh, so weary.
Of this sad and sorrowing earth,
Its gaudy glittering pageantry,
Its scenes of joy and mirth ;
And I long to lay my weary head,
Beneath the grass-grown sod,
With my spirit calmly resting on
The bosom of my God.
I cannot bear its heartless frowns,
Its smiles of mockery;
Its pleasing sights and loving sounds
,
have lost their charms for me;
But I loved them, oh, so fondly
In my childhood's happy hours,
When my heart was pure and holy.
As the pearly dew on flowers,
Rat a change Is o'er my spirit cast,
A dark and.frightful gloom—
Like the mournful pall o`ershadowing
The portals of the tomb;
And I cannot tell why the bitter tears
Are falling thick and fast,
As I muse on all the changing scenes
Of sorrow in the past.
The friends I loved in early years
Are angels now in heaven ;
Methinks I hear their joyous songs
In the stilly hush of even;
Methinks I see in the golden orbs
That deck the heavens at night,
Those old familiar faces
Shining out with heavenly light.
I know 'twere better far, to dwell
On high with white robed saints,
Than to linger where the sorrowing soul
Grows weary, sick and faint;
Oh, I long to lay my weary head
Beneath the grass-grown sod,
With my spirit calmly resting
On the bosom of my God.
Madison University, N. Y
ON A CURL OP CHILD'S
DY REBECCA I. TUNDMAN
'Tis but a curl of soft brown hair,
A simple, common thing to see;
But you, who only call it fair,
Dream not of what it is to me.
You take it in your hands and praise
Its glossy smoothness o'er and o'er ;
But oh! to you it pictures not
The childish face it shades no more I
You smile to see how goldenly
Its hue, like sunlight, meets the eye;
But oh! through tears I only see
The brow whereon it used to lie.
The temples fair it clustered round,
The loving eyes it often hid ;
Those fair cold temples, blossom-crowned,
Resting beneath the coffin-lid!
The childish voice, so sadly sweet,
The lisped words, to love so plain,
The echoing sound of childish feet,
At sight of this come back again.
Oh gather up the shining links,
And lay them softly, gently by;
Oh! place them where they may not moot
The careless gaze of every eye.
90 silently—so mournfully
They speak of what the grave has won;
The idol of a loving heart,
The early called—the only one!
a ,ittut stor)i.
THE MISTAKE.
"I'll never do it,—never, so long as I live 1"
And the boy clenched his hands together, and
strode up and down the room, his fine features
flushed, and his forehead darkcncd with an
ger and shame. " I'd ask the minister's par
don, in father's presence, of course I would ;
but to go before the whole Academy, boys
and girls, and do this 1" His whole frame
writhed at the thought. " Ellsworth Grant,
you'll brand yourself as a coward and a fool
all the days of your life."
" But father never retracts, and he said I
must do this or leave the school, and go out
on the farm to work ; and the whole village
will know the reason, and I shall be ashamed
to look anybody in the face. I've a good will
to run away." The boy's voice grew lower,
and a troubled, bewildered expression gath
ered on his flushed features.
" It would be very hard to leave all the old
places ; and then, never to see Nellie again ;
it would break her heart, I know it would."
And his face worked convulsively a moment,
but it settled down into a look of dogged res
olution the nest. "I inusn't think of that
now; though it's only ten miles to the sea
port, and 1. could walk that in an hour, and
get a place on some ship about to sail, before
father was any wiser. Some time I'd come
back, of course, but not until I was old
enough to be my own master." The boy sat
down and buried his face in his hands, and
the sunset of the summer's day poured its
currents of crimson and amber into the cham
ber, and over the bowed figure of the boy.
At last he lifted his head—there was a look
of quiet resolve in the -dark. hazel eyes and
about the asually smiling mouth, which in
youth is so painful, because it always indi
,eates mental suffering.
Ellsworth Grant was, at this time, just fif
teen; he was his father's only son, and he
was motherless.
'The deacon was a stern, severe man ; while
Ellsworth inherited his mother's warm, sunny
temperament. His father was a man of un
swerving integrity and rectitude—a man who
would have parted with his right hand sooner
than have committed a dishonest act; but
one who had few sympathies for faults indi
genous to peculiar temperaments and charac
ters ; a man whose heart had never learned
the height and depth, and the all-embracing
beauty of that mightiest text, which is the
one diamond among all the pearls and pre
cious stones of the Bible ; "Be ye charitable."
lie was a hard, exacting parent, and Ells
worth was a fun-loving, mischief-brewing
boy, that everybody loved, despite his faults,
and the scrapes he was always getting his
neck into. There- is no doubt that Deacon
Grant loved his son, but he was not a demon
strative man ; and, then—it is the sad, sad
story that may be written of many a parent
—" he didn't understand his child," and
there was no mother, with her soft voice and
soothing words, to come between them.
Ellsworth's last offence can be told in a few
words. The grape vine, which, heavy with
purple clusters, trailed over the kitchen win
dows of the sahookteacher's residence, had
$1 50
75
WILLIAM LEWPI---:--,
VOL, XIII.
been robbed of more than half its fruit, one
Saturday afternoon, when the inmates were
absent.
The perpetrators of this deed were, how
ever, discovered to be a party of the school
boys, among whom was Ellsworth.
The rest of the scholars privately solicited
and obtained the schoolteacher's pardon, but
the deacon, who was terribly shocked at this
evidence of his son's want of principle, insist
ed that •he should make a public confession of
his fault, before the assembled school.
In vain Ellsworth explained and entreated.
Ms father was invulnerable, and the boy's
haughty spirit entirely mutinied.
" Ellsworth, where are you going ?"
There came down the garden walk, an eager,
quivering voice, that made the boy start, and
turn round eagerly, as he stood at the garden
gate, while the light of the rising day was
flushing, the grey mountains in the east with
rose colored hues. A moment later, a small,
light figure, crowned with golden hair, and
a large shawl thrown over its night dress,
stood by the boy's side.
'Why, Nellie, how could you! you'll take
cold in your bare feet, among these dews."
"I can't help it Ellsworth." It was a tears
swollen face that looked up wistfully to the
boy's. " You see,l haven't slept any, hard
ly, all night, thining about you, and so I
was up, looking out of the window, and saw
yougoing down the walk."
" Well, Nellie," pushing back the yellow,
tangled hair, and looking at her fondly, "you
see, I can't do what father says I must, to
day, and so I'm going off."
"0, Ellsworth! what will uncle say ?"
cried the child, betwixt her shivering and
weeping, " what will uncle say? How long
shall you be gone ?"
" I don't know," evasively, "I shan't be
back to-day, though. But you musn't stand
here, talking any longer. Father'll be up
soon, you know. Now, good-bye, Nellie."
There was a sob in his throat, as he leaned
forward and kissed the sweet face, that had
only seen a dozen summers, and then ho was
gone.
HESPERUS
"Go and call Ellsworth to breakfast, will
you, Ellen?" said the deacon, two hours later.
"He isn't up stairs, uncle." And then, as
they two sat down to theirs, Ellen briefly re
lated what had transpired.
The deacon's face grew dark as she pro
ceeded. " lie thinks to elude the confession
and frighten me, by running off for a day or
two," he said ; "he will find he is mistaken."
So that day and the next passed, and the
deacon said nothing more, but Ellen, who
was his adopted child, and the orphan daught
er of his wife's most intimate friend,• noticed
that he began to look restless, and to start
anxiously at the sound of a foot-fall; but still
Ellsworth came not.
At last a strict search was instituted, and
it was discovered that Ellsworth had gone to
sea, in a ship bound for some part of the
western coast of Asia, on a three years' voy
age.
"I hope he will come back a better boy
than he left," was the deacon's solitary com
mentary, but in the long nights Ellen used to
hear him walking restlessly up and down in
his room, and his black hair began to be
thickly scattered with grey.
But the worst was not yet come. One No
vember night, when the winds clamored and
stormed fiercely among the old apple trees in
the garden, Deacon Grant and Ellen sat by
the fire in the old kitchen, when the former
removed the wrapper from his weekly news
paper, and the first passage that met his eye
was the one that told him how the ship—,
the one in which Ellsworth had sailed, had
been wrecked off the coast, and every soul on
board had perished.
Then the voice of the father woke up in
the heart of Deacon Grant. He staggered to
ward Ellen with a white, haggard face, and
a wild, fearful cry, "My boy! my boy!" It
was more than his proud spirit could bear.--
" 0 Ellsworth ! Ellsworth !" and he sank down
restless, and his head fell into the lap of the
frightened child.
After this, Deacon Grant was a changed
man. I did not know which was the most
to blame, the father or the son, in the sight
of God who judgeth righteously.
But equally to the heart of many a parent
and ninny a child, the story has its message
and its warning.
Eight years had passed. It was a sum
mer time again, and the hills were green,
and the fields were yellow with her glory.—
It was in the morning, and Deacon Grant
sat under the porch of the great, old, ram
bling cottage ; for the day was very warm,
and the top was wrapped' round thickly with
a hop vine.
These eight years had greatly changed the
deacon. He seemed to have stepped very
suddenly into old age, and the light wind
that stirred the green leaves, shook the grey
hairs over his wrinkled forehead, as he sat
there, reading the village newspaper, with
eyes that had beguß to grow dim.
And every little:while, fragments of some
old-fashioned tune floated out to the old man,
soft, sweet, stray fragments; and flitting
back and forth from the pantry to the break
fast table was a. young girl, not handsome,
but with a sweet, frank, rosy countenance,
whose smiles seemed to hover over the house
hold as naturally as sunshine over June
skies.
She wore a -pink calico dress, the sleeves
tucked above her elbows, and a "checked
apron." Altogether, she was a fair, plump,
healthful-looking country girl.
And while, the old man read the paper un
der the hop vine, and, the young girl hummed
and flattered between the pantry and the
kitchen table, a young man opened the
small, front gate, and went up the narrow
path to the house.
He went up very slowly, staring all about
him, with an eager, wistful look, and some
times the muscles of his month worked and
quivered, as one will when strong emotions
are shaking the heart.
He had a firm, sinewy frame, of middling
height ; he was not handsome, but there was
something in his face you would have liked ;
—Teacher
NEM
perhaps it was the light away down in the
dark eyes ; perhaps it was the strength and
character foreshadowed in the lines about
the mouth. I cannot tell ;it was as intangi
ble as it was certain you would•have liked
that face.
The door was open, and the young man
walked into the wide hall. He stood still a
moment, staring around the low wall, and on
the palm leaved paper that hung on the side.
Then a thick mist broke into his eyes, and he
walked on like one in a dream, apparently
quite forgetful that this was not his own
home.
I think those low sweet fragments of song
unconsciously drew his steps to the kitchen,
for a few moments later, be stood in the door
way, watching the fair girl as she removed
the small rolls of yellow butter from a wood
en box to an earthen plate. I can hardly
transcribe the expression of the man's face.
It was one of mingled doubt, surprise, eager
ness, that, at last, all converged into onejoy
ful certainty.
" Merciful man I" The words broke from
the girl's lips, and the last roll of butter fell
from the little hands, as looking up, she saw
the stranger in the doorway; and her rosy
cheeks actually turned pale with the start of
surprise.
The exclamation seemed to recall the young
man to himself. He removed his hat. "Ex
cuse me," he said, with a bow of instinctive
grace, "but can you tell me, ma'am, if Dea
con Grant resides here ?"
"0 ! yes, sir, will you walk into the par
lor and take a seat ? Uncle, here is a gentle
man who wishes to see you." And in a flut
ter of embarrassment, she hurried towards
the door.
The gentleman did not stir, and, removing
his silver spectacles, the deacon came in ; and
the two men looked at each other, the older
with some surprise, and a good deal of curi
osity in his face; the younger with a strange
longing earnestness in his dark eyes that
seemed wholly unaccountable.
"Do you know me, sir ?" he asked, after a
moment's silence, and there was a shaking
in his voice.
"I do not know that I ever had the pleas
ure of meeting you before, sir," said the dea
con.
But here a change came over the features
of the girl, who had been watching the stran
ger intently all the time. A light, the light
of a long buried recollection seemed to break
up from her heart into her face. Her breath
came gaspingly between her parted lips, her
dilated eyes were fastened on the stranger ;
then, with a quick cry, she sprang forward,
"Uncle, it is Ellsworth ! itis surely Ellsworth!"
O_! if you bad seen that old man then !
His cheeks turned ashen pale, his frame shiv
ered; he tottered a few steps forward, and
then the great, wild cry of his heart broke
out—"ls it you my boy, Ellsworth?"
" It is I, father ; are you glad to see me ?"
And that strong man asked the question with
a sob, and a timid voice, like that of a child.
" Come to me ! come to me, my boy, that I
thought was dead, that I have peen every
night for the last eight years, lying with the
dark eyes of his mother under the white
waves. 0 ! Ellsworth, God has sent you from
the dead I Come to me, my boy!"
And the old man drew his -arms around
his son's neck, and leaned his grey head on
his strong breast, and for a while there was
no word spoken between them.
" You have forgiven me, Father ?" asked
the young man at last.
"Do not ask me that, my boy. how many
times I would have given everything I pos
sessed on earth to ask, 'Forgive me, Ells
worth ?' and to hear you answer, 'Yes, lath-
=A
So there was peace between those two,
such peace as the angels, who walk up and
down the hills, crowned with the royal pur
ple of eternity, tune their harps over I
" And this—this is Nellie ? How she has
altered! But I knew the voice," said Ells
worth at last, as he took the girl's band in
his own, and kissed her wet cheeks, adding
very tenderly : "My darling sister Nellie."
And at last they all went out under the cool
shade of the vine, and there Ellsworth told
his story.
The merchantman in which he had. sailed
from home was wrecked, and many on board
perished; but some of the sailors constructed
a raft, on which the boy was saved, with sev
eral others. They were afterwards rescued
by a vessel bound for South America. Here
Ellsworth bad obtained a situation in a large
mercantile establishment, first as clerk, af
terward as a junior partner,
He had written home twice, but the letters
bad been lost or miscarried. As he received
no answer, he supposed his father had never
forgiven him for "running away," and tried
to reconcile himself to the estrangement.
But he had of ]ate, found it very difficult
to do this, and, -at last, be had resolved to re
turn to his home, have an interview with his
parent, and try whether the sight of his long
absent son would not soften his heart.
O 1 it was a happy trio that sat under the
green leaves of the hop-vine that summer
morning. It was a happy trio that sat down
in that low, old-fashioned kitchen, to the de
licious dinner of chicken and fresh peas, that
Nellie had been so long in preparing.
And that night three very happy people
knelt in the old sitting room, while the trem
bling voice of the deacon thanked God for
him that was dead and is "alive again."
DareIVIL LIBERTY.—Men are qualified
for civil liberty in exact proportion to their
disposition to put moral chains upon their own
appetites; in proportion as their love to jus
tice is above their rapacity; in proportion as
their soundness and sobriety of understanding
is above their vanity and presumption; in pro
portion as they are more disposed to listen to
the counsels of the wise and good, in prefer
ence to the flattery of knaves. Society cannot
exist, unless a controlling power upon will and
appetite be placed somewhere; and the less of
it there is within, the more there must be with
out. It is ordained in the eternal coxistitu
tion of things that men of intemperate minds
cannot be free; their passions forge their fet
ters.—Burke.
-PERSEVERB.--
HUNTINGDON, PA., JUNE 3, 1857.
acititrtstiitg Utistellaiq.
The Model Gentleman.
BY PUNCH.
He never broke a bank. He has never
been known to dress up as a jockey, or try
practical jokes on water-men, or empty flour
bags on chimney-sweeps. He shuns cross
barred trowsers, horticultural scarfs, over
grown pins, and can wear a waistcoat with
out a cable's len*th of gold chain round it.
His linen is not illustrated, but beautifully
clean. He never does "a little discounting,"
not lends his hand to "flying a kite." His
aversion for the gent is softened by pity.—
He can look at a lady without the aid of an
eye-glass. He allows the performer to talk
louder than himself at the theatre, and does
not spring on the stage if there is a row at
the Opera. He abhors a lie as he does a
sheriff's officer. He is not prodigal of oaths,
and is equally sparing of perfume. He does
not borrow his English from the staples, and
'never puts his lips through a fashionable
dreary course of lisping. He is not too
proud to walk, or to carry an umbrella if it
rains, and never waltzes with spurs after
supper, even in uniform. He never bets be
yond his means, and is not fond of playing
high at cards. He never ruined a young
man—to say nothing worse. He bows scru
pulously, even to an inferior. He never
shrinks from an I. 0. U., nor is he afraid of
a 'bill, nor seized with a sudden shortness of
money at a sight of an old friend, whose
coat is not so young as it used to be. He
has never proved his cowardice by fighting a
duel, giving satisfaction always in a more
gentlemanly way. He pays for his clothes,
disdaining to wear his tailor's in considera
tion of valuable introductions. His horses,
too, are his own, and not purchased of his
friends, by a series of profitable exchanges.
He is not madly attached to billiard-rooms,
nor is he seen at Casinos, He locks up his
conquests in his own heart, and his love let
ters in his desk, rarely disclosing either to
his most intimate friends. He does not bully
his servants, nor joke with them, nor 'cut' a
man because his father was in the trade.—
lie is not obsequious to a lord, nor does he
hang on the skirts of the Aristocracy, know
ing that a man's nobility does not depend
entirely upon his title, however old and un
stained it may be. He travels to enjoy him
self and does not intend to crush poor for
eigners with gold or pride. He values a
thing, not by its price, but by its real value,
and does not blush to drink beer when he is
thirsty. He does not think it essential to
his ,r=eputation to keep late hours, to pull
down signboards, bait policemen, and be
siege toll-keepers during the night. He has
no such violent love for door-knockers as to
induce him to collect them. He is not face
tious with waiters, or given to knock a cab
man by way of setting a fare. He is not
afraid of laughing if he is amused, even in
public, or of handing down an old lady with
a turban to dinner, or dancing with his wife.
He likes quiet, but does not hate children,
and thinks a seat in the House of Commons
not worth the bribery and the continual riot.
He was never the hero of any wager, riding,
eating, or swimming, and does not know a
single prize-fighter. He is fond of amuse
ments, but does not instal himself at the
Opera every night, because it is fashionable.
He follows the races, but goes down without
a dog-cart or a key Bugle. He is unobtru
sive in his dress, and very retired to his jew
elry ; and has an antipathy for a white hat
with a black band, and all violent contradic
tions either in dress or conversation. He is
generous, but does not give grand dinners
and expensive suppers to persons he does
not know or care about. He lends money;
and, if he borrows any, he makes a strange
practice of returning it. He rarely "speaks
his mind," and is very timid of rushing into
a quarrel—of husband and wife especially.
He is a favorite with the ladies, but does not
put too much starch into his politeness, or
too much sugar in compliments. In matters
of scandal he is dumb if not exactly deaf, as
to rumors, he only believes one half, (the
kinder half; too) of what. he hears. He is
not prejudiced himself, but has a kind tolera
tion for the prejudices of others. His gold
en rule is never to hurt the feelings of any
body, or to injure a living creature by word
or deed. All his actions, all his sentiments,
are shaped to that noble end ; and he dies as
he lives, " sans pear et sans reproche." This
is the model gentleman.
The Eccaleobion Triumphant.
"Eben Neezer," a "Friend," writing to the
Knickerbocker Magazine from the Quaker
City, relates the following admirable story in
admirable style:
There sits, owing to our chair-a-table-ness,
and her ability to pay rent in tho aforesaid
market, a comely female huckster, dealing in
poultry, game, and fine vegetables, who is es
pecially noted for bringing the freshest,
whitest eggs , always commanding the best
and highest prices. It so happened that friend
Brown, who is in business in Market street,
took sick some time since, with the Hen Fe
ver, and went through all the stages or coops
of Shanghais, Chittagongs, Burrampooters,
Polanders, Dorkings, coming to a crisis with
the purchase of an Eccaleobion, (does thee
think I spell this word right?) or Egg-Hatch
ing Machine, and which after purchase, was
duly sot up in the cellar of his store, and
prepared to go into operation as soon as friend
Brown saw fit, which was immediately. Of
all friend Brown's friends, none was so earnest
a friend as friend Smith, especially in the
matter of this Egg-Hatching Machine ; he
would run in several times per diem to note
progress, and finally when completed, natu
rally recommended friend Brown to go at
once to the comely female huckster in Jersey
market, and procure a plentiful supply of
those fresh white eggs. Friend Brown went,
(7. cured all the huckster had, and obtained
the refusal of a few dozen more. Friend
Smith was, to use an expression of.my daugh
ter Sally, who associates with the world's
people, "perfectly charmed" on hearing this;
~::
...:,... - ~..i'.:.,
:,
~..
.......: \.,:-..
... i :.:•
:,. 0 ,
1
1
'',; '-,'...:c, •
he assisted friend Brown in placing the eggs
carefully in the machine ; watched the
thermometer assiduously, day after day, pay
ing repeated visits. One morning, on com
ing up from the cellar, there was a cloud on
his brow, and friend Brown noted it.
" Why, Jacob 1" said friend Brown to him;
"what is the matter with thee 7 Thee looks
discontented."
" Ah ! James," answered friend Smith, "I
begin to have doubts."
"What does thee doubt?" inquired friend
Brown.
" The ability of thy Egg-Hatcher. Five
days have I watched the eggs, and Ido not
note any symptoms of the chickens coming
into the world."
" Thee is impatient, Jacob ; thee surely
knows that eggs won't hatch in five days."
"Yes, yes answered friend Smith. "But
there should be symptoms. I tell thee can
didly, I have no faith in thy Egg-Hatcher."
Then speaking out earnestly: "I don't be
lieve one of the eggs will hatch, not one! I
am sure of it, so sure of it that—l see thee
needs a new hat—well, I will give thee a new
hat if one of those eggs hatch, on condition
that thee give me one if they do not. Does
thee comprehend ?"
" I do, Jacob," said friend Brown, "and
foresee that thee will have to give me a new
hat—l foresee it."
Friend Smith agreed to wait until a certain
time, so as to give the eggs a fair chance, and
went his way rejoicing . ; feeling so elevated
at the thought of obtaining a new hat, that
he already had determined to give his old one
to the porter in his store.
Why was he so certain ?
A few weeks before friend Brown came to
a crisis with the Egg-Hatching Machine,
friend Smith had learned from the comely
huckster in the market, that in order to in
sure her hens laying regularly, she penned
up the hens by themselves; and friend Smith
knew enough about hens to know that though
they would lay eggs under these circumstan
ces, yet that these eggs, needing the vital
principle, never would hatch! and being fond
of fun, as well as greedy of havinc , a new
hat, he had laid a long train solely to' obtain
this end ; had appeared interested m the Egg-
Hatcher, tended it,recommended friend Brown
to buy these particular eggs, and—now he
was waiting for the bat. But the excellence
of the joke seemed so great in his eyes, that
he could not forbear telling friend Simms all
the particulars, by a great oversight neglect
ing to enjoin secresy on friend Simms, who
was so much rejoiced at this latter, that he
went at once to friend Brown the Egg-Hatch
er, and told him the whole story. Friend
Brown laughed very hard, but toward even
ing he might have been seen buying eggs of
a countryman, who wasn't acquainted with
'the "seclusive system." These eggs friend
Brown substituted for the ones purchased
from the female huckster, and said nothing.
Friend Smith waited for the appointed time,
and then claimed the hat; friend Brown beg
ged for three day's grace, which was grant
ed very cheerfully. At the expiration of the
three days he called again. Friend Brown
invited him to come down in the cellar; down
he went, hearing all the certain " pseep,
pseepings" that he did not like at all, and at
last saw four new hatched chickens.
"Friend Brown," said he, "thee can take
the hat!" And at once handed over a five
dollar bill, walked up stairs, and as he pas
sed the female huckster in the market, on
the way to his store, muttered:—" Thee is a
humbug with thy hen nunnery 1"
Lieut. Lynch, of the United States Explor
ing Expedition to the River Jordan and the
Red Sea, in 1848, visited the Garden of
Gethsemane about the month of May. He
says:
" The clover upon the ground was in
bloom, and, although, the garden in its as
pects and associations, was better calculated
than any place I know, to soothe a troubled
mind. Eight venerable trees, isolated from
the smaller and less imposing ones which
skirt the Mount of Olives, form a consecrated
grove. High above, on either hand, towers
a lofty mountain, with a deep yawning
chasm of Jehosaphat, between them. Crown
ing one of them is a living city; on the slope
of the other is the great Jewish Cemetery—
City of the Pea& Each tree in the grove,
cankered, and gnarled, and furrowed by age,
yet beautiful and impressive in its decay, is
a living monument of the affecting scenes
that have taken place beneath and around it.
The olive perpetuates itself from the root of
the dying parent stem, the tree springs into
existence. These are accounted one thousand
years old. Under those of the preceding
growth, therefore, the Savior was wont to
rest ; and one of the present may mark the
very spot where he knelt, and prayed, and
wept. No cavilling doubt can find entrance
here. The geographical boundaries are too
distinct and clear for a moment's hesitation.
Here the christian, forgetful of the present.
and absorbed in the past, can resign himself
to sad, yet soothing meditation. The few
purple and crimson flowers growing about
the roots of the trees, will give ample food
for contemplation, for they tell of the suffer
ing and ensanguined death of the _Redeem
er."
IVith youth the period is looked forward to
with so much impatience as the hour that
shall end our minority. With manhood none
is looked back to with so much regret.
Freedom appears to the young man as the
brightest star of our existence, and is never
lost sight of till the gaol to -which he has been
so long traveling is reached. When the
mind and the spirit are young, the season of
manhood as reflected with a brightness from
the future, which nothing can dim but its
own cold reality. The busy world is stretched
out before our boyhood like the exhibition of
a mechanical automata, We behold the
merchant accumulating wealth—the scholar
planting his foot upon the summit of the tem
plc of fame—the warrior twining his brow
with the laurel wreath—and we yearn to
struggle with them for supremacy. In the
Editor and. Proprietor.
Gethsemane.
One and Twenty
distance we see nothing but the most promiz
nent part of the picture s which is success--;
the anguish of disappointment and delay is
hidden from our view. We see not the pale
cheek of neglected merit, or the broken spirit
of unfortunate genius, or the sufferings of
worth. But we gaze not long, for the season
of youth passes away like the inocm's beard
from the still water, or like a dew di'op from,
the rose in June, or an hour in ,the *ale of
friendship. Youth departs, and we find our
selves in the midst of that: great theatre in
which we have so long gazed withinterest.--;
The paternal bonds, which, in binding, have
upheld us, are broken, and we step . into the
crowd with no guide but our conscience, to
carry us through the intricate windings of
the path of human life. The beauties of the
prospective have vanished. The merchant's
wealth has furrowed his cheek. The acquire;
ments of the scholar were purchased at the
price of his health—;and the garland of the
conqueror is fastened upon his brow with a
thorn, the rankling of which shall give him
no rest an this side of the grave. Disap=
pointment damps the ardor of our fist set
ting out, and misfortune follows closely in
our path, to finish the work and close our ca
reer.
NO. 50.
How often, amid the cares and troubles of
manhood, do we look back to that sunny spot
in our memory, the season of our youth ; and
how often a wish to recall it escapes from the
bosoms of those who once prayed fervently
that it might pass away.
From this feeling we do not believe that
living man was ever exempt. It is twined
around the very soul—it is incorporated iii
our very nature, and *ill cling to tis evert
when parental enthralment is broken, and
when th,c law acknowledges the intellect , td•
be full grown, may at the time; be considered
one of rejoicing, yet after life will hang
around it in the emblems of sorrow, *bile it
is hallowed as the last bright hour of happy
youth.
Slander, in its broadest sense; is coni-ersaL
tion about a person that lessens or degrades
the character of the person in the minds of
others.
It is practiced to a great extent even in thifi
land of boasted morality, by the high and low;
the rich and poor—in the streets, public as-:seniblies ,
seniblies, and in private circles:
How often do neighbors meet for a social
visit without enumerating the faults of some
one who is absent? It is common on such
occasions, if one leaves before the rest, those
who remain, before the departing one fairly
gets out of hearing, will commence talking
about his manners or style of dress, exagger
atinc , the faults and overldoking the good
qualities.
Persons of the same trade or profession
often try to injure the reputation of each
other. Each will represent the other as be;
ing ignorant, careless or dishonest.
Sometimes, from jealousy or some other
cause, the innocent and virtuous are repro;
sented as being of the lowest character. OP
ten those who have been guilty of a mean
act are the first to scatter the news of the fall
of another, even without being sure of the
truthfulness of it.
When a person becomes convinced, of the
error of his ways, and resolves to live a bet:
ter life, how few will tell of it l But when a
person performs an evil act, there is a multi
tude ready to act as messengers to carry the
news. Then as the story spreads, it loses no
thing, but rather increases, similar to a snow
ball rolling down the side of a mountain,
which becomes an enormous mass by the
time it gets to the foot.
Some who are somewhat conscientious
about talking of their neighbors will not com
mence directly, but in this way—" I am sorry
for such a neighbor." Then the one to whom
he speaks will ask why he is sorry, " What
has such a one done ?" Then the first speaker
will answer for politeness sake ; but he in
tended to tell of it in the first place, taking
this way to escape the blame of tattling :
Many a person is made worse by havinc , it
reported when he made the first false step ;
when he might have been reclaimed if a
friend had gently reproved him, instead of
reporting . him to the public.
Many innocent persons have been led to
lead a life of sin, regardless of character or
condition in life, by having false statements
made about them. They say they " might
as well have the game as the name."
Ilow much better it would be, what a ben
eficial influence it would have on society, if
we would have charity for others, overlook
their faults, or kindly reprove them, and
speak more of their virtues I
Look at the influence on a child. Tell hini
often that he knows nothing, and be never
will know much. Treat him like a brute;
and he will be a dunce; but tell him he can
do something if he tries—his eyes will bright:
en with hope, then he will tryto be somebody,
and succeed to some extent. This rule will
hold good with those of mature years. Try
it and see.
kforeign correspondent at Dublin related
the following anecdote of some fair but unin
vited attendants at one of the Lord-Lieuten=
ant's balls : •
Three ladies, daughters of a gentleman
residing in a, county town not thirty mile s from Dublin, not having been honored with
cards of invitation, determined to try their
chance of admission without going through
the necessary forms, and they were success.:
ful. Although quite unknown to the rest of
the guests, they obtained partners, and danced
merrily throughout the night. At length
questions began to be asked as to the identi
ty of the fair strangers, and Mr. Bagot, the
Chamberlain, having consulted his list speed
ily ascertained that they bad come unbidden
to the feast; but no farther notice was then
taken of the matter, and the ladies were per
mitted to finish the night as they bad begun
it. On the day following, however, a billet
from the Chamberlain's office was dispatched
to the intruders, requesting to know upon
what authority they bad attended the ball on
the night previous, as most positively he
(the Chamborlain) had not furnished theni
with the requisite passports. The reply was
candid, and even conciliatory.--They admit
ted that they had not been honored with invi
tations, but they kindly attributed the omis4
sion to an oversight of the Chamberlain, but
as they knew that no offence was designed,
no more need to be said upon the subject.---1
The answer to this explanation was written
in a totally different spirit, as the ladies were
politely informed that upon a review of the
case, the lord-lieutenant had come to the cons
elusion that their presence at the nest draw
ing-room could be dispensed with. Nowise
abashed by this intimation, they rejoined
that such a communication was altogether su.
perfluous, as before its receipt they had re
considered the slight put upon them on the
previous occasion, and bad resolutely made
up their minds to discountenance the Irish
court for the rest of the (so-called) fashionable
season.
Slander.
The Coolest on Record.