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THE DYING WIPE.
Lay the gem upon my bosom,
Let me feel her sweet, warm breath,
For a strange chill o'er me passes,
And I know that it is death.
I :could gaze upon the treasure—
Scarcely given ere I go,
Feel her rosy, dimpled fingers
Wander o'er my cheek of snow.
I am passing through the waters,
But a blessed shore appears,
Kneel beside me, husband, dearest!
Let me kiss away thy tears;
-Wrestle with thy grief, my husband,
Strive from midnight until day,
It may have an angel's blessing,
When it vanishes away.
Lay the gem upon my bosom,
'Tis not long she can be there ;
Seel how to my heart she nestles,
'Tis the pearl I love to wear.
If, in after years, beside thee
Sits another in my chair,
Though her voice be sweeter music,
And her face than mine more fair—
If a cherub calls thee " father,"
Far more beautiful than this,
Love thy first born ; 0, ray husband !
Turn not from the motherless.
Tell her sometimes of her mother,
You will call her by my name?
Shield her from the winds of sorrow;
If she err, oh ! gently blame.
Lead her sometimes where I'm sleeping,
I will answer if she calls,
And my breath will stir her ringlets
When my voice in blessing falls,
And her soft black eyes will brighten
With wonder whence it came;
In my heart, when years pass o'er her,
She will find her mother's name.
It is said that every mortal
Walks between two angels here;
One records the ill, but blots it,
If before the midnight drear
Man repenteth ; if uneancelled,
Then be seals it for the skies •
And the right hand angel weepeth,
Bending low with veiled eyes.
1 will be her right hand angel,
sealing up the good fur Heaven.
striving that the midnight watches
Find no misdeeds unfurgiven.
You will not forget me, husband,
When I'm sleeping 'neath the sod!
Oh, love the jewel given ne,
As I love thee—next to tiod!
tied torlr.
V444l;ll(42.l;ll;4o:)elzilt;42{•i•lellfiv4t po
A TALE OF THE OCEAN WILDERNESS
BY HARRY HAZLETON.
We were rolling home in the old Plymouth,
of Boston. It was a fine, starlight night, and
there was a glorious breeze blowing in just
the right direction—upon our quarter.
Seated with five of my messmates upon the
windlass, our conversation naturally turned
to home and its associations. It was a suita
ble subject, for, as we glanced at the swell
ing pyramids of canvass extending upward
to the lofty trucks, we felt that these " white
pinions" were shoving the old vessel along,
each moment, nearer her destination.
" Jack," said I, turning to one of my mess
mates, a robust, young fellow of twenty, "how
happens it that you have nothing to say upon
this subject ? Have you no mother, sister,
nor other friend to talk about ?" I uttered
these words in a light, jesting tone, as my
shipmate had remained silent during our con
versation.
A shadow fell upon his brow, and he
seemed under the influence of some powerful
emotion.
"Tom," said he, in a mournful voice, "nev
er mention the name 'of mother again ; it is a
painful subject to me, and one upon which I
never like to think. But I will tell you why.
Many years ago—not such a great many,
either—for it was only five—l lived with a
kind, gentle widow woman, who was wont
to take me by the hand and call me son.—
That woman was my own mother. She
would take all the pains in the world to make
me comfortable and happy. I was then a lad
of fifteen, and used to work very hard. My
pay was not very good, but with that and the
money which my mother earned by taking in
sewing, we managed to live. I shan't try to
describe any of the little acts of tenderness
on her part toward me. You all know, boys,
at least all of you who have been blessed with
a mother long enough to appreciate her, how
she would be likely to act toward an only
son. Well, as I said, I used to work very
hard—very bard from morn till night. Du
ring the leisure, which was afforded me Sun
days, I naturally felt the want of some
amusement more excitable than that of the
pleasures of home, and the society of my poor
mother. Unluckily, therefore, I fell into the
company of some dissipated young fellows,
and resorted to the stimulus of strong drinks
to afford the excitement which I craved. It
is unnecessary to go into details. From that
time my course was downward ; and all the
persuasion of my mother to turn me from the
fearful road I was pursuing, proved of no
avail. At last by constant neglect of busi
ness, I lost my situation altogether; and then,
frantic with grief and despair, I fled from that
roof which had sheltered me from infancy.—
Having always had a strong inclination for
the sea, I shipped on board a whaler as cabin
boy. The vessel was gone about three years,
at the end of which time I found myself once
more in my native town. I sought the old
cottage in which I had previously resided,
hoping that my mother was still living there.
But I found the place deserted, and on inqui
ry from some of the neighbors, learned that
my mother bad remained upwards of a year
after my absence, in the old homestead, griev
ing for my departure. She had found out
from some of the ship owners in New Bed
ford, that I had gone to sea, and waited a
long time, hoping that I would write to her.
But as a whole year went by without bring
ing any news of me, she became almost fran
tic with grief, and seemed to be gradually
losing her reason. One day she loft the house
with a bundle in her hand, and when the
neighbors inquired concerning her intentions,
she commenced to weep and wring her bands,
saying that she was going to look for her
long-lost son. They saw her take the road to
New Bedford, and since that time she had
....$1 50
WILLIAM LEWIS,
VOL. XIV.
never be seen or heard of again, in the vil
lage.
" Such was the story they told me, and
you can judge of the effect which it had upon
my mind. I plunged into the most degraded
society, and drank deeply of the wine-cup to
drown sorrow ; so that in a few months all
my hard earnings were spent, and I was
forced to take to the sea again. It was then
that I shipped in this vessel, the Plymouth,
and came among you as mess-mate. I have
now given up all hopes of ever again meeting
with my mother, unless it be in the land of
spirits, after my death."
Jack drew a deep sigh, and again the shad
ow fell upon his forehead. After a moment's
silence, he added :
" What makes me feel worse about the
matter, is, because they told me in the vil
lage, that they thought she was insane.—
This may have got her into some difficulty."
" Perhaps you wouldn't know her again,
if you was to see her," said one of the men.
"Oh! yes, I would," answered Jack ; "that
is, if I could get a glimpse of her arm. But
I think she'd have to be very much altered
in the countenance for me not to know her if
I saw her."
"You was saying something about her
arm," suggested one of the listeners.
"Yes, I was going to say I would know
her if I was to see her bare arm, but I don't
like to tell why," answered Jack, moodily.—
" Yes, I will though," he added, after a mo
ment's silence. "In her right arm, just above
the elbow, are the marks of my teeth I One
night I staggered into the house, and, under
the influence of liquor I had drank, reeled to
the floor. My mother took hold of me, and
gently raised me up ; and I—monster—brute
that I was, fixed my teeth in her arm and
bit her, while she was so doing. My teeth
were very sharp, and they sunk deep in her
flesh. It was some time after that, ere the
wound healed ; and when it did, four blue
marks—the impression of my teeth—were
left upon the skin."
Such was the story of Jack Ratlin ; and
weeks after, when our vessel arrived at Bos
ton, I had almost entirely forgotten it. , But
certain incidents which I am now going to
relate, recalled it again, and that very forci
bly, to my recollection about eighteen months
afterwards. After having left the Plymouth,
I had shipped in a sperm whaler ; but not
being satisfied With the usage I received on
board, I took the liberty to desert her when
she arrived at her first port, in Talcahuna,
ten months afterwards. I remained here for
nearly ten weeks, earning a few seals daily
by serving in a Chilian schooner, plying up
and down the coast. At the end of that time,
as dr:re was no other chance, I shipped in
another whaler, then lying in port. Scarcely
had 1 leaped over the bulwarks on first com
ing on board, than my eye lighted upon the
well-knawn countenance of my former ship
mate in the Plymouth, Jack Baffin. le was
walking up and down the quarter-deck, issu
ing, now and then, some orders, in a sharp
tone, to the men forward, who were employed
about the windlass.
As soon as he saw me, he ran up, and des
pite his dignity as second mate of the veessel,
shook me cordially by the hand, and inquired
after my health. He then informed me that
shortly after leaving the Plymouth, ho suc
ceeded, through the influence of one of the
ship owners, in obtaining the birth of second
mate on board the Rochester, which was the
name of the vessel in which I now had ship
ped as a foremast hand.
"You'll find me a good officer, Tom," said
he ; " although, perhaps, the men think I'm
a little quick tempered."
"No doubt of it Jack—no doubt of it,"
said I, as I bundled forward with my chest
and valise.
We had not been out from Talcahuano but a
few weeks, when I was also inclined to think
with the rest of my shipmates, that Jack Rat
lin, although he had been quiet enough as a
foremast hand, was quick tempered as second
mate.
He treated me well enough, but the greater
portion of the men had cause to complain of
his conduct towards them. There was one
individual in particular among the crew
whom he used like a dog. This personage
was a pitiful looking specimen of humanity,
about fifty years of age, called Brooks. His
eyes were sunken, his cheek wasted and his
brow wrinkled as with care. He always kept
by himself and would never eat anything at
meal times but a little hard bread and some
water. He was evidently half an idiot, for
he would sometimes walk about the decks,
moaning and wringing his hands, while his
eyes would have a strange vacant stare. He
never seemed to take pride-like the rest of us
in making himself look neat, although. he was
far from being filthy. His garments were
generally clean, but always ragged and nev
er seemed to fit his attenuated figure.
This poor fellow was the butt of the crew,
and I pitied him from the bottom of my heart.
Sometimes I would see him sitting all alone
in some obscure part of the ship eating his
solitary meal; while the tears were streaming
down his hollow cheeks. Whenever the offi
cers ordered him to do anything, instead of
executing the command, he would stand and
look about him wiih a bewildered stare. It
was at such times that the wrath of Jack Rat
lin would become aroused against the unfor
tunate fellow, and he would deal him a blow
or a kick. To this abuse, however, he would
only 'respond by clasping his .hands together
and uttering a strange, plaintive moan. One
night, presuming upon our former
.acquain
tance, I took the liberty of remonstrating with
Ratlin in regard to his behavior toward the
poor wretch.
" Torn," said he, "do you know what makes
me so hard upon that fellow ? I will tell you.
It is because there is a look about him which
always makes me think of —"
"Buzz ! bang ! crash Down keeled our
ship on her beam ends, and away went the
main-top-gallant-mast. We had been struck
by one of those sudden squalls so common off
the coast of Japan.
" Clew up top-gallant-sails ! let go topsail
halyards fore and aft !" yelled Rollin. The
men flew to obey the order.
" What in are you about? Go there
.„..
.
•
and help the men clew up the top-gallant
sails !" roared Jack to Brooks, who was stand
ing close to him trembling froth head to foot.
The man did not stir. Enraged at this, Jack
caught up an iron• belaying pin and struck
him on the head. Ile uttered a low moan
and fell heavily on the deck. Jack now re
pented of what he had done, and as the squall
by this time had passed to leeward, he order
ed some of the men to convey the body into
the cabin. I was one of those who obliged
the order, and helped to carry the body into
the state room, and lay it out upon a sofa.—
As the light fell upon his features it was to
be seen that they were deadly pale, while a
small stream of blood was trickling from a
wound in the temple, which had been inflic
by the belaying pin.
The eyes fell upon us with a fixed look,
which there was no mistaking—it was the
icy stare of death.
Good God !" groaned Jack, "he is dead !
Yet—oh, no no !it cannot be that I have re
ally murdered him ! Perhaps he may recov
er ; this heavy jacket alone is enough to stifle
the man."
While uttering these words, the second
mate had been engaged in divesting Brooks of
his jacket. He had already disengaged the
sleave of the right arm, when something was
heard to drop from one of the pockets to the
floor. Jack picked it up, and on examina
tion, discovered it to be a small locket con
taining a likeness of himself. He instantly
tore the shirt from the back of the corpse ;
the supposed seamen was a woman. He lif
ted the right arm, and looked at it closely.—
Four blue marks the impression of teeth, were
perceived just above the elbow. Ratlin ut
tered a wild cry, and sank insensible on the
deck. By these marks he had recognized the
figure before him as the corpse of his own
mother !
I shall now merely add that it was subse
quently discovered, upon further investiga
tion, that the mother of Jack Ratlin, having
disguised herself in seaman's apparel, had
shipped in four different vessels, (previous to
entering the Rochester at Taleahuana,) for
the purpose of bunting up her long-lost son.
It is not very probable that she would have
undertaken so wild a project had she not been
affected with a slight derangement of her
mental faculties, caused, no doubt, by the
sudden disappearance of her son. The lapse
of time had so changed the countenance and
form of the latter since she last beheld him,
(a mere boy of fifteen) as to prevent her from
recognizing him in the person of the second
mate of the Rochester. Her disguise, as well
as the alterations which time and sorrow had
wrought upon her countenance, likewise pre
vented Jack Ratlin from indentifying his
mother with the person of the haggard-look
ing seaman. I shall conclude by adding that
the matricide is now the inmate of a mad
house.
" Will you please learn me my verse, mam
ma, and then kiss me, and bid me good
night ?" said little Roger L—, as be opened
the door and peeped cautiously into the cham
ber of his sick mother. "I am very sleepy,
but no one has heard me say my prayers."
Mrs. L— was very ill; indeed, her at
tendants believed her to be dying. She sat
propped up with pillows, and struggling for
breath—her lips were white—her eye was
growing dull and glazed, and the purple
blood was settling at the ends of her cold, at
tenuated fingers. She was a widow, and lit
tle Roger was her only darling child. Every
night he had been in the habit of coming in
to her room and sitting upon her lap, or kneel
ing by her side, while she repeated to him
passages from God's Holy Word, or related
to him stories of the wise and good men spo
ken of in its pages. She had been in a deli
cate health for many years, but never too ill
to learn little Roger his verse and hear his
prayers.
" Rush ! hush 1" said a lady, who was
watching beside her couch; "your dear mam
ma is too ill to hear you say your prayers to
night. I will put you to bed," and as she
came forward and laid her hand gently upon
his arm, as though she would have led him
from the room. Roger began to sob as if his
little heart would break.
" I cannot go to bed without saying my
prayers—indeed, I cannot I"
The ear of the dying mother caught the
sound. Although she had been nearly in
sensible to everything transpiring around her,
the sound of her darling's sobs aroused her
from her stupor, and turning to a friend, she
desired her to bring him to her couch and lay
him on her bosom. Her request was grant
ed, and the child's rosy cheek and golden
head. nestled beside the pale cold face of his
dying mother. Alas, poor fellow ! how little
did he realize then the irreparable loss which
he was soon to sustain !
" Roger, my son, my darling child," said
the dying mother, "repeat this verse after me,
and never, never forget When my father
and mother forsake me, the Lord will take me
up.'" The child repeated it distinctly, and
said his little prayer. He then kissed- the
cold, almost rigid lips before him, and went
quietly to his little couch:
When he arose in the morning, ho sought,
as usual, his mother's room, but he found her
cold and still !—wrapped in her winding
sheet! That was last her lesson I He hasnever
forgotten it !—he probably never will ! He
has grown up to be a man—a good man—
and now occupies a post of much honor and.
distinction in Massachusetts. I never could
look upon him without seeing the faith so
beautifully exhibited by his dying mother.—
It was not misplaced. The Lord has taken
her darling up.
My little reader, if you have God for your
friend, you need never fear; father and moth
er may forsake you—the world may seem to
you like a dreary waste, fulls and thorns—
but Ile can bring you safely through trials,
and give you at least a golden harp and snowy
robe, like those the purified wear in heaven.
Ile can even surround your death bed by an
gel visitants. He is all-powerful----an ever
present help in time of trouble. Will you
not, then seek His friendship and keep His
commandments ?
HUNTINGDON, PA., JUNE 1, 1859.
The Mother's Last Lesson.
-PERSEVERE.
There is a kind of pathos and touching
tenderness of expression in these sweet and
fragrant emblems of affection, which lan
guage cannot reach, and which is calculated
to perpetuate a kind of soothing sympathy
between the living and the dead. They speak
of cords of life too strong for even the grave
to break asunder. This practice, no doubt,
gave rise to the ancient custom which pre
vailed in the east, of burying in gardens, and
is one which conduces to the gratification of
the best feelings of our nature. It prevailed
in and about the Holy City, and among the
Medes, Persians, Grecians and Romans.—
The Persians adopted it from the Medes, the
Grecians from the Persians. In Rome, per
sons of distinction were buried in gardens or
fields near the public roads. Their monu
ments were decorated will balsams, and gar
lands of flowers. The tomb of Achilles was
decorated with amarath ; the urn of Philo
pemoen was covered with chaplets; the grave
orSophocles with roses and ivy ; Anacreon
with ivy and flowers. Baskets of lilies, vio
lets and roses, were placed in the grave of
husbands and wives—white roses on unmar
ried females. In Java, the inhabitants scat
ter flowers over the dead bodies of their
friends ; in China the custom of planting
flowers on the graves of their friends is of
very ancient date, and still prevails. In Tri
poli the tombs are decorated with garlands
of roses, of Arabia, jasmine, and orange and
myrtle flower. In Schwytz, a village in
Switzerland, there is a beautiful little church
yard, in which almost every grave is covered
with pinks. In the elegant church yard in
Wirfin, in the valley of Salza, in Germany,
the graves are covered with oblong boxes,
which are planted with perennial shrubs or
renewed with annual flowers ; and others are
so dressed on fete days. Suspended from the
ornaments of recent graves are vessels filled
with water and the flowers are preserved
fresh. Children are often seen thus dressing
the graves of their mothers, and mothers
wreathing garlands for their children. A late
traveler, on going early in the morning into
one of the graveyards in the village of Wir
fin, saw six or seven persons decorating the
graves of their friends, and of some who had
been buried twenty years. This custom also
prevails in Scotland, and in North and South
Wales. du epitaph there says:
"The village maidens to her grave shall bring
The fragrant garland each returning Spring,
Selected sweets! in emblem of the maid,
Who underneath this hallowed turf is laid."
In Wales, children have snow-drops, vio
lets, primroses, hazel-bloom and swallow-blos
soms on their graves. Persons of mature
years, tanzy, box, ivy and rue. In South
Wales, no flowers or evergreen are permitted
to be planted on graves but those that are
sweet scented. Pinks, polyanthus, sweet
williams, gilly-flowers, camomile, and rose
mary are used.
In Capul, burying-grounds are held in ven
eration, and were called " Cities of the si
lent." The Jews call them " Houses of the
Dead." The Egyptians visited the graves of
their friends twice a week, and strewed sweet
basil on them, and do so to this day.
While the custom of decorating graves and
graveyards with flowers and ornamental trees
and shrubs has prevailed so long and exten
sively among ancient and modern civilized
nations, some of the American aboriginals
will not permit a weed or - blade of grass, nor
any other vegetable, to grow on the graves of
their friends.
King Cup and Clover Blossom.
BY I. W. !JANSON.
A white Clover Blossom modestly lifted
her head from the green Earth. Her pale
cheek was almost hidden in the long grass.
She was scarcely conscious of her own exis
tence, and would have bloomed unseen, but
for her fragrant breath, which filled the air
with perfume.
High above her head flaunted a brilliant
King Cup. As the winds fluttered her broad
yellow petrils to and fro, she seemed a golden
butterfly, and not a flower. She did not see
the White Clover blossom that slept at her
feet.
And there was a beautiful brown Bee that
the King Cup loved. His wings were trans
parent like silken gauze, and he wore a broad
glittering band of gold about his waist.
But the Bee cared not for the King Cup.
A tattling Zephyr came riding by on her
invisible steed, and she whispered to the
King Cup the cause of the Bee's neglect.—
He loved the unpretending Clover Blossom.
Then the King Cup looked down to her
feet and behold the Clover. Blossom slept.—
Her pale cheek was wet with tears, and head
bowed with sadness. She dreamed of the
Bee.
" Vain aspiring creature !" cried the Cup,
" what ambitious spirit has filled thee, that
thou darest raise thy thoughts to him I have
selected? Dost thou think he will deign to
regard thee, thou art seeking Daughter of the
Dust ? Will he look so low as thou art while
I allure his eyes ?"
Then the Clover Blossom timidly looked
up to reply, but her bosom filled with sad
ness, and breathing a prayer of forgive
ness, she sank at the feet of the haughty
flower.
A musical murmur filled the summer air.
Nearer it came, charming the flowers, and
hushing the Zephyrs to rest—it was the
Bee. Round and round the lofty King Cup
he flew, while she delightedly listened to the
musical murmurs. But they were not for
her. With a hasty wing he left her, and
dropped to the bosom of the sweet Clover
Blossom. And the proud flower withered
and died, hearing no voice save the sound of
the Bee, as he sung the song of affection to
the unassuming but lovely flower.
Maiden ! 'Tis not the proud, the rich, or
the beautiful that win the love of others ; 'tis
the virtuous and the good.
,s°' If you want an ignoramus to respect
you, "dress to death," and wear watch seals
about the size of a brickbat.
tOr The sunshine of life is made up of
very few beams that arc bright all the time.
Decorating the Grave.
Funeral Ceremonies of the Hindoos
Immediately after the person is dead, and
in many cases before this takes place, prepara
tions are made to burn the body. We have
seen the wood lying by the side of the sick
person while he was still living. The person
being dead, his son, perhaps, takes up water
in a new pot, and while the priest reads the
prayer, puts linseed and toolsee leaves into
the water, and after annointing the body with
clarified butter, pours it on his father's head
as a kind of abolution. This is accompanied
by a prayer to the different holy rivers, that
they may come into this pan of water, and
that the deceased may have the merit of hav
ing been bathed in them all. Then the son,
throwing away the old clothes, pats new ones
upon the corpse, one of which is folded and
placed on the body. One of the relations
now digs a hole in the earth, over which the
wood is laid ; about 300 lbs. of wood is suffi
cient to consume a single body. The rich
throw on sandal wood, on account of its
fragrance, among the other wood of the fu
neral pile, and a poor man endeavors to pro
cure a little. Clarified butter and Indian
pitch are also poured upon the wood, upon
which a new piece of cloth is spread, and in
this cloth the body is wrapped and placed on
the pile with the face downwards, if a man,
and the reverse if a woman, the head being
laid towards the north, and the legs placed
under the thighs. A trifle of gold or copper
is brought in contact with the mouth, nos
trils, eyes and ears ; and after this, boiled
rice, plantains, clarified butter, sugar, honey,
sour curds, seeds of the toolsee, etc., are
offered in a bowl to the deceased, repeating
his name and family. The heir-at-law then
lights some straw, walks round the pile
three times with face averted, and touches
the mouth of the deceased with the fire, af
ter which those present set the pile on fire
all round.
At this time, the heir presents a prayer to
the regent of fire, that whether the deceased
committed sin, or practiced religion, sinned
knowingly or unknowingly, he would, by his
energy, consume with the body all its sins,
and bestow on the deceased final happiness.
The fire burns about two hours; the smell is
extremely offensive when no pitch is used.
Three or four relations generally perform this
last office for the dead. When the body is
partly burnt, it may so happen that some
bony parts have unavoidably fallen on the
side. These, together with the skull, are
carefully gathered, beaten to pieces, and con
sumed.
The Hindoo who related these facts, added,
without the least apparent concern, that when
he assisted to burn the body of his father,
the burning made a noise like the frying of
fat, and that when he beat his father's skull
to pieces, to be reduced to ashes with the
other bones, it contained a very large quanti
ty of melted fat. At the close, the heir, ta
king seven sticks, a span long, in his hand,
walks round the pile seven times, throwing
one of the sticks on the fire at each cireum
ambulation ; and then beats the fire with the
hatchet seven times. Water is now brought,
the whole place washed, and a gutter cut in
the ground, that the water from the funeral
pile and the Ganges may unite. They then
fill a pot with water, cover it with an earthen
plate, and put upon the plate eight kourees.
They afterwards, with the handle of the
spade, break this pot, spill the water, and
then, crying Lturee-bull or, Tiuzza I they de
part.
The persons who have burnt the dead, be
come unclean, and cannot return to their
houses till they have bathed. After shaving,
bathing, and putting on new garments, one of
which is twisted like a rope, or poita, the
heir-at-law goes home. Yet a son cannot eat
or drink on the day of his father's funeral.
Before they who have burnt the dead go into
the house, they touch some fire prepared at
the door for the purpose ; they put their hand
on the fire, take the bitter leaf of the lime
tree, chew it, and then spit it oat again.—
Near relations put on new clothes, take of
their necklaces, refrain from combing their
hair, annointing their bodies, carrying an
umbrella, riding in a plankeen, or wearing
shoes or a turban. These and other actions
are intended as signs of an ancient state, as
well as of a time of sorrow.
A gentleman who has recently returned
from England relates an anecdote of Mr.
Spurgeon that is too good to be lost. The
preacher had for his theme one day the pow
er of individual, personal effort, and to illus
trate it he told a story of a Yankee who
boasted that he could whip the entire Eng
lish nation himself. "And how could you
do it ?" said a bystander. " 'Why," said the
Yankee, " I would whip one, and then I
would take another, and so I would go
along till I had whipped the entire nation."
At the close of the sermon, Mr. Spurgeon
and several friends retired into a vestry.—
Soon there came in a tall, lean, long-faced,
solemn-looking man, who hailed from the
State of Maine. lie presented to Mr. Spur
geon a letter of introduction, and was wel
comed by the preacher. Soon, Mr. Spurgeon
addressed the new corner by saying,
" Well, my American friend, how do you
like my illustration of individual power, drawn
from your countryman ?"
"Oh," said the member from the Pine
Tree State, "I was well pleased with it, be
cause it was so true," and this was said with
the utmost solemnity of tone and gravity of
manner.
" So true, so true," said Mr. S., " what do
you mean, sir ?"
"I knew a Yankee that did that, once,"
was the reply. _
"And what was his name ?" Mr. Spur
geon asked, to which the Yankee answered—
" The name, sir, was George Washington ;
perhaps you have heard of him ?"
Mr. Spurgeen was dumb for a moment,
then joined in a hearty laugh, and allowed
the Yankee was too much for him.—Boston
Journal.
Zeic-A man can get along without adver
tising, so can a wagon wheel without grease,
but it goes hard.
Editor and. Proprietor.
Spurgeon. and the Yankee
' When we looked forward to the vast amount
of printing and of the reproduction of books ]
which will probably take place during the
coming century, we feel that it involves more
than one reflection which may serve to stim
ulate to action not only all those who have
claims to intellect and education, but may al
so encourage a higher standard of honesty
among many who would soon change their
lives, if they thought that they were ever to
be dragged from obscurity and placed prom
inently before the world.
Reader—let us look at it. Already this
ag . e, with its rapidly increasing millions and
spirit of historical collection, is gathering up
infinitely more than even the learned are
aware of. From reprinting first class poets
and prose writers, we have taken to repub
lishing the works of' the pettiest rhymers and
pamphleteers of old, since there is scarcely
one of them who does not become, with time,
interesting, and present traits of his age
which every new generation renders more
marked and quaint; despite the thousands upon
thousands of books which have been written,
there is little dangerof anything which has the
slightest value as illustrating: is age ever becom
ing extinct. There will always be collectors,
or students of certain departments, who will
rescue from oblivion all which refers to his
own special ite. And so rapidly does the read
ing public increase, and so enormous is the
growth of literary and antiquetarian tastes,
that we feel conscious that we indulge in na
exaggeration when we say that there are few
persons who choose it, who cannot secure
that memory, after death, which is so dear to
all. To do something to be remembered, to be
quoted ages hence as one who once thought
and reasoned and labored, while thousands
of cotemporaries had passed into the veriest
oblivion ; this is, after all, worth no little.
pains. What this age is doing for the past,
by carefully exhuming its every social frag
ment, its song and legend and book, will be
done for it by a future age. Then let no ono
despair. Whoever does one great or good
deed, who ever accomplishes one noble work,
who ever writes a book, or resolutely becomes
something or somebody in these times—in
this forming, transition age—will be remem
bered, though he or she forgets it. It is hard
ly possible for one resolved, intelligent man
or woman to cultivate his or her mind, in
this age, and apply that cultivation to any
purpose whatever, without making sure of a
memory which will react either for good or
for evil. Would you write? Devote that time
to vigorous classic authors and to a study of
great cotemporary literature, which you now
give to trashy novels, wishy-washy sectarion
writings and the like. Would you do good
practically ? What a field is open to you in
aiding education, in studies to practice. In
this field laborers are sadly wanted, and there
is not one who will not be gratefully remem
bered in coming ages. We never see one of
those quiet little pamphlets, devoted to set
ting forth what is being done for education,
for charities, for reform institutes, for the
blind and poor, and suffering, and sick and
lunatic, without a tender feeling; without a
sentiment of heartfelt respect for the zeal
which prompts such works. Those pamph
lets do not die; they always exist somewhere,
to be discovered at a future day by those who
will write histories of certain reforms, now in
the bud, but which will be some day in full
fruit, when those who were early in the field.
will be made memorable. There is many a
quiet, patient woman many an earnest man,
who now pursues, without dreaming of fame,
some little local scheme of beneficence which
the most wildly sanguine imagination would
never characterize as great, which will be
great indeed in future days. Good deeds nev
er die.
NO, 49.
There is on the other hand, an immortality
of knavery and rascality. 'Woe to the rascal
who in his career rubs against men, events
or circumstances which are not destined to
be forgotten, but to be revived ; for as sure
as they live, their names will be called again
to life, to be a burning shame to all who bear
them. The number of wretched ones who
foolishly believe that their evil deeds will die
with them is very great ; but they deceive
themselves.
Look over the biographies of authors, who
are the meg of all others, who in their own
lives carry down the lives of others to pos
terity. What a fearful judgement overtakes
those who oppressed them, and what an un
dying shame it is for their children. Aud in
this age, as we write, there is an amount of
this dread chronicling going on, such as few
dream of. Our American cities are probably
destined, as is many a village also, to attain
unprecedented greatness; to become the homes
of millions and repositories of all treasures
of art and science. There will be in those,
days no street which will not be carefully de
scribed from the beginning, no man who
dwelt in it unmentioned. Why we have seen
such antiquarian accounts awake such an
amount of collecting, noting down, and ad
ding to by zealous, gossiping scholars, and
lovers of antique scandal, that we really
pitied the wicked. Those who are once
marked, remain marked ; in the future great
ness of our communities, in the constant in
crease of events to be remembered with
which they have been associated, rests their
" brand-mark."
MODERN REFINEMENTS.—PeopIe do not
laugh now-a-days—they indulge in merri
ment. They do not walk—they promenade.
They never eat any food—they masticate it.
Nobody has a tooth pulled out—it is extrac
ted. No one has his feelings hurt—they aro.
lacerated. Young men do not go courting
girls—they pay young ladies attention. It Is
vulgar to visit any one—you must make a
call. Of course, you would not think of go
ing to bed—you would retire to rest. Now
a-days, too, one buys drugs at a "medical
hall, wines of a "company," and shoes at a
"mart." Blacking is dispensed at an "in
stitution," and meat from a "purveyor."
One would imagine that the word "shop,"
had been discovered not to belong to the Eng
lish language. Now-a-days, all the shops
are "warehouses, or bazaars," and you will
hardly find a person having the hardihood to
call himself a shopkeeper. "Workpeople are
"employees," "tea meetings" are "soirees,"
and "singers" axe "artistes."
,tom' Whoever feels pain in hearing a good
character of his neighbor, will feel a pleasure
in the reverse. And those who despair to rise
in distinction by their virtues, are happy if oth
ers can be depressed to a level with themselves.
isEr At a Baptism down South, lately, a
negro who had been kept under water longer
than he thought agreeable, drew a long
breath and exclaimed, " Some gentleman
lose his nigger yet wid dis foolishness."
s)"' Childhood and genius have the same
master organ in common—inquisitiveness.
Know what thou canst do, and do it
This is the only self-knowledge.
A Lesson.
"Fate for you shall sheathe her shears
You shall live sonic hundred years."