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~elettVottry.
TO A DRUNKEN HUSBAND.
My husband, 'twas for tbeo I left,
My own, my happy home;
For thee I left my cottage bowers.,
With thee in joy to imam;
And where aro all the holy vows,
The truth, the love, the trust,
That won my heart—all scattered now,
And trampled in the dust.
I loved thee with a love untold,
And when I stood beside
Thy noble form, Ijoyed to think
I was thy chosen bride.
They told sue ere I was thine own,
How sad my lot would be ;
I thought not of the future, then—
I only thought of thee.
left my home, my happy home,
A sunny-hearted thing,
Forgetting that my happiness
A shadowing cloud might bring.
The sunny side of life is gone,
Its shadows only mine,
And thorns are springing in my heart,
Where blossoms used to twine.
I do not blame thee for the lot,
I only pray for thee,
That thou may'st from the tempter's power,
(0, joyful thought!) be free;
That thou may - st bend above my grave,
With penitence sincere,
And for the broken hearted one,
Let fall a sober tear.
LOOK ALOFT.
In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale
are around and above, if thy footing should fail,
If thine eye should grow dim and thy caution depart,
"Look aloft" and be firm, and be fearless of heart.
If thy friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe ;
Should betray thee when sorrows like clou is are arrayed,
"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.
Ehould the visions which hope sprelnh in light to the eye,
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to
Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret
'•Loot: aloft" to the sun that is never to set.
Ehould they who are dearest—the son or thy heart,
The wife of thy bosom—in sorrow depart,
'.look aloft" from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where "affection is ever to bloom."
And oh I .when death comes hi hN terror to caet
fears on the future, his pall or: the past,
In that moment of darkness, with liOpe in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft" and depart.
Icct
TELE REWARD OF MERIT
A FIRST-RATE LOVE STORY
Annie had arrived at the mature age of
(do not start, reader,) twenty-seven, and yet
in a state of single blessedness. Somehow
or other she had not even fallen in love as
yet. "had she no oilers':" What a simple
question I Did you ever know half a million
of dollars to go begging? 01 - Thrs? Yes, scores
of them! It may be accounted as one of her
oddities, perhaps, but whenever the subject
happened to be touched upon by her father,
Annie would say that she wanted some one
who could love her for herself, and she must
have assurance of this, and how should she
in her present position? Thus matters stood,
when Annie was led to form and execute
what will appear a very strange resolution—
but she was a resolute girl. ' We must now
go back six years.
One dark, rainy morning in November, as
our old friend was looking composedly at the
cheerful fire in the grate of his counting
room, really indulging in some serious reflec
tion on the past and future—for future, too
—a gentleman presented himself and inquir
ed for Mr. Bremen. The old man uttered
not a word, but merely bowed. There was
that in his looks which said "I am he."
The stranger might have been some thirty
years or so of age. Ile was dressed in black,
a mourning weed was on his hat, and there
was something in his appearance which seemed
to indicate that the friend whose loss he de
plored had recently departed. The letter of
-introduction which be presented to Mr. Bre
men was quickly, yet carefully perused, and
as it was somewhat unique, we shall take the
liberty of submitting it to the inspection of
the reader:
FRIEND PAUL : This will introduce to thee
friend Charles Copeland. Ile has come to
thy city in pursuit of business. I have known
him from a youth up. Thou mayst depend
upon him for aught he can do, and shall not
Lean as a broken reed. If thou canst do any
thing for him, thou mayest peradventure
benefit thyself and find calise to rejoice.
Thy former a n d present friend,
111ICIIIi. LooMis."
"It is not every one that can get old Micha
Loomis' indorsement on his character," said
Paul Bremen to himself, as he folded up the
letter of the well-known associate of former
days. "Old Mieha is good for a quarter of a
million, or for anything else—it will do—l
want him—getting old, business increasing
—must have some more help—now as well
as any other time."
The old gentleman looked at all this as he
stood gazing in perfect silence on the man
before him. At length he opened his lips.
"Mr. Copeland, you know all aboutbooks?"
"I have had some few years' experience."
"Any objection to a place here? Pretty
close work--only one thousand a year."
"None."
" When can you begin ?"
" Now."
A real smile shone on the old man's face. It
lingered there like the rays of the setting
sun among the clouds of evening, lighting up
those seemingly hard, dark features.
A stool was pushed to the new corner,
books were opened, matters explained, direc
tions give; the pen was dipped in the ink,
....$1 50
.... i 5
I insertion. 2 (10. 8 do.
$ 25 $ 27M ..... .$ 50
50 75 1 00
..... 1 00: ..... ... 1 50 2 00
—, llth mo., 18—.
WILLIAM LEWIS,
VOL. XIII,
and in short, before an hour had passed
away, you would have thought that the phi
man and young man had known each other
for years.
In reference to our new friend, it will be
sufficient to remark, that be had been liber
ally educated, as the phrase goes, and though
he bad entered early into business, he had
not neglected the cultivation of his mind and
heart. He had found tithe to cherish a gen
eral acquaintance with the most noteworthy
authors of the day, both literary and reli
gious, and with many of past times. After
a few years of success in the pursuits to
which he had• devoted himself, misfortunes
came thick and fast upon him. He found
himself left with scarcely any property, and
alone in the world, save his two only daugh
ters.
As year after year passed away, he grew
steadily in the confidence of his employer,
who felt, though.he said it not, that in him
he possessed a treasure.
Very little indeed, was said by either of
them not connected with the routine of busi
ness, and there had been no intercourse what
ever, between them, save in the counting
room. Thus six years went by, towards the
close of which period, old Mr. Bremen was
found, looking with much frequency and
earnestness at the young woman before him ;
something was evidently brewing in that old
head. 'What could it be? And then, too,
he looked so curiously. The Irish servant
was puzzled. "Sure," said James, "some
thing's coming." Annie, too, was somewhat
perplexed, for those looks dwelt much on
her.
" What is it father?" she said to him one
morning at the breakfast table, as he sat
gazing steadfastly in her face ; do tell me."
"I wish you'd have himl" burst forth like
au avalanche. "Known him for six years—
true as a ledger—a gentleman—real sensi
ble man—don't talk much—regular as clock
work—prime for business—worth his weight
in gold."
"Have who father? What are you talk
ing about ?"
"My head clerk, Copeland—you don't
know him—l do—haven't seen anybody else
worth a quill."
Annie was puzzled. She laughed, how
ever, and said--
"Marry ray father's clork i what would
people say !"
"Humbug, child, all humbug—worth forty
of your whiskered, lounging, lazy gentry;
say what they please; what do I care? what
do you care? what's money, after all? got
enough of it—want a sensible man—want
somebody to take care of it; all humbug."
"What's all humbug, father ?"
"Why, people's notions on these matters.
Copeland is poor—so was I once—may be
again—world's full of changes—seen a great
many of them in my day—can't stay here
long—got to leave you, Annie—wish you'd
like him."
" Father, are you serious ?"
" Serious, child !" and he looked so
Annie was a chip of the old block ; a
strong-minded, resolute girl. A new idea
seemed to strike her.
"Father, if you are really serious in the
matter, I'll see this Copeland ; I'll get ac
quainted with him. If he likes me, and I
like him, I'll have him. But he shall love
me for myself alone; I must know it. Will
you leave the matter to me?"
"Go ahead, nrs. child, and do as you like.
Good,morning."
" Stop a moment, father. I shall alter my
name a little ; I shall appear to be a poor
girl, a companion of our friend Mrs. Rich
ards, in IS street. She shall know the
whole affair ; you shall call me by my middle
name, Peyton ; I shall be a relative of yours;
you shall suggest the business to Mr. Cope
land, as you call him, and arrange for the
first interview. The rest will take care of
itself."
"I see, I see," and one of those rare smiles
illuminated his whole face. It actually got
between his lips, parted them asunder, glanc
ed upon a set of teeth, but little the worse
for wear, and was resting there when he left
the house for his counting room. The twi
light of that smile had not yet gone when he
reached the well' known spot, and bowed,
and looked, " good morning," to those in his
employ, for old Paul was, after his fashion,
a polite man. On the morning of that day,
what looks were directed to our friend
Charles ! so many, so peculiar, so full of
something, that the head clerk could not help
but notice them, and that, too, with some
alarm. Whaewas coming? At length the
volcano burst forth.
" Copeland, my good fellow, why don't you
get a wife r
Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet ho
could not have been more astonished. Did
Mr. 'Bremen say that? And in the counting
room too ? The very ledger seemed to blush
at the introduction of such a subject. He
for the first time made a blot on the fair page
before him.
"I say, why don't you get a wife ?—know
just the thing for you—prime article—poor
enough, to be sure—what of that—a fortune
in a wife, you know—a sort of a relation of
mine—don't - want to meddle with other peo
ple's affairs, know our own business best,
can't help thinking you'll be happier—you
must see her."
Now the fact is that Charles had for some
time past thought so himself; but how the
old man should have divined his feelings was
quite a puzzle to him. In the course of the
day a note was put into Mr. Bremen's hands
by James, his Irish servant, the contents of
which produced another grim smile. When
the moment for his return home arrived, Mr.
B. handed a sealed document of rather im
posing form to Charles, saying—
Copeland, you'll oblige me by leaving that
at No. 67, I 3 street. Place it in the
hands of the person to whom it is directed ;
don't want to trust to any one else."
The clerk saw ois the outside, Mrs. Rich
ards, No. 67, street. The door-bell
was runt -, . The servant ushered Copeland
into a small, neat parlor, where sat a lady
apparently twenty-five or thirty years of age,
plainly dressed ; engaged inknitting a stock-
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ing. Our friend bowed, and inquired for
Mrs. Richards.
She is not in, but is expected presently ;
will you be seated ?" There was an ease and
quietness, and an air of self-command about
this person which seemed peculiar to Cope
land. He felt at ease at once, (you always
do with such people,) made some common
place remark, which was immediately res
ponded to ; then another ; and soon the con
versation grew so interesting that Mrs. Rich
ards was nearly forgotten. Her absence was
strangely protracted, but at length she made
her appearance. The document was presen
ted; a glance at the outside.
" Mr. Copeland ?" Charles bowed.
" Miss Peyton ?" The young lady bowed,
and thus they were introduced. There was
no particular reason for remaining any lon
ger, and our friend took his departure.
" That night Annie said to Mr. B. " I like
his appearance, father."
"Forward, march 1" said old Paul, and he
looked at his daughter with vast satisfaction.
"The ould man's as swate to night as a new
potatee," said James to the cook.
The nest day Charles Copeland came very
near writing several times "Miss Peyton,
Dr." as he was making out some bills of
merchandise sold.
" Delivered the paper, last evening ?"
Copeland bowed.
" Mrs. Richards is an old friend—humble
in circumstances—the young lady, Peyton,
worth her weight in gold any day—have her
myself if I could.,,
.0
" How much you remind rue of Mr. 8.,"
said Charles one evening to Annie ; " I think
you said you were a relation of his ?"
" I am a relative of his through my moth
er," was the grave reply.
Mrs. Richards turned away to conceal a
Somewhat later than usual on that day An
nie reached her father's house, There was
no mistaking the expression of her counten
ance. Happiness was written there.
" I see, I see," said the old man ; " the ac
count .is closed, books balanced, have it all
through now in short order. You are a sen
sible girl—no foolish puss—just what I want
—bless you, child, bless you."
The next day Paul came, for almost the
first time in his life, rather late to his count
ing room. Casks and boxes seemed to be
starting with wonder.
" Copeland, you are a fine fellow—beard
from Mrs. Richards—proposed to my relation.
Peyton—all right—done up well. Come to
my house this evening—neve - r been - there yet
before, eh ?—eight o'clock precisely—want
to see you—got something to say."
" How much interest be seems to take in
this matter," said Charles. " lie's a kind
old fellow in his way; a little rough, but good
at heart."
" Yes, Mr. Copeland, ever kinder than you
think for."
At eight o'clock precisely, the door-bell of
Mr. Bremen's mansion rung. Mr. Charles
Copeland was ushered in by friend James.--
Old Paul took him kindly by the hand, and,
turning round abruptly, introduced him to
"My daughter, Miss Annie Peyton Bremen,"
and immediately withdrew.
" Charles, will you forgive me this ?" lle
was too much astonished to make any reply.
"If you only knew all my feelings and mo
tives, I am sure you would."
That the motives and feelings were soon
explained to his entire satisfacticn, no one
will doubt.
" Copeland, my dear fellow," shouted old
Paul, as he entered the room, "no use of a
long engagement."
"Oh! father!"
" No use, I say ; married now—get ready
afterward, next Monday evening, who cares?
Want it over ; feel settled. Shan't part with
Annie, though—must bring your wife here—
no words—partner in business—Bremen and
Copeland—papers all drawn up—can't alter
it—be quiet, gill you ?—wou't stay in the
room."
I have now finished my story, reader. I
have given you the facts. I cannot say, how
ever, that I approve of the deception prac
tised upon our friend Charles. As, however,
our Lord commended the "unjust steward
because he acted -wisely," so, I suppose, the
good sense shown by the young lady in
choosing a husband for the sake of what he
was, not for the sake of what he might have
possessed, merits our approbation. It is not
every one who has moral courage enough to
step out of the circles which surround the
wealthy, and seek for those qualities of mind
and heart which wealth neither gives nor
takes away.
1. SKETCH. OP TH.E REVOULTION.
"Father, is there no hope for him? Is the
British general so heartless as to condemn so
noble, so brave, so young, to die without
mercy ?"
These words were used by a pale, tearful
girl cf great beauty, in the middle portion of
the Revolution which gave freedom a hotde
on our loved soil. During that period when
cruelty was but too prevalent with both par
ties—when tories, American born, were, if
possible, more relentless and cruel than the
British troops.
The father, a noble looking man of middle
age, turned a glance out of the window
which opened towards Long Island Sound,
the green waters of which could be seen
sparkling beyond a groie that fronted his
dwelling, near Hurl Gate. He turned to this
to hide from her his emotions, for she was
his only child, and he feared that her young
heart would break when he told her all the
sad news that lay so heavily on his heart.
" Speak, father; tell me, is there no hope?
I will go myself, and kneeling to the tyrant,
will plead for the life of him whom I love as
only woman can love !" she continued.
" Alas! my child ; mercy is dead in the
British general's breast----his heart is callous
to pity ! I have risked much by pleading for
him, but for your sake, would be almost wil
ling to die in Nathan's place."
HUNTINGDON, PA., NOVEMBER 18, 1857.
LIFE FOR LIFE.
-PERSEVERt.-
" Cruel, cruel fate When is he to die ?
There may be some hope of his rescue. He
was a favorite with Washington, and he is at
White Plains. I will cr,o to him I"
" Alas! my dear child, nerve yourself for
the news. It is already too late I"
" Dead, dead!" shrieked the poor girl.--
"Oh ! father, say that it is not so 1"
"Alas, my child—l cannot! He was hung
at sunrise, and was even refused a Bible to
look at ere he was summoned to the presence
of his Maker'."
For a moment the poor girl stood silent;
not a tear came from her eyes; but a wild
light illuminated them ; a flash as bright as
fire itself gathered over both face and brow
—she clenched her fair hands together until
the nails seemed to enter the flesh, and with
a cold, bitter tune she cried—
"LIFE FOR LIFE! I shall be revenged—
yes, deeply revenged !"
" Child, dear child be calm," said the fond
parent.
" rather, lam calm—very calm ! Calm
as he is, almost. But I swear that he shall
be revenged, if my own hands have to reach
the tyrant'§ heart that sealed his doom !—I
loved, oh 1 how I loved him—and were not
our betrothal vows plighted? I will act as a
widow—as the widow of a soldier should
act !"
" My dear child you will bring ruin upon
our 11 cads !"
"Not upon yours, father; but to 9ne what
is ruin now ! But I will not be rash, I will
go to 'my room, and pray and think of him
who now lays cold in death."
She turned and left the room, whilst the
father still stood looking from the window
out upon the waters, which were dashed with
a rising storm, and the trees, which already
began to writhe beneath the force of the ris
ing gale, like some huge giants wrestling
with some nnforseen power.
Meanwhile his daughter had gone up to
her room in one of the cheerful gahles of the
old fashioned house; and, forgetting to pray
in the mad tumult of her wronged heart, was
also gazing out upon the storm which was
not wilder than the tumult in her own heart.
From her elevated position she could look
over the tree-tops and the sericd clouds as
like a battling host, enshrined to the charge,
amid sulphurous flames and smoke, they rose
and spread athwart the sky. She could see
the eddying of Hurl Gate tossing with whirls
the foam caps, white as drifting snow, in the
air—the breakers tumbling up against the
black reeks, as if they would hide their dan
gers,frdoz the mariner's view. .
• — Stiddtsly the sound of a carman was heard,
and, as she looked upon the Sound, she saw
that a ship of war had hove to above the
narrow gorge of the Gate. A signal for a
pilot was flying at the foretop, and the hated
cross of St. George flew from her spanker
gaff.
With one wild cry of fierce delight, the
fair girl bounded from the room. "LIFE von
LlFE—:>.Tathatt Hale shall be avenged 1" she
cried.
What was her idea? Within another room
in the house was the clothing of a brother,
who had long since been laid to rest beneath
the sod; and to this room she fled, and soon
was arrayed in a suit of such clothing as the
young men generally wear when they go on
a boating expedition. Without hesitation, she
cut the long glossy tresses of hair from her
bead, and in a brief period, bore the appear
ance of any young man of eighteen, not more
than her age. Having made these arrange
ments with a rapidity that only desperate re
solve could cause, she instantly left the
house, passing down the avenue towards the
Sound, before her father's eyes, he little
thinking that the apparently spruce young
waterman, who chose to breast such a storm,
was the person of his accomplished daughter.
"Hurrying down to a boat house, which
fronted the avenue, she loosened one of those
small light skiffs which are still the model of
the pilots of Hurl Gate, hoisted a small sail,
and. in a few moments was out upon those
angry waters, running upon the last of the
flood tides as . freely and boldly as if she had
been in a stout ship instead of so small and
frail a boat. It was no new thing for her to
be upon the water, being reared su close to it
and hundreds of times had she been dashing
over those waves, but never perhaps in such
a gale as that. Yet cooly she steered her
tiny craft, avoiding the dangerous whirlpools
and rocks, and heading towards the frigate,
which impatient for a pilot, had already tired
another gun.
Within less than twenty minutes frem the
time she started, she had huffed alongside of
the man of war, having caught the lines
cast out to her, and fastened the boat, had
mounted the vessel's side; and stood upon
the quarter deck, in the presence of the com
mander.
"Are you a pilot?" asked the latter, impa
tient in tono as well as look.
"I am, sir;" was the reply.
"Young for such business. Could you take
us through Hurl Gate?"
"As well as my father, who has been a
pilot here these thirty years!" was the re
ply.
"Why did he not come out, instead of
sending a boy like you in a blow as fresh as
this?"
"Because he is laid up with the rhuema
tism, sir, and then he knows that I can pilot
you through as well as he can. Sir Henry
Clinton knows me, sir?"
"Ah ! does be—well, that is all right. Can
we bear away yet?"
"No, sir; not for an hour—till the tide runs
ebb."
"That is bad—this gale keeps rising. Is
there no anchorage hereabouts?"
"No, sir; not within twenty miles about,
where your anchor would hold."
"Then we must go through !"
"Yes, sir; as soon as the tide conies. I
would not risk it yet, for, if the current should
catch you on either bow, you'd go on the
rocks, sure I"
"That is true, young man. Let me
know the earliest moment that we can go
through."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
And, 'while the English commander turned
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off to speak to one of his officers, the patriot
pilot calmly went to the main gangway, and
looked over the side as if watching fur the
change of tide:
But what was passing in her heart then?
There were between three and four hundred
souls in that fated vessel. She had lost the
only loved thing, beside her father, on earth,
when Nathan Hale was hung as a spy on
that morning. She was not thinking how
many hearts would be broken by her inten
ded act; she was not thinking of the moth
ers and sisters, and wives in England, who
would soon mourn for her deed—she was only
thinking that soon, she would join him in
the spirit land, and that dearly would his loss
be avenged. Fur her own dear life she cared
not, thought not—not even did she think of
that worshiping father, who sadly paced his
room, believing that she was praying fur pa
tience to bear her loss.
"Meantime, there were those three or four
hundred hearts beating with gladness that
they had got over a long and sickening voy
age and soon would be anchored in front of
the shores that looked so lovely in their sheen
of green, even though the storm clouds ho
vered over them.
At last, after looking towards the home in
which she was born—she knew it would be
her last look—she turned and went to the
commander and said:
"The tide is slack, it changes suddenly and
we had better fill away at once."
The commander gave the necessary orders
to his lieutenant, and the next moment the
main topsail, which had been laid aback was
braced around, the head sheets eased away,
and the vessel headed for the narrow channel
where a thousand crafts have, ere this, laid
their oaken bones.
As they approached the channel, and saw
the black rocks, the whirling eddies, the
taunting breakers, dashing high on every
hand, the officers and crew looked anxiously
out upon the danger. But so calm and fear
less seemed the young pilot, that reassurance
had a home in every heart—so clear above
the gale his bugle like voice sounded, as he
gave the orders, "Port, steady so—luff
point!" &-c.
They were more than half through. The
tumbling breakers of the "punch bowl" and
"hog's back" had been passed; a few hun
dred fathoms more, and they would be safe
from every danger. Then one quick glance
toward heaven, and the disguised girl cried :
"Port—Port' Hard!"
The helmsman obeyed. The vessel eased
off before the wind and flew on with accumu
lated speed, for a moment, and no more !
With a crash, which sent her tall spars tum
bling over her bows—and sent her crew reel
ing to the deck—she brought up on a huge
roeh near the perpendicular shore to the
right. Then amid the rush of waters, the
curses of officers, and the shouts of fright
ened men, was heard the pilot's shrill
cry :
"If one of you survive this wreck go tell
your British general that NATIIAN HALE is
avenged, and that by a woman, too! Sink
—sink! and may my curses go with you !"
And before a hand could reach her had
they wished it, she leaped into the eddying
tide; and ere she sunk, the proud frigate,
with its shivered spars and sails, its flag still
flying, and its crew of stout men, was going
down into the cold, dark waters, and the mur
dered Hale was avenged
And thus this brief sketch is closed. The
guns of the sunken frigate rest beneath the
tide of Hurl Gate ; but the memory of the
Patriot Pilot lives in in ore than one breast
yet. •
Blessed is the man who profits by his own
experience. We can all look back to some
action of our past lives and learn wherein
Ave were wrong, and profit by the knowledge.
!The enjoyments of the present hour are apt
to lull us into a feeling of security, which
one moment of adversity will instantly dis
pel. We build castles out of present pleas
ure, which almost crush us in falling pie
ces.
This is a plain common-sense world. The
moon may shine upon it, but it should not
make us dependent upon the transient beams
fur our happiness. Clouds I presume are of
more real use to the earth than all the light
derived from the changing face of its cold
follower. Did our earthly course always run
smoothly, and did no shadows ever cross our
vision, our experience would be fruitless, and
our existence would be, as the moon's, cold,
dull, and lifeless. Our wisdom would want
the warmth and refreshing shower, the sun
light and storm, to make it increase and yield
abundant fold.
low many young men waste their prime
and their principle chasing bubbles which
when caught burst before their very eyes and
vanish into thin air I Such experience leaves
within the blank, or void, an emptyness which
only temporary or continual excitement can
fill.
The young man who cultivates within him
self his own best faculties, will find that in
his past there is good experience; in his pres
ent, pleasure; and in his future, hope. I say
cultivates within himself, because in looking
back over my own past life, I find that it has
been from my own calm reflection that my
greatest good has been derived.
We may cultivate our own reflective facul
ties until they become entirely , independent
of the actions of the body. Every man, I
presume has at some point in his life, after
the plow, at the forge, in the mill, or at the
desk, humbly and sincerely worshipped God
according to the plain dictates of his own
conscience. Such worship must be free from
both hypocrisy and idolatry. I think there
is just as much extravagance in worship, as
in anything else we do. We worship the
praise of man rather than the favor of God.
That which bursts from us unheeded, carry
ing with it only. the load under which we are
sinking, must reveal unto Deity our true
wants. Laboring worship may exhaust the
body, but I cannot see in it any refreshment
for the spirit.
Man is continually striving to run away
from himself. lie dresses himself in costly
Editor and. Proprietor.
An Old Man's Tb.ougllts
Clothing to hide his poverty; attends public
worship to cover private hypocrisy; prays at
street corners in order to rob more securely
each passer by.
The present is an extravagant age: Thero
is extravagance everywhere, save always in
those things emanating from the hand Di
vine ; and poverty clothed in broad-cloth
thrusts aside modest wealth and exalts itself
higher and higher unto its ultimate fall. Be
modest in all things, and at all times. No
matter how much another may glisten or
glare before the world in his brazen armor,
remember the strongest steel cannot • cunlino
a restless conscience.
Let the young look about them and learn
from the experience of others to live within
their means. Reduce your ideas. Comfort
is in reality very simple, and easily satisfied.
Moonshine will not bake bread, iior feed a
hungry stomach.
Thus my reflections wander. Sometimes
toivard heaven after angel's food ; sometimes
over the earth after the beautiful in our na
ture. Sometimes searching for the upward
path, and in its straight and narrow way
striving to enter ; and again mourning over
those who are striving blindly to put off the
harvesting of seed sowed in iniquity. Veri
ly, the mind ol* man is unto himself most
mysterious.—Germantown _Telegraph.
NO. 22.
A devoted Christian, who is never at a loss
for means and modes of approach to strangers
on religions subjects, was lately passing over
the noble common in Brooklyn, on the site of
Port Greene, on a Sabbath morning, when be
observed a group of half-growing youths ob
viously intent upon finding their own pleas
ure, if possible, on God's holy day. To ap
proach them with reproof would have been
merely to excite a profane scoff; so he saun
tered near them with a careless air, and after
seating himself on the grass and pausing idly
for-a few moments, said in a pleasant, famil
iar tone---:
"Boys, I'll tell you a story."
They gathered around unsuspecting, and
he proceeded as follows:
" There was once a good man, noted for his
kindness and liberality; who was traveling in
a lonely spot, when he met a man who repre
sented himself as having suffered a great loss;
and consequently in distress. . With the
greatest kindness, he instantly drew- out his
purse, and, after examining it, said, "I have
only seven dollars with me ; but I think that,
with one dollar, I can get to the end of my
journey, and you shall have 'the rest;" and
with that he banded him the six dollars.—
Would you not think the beggar must have
gone off very grateful and contented? No
such thing. Ile was no beggar, but a robber;
and, seeing that the good man had still one
dollar in his possession, to obtain that, he
drew a pistol and shot him dead."
The hearers expressed in their several ways,
the heartiest abhorrence at this shocking turn
of the story, and one even ventured to doubt
the possibility of anything so base. But
here he was caught; for our friend turned
upon him with a charge of similar and still
baser ingratitude in his own persOn. He re
minded him of One who emptied; not a purse,
but his heart, for his benefit; who gave him
freely six days omit of seven, and _retained but
one, to be devoted to his worship—"and
now,'! said he, "you are so mean, you are
robbing him of that!"
The boys hung their beads, without a word
to - say ; and presently the group dissolved,
and its members stole away in separate direc
tions;
Peauliarities of Gutta Percha
In its crude state, or in combination with
other materials, gutta percha may be heated
and reheated to the consistency of thin paste,
without injury to its future manufacture,
while India rubber, if but once treated in
the same manner will be destroyed and unfit
for further use. Gutta percha is not dissolv
ed by fatty substances ; indeed, one applica
tion of it is for oil vessels,—while India rub
ber is soon dissolved by corning in contact
with fatty substances, as is well known.—
Gutta percha is a non-conductor of' cold, heat,
and electricity, and its natural state is non
elastic, and with little or no flexibility ; India
rubber, on the contrary, is a conductor of
heat, cold, and electricity, and by nature
highly elastic and flexible. The specific
gravity of oata percha is much less than
that of India rubber-4n proportion as 100
of gutta percha is to 150 of India rubber,
and is of much finer quality, and a far better
conductor of sound. Fabrics Arrougnt of In
dia rubber require a separate varnish to give
them a polish. but the gutta percha possesses
a nature of inherent polish, equal in lustre
to varnish. When it is quite pure the color
of gutta percha is of a grayish white. It has
a greasy feel with a peculiar leathery smell.
It is not affected by boiling alcohol, but dis
solves readily in boiling spirits of turpentine,
also in naphta and coal tar. The gutta is
highly inflammable : a strip cut off takes
light and burns with a bright flame, emitting
sparks, and dropping a black residual in the
manner of sealing NV:I3, which in its combus
tion it very much resembles. But the special
peculiarity of this substance is the effect of
boiling water upon it. 'When immersed for
a few minutes in water above 150 degrees,
Fahrenheit, it becomes soft and plastic, so as
to be capable of being moulded to any requi
red shape or form w hich
. it retains upon cool
ing. if a strip of it be cut off and plunged
into boiling water, it contracts in size both in
length and breadth. This is a very anoma
lous and remarkable phenomenon.
POST OFFICE ANECDOTE.—The Newbury
port Herald tells the following Post Mee an
ecdote :—A. rap at the delivery.
Postnzaster.—Well ; my lad, what will you
have ?
Bo y.—Here's a letter she wants it to go
along as fast as it can, cause there's a feller
wants to have her here, and she's courted by
another feller who ain't here, and she wants
to know whether he's going to have her or
not.
Having. delivered his message with empha
sis, the boy departed, leaving the Postmaster
so convulsed with laughter that he could
make no reply.
Dar A gentleman stepped into a store
where none but "mourning goods" were
sold, and inquired for slate colored gloves.—
The polite clerk told him that only black
goods were sold in that room ; for slate color
ed gloves he must step into the mitigated, af
fliction department.
SONLETIIING ENTIRELY NEW.—It is theught
by many that economy will be fashionable
this winter. The oldest inhabitant has never
before beard anything like it.
ter" 11.1 r. Smith, yon said you boarded at
the Columbian Hotel six months; did you
foot your bill ?"
" No, sir, but it amounted to the same
thing—the landlord footed me."
re-Charity is the greatest of all virtues.
A Sabbath Parable