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cording to these terms.
VnettLY.
Let 3X.e Hiss rain for His Mother.
At the funeral of a young man who died of the fever in
New Orleans during the last autumn, an old lady came
forward as the coffin was to be closed, and made the above
request
"Let me kiss him for his mother,"
Ile is friendless and alone;
By his death-couch stood no brother,
Breathed o'er him no mother's moan
Stranger hands have smoothed his pillow,
Strangers lay him in the grave;
Came there not across the billow
Whispered prayers the loved to save ?
Was not that fond mother pleading,
'Mid her cares, through silent night;
Or was she nnwarned, unheeding ;
Shadowless her spirit's light ?
May the hand of Jesus hold her
When this wave of sorrow breaks;
May the Father's love enfold her,
Blessing even while Ile takes,
"Let rno kiss him for his mother,"
For I bear a mother's heart;
Tenderly, though for another,
I can act the mother's part.
Age upon my frame is creeping,
But my heart is yet nnchilled;
These old eyes are dies with weeping,
For the heart so lately t 3 tilled.
"Let me kiss him for his mother,"
Ou my lips her love shall rest ;
"Let me kiss him fur his mother,"
Ero the turf lies on his breast.
- c ieittt
[groin the "sew York. Omnibils."]
THE GAMBLER' S FATE.
BY GEORGE ARMVAL.
The literary man is compelled, by the re
quirements of his profession, to associate with
all sorts of characters and to visit all sorts of
places. The artist, who only draws the ex
ternal part of his sullict, can find in the
street, in the - court-room, or in the theatre,
an abundance of food fe.r his pencil. But
the writer, who must draw the characters and
emotions of his personages, as well as their
personal appearance, has to seek them in all
places where their feelings and idiosynasies
are exhibited in 'the strongeSt light.
In compliance with this professional de
mand, I once sought entrance to one of the
largest and handsomest gaming-houses in
New York. It is a !natter of no small diffi
culty to obtain admission to such places, un
less one is unsophisticated, and has plenty of
money The "knowing ones" are the very
ones who canizot get in, and, paradoxical as
it seems, the more verdant a man is, the
more likely he is to have the doors opened to
him.
ror a week or ten days, then, I kept my
eyes open for a chance to visit the house in
question, but without avail, until one night,
when I found a youno• man very d”unk,. lying
on the pavement in Broadway. He was well
dressed, wore diamonds and would have been
robbed, doubtless, in a very few minutes, had
I not come upon him just after he fell, and
taken him under my protection. I called a
carriage, placed him in it, and aroused him
sufficiently to learn his address. Then, bid
ding the hackman drive to his lodgings, I ac
companied him home, and by
. pouring cold
water upon his head, sobered him enough to
enable him to go to bed.
He thanked me sincerely for ray assistance,
and I left him, promising to call around and
see him soon, in compliance with his pressing
levitation.
_
Of course, I thought no more about it for
several days, but one evening, while taking
a "night-cap" at Florence's I saw him stand
ing near me. talking with several sporting
men who frequent that saloon. He recogni
zed me—came to me and shook bands—in
sisted on my drinking with him, and he in
troduced me to his friends.
Here was my chance, evidently. This
young fellow was inclined to do me any fa
vor in his power, and he was just the sort of
man to give me the "Open seasame" to the
great gambling-house I desired to visit.
I tried it, and found my expectations were
not too sanguine. My new acquaintance
was the brother-in-law of the proprietor of
the house—l could not have come across a
better man—and ere I parted with him, he
had promised to come to my rooms the next
night, and to escort me to the temple of for
tune—and fate.
The following evening he kept his engage
ment, and we walked up Broadway together
to a large and imposing house, whose door
and window seemed hermetically sealed, and
dark as the grave. My champeron rang
the bell, and the door was opened at once by
a negro—intelligent of face and neat of at
tire.
. _
As soon as he recognized my companion
he opened the inner door, and we passed in,
to a suite of two spacious and elegant parlors.
In the front room a 'Ong table was sat, laden
with a cold collation of roast meats, game,
fowls, etc., and a handsome sideboard, of
carved oak, displayed a tempting variety of
vines and liquors, in flasks and flagons of
Bohemian glass, silvei and crystal, upon
whose rainbow tints and metallic glitter the
soft light of the heavy chandeliers played
with an ever-changing and subdued lustre.
Walking through, into the rear parlor, I
saw another long table, but somewhat differ
ently occupied from\the one first mentioned.
A pack of playing cards were spread out up
on it, in rows, with the odd ones by them-.
selves at the end. On one side of the table a
man sat, drawing the cards from another
pack, placed* in a small box of chased silver,
and - laying them in two piles. Opposite him,
another man had a box with compartments,
in which were arranged a quantity of ivory
counters, of different colors, and I observed
more of these lying upon the cards which
were spread upon the table. At almost eve-
BM
. 5 00 800 - 10 00
. 7 00 10 00 15 1 00
. 9 00. 13 00 20 00
12 00 16 00 9 4 00
20 00 30 00 50 00
WILLIAM LEWIS,
VOL. XIV.
ry card that the dealer drew from the silver
box, these counters were changed—sometimes
being taken up by the players who surroun
ded the table—sometimes by the man who
presided over the box with compartments, and
sometimes more were laid down.
This was the game of Faro.
The players were the interesting feature of
the place to my eye, and after I had been in
troduced to the proprietor, and drank a glass
of sherry with him, I took a seat near the
board, and studied the characters of those
around it.
The dealerhad a very striking face—a dark
yellowish-brown complexion, piercing black
eyes, overhung by heavy sable brows, and a
short, bristly beard, of pure blue-black tint,
covering the lower part of his face. He was
expensively dressed, but in bad taste, with a
crimson velvet waistcoat, ornamented by an
enormous gold chain, flashy plaid pantaloons,
a red and white plaid neck-tie, with embroid
ered ends, a velvet-faced blue coat, and an
open-work shirt-front, supporting an immense
cluster diamond pin.
My eyes turned from the glare and glitter
of this obstrusive . costume, to find relief in a
more tasteful outfit. The majority of the
players were middle-aged, respectable look
ing men, with clean-shaven faces and black
suits of fine broadcloth. These men were
mostly merchants, lawyers, doctors, and oth
er well-to-do professional men, who came
here to kill time with the excitement of play,
while their wives were killing time With the
excitement of dancing or intrigue, at some
fashionable evening party.
Such is the social fabric of high life in New
York!
There were also a few regular sporting men
of the conventional type—fellows with dyed
moustaches,
.of luxuriant growth, and protru
ding under-jaws,—fellows with elaborately
curled hair, and snowy kid gloves—with a
conceited swagger, and a hardened, vicious
expression of countenance—but _ fewer of
these than I had expected to see. As a gen
eral.thing, this class is employed in "roping
in" victims. They hang about the hotels
and theatre, to secure innocent countrymen,
who have bricks in their hats and rocks in
their pockets, and receive as their wages a
high percentage on all that the faro bank
makes off their dupes.
But the only really interesting person I
saw, at this table, was a young man—hardly
more than a boy—who sat quietly in a cor
ner, with his bead leaning listlessly upon his
hand. He was what I should call a'beau ideal
of youthful beauty, and every gesture and
movement he made bespoke the elegant, high
bred, leisurely gentleman. He could not
have been more than twenty years old, and
bad that fine, clear, red and white complex
ion that so few young men in the city keep,
even to that age, His eyes were dark blue,
large, and full of soul ; his hair wavy, and of
a beautiful golden brown ; his features regu
lar, expressive, end delicately chiseled ; his
mouth firm, but mobile just shaded a little by
a small blond moustache ; and his hands
white, dimpled, delicate, and cared for like
those of a woman. One might have sworn
that he resembled his mother, whoever she
might be.
His dress was quiet, plain, but perfectly
tasteful and elegant; and as lie sat there idly
contemplating the shifting fortunes of that
board of grief and pain—of woe and winning
—he was a perfect picture in himself.
I asked the proprietor who he was. •
"His name is Harry," said he; "I don't
know his last name, though he has played
here every night for some weeks. He is a
queer fellow, and don't seem to care whether
he wins or loses. He is in luck to-night, and
you see he does'nt seem pleased, especially.
Night before last he lost three thousand dol
lars, and was
_just as quiet about it."
Supper was now announced, and feeling
hungry, I proceeded to the front parlor. The
cold lunch had been removed, and a gorge
ous supper set in its place, Every delicacy
and luxury that a complete cuiswe could pro
duce was upon the board, and the wines were
of the most expensive and delicious brands.
While at supper, the gentlemanly proprietor
gave me a slight insight into The game of fa
re, and on returning to the table I invested a
five dollar bill, merely as a sort of initiation
fee. I had the satisfaction of losing three
dollars at first, then of winning three—five—
ten—and so on, with an occasional loss—for
I placed my "chips," as the counters are cal
led, on different cards—until I had won some
twenty or thirty dollars. • The next card was
against me, and my whole pile was swept off
much to my consolation.
In theinterim, Harry—the young man who
had so much interested me—had been accu
mulating quite a pile of " chips," red, blue
and white. Every cardseemed to favor him,
and the proprietor's brother in-law told me
that - hi's winnings must amount to nearly two
thousand dollars. Satisfied with what I had
seen, I departed for the night, but with a re
solve that I would return shortly, to study my
young friend Harry. There seemed some
thing about him more interesting than the
others.
The next day I saw him in Broadway,
riding in a handsome open carriage, with one
of the most beautiful and celebrated courte
zans. of the city.
" Hallo !" said a friend with me; " there
goes young Seaville, with his mistress !"
" Who is he ?"
" Harry Seaville. He is rich as a Roths
child, and is making ducks and drakes of his
money—using himself up, and breaking his
mother's heart, as fast as he can. Serves her
right, too ; it's all her fault."
" How so ?" •
"He was over bead and ears in love with
a little-sewing girl who did some work for
his lady mother, and wanted to marry her.
Of course Madame set her foot down that he
shouldn't—she had rather see him in his cof
fin, any day. The girl was pretty, refined,
lady-likP, and all that—all she wanted was
money and opportunities to make her as great
a belle as Mrs. Seaville herself was, when
she was first married. But her ladyship said
" no," and poor Harry gave it pp after a
long struggle, which nearly killed both him
and his mother, for both were proud as Luei-
- •
11 ;4 '
• ..;'.',•7` .
•
a
fer, and hated to give. in to anybody. The
poor sewing girl took it to heart, and died.—
Harry said nothing, but he has been going
it ever since with a perfect rush. He gives
that woman more money than would support
you and me together in style—he gambles,
drinks like a fish, and seems to have devoted
himself to going to the d—l as fast as he
possibly can 1"
The carriage passed us at this moment,
and I saw the poor fellow—a little pale by
daylight—faultlessly dressed, and evidently
an object of great pride and affection to the
splendid, bold beauty who sat in front of him,
but with the same pensive, listless look that
he wore the night before—a look of settled
melancholy and abstraction, like that of one
who seeks only toforget the past—and pride.
It was plain that his thoughts were far away,
and he heeded the haughty " Empress Ara
bella," as she was called, no more than he
did myself.
The next night, curiosity prompted me to
drop in again at the gaming -house, and I
found Harry there, as usual, but losing, this
time; as much as he won the preceding even
ing, with the same quiet coolness.
The next, and the next night, he was still
there, and lost immense sums. For some
two weeks, I made it a habit to look in, for
a few minutes, and found him always at his
corner, after twelve o'clock. Earlier in the
evening, I had seen him, on several occasions
in a private box at the opera or theatre, with
the " Empress Arabella," still elegant, still
handsome and stylish, but still with that
weary, ennuyee look, that ever haunted his
fine face.
Of course, his money could not last forever.
His extravagance was tremendous, and when
a little excited by winewhich was rare, al
though he draiak with perfect recklessness—
he did not seem to understand that money
had any value. I met him in many places,
and found him throwing his gold away like
dirt everywhere. A short time must inevita
bly bring it to an end, and so it did!
One night, the play was high, at the gam
ing -house, and the players were excited, so I
stopped longer than usual to witness the
scene. Harry was there, of course, and be
gan to show unmistakable signs of the dissi
pation into which he had so persistently
plunged himself. For a wonder he had be
gan by playing low, but soon won a few hun
dred, which he immediately reinvested. His
winnings grew apace, until they amounted to
fifteen hundred dollars. He took the "chips,"
and going into the front parlor, drank an en
tire bottle of champagne,..and ate some .sup- .
per, cheerfully chatting with the proprietor
of the house.
Just before he returned to the gaming-ta
ble, he carelessly remarked, showing his
handful of counters, " There is every dollar
I own in this world. I came here with one
hundred, and luck has made it fifteen hun
dred. I'm going to put that all on one card,
and double it, or lose it I"
In other houses, where the bets were lim
ited to small sums, this would not have been
allowed, but this bank allowed unlimited bet
ting, and Harry . placed his entire pile of
" chips" upon a single card.
The dealer went on mechanically drawing
forth his kings, queens, and knaves, and in a
few moments, Harry's counters were swept
off for the benefit of the bank.
He smiled faintly, as lie saw them go,
and arising from the table, approached the
proprietor, who was talking with me, near
the door.
" I don't know," said Harry, laying his
hand on my companion's arm, " whether I
have lost more than I have won here, or not,
during the last two months, but I've been a
pretty regular customer, I know."
" You have indeed, sir, and I hope you
have always been treated well."
"Excellently well, thank you. You know
I told you, a few minutes ago, that I was go
ing to risk all I had."
" Yes."
" Well I lost it, and am going to bid you
good-bye. I've got through playing faro.
" I hope not, sir."
" Yes; forever. Here is my hand—good
bye."
" Good-bye, sir. I know you'll think bet
ter of your resolution. `Better luck, next
time,' maybe."
" I shall never try it."
The young man took the proprietor's hand,
nodded an adieu to the rest of the company,
and passed through to the front parlor.
Ile'wa.s so quiet—so gentlemanly—under
the loss of his last cent, that I could not but
wonder what he would do now, and uncon
sciously, I followed him with my eyes, try
ing to fancy how he would like nothing for
a living:
He walked to the mantle piece, glanced in
the heavy-framed plate glass mirror, adjusted
his cravat, and after fumbling a moment in
his pocket, withdrew his hand—placed it in
side his waistcoat—stood still a second, and
then, staggering backward a few steps, fell
upon the carpet.
We ran to him, and saw a crimson stain,
gradually enlarging itself upon his shirt bo
som. I drew ns hand from his breast, and
found, tightly clenched in it, a little parlor
pistol, which would make no noise—not so
much as the popping of a champagne cork—
especially when fired underneath the vest and
coat.
Before we could raise him and lay him
upon a sofa, he was dead. The ball had
penetrated his heart, and his feverish, sad
life of unnatural gayety was over I
The affair was hushed up by the propri
etor; who did not wish it to be known as oc
curring in his house, and by Mrs. Seaville,
who did not wish it to be known at all. They
buried the poor boy, as a last act of lenience,
beside the grave of his love, and let us hope,
tenderly and charitably, that he had not
sinned too deeply to be permitted to meet
her above, in a land where the stern laws of
caste cannot sunder two hearts that beat only
for each other.
1:01r Nothing remains, so long in the mem
ory as wrong deeds. They are nettles which
cannot be ploughed out of sight, but will spring
up with fresh stings at every disturbance.
-PERSEVER . E.-
HUNTINGDON, PA., MARCH 9, 1859.
The Printer and His Types.
In our July number, we inserted a beauti
ful extract from the pen of Bayard Taylor,
the printer traveler, which pleased us so much
and has been copied so extensively, that we
this month insert another by the same author
which will at once command itself to the
craft, everywhere :
Perhaps there is no department of enter
prise whose details are less understood by in
telligent people, than the " art preservative"
;----the achievement of types.
'very day, their life long, they are accus
tomed to read newspapers, to find fault with
its statements, its arrangement, its looks ; to
plume themselves upon the discovery of some
rogueish and acrobatic type that gets into a
frolic and stands upon its head ; or of some
with a waste letter or two in it—but of the
process by which the newspaper is made, of
the myriads of motions and thousands of
pieces necessary to its composition, they
know little and think less.
Thefimagine, they discourse of a wonder,
heed, when they speak of the fair white
pet woven for thought to walk on, of the
rags that fluttered upon the backs of the beg
gar yesterday.
But there is something more wonderful
still. When we look at- the hundred and
fifty-two little boxes, somewhat shaded with
the touch of inky fingers, that composes the
printer's 'case, —noiseless, except the
clicking of the types, as one by one they lake
their place in growinr , . line—we think we
hare found the marvel of the art.
We think how many fancies in fragments
there are in the boxes, how many atoms of
poetry and eloquence the printer can make
here and there if he only has a little chart to
work by, how many facts in small handfuls,
how much truth and chaos.
Now be picks up the scattered elements
until he holds in his hands a stanza of Gray's
Elegy, or a monody• upon Grimes all but
toned up before.' Now he 'sets' a puppy
missing' and now 'Paradise Lost;' he arrays
a bride in 'SMALL cArs,' and a sonnet in 'non
pareil ;' he announces that the languishing
'lire,' in one sentence—transposes the word
and deplores the days that are few and 'evil,'
in the next.
A poor jest ticks its way slowly into the
printer's band like a clock just running down,
and a strain of eloquence marches into line,
letter by letter. We fancy we can tell the
difference by hearing of the ear but perhaps
not.
. The types that told a wedding yesterday,
nn!'a - mizace.-a.buriml to-morrow—perhaps in the
self same letters-.
They are elements to make a world of—
those types are, a world with something in
it, as beautiful as spring, as rich as summer,
and as grand as autumn flowers that frost
cannot wilt, fruit that shall ripen for all
time.
The newspaper has become the log book
of the age ; it tells at what rate the world
is running ; we cannot find our "reckoning"
without it.
True, the green grocer may bundle up a
pound of candles in our last expressed thoughts
but it is only coming to the base uses, as its
letters have done times innumerable.
We console ourselves by thinking that one
can make of that newspaper what he cannot
make of living oaks—a bridge for time, that
he can fling it over the chasm of the dead
years and walk safely back upon the shad
owy sea into the far past. The singer shall
not end his song, nor the true soul be elo
quent more.
The realm of the Press is enchanted ground.
Sometimes the editor has the happiness of
knowing that he has defended the right, ex
posed the wrong, protected the weak ; that
has given utterance to a sentiment that is
not lost—a sentiment that has cheered some
body's solitary hour, made somebody happier,
kindled a smile upon a sad face, or hope on a
heavy heart.
He may meet with that sentiment many
years after it may have lost all traces of its
paternity, but he feels an affection for it.—
He welcomes it as a long absent child. lie
reads it as for the first time, and wonders if,
indeed he wrote it, for he has changed since
then. Perhaps he could not give utterance
to the sentiment now; perhaps he would not
if he could.
It seems like the voice of his former self
calling to its parent, and there is something
mournful in its tone. He begins to think—
to remember why he wrote it—where were
his readers then, and whither they have gone
—what he was then, and how much he has
changed. -So he muses, until he finds him
self wondering if that thought of his will
continue to float after he is dead, and wheth
er he is really looking upon something -that
will survive him. And then comes the sweet
consciousness that there is nothing in the
sentence that he could wish unwritten—that
it is a better part of him—a shred from a
garment of immortality he shall leave behind
Lim when he joins the " innumerable cara
van," and takes his place in the silent halls
of death.—Printers' News Letter.
OBEYING ORDERS.-A certain General of
the United States Army, supposing his favor
ite horse dead, ordered an Irishman to go
and skin him !
"What ! is Silver Tail dead ?" asked Pat.
" What is that to you ?" said tho officer,
" do as I bid you, and ask me no questions."
Pat went about his business, and in about
two hours returned.
" Well, Pat, where havi3 you been all this
time ?" asked the General.
" Skinning your horse, your honor."
" Did it take you two hours to perform the
operation ?"
"No, your honor, but then you see it took
me about half an hour to catch the horse."
" Catch him ! Fire and furies ! was he
alive ?"
" Yes, your honor, and I could not skin
him alivo, you know."
"Skin him alive, did you kill him ?
"To be sure I did, your honor! and. sure
you know I must obey orders without asking
questions."
ge" Cincinnati has 1668 drinking saloons
There floated about the papers a story of a
Cineinnati couple, who had not exchanged a
word during twenty years of married life ;
they were not mutes, however. The Balti
more Dispatch, tell's of a similar instance :
The parties were wealthy and highly res
pectable. They had a numerous family of
children, who had grown up, and were all - in
flourishing circumstances, and troops of
grandchildren, who frequently visited them.
They were falling into the sear and yellow
leaf, and were both tottering to the tomb at
the age of nearly eighty ; but though they
had lived under the same roof, eaten at the
same table, entertained the same friends, re
ceived the frequent visits of their children
and grandchildren, they had not exchanged
a word for forty years.
To almost every one the cause was a mys
tery, and an impenetrable one, for neither
husband nor wife would bear from any per
son the slightest allusion to the subject. Yet
there was one, an old servant, almost as old
as her master and mistress, who did know,
but she kept the secreet faithfully. It was
whispered however, that jealousy was the
cause. The husband had found in the pos
session of his wife some letters from a for
mer suitor,_ which she heedlessly, perhaps
thoughtlessly, preserved. Impetuous and
unjust accusations followed. The indignant
wife told her jealous husband she would
never speak to him again, but for the sake of
her children would not leave him. She kept
her word with persistent obstinacy, and he
followed the same course. They appeared
absolutely indifferent to each other's exis
tence.
At length the old man died. The wife
had not come near him in his last sickness,
and she even came not to look upon the corpse
until they were about closing the coffin, and
bearing him from the house in which they
had dwelt so singularly together fur nearly
half a century, when with a firm though fee
ble step she entered the room, walked to the
coffin, gazed a few moments at his features,
now motionless in death, and without a word
a tear, or even the shadow of an expression
on her wrinkled face, went back again, un
assisted, to her apartment. The funeral took
place, and during the absorbing proceedings
of time she was left alone. After the funer
al cortege had departed, and was out of sight
the old servant repaired to the room of her
mistress. She noticed she was sitting very
still in her chair, looking apparently out of
the window. Seeing her continue motionless,
she spoke to her, but there was no answer.—
She went to her—she was dead!'
We stand upon common ground. The
Great Leveller will knock at your door, Sir
Millionaire, as well as at mine; and we must
both open to him, whether we bid him wel
come with our hearts or not. Roll along,
then, in your chariot, nor heed the poor pe
destrian who drags his blistered feet over the
hard side-walk. Stoop not at the imploring
voice of the ragged mendicant. We are all
travelling the same way, and shall ultimately
reach the same inn—the grave. "There the
wicked cease from troubling, and the weary
are at rest." The weary! is there not con-Bo
lation in the assurance?
Courage, then, storm-beaten journeyers
over the desert of life! Toil on yet, while
amid trials and tears. The goal is at hand
—your home—your heaven of rest! Does
the man of this world, who has laid up stores
for many years and spoken peace to his own
soul, affiict• or oppress you? Forgive him!
He is your fellow-traveller to the land of
souls—he will soon stand upon an equality
with yourself. His treasures cannot bribe
the Spoiler. His gold may soon become can
kered, and his fine gold be dim.
Let not the rich be unduly elated, nor the
poor unduly depressed; for in the great com
munity of the Dead there is nothing known
of inequality. Let the proud be humbled at
the thought, and the humble, lifted up.
Come neighbor, thy hand ! We will trudge
along Life's uneven road together, if you
please, and encourage each other so to live—
will it not be the better way?—that when our
summons comes to depart hence,
"We go—not like the quarry slave at night
Scourged to his dungeon—but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach our grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."
BRAINS.—An American sloop-of-war had
put into an English port, and the first lieu
tenant went ashore to reconnoiter. In the
course of his travels, he entered a tavern
where a number of British officers were ca
rousing. They at once recognized the lieu
tenant's nationality by his dress, and re
solved to amuse themselves by bullying
him.
" Well, comrade," says one, " you belong
to the United States, I see."
" Right," was the answer.
"Now, what would you do to a man who
should say that your navy' did not contain
an officer fit for bumboat ?" continued the
Englishman.
" I would blow his brains out!" returned
our lieutenant, with great coolness.
There was silence among her majesty's
servants for a moment; but finally one of
them, more muddled than the rest, managed
to stammer out :
" \V--well, Yank, I say it 1"
The American walked to his side, and re
plied, calmly:
" It is lucky for you, shipmate, that you
have no brains to blow out I"
Struck by the dignity of the answer, the
offender at once apologized, and our hero in
vited to join the mess.
An exchange (edited we presume, by some
musty, fusty, rusty, crusty old bachelor,)
says "love is a volcano, the crater of which
no wise man will approach too near." You're
"off your eags," old covey. Love is a Para
dise here below ; the celestial sunshine and
ambrosial fruits of which none but SENSIBLE
people arc permitted to enjoy.
.ftir Duty can never have too much of our
diligence, nor too little of our confidence.
Editor and Proprietor.
NO. 37.
A Silent Couple.
Future Equality.
Variety in Creation.
There are 50,000 species of plants on exhi
bition in the Museum of Natural History of
Paris. The whole number of species in earth
and sea can not be less than four or five thous
and. These are of all sizes, from the invisi
ble forests in a bit of mouldiness to the tow
ering trees of Malibar, 50 feet in circumfer
ence, and the hanians whose shoots cover a
circumference of five acres. Each of these
has a complicated system of vessels for the
circulation of its juices. Some trees have
leaves narrow and short ; others, as the tali
pot of Ceylon—have leaves so large that one
of them can shelter fifteen or twenty men.—
Some exuviate their leaves annually, as a
whole robe, leaving the tree nude, its bare
stem towering and its branches spreading
themselves uncovered in the sky; while thi3
leaves of others drop off one by one, new ones
constantly growing in the place of the dis
membered ones, and the tree retaining its
perpetual verdure.
There have actually been ascertained, in
the animal kingdom, about 60,000 species of
living creatures. There are 600 species of
mammalia—those that suckle their young—
the most of which are quadrupeds. Of birds,
there are 4,000 species; of fishes. 3,000; of
reptiles, 700 ; and of insects, 44,000 species.
Besides these, there are 3,000 species of shell
fish, and not less than eighty or one hundred
thousand species of animalcules invisible to
the naked eye I
Some forms of life require a moist atmos
phere, others a dry one. A blue water-lilly
grows in the canals of Alexandria, which,
when the water evaporates from the beds of
the canals, dries up ; and when the water is
again in the canals, it again grows and blos
soms. And some of the lowest animals may
be completely dried and kept in this state for
any length of time, but when they are again
moistened, they resume the functions of life.
Some plants are adapted only to particular
climates ; others grow in different climates ;
but they do not flourish equally well in these.
As a tree which in the Southern States at
tains a height of 100 feet, at Great Slave
Lake, Like Northern limit at which it is found
beComes dwarfed to a shrub of only five feet
high. Life, both vegitable and animal, is in
finitely modified ; but in all cases its best de
velopment is only under those conditions to
which it is specially adapted. "How mani
fold are thy works ; 0 God l in wisdom thou
hest made them all."—Life Illustrated.
The Appropriation Bill for 1860.
Hiltursnuße, Feb. 14, 1859
The following is an abstract of the Ap
propriation bill reported from the Committee
of Ways and Means. Some of the items
are estimated where the precise sum is not
stated
Governor's salary, $4,000
Secretary of Commonwealth, 2,000
Deputy Secretary of Commonwealth, 1,400
Auditor . General, 2,000
Surveyor General, 1,600
Attorney General, 3,000
Adjutant General, 600
Superintendent of Common Schools, 1,700
State Treasurer, 1,700
Expenses and clerk hire in Exec
utive and State Departments,
Expenses and clerk hire in Audi
tor General's Department,
Expenses and clerk hire in Sur
veyor General's Department,
Clerk to Attorney General,
Clerk hire and Expense of School
Department,
Clerk hire and expense of Treasu
ry Department,
State Library,
Legislature,
Public printing and binding,
Distributing laws,
NVater and gas,
Miscellaneous expenses,
Common Schools,
Pensions and Gratuities,
Judges of Supreme Court,
Law Judges of Philadelphia,
Allegheny county,
gi in State,
Associate Judges,
Interest on State debt; 2,000,000
Guarantied interest,
Western Penitentiary,
Eastern ~ 12,895
House of Refuge, Philadelphia, 20,000
41
it tt Pittsburgh, 18,500
Western - Pennsylvania Hospital, 5,000
To erect buildings for same, 20,000
State Lunatic Hospital ; 20,000
Blind Asylum, 22,000
Deaf and Dumb Asylum ; 23,000
Idiotic School, 25,000
Northern Home for Friendless Children, 5,000
Asylum for Indigent Women, 5,000
Howard Association of Philadelphia, 1,000
Superintendent Public Printing, 800
Legislative Record about, 4,000
Fire Companies of Harrisburg, 500
Salaries of Tonnage-Agents, 1,200
Estimated appropriations not specified, 50,000
A MAN'S BRAINS KNOCKED OUT, AND YET
Its STILL LIVES.—The Eau Claire (Wis.)
.714eyritph narrates the following singular
case of surgery. The case is that of James
Campbell, a laborer in the employ of George
C. Irvine, Esq.. of Dunn county, whose brains
were literally knocked out by the falling of a
tree, some six weeks ago, and strange to say,
be is not only still living, but has regained
all his faculties, and bids fair to recover his
faculties, and bids fair to recover his usual
sound health. Dr. Crocker, of Dunnville,
the surgeon in attendance, thus describes the
case: "I found the patient lying insensible,
with a large hole broken into the left side of
the skull just over the ear, both the left front
al and parietal bones shattered, and two pie
ces, one an inch and a half by two inches
square driven completely into the brain, and,
portions 4, the brain protruding. After re
moving tlie fragments of the bone, I then re
moved three-fourths of a wino glass of brain,
in conjection with three pieces of the tree,
which had also been driven quite into his
head. From the first there was a copious
discharge of thin watery fluid from the ear,
of course through the Eustachian tube. I
considered the case hopeless, as for several
days after the first dressing the brain con
tinued to ooze out, and. pieces as large as a
welnut sloughed off before the wound began
to cicatrize. The car presents also a remark
able mental phenomenon which will interest
phrenologist'. The patient, before the acci
dent, was never known to sing or - whistle in
his life—but no sooner was he able to speak
than he began to sing with perfect correct
ness, and now displays a taste for music
amounting to a passion.
A genius once undertook to name and
classify the different sorts of fools in this
world : " First, the ordinary fool ; second,
the fool who is one and don't know it ; third,
the fool, who is not satisfied with being a
fool in reality, but undertakes ; in addition, tO_
play the fool,"
8,775
9,100
9,535
800
6,160
6,500
2,585
150,000
30,000
700
2,600
3,000
280,000
10,000
18,700
16,800
8,400
55,000
25,000
18.517
10,458
$2,924,000