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g , tlect Verefq.
r A3l. WEARY.
EY ANNIE E. lIITBDAILT
' Preserve me, 0 God, for in Thee do .1 put my trust."
Psalms; Itt3--71
am weary, 0 my Saviour,
Weary of life's woe and care ;
Weary of the clouds that hover
Bound my lonely pathway here
But in sorrow, be Thou near mei
When no ray of light I see,
i.et some angel-whisper cheer me,
For I put my trust in Thee.
When I'm weeping, sadly weeping,
O'er the loved ones—cold and dead—
O'er their dust so sweetly sleeping
In the graveyard's quiet bed—
'hen pale flowers are waving round me—
Waving 'neath the willow tree—
lbe Thou near me! 0 befriend me!
For 1 put my trust in Thee.
When the chord of life is severed,
And I cease on earth to be
- When my bark is launched, forever,
On the future's boundless sea—
0, be some sweet promise given,
In that solemn hour to me !
Take, 0, take mehome to Heaven,
Evermore to trust in Thee !
clttt stir.
BY GEORGIANI S. PURDUE
The ehainher was luxuriously furnished,
and had au air of comfort, too, that told its
luxuries were made for use, and not merely
to be looked at.
By the fire, in his easy chair, sat the doc
tor ; seated on a low stool at his feet, her
cheek resting on his knee, was Louisa.—
'here had been a little gentle chiding on the
part of the doctor, apparently, for a tear
stole from each blue eye down the young
girl's rosy cheek. Louisa's cheeks were al
ways rosy, but they assumed a deeper hue
as, glancing slyly at the doctor, she said :
" Indeed, uncle, I love William as well as
I ever did, but I cannot help thinking he
did me great injustice in falsely accusing
me of flirting with Lionel Renfrew."
" Stop Louisa," interrupted the doctor,
do not say falsely. I watched the whole
affair that has offended your lover so much,
and I, do not think his jealousy is without
cause."
Then, changing his voice to one of the
deepest sadness, and laying his hand on the
fair head before him, Dr. Boulding said :
"You, Louisa., just now used the phrase,
' a little harmless flirtation.' Listen my
child, while I tell you how a harmless flir
tation crushed my hopes and embittered my
life."
"It must be twenty-two years ago, though
to me it seems as yesterday, that I, a thin,
nervous, young medical student, passed my
examination, and obtained my certificate as
a surgeon. Before I established myself as a
practitioner, I resolved to have a week's holi
day, and therefore went down to Wallington
to visit a cousin I had residing there. It was
lovely country village, and to me who had
been studying .hard fur a month—scarcely
indulging myself in a walk to snuff the fresh
air beyond the boundary of the city in which
I lived—presented a charming - picture of ru
ral beauty, and an endless variety of rural
pleasures.
"I had been all my life so closely tied to
school, to college, to lecture, and to books,
that'l felt proud of my sporting skill, when,
on the second evening of my visit, I returned
home with my cousin, bearing a single par
tridge brought down by niy gun.
" We were walking down a shady lane—l
remember, it was called Vineyard Lane—l
smoothing and admiring the soft plumage of
my bird, when Fred, my cousin, directed my at
tention to a small cottage standing on the left
hand side of the lane.
" There, Charles," said he, " lives Mrs.
Collins ; she is a widow and has two daugh
ters, Mary and Geraldine. If you like, we
will call ; they are pretty girls and you will
be pleased with them." -
" lle opened the little gate,. and we walked
towards the cottage. I thought it the loveli
.est place I had ever seen. 'Roses were every
where, China roses covered the walls, peeped
in at the windows,_ and coquetted with the
,chimneys. As we neared the cottage, the
•door opened, and Geraldine ran out. She
was very pretty, alivery saucy style of beauty
that you could not be offended with, let her
use that sharp tongue of hers with ever such
pert satire. But at the moment when I first
saw Geraldine, she looked far more dolorous
than saucy as, 'running to my cousin she
said—
" Oh, Mr. Maynard, we have had such an
; accident; Mary was,training the rose tree
when her
,foot Slipped, and she fell off the lad
der. Mamma thinks'she has broken her an
.cle, for she is in such dreadful pain!'
"Then," said'Fred, "we have called just
time, for my cousin here—Mr. Boulding,
Miss Geraldine- Collins—my cousin, who is a
surgeon, will soon examine the injured mem
ber."
That is fortunate. I am so glad you
,called," said Geraldine, as we followed her
into a parlor—l-such . a. tiny parlor, half filled
by the sofa which stood opposite the door, (I
had cause to remember the sofa,) upon which
Mary lay. The moment I saw her I felt in
clined to quarrel with- Fred—l should have
liked to have knocked him down—for daring
to have called her a pretty girl. Pretty ? she
was divine; one of those marvellous crea
tures whom to look at is to reverence and to
love. After the first look I forgot everything
around ; all I saw was the glorious face now
drawn with pain before me. I believe an old
lady in black silk came and spoke to me;
that placed in my hand her daughter's in
jured foot. I have some indistinct idea that
I ascertained it to be merely a sprained an
kle; that T ordered bandages and fomenta-
3 months. 6 ,montlis. 12 months.
'...51 50 $3 00 S's 00
.... 3 00 5 00 . 7 00
$1 50
75
WILLIATYI LEWIS,
VOL. XV.
tions ; upon which the lovely patient pro
fessed herself relieved. I also think I made
some remarks about the weather, and ended
by entreating Mary's acceptance of the par
tridge I had shot.
" After that, as long as I remained in the
country I called regularly every-morning at
the cottage to inqure how the ankle was pro
gressing. My morning, visits usually lasted
until dinner time, but I never found courage
to speak to Mary of the great love growing
up in my heart towards her. Instead of
Making love I was wondering what she
thought of my long nose and ugly mouth, or
thinking whether e disliked the spectacles
which I was always obliged to wear, and
whether she quizzed me after I was gone. I
was also very uneasy at the presence of a
certain Walter Harbury at the, cottage much
more frequent than I thought necessary, and
who was far more familiar with my Mary
than exactly pleased me:
" However, the last morning visit I made
I summoned all my courage, and declared
my love for Mary—not to herself but to her
mother.
"Mrs. Collins was very willing. She.could
not have chosen, She said, a more desirable
husband for Mary. She should be thankful
to see the dear child married with such good
prospects. Mary was called. I stammered
out something about the great affection I en
tertained for her. She smiled, blushed, and
—we were engaged.
' I went up to town and worked like a slave.
I started in my profession, and wrote to Mary
every other day accounts of how I was get
ting on ; she sent me in reply little note,
on rose tinted paper—the most affectionate
and charming imaginable. I took a small
house and furnished it from cellar to gar
ret.
Sometimes I gave myself a treat and spent
Sunday with Mary--delicious days. Shall I
ever forget the exquisite play of her beauti
ful features, or listening to the _lively chat
that fell from her bewitching lips !
We had been 'engaged three months, when
a circumstance occurred which resulted in my
being suddenly subpoenaed to attend as a
witness in a case that was to be tried in a
county town near to which my Mary lived.
It was only eight miles from Wallington, and
I resolved, after the trial was ended, to walk
over and give Mary a delightful surprise.
I thought the trial never would have
ended. The counsel was the most prosy, the
witnesses were the most stupid and slow in
giving evidence that it ever was my dot to
listen to.
The moment I was out of Court I started
off for Wallington. , I was not very rich, so
I resolved to walk. Walk, did I say, I ran
—I flew. I paused one moment at the gate;
how beautiful the cottage looked in the calm
evening light, and the centre of my'happi
ness was there calm and beautiful ! No one
was looking for me, so I walked quietly up
to the house, and'opened the door of the little
parlor.
" There opposite me, upon the sofa, sat my
Mary ; and, heaven and earth ! beside her,
with his arm around her waist, sat Walter
Harbury ! This was the end of my agreea
ble surprise ! This was what I had flown on
the wings of love to see ! I stood perfectly
speechless, transfixed; Walter and Mary re
mained in exactly the same position and neith
er uttered a word. I wanted.to speak to re
proach her but no voice came, in silence I
left the room, walked down the little garden,
closed the gate gently after me, and returned
without a word to London.
" For a few days I fled from thought as
from a demon. Of Mary, and Mary faithless
I dared not think. The fourth day I blamed
myself as a fool for caring about one so false
and coquetish. The fifth day I fancied I had
been too hasty ; if I had spoken it might have
been explained—perhaps it was a mistake,
there might be no love beJfween them after
all. The sixth day, brought with it a letter
from Mary herself. Such a letter I never
read before nor since, I fairly wept over it.—
I had been an ass, an ignoramus, a scoundrel,
to suspect her for a moment ;' it was clearly
an optical delusion. So I took my place in
the train that very night,'and went down to
Wallington.
" Mary met me at the gate, all smiles and
tears, and looking more beautiful than ever.
"It was such strange behavior," she said "to
come in and look upon her, and then go away
without one word. She would have thought
it a ghost, had not Mr. Harbury, who was in
the same room, saw me too. Had not slept
since for thinking and wondering, and she
was glad, 0, so glad to see me again."
" Of course I was very sorry and penitent,
and Mary behaved beautifully and forgave
me like an angel, as she was. "She never
thought," said she, "anything of Walter, he
was just like a brother, they had known each
other from childhood. As for sitting beside
her, he should never do so again if I objected
to it," So we were reconciled and became
better friends and lovers than before. I was
very anxious to be married now, and resolved
to allow as little time as possible to elapse
before I took my jewel out of Mr. Walter's
reach. All went on smoothly, and Mary
promised me one Sunday evening to talk the
matter over with her mother, and fix the day
for our wedding the next time I came.
" I was to have gone down on the Sunday,
but from some cause I now forget, I had the
Saturday at my disposal and resolved to spend
it with Mary. All that day I felt an unusual
oppression on my mind of •something that I
could not shake off. As I neared the cottage
my presentiment of dread increased. • The
door was open ' • as I crossed the vestibule I
trembled so that I could hardly open the par
lor door; but I did open it, and there on the
sofa again sat my Mary, not this time with
one oWalter's arms around her, but both,
and hers hung around his neck with such an
embrace as had never been bestowed upon
me. I resolved it should be no optical illusion
this time, so I walked quietly up, and laid my
hand upon his arm. At my touch they star
ted, colored violently and separated.. " Mr.
Harbury," said I, "you are welcome."
" Thank you," said he. •
" I shall not interfere, and have nothing
further to say."
•
_• •
„.„
" Then turning to Mary, I said, "Mis Col
lins, where is your mother?" As she did
not move or attempt to call her, I rang the
bell, and desired the servant girl to request
her mistress to come. Mrs. Collins entered.
" Madam," said I, "You and your daugh
ter have played a double game with me. It
goes no further, I renounce - all my preten
sions to her in favor of this gentleman—her
more favored lover. I will send you all the
letters written by your daughter to me, and
I request that those she has of mine may be
returned. Ladies, I wish you, and you, Mr.
Harbury, a very good evening." I turned
and left Rose Cottage forever.
" For years after that evening a terrible
load lay at my heart—a load of love despised
hopes blighted and energies wasted—that
seemed sometimes greater than I could bear.
Wherever I went thoughts of Mary followed;
she seemed ever present, so beautiful, so
treacherous—her very faithlessness helped to
render her more dear. I pitied her so much
—so young, so false ; with her wondrous beau
ty a thousand dangers threatened her.
" It was five years after I had lost my Ma
ry—five prosperous years for me—that one
night a woman was brought into the hospital
of which I was chief physician. Hers was
a very bad case of consumption, prostration
and weakness, arising from destitution and
starvation. The poor creature was so emacia
ted and sunken, that the moment I saw her
I knew there was no- hopes of recovery, and
directed all the attention of the nurse to the
tiny shivering infant in her arms. The poor
mother lay all night quite unconscious of
what was passing around. In the morning
when I came to her bed in the course of my
ronnds, there struck me as being something
ii her face very familiar. I must have seen
it long, long, ago, when and where I could
not recollect.
"As I took her hand she opened her eyes
and looked long and fixedly upon me ; then
she exclaimed with fearful emphasis.—
"Charles Boulding go away, go away ! Are
you come to haunt me ? You torture me !
Oh, go away ?"
" But I could not go.
" Mary is it ? Can it possibly be Mary
Collins ?"
" No," she shrieked, " I am Mr. Ilarbury's
wife; how dare you come to my bed-side ?
Away, away I"
" She would not be soothed,, and - talked
wildly and loudly until they &ought her
child. Then, when she looked into its little
helpless face, and watched its feeble efforts
to come to her, she softened,. and with all the
mother in her eyes, held out her arms and
pressed it to her heart. Perhaps the flutter
ing, irregulrr pulsations of that heart warned
her how soon its beating would cease for ever
for she turned to me, an with a look so full
of humility, of grief and love, said, "Ah,
Charles forgive me ; I wronged you cruelly,
but I have been cruelly punished. I married
him, and my life has been-0 what a life !
But it is over—l am dying now—he knows
not—cares not—deserted—we might both die
for him. But my child, my little girl ; you
willnotletherstarve? Promiseme, Charles."
" I promised—l swore I would be a father
to the helpless infant lying by her side.
" She seemed easy and happy after that,
and lay so still and passive, that when she
sank away from the calm earthly sleep into
the sleep of death, the change was so peace
ful, so gentle, that we' who stood watching
round her bed perceived it not.
" I took the little girl home, and tried to
do my best to supply her dear lost mother's
place. Tell me, Louisa, have I done so ?"
" 0, uncle 1" cried Louisa, starting up and
throwing her arms round the doctor's neck,
"I never knew—l never dreamed you were
not really my uncle. You have, indeed, been
father, mother, uncle—all to me."
"And you, my darling—Mary's child—
have come with your winning, childish. love,
and saved me from dispair, or living—worst
of all lives—a life of selfishness, Yes, Louisa,
if your mother's coquetry lacerated and blight
ed my heart, it was you, her daughter, who,
by your love and obedience, restored and
healed it."
We remember when we were living down
east, of 4, neighboring farmer hirinc , a jolly
Irishman, who was very fond of learning
tricks. One day his employer asked him if
he wouldn't like to learn a Yankee trick.—
Bringing him to the end of a brick barn, Jon
athan laid his open hand against the wall, re
marking—
" Pat, I'll bet the liquor you can't hit my
hand."
It's done !" says Pat, making a vicious
blow at the palm of the hand, but it being
quickly withdrawn, he succeeddd in peeling
the skin and flesh from off his knuckles.
" That's a d—d nasty trick!" roared Pat,
"but howld on, I'll cheat somebody else."
A few months passed, and Pat's brother
came over from Ireland, as green as early
peas. They both labored together, but Pat.,
was uneasy till he would learn his brother
the Yankee trick.
" Jim, did you ever learn a Yankee trick ?"
" Niver."
Pat finding himself in the centre of a largo
field, thought it would bo a great loss of time
to go to the barn, and reaching out his open
hand, he cried—
" Strike that, if you can !"
Jim made a desperate pass, but Pat having
pulled away his hand, Jim fell after the blow,
remOking 'that was an old woman's trick."
" Try it now I" shrieked Pat, with laugh
ter, placing tho same against his own mouth.
Jim prepared for a sockdolog,er, and bring
ing his malive " bunch of lives " in loving
proximity with Pat's nose and . mouth, echo
pulled away his hand as before,e sent him
reeling to the earth, with the 2Ws of four
teeth and a large quantity of blood, for
"learning him the Yankee trick."
xier As death is the total change of life,
every change is the death of some 'part ;
sickness is the death of health ; sleeping of
waking ; sorrow of joy ; impatience of quiet ;
youth of infancy ; age of youth. All things
which follow time, and everi. time itself, at_
last, must die.
HUNTINGDON, PA., AUGUST 10, 1859.
.A Yankee Trick
-PERSEVERE.-
Not many months ago, in one of my sum
mer rambles, I found myself, on a beautiful
Sabbath morning, the guest of a worthy and
intelligent family in a quiet country village.
The early breakfast was over ; parents and
children had joined in reading a chapter in
the Bible; Mr. Sedgwick, the head of the
fainily, had then offered up a fervent prayer,
at the conclusion of which we all arose from
our knees, when our ears were greeted by
the clear, deep peals of the ringing church
bell.
" So late !" exclaimed Mrs. Sedgwick, look
ing at the clock. " Our time piece must be
slow."
" That is not the first bell for chueh," re
plied her husband, solemnly. " There has
been a death in the village. The bell is go
ing to toll for Martin Lord."
" Such, then, is the unhappy end I" mused
his wife. "Well, it will be wrong to mourn
his death. If death was ever a merciful
providence, it is so in this case."
"Is it a person who had been long sick ?"
I asked.
Instead of answering my question directly,
Mr. Sedgwick said :
" There is a very melancholy history con
nected with that young man. It is now some
time since the excitement occasioned by, this
strange tragedy died away ; but the tolling
of the bell this morning must bring it back
forcibly to every heart. Perhaps you would
be very much interested to hear the story ?"
I expressed my desire to listen to the nar
rative; upon which my friend gave me the
details of the following story, which I relate
with only a slight variation from the original:
"Martin Lord was once the flower and hope
of one of the most respectable families in the
village. Ills amiable disposition and supe
rior intellect procured for him universal love
a - nd- esteem.
"Although of a slight figure , and pale fea
tures, which indicated a constitution by no
means robust, Martin was remarkable for his
uncommon beauty; and, indeed, his fine, no
ble forehead, shaded by locks of soft brown
hair, his large expressive blue eyes, straight
nose, with the Grecian nostrils, and rather
voluptuous mouth, entitled him in some meas
ure to that consideration.
" Martin was a great favorite with the la
dies, old and young ; but he never showed
any marked partiality to any one, until he
became intimate with Isabella Ashton, the
daughter of our late clergyman, who died of
grief about a year ago.
"No two beings could be more, different.—
Isabella was the most young ana'thoughtless
girl in the village. She could have little
sympathy with a person of such deep feeling
and intellect as Martin ; and beautiful as he
was, it seemed strange that he should have
given his love to her. There is no doubt but
she was attached to him ; perhaps she loved
him as well as she was capable , -of loving any
one; but in this instance, as in all others,
her affections were secondary to her love of
sarcasm and mischief.
"Martin and Isabella bad been pointed out
as lovers bysthe village gossips, for several
months ; he was nineteen, and she was of
the same age when the tragedy occurred,
which the tolling of the bell has re-called to
my memory.
" It was on an autumn evening; nearly five
years since, that Isabella took advantage of
the absence of her father, to have a social
gathering of young people at their house.—
Martin, of course, was present, with the fair
est youths and maidens; and being under no
restraint from the gravity of the clergyman,
who was not expected home till late, the
company enjoyed themselves freely with jests,
songs and social games.
The hour at which such parties usually
broke up had already passed, and there was
no relaxation in the gaiety of the young peo
ple, when some one foolishly mentioned the
subject of ghosts, something of that descrip
tion having been reported as having been seen
in the vicinity of the church-yard.
It is a silly report,' said Martin. No
body can believe that a ghost has really been
seen there ; and I doubt if a person here be
lieves at all in the existence of ghosts.'
" You do, yourself =you know you do,
Martin, although you are ashamed to own it,"
cried Isabella. But Martin only laughed.—
"Come now," continued the thoughtless girl,
" I can prove that you have some idea that
such things may exist. Go to the church
yard alone in the dark, and then declare, if
you can that you have felt no fear !"
" 'And what would that prove ?'
"‘ Why, you would be frightened, though
you should see nothing. Your fears would
put your belief to the test. How could you
he afraid if you did not feel that there was
something to be afraid of?
" I-do not think your logic is very good,
replied Martin, laughing. " Men are often
troubled with fear, when _their reason tells
them there is no cause to fear. But I deny
in the first place that a journey to the church
yard, even at midnight, would frighten me in
the least !"
" 'How bravely you can talk I' said Isabella,
indulging in her customary tone of sarcasm.
"But nobody here believes_it=-4 don't at any
rate. Why, you hadn't courage enough the
other day to help kill a rabbit ; your mother
told me so j"
" I never like to cause or Impress pain,
if it can be avoided," answered Martin blush
ing.
" ! ha! ha ! what a poor excuse !
You are brave enough to be sure but tender
hearted ! Come, now, you dare not go to the
church-yard this night alone. You are not
half so courageous as you would have us be
lieve. Whether you think there are ghosts
or not, you are afraid of them."
" Igartin was extremely sensitive ; but the
sarcasm of nobody except Isabella could have
stung him to the quick. Scorning the irepa
tation of cowardice, he was ready to do al
most any desperate act to prove his courage.
"But," said he, " although I have no
more fear of church-yards and ghosts, than
I have of orchards and apple trees, I am not
going to walk half a mile merely to be laughed
at."
"' Ha! hal but you shall not escape so !"
The Tolling Bell
....:
~... •
.?-z,.: ~.5.:. ~:.,.. •
:•!:::. ,-..,,,,..:, :,,........
1
0
..',....•:,.. , •
„.. •
laughed Isabella. "Here, before these, our
friends, I promise that this ring shall bo
yours," she continued, displaying one given
by an old lover, which Martin had often de
sired her to part with, " provided you go to
the church-yard alone, in the dark, and de
clare on your honor, when you return, that
you were not the least afraid."
" 'Agreed !" said Martin, buttoning his
coat for the night was chilly.
" 'And as an evidence that you go the en
tire distance, you can bring back with you
the iron bar, which you will find close by the
gate," said Isabella.
" Thus driven by taunts to the commission
of a folly, Martin took leave of the c ompany,
full of courage and spirit, and set Out on his
errand.
" It was near a quarter of a mile to the
church-yard, which was approached by a
lonely, dreary path, seldom traveled except
by mourners. -
" It is impossible to relate precisely what
happened to Martin on that gloomy road.—
I judge from the circumstances which after
wards came to light, and conjecture his ad
venture must have been as I am about to re
late it."
" Slight as he was in frame, and tender in
his feelings, he was not destitute of courage.
I do riot think he was frightened by the sigh
ing of the wind and the rustling of the dry
autumnal leaves, as many stronger men might
have been. He marched steadily to the
church-yard, stopped a moment, perhaps to
gaze sadly, but not fearfully, at the" white
tomb-stones gleaming faintly in the dark and
desolate ground, for the stars shone brilliant
ly in the clear cold sky ; then shouldering the
iron bar of which Isabella had spoken, he set
out to return. •
"lle had proceeded about half way, when
in the gloomiest part of the road, he saw_ a
white figure emerge from a clump of willows
and come towards him. It looked like awalk
ing corpse, in a winding sheet which trailed
upon the ground. All Martin's strength of
nerve was gone in an instant. Courage gave
place to desperation, his hair standing erect,
and his blood running chill with horror; still
he stood his ground. The spectre drew near
er, seeming to grow whiter and larger as it
approached. We cannot tell what frenzy
seized upon the brain of the unfortunate
youth at that moment.
" The guests at the clergyman's heard ter
rific screams. Dreading some tragic termi
nation to the farce, they rushed to the spot,
ono of the number carrying a lantern. They
found Martin kneeling on a prostrate figure,
his fingers clutching convulsively its throat,
while he still uttered frantic shrieks for help.
His wild features exhibited the very extrem
ity of terror.
Only two of the most courageous young
men dared approach him. One of them
forced Martin to relax his hold on the throat
of the figure, whilst the other tore away the
folds of theogtheet. At that moment the bear
er of the lamp came up. Its light fell on the
blood-stained, distorted feature of Isabella !
Martin uttered one more unearthly shriek,
and fell lifeless upon the corpse. lie never
spoke again, but lived—an idiot !
" A frightful contusion on Isabella's tem
ple bore evidence that in his frenzy he had
struck the supposed spectre with flu) iron bar,
The blow was probably the cause of her death,
although such a grasp as his hands must
have given her throat, might have deprived
her of breath. lie never knew afterwards
what he had done, for never a gleam of rea
son illuminated the darkness of his soul ; and
now the tolling bell has told us that Heaven
in its mercy has finally freed the spirit front
its shackles of clay, and given it life and
light in a better world."
An Incident of the Battle of Lexington
I regard the following as the most thrilling.
incident of the Battle of Lexington. and yet
I believe it has never before been published:
Previous to the arrival of the British in
Lexington., on the morning of the 19th of
April, 1775, several citizens of the hitherto
peaceful village, were stationed in tho upper
part of the ancient church, to prevent its fal
ling-into the possession of the enemy. The
red-coats arrived, and after some skirmishing
with the gallant minute-men, they observed
the Yankees in the church, and exclaimed,
" There's those pale-faced Rebels, we'll
have their heart's blood before night."
And immediately a detachment of them
rushed toward the church, with the intention
of destroying it, and -shooting the Rebels.—
The villagers, with the exception of one man,
escaped by flight, be singly stood his ground.
They commanded him to throw down his
arms and surrender, his bold reply was,
"Never." They were about to enter, when
he, in a calm, clear voice, warned them to
desist ; telling them if they entered, it would
be at the, peril of their lives for rather than
have their church desecrated by British ty
rants, he would fire the magazine, which was
within a foot of where he stood, and blow
them to atoms. They advanced a step fur
ther, when he, in a fearless, deliberate man
ner, cocked and leveled his gun, directly at
the magazine which contained a large quan
tity of powder; whereupon, the red-coats
greatly terrified, beat an instant and hasty
retreat, leaving the church in the possession
of the intrepid Yankee, who would willingly
have sacrificed his life to the cause of liberty,
Not only was the powder contained in the
magazine, saved to be used afterwards with
telling effect upon the enemy ; but also the
declaration of peace and independence, at
the conclusion of the war, was read in the
same old church, and upon every returning
birthday of the nation, till it was at last de
stroyed by an accidental conflagration.
The above was related to me by a descen
dant of the brave man, the memory of the
hero who performed this noble act should be
perpetuated. His name vas Joshua Si
mends, F. n. If.
Xer Beauty is a short-lived flower, but a
cultivated mind is a treasure that brings
forth a hundred fold.
SEir A truly grateful heart may not be able
to tell its gratitgde, bgt itclnfeel, love and aet,
Editor and Proprietor.
NO, 7.
The Poisoned Lancet.
A Tartar chief once rode with his court on
a hunt. A dervise met them on the road,
and at once exclaimed—
" Whoever gives me a hundred gold-pieces,
I will give him excellent advice." The chief
was inquisitive, and asked the dervise where
in his good counsel consisted. "Thou shall
hear it, sir," answered the dervise, "when
thou promisest that the hundred pieces shall
be delivered to me." The chief gave him the
sum, and the dervise said, with a warning
voice, "Attempting nothing until you have
reflected maturely on the consequenees."—
Then he proceeded on his way.
The attendants of the chief laughed and
ridiculed the advice of the dirvise, for which
he had paid so dearly. Meanwhile the chief
pronounced a different opinion. "The good
advice," said he, "which he has given me is
indeed a most ordinary rule of prudence; but,
although it is so universal, it is the least
obeyed; and on this account the dervise im
parted it to me so dearly. In future, it shall
never escape my memory. It shall be intel
ligibly inscribed over all the doors of my
palace, on all the walls of my apartments,
and on all my furniture."
After this period an ambitious stadtholder
resolved to remove the chief and possess him
self of the throne. lie bribed a court physi
cian at a great sum ; and he promised to bleed
the chief, as occasion might permit, with a
poisoned lancet.
Such an occasion soon offered. But as
the
. physieian was about to raise the silver
bowl which was to be the receptacle of the
blood, the words, " Attempting nothing un
til you have reflected maturely on the conse
quencss," struck his eyes. He was startled,
and, with visible anxiety, laid aside the
poisoned lancet and took one of another
kind.
The chief perceived it, and asked why ho
had
. laid aide the lancet. Receiving the
answer that it had a blunt point, he desired
to examine it ; while the agitation of tho
physician seemed remarable. When the
physician delayed to present it to him, the
chief sprang on his feet and exclaimed, " A
candid confession only can rescue your life.
This apparent anxiety renders you suspi
cious."
The physician fell at the feet of the chief,
and confessed the conspiracy against his
life, which the warning inscription on the
silver howl had deprived him of the power to
executo.
" Have I paid the dervise," said he, " too
dearly for his advice ?"
He granted the life of the physician, and
commanded the stadtholder to be strangled.
All sought the dervise everywhere, that he
might reward him yet more.
The Conjuror and the Yankee
Anderson, the wizard, met with a Yankee,
who stole a march on him one day, after the
following pattern : Enter Yankee.
" I say ! are you Professor Anderson ?"
" Yes, sir, at your service."
" Wa'al, you're a tarn ation smart man, and
I'm something at a trick too, kinder cute, deu
you know."
" Ah, indeed, what tricks are you up to ?"
asked the professor, amused at the simple
fellow.
"lVa'al, I can take a red cent and change
it into a ten dollar gold piece."
" Oh, that's a mere slight•of--hand trick, I
can do that too."
"No you can't. I'd Tike, to see you try."
" Well, hold out your hand with a cent in
HISI
Yankee stretches out his paw with a cent
lying on it.
" This is your cent is it sure !"
" It's nothing else."
" Hold on to it tight—Presto ! change.—.
Now open your hand."
Yankee opened his fist, and there was a
gold eagle shining on his 'palm.
" Wa'a], you 'did it. I declare ; much
obliged to you," and Jonathan turned to go
out.
" Say," said the professor,
leave my ten dollars."
" Yours ? wan't it my cent ; and didn't you
turn it into this ere yeller thing, eh ? Good
bye !" and as be. left the room he was heard
to say, "I guess there ain't any thing - green
about this child."—Greensboro', N. a Times,
4 Good Story
An anecdote, worth laughing over, is told
of a man who had an infirmity, as well as an
appetite for ash. He was anxious to keep
up his character for honesty, even while en.,
joying his favorite meal, and while making
a bill with his merchant, as the story goes,
and when Ms back was turned the he - nest
buyer slipped a cod-fish up under his coat
tail, But the garment was to short to cover
the theft, and the merchant perceived it,
" Now," said the customer, anxious to im
prove all opportunities to call attention to his
virtues, " Mr. Merchant, I have traded with
you a great deal, and have paid you up
promptly and honestly, haven't I?" •
" 0, yes," said the merchant, "I make no
complaint."
" Well, said the customer, " I always in
sisted that honesty was the best of policy,
and the best rule to live and die by."
" That's so," replied the merchant.
And the customer turned to depart.
" fold on, friend," cried the merchant,
" speaking of honesty, I have a bib of advice
to give you,Whenever you come to trade
again, you ad better wear a longer coat or
steal a shorter cod-fish."
WAY A- Sun' is "SUE."—Soma heartless
wretch (who should be punished by
. being
tied to a post with his face within six inches
of kissing distance of a pair of bewitching
" cherry lips"—feminine lips—with the cer
tainty of never reducing that number of
inches between him and bliss,) says " a ship
is called she because a man knows not the
expense till he gets one—because they are
useless without employment—because they
loolr best when well rigged—because their
value depends upon their age—because they
bring news from abroad, and carry out news
from home."
TunTS.- , -,W011201:1 are like flowers ; the
more modest and retiring they appear, the
better you love them.
4. little explained, a little endured, a lit,
tle passed over as a foible, and lo ! the rug,
ged atoms fit like smooth mosaic.
A man loves when his judgment ap,
proves ; a woman's judgment approves when
she loves,
Pity expresses itself in words.-=.often re,
lioves itself by a look. Charity asserts itself
in gifts. A man may be full of pity, and
yete.T.tremely empty-harried,
The duties of religion, sincerely and
regularly performed, will always be sufficient
to exalt the meanest and to exercise QV bigh,
est understanding.
Aar He is happy whose circumstances suit
his temper; but he is more excellent who
c41:1 spit Ws temper to any circumstances,
"your may