AMERICAS VOLUNTEER.
yDBLISHEp EVERT THURSDAY MORNING, BY
John B. Bra» to “*
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THE WIND AND STREAM.
BY WILLIAM 0. BRYANT.
A Brook came stealing from the ground ;
Poll scarcely saw its silvery gleam
' Among the herbs that hung around
‘ The borders of that winding stream, —
' A pretty stream, a placid stream,
A softly gliding, bashful stream.
A Breeze came wandering from the sky,
■ ■ Light as the whispers of a dream; •
He put the o’erbanging grasses, by.
And gaily stopped to kiss the stream,
The pretty stream, the flattered stream.
The shy, yet unreluctant stream.
Tho Water ns the Wind passed o’er,
Shot upward many a glancing beam,
Dimpled and quivered more i>nd more,
' And tripped along a livelier stream,—
The flattered stream,tli'o simpering stfeam.
Th;c tend, delighted, silly stream.
Away tiro airy wandqrcr flew, .
TpiWherc the tields with blossoms teem,
To sparkling springs and rivers blue,
‘ And. left alone that little stream, —
The flattered stream, the cheated stream
The sad, forsaken, lonely stream.
That careless Wind no more caine back/
- He wanders yet the fields, I deem ;
Hut.on its melancholy track ,
Complaining went tho' little stream, —
.The cheated stream, the hopeless stream,
v Tho over-murmuring,, moaning stream.
WE WERE BOYS TOGETHER.
: We prere boys together, . -
And never can forget
r ; The, sQhool-house hear the leather,
, . In childhood where we met,;
■ The humble homo to memory dear,
Its sorrows and its joys/
: !. Inhere Woke,the transient smile or tear,
IVhch you and T were boys 4
Wo were youths together,
And castles binit in air,
Tour Juiart was like a feathot, /
• And mine weighed down with care ;
To yon came wealth with manhood’s prime,
• To me it brought alloys—
Foreshadowed in the primrose time*
When you and I were boys.
We’re old men together—
The friends we loved of yore,
With leaves of autumn.weather,
Are gone for evermore;
llow blest to age the impulse givefy .
The hopo.tltno ne’er destroys—
Which led our thoughts from earth to heaven
When you and I were boys. ,■
Blim'Bllanmiifl.
HARPER’S MILL
■■liwas the eldest son of the proprietor ofHar-
iter's Mill.--l am not ashamed jp ownjhabmy
. uth'^'i^VamiJlci^—iji'e good' old miller'whose
"wßfthnfd^tftoltS^ayh'ttiihvenr'fchhver^blcss;! l **
Weal 111 and fame have bees, inim l , both in my
own and foreign countries. At home aiidabi-oad,
t have mingled with the highest, and received
praise and homage .from the gifted arid intellec
tual.; j-tit hcver, when the honors of the world
Seemed most to await me. and when the foam
jn my cup was sparkling highest and brightest,
have t' forgotten that I was the son of '1 liomas
Ilarper the miller.
My younger brother had begged to remain
ivith' thy-father at thP' mill; hut my, father,
■whose business had always been good, ,was
hbundantlv able to , give me my choice of my.
future lifei and . I eagerly seized upon his con
sent to- establish myself at cpllege. I passed
through With honor and credit to myseli. and
was foytuhate enough.to'obtain asilnalion, —
partly as tutoi*. Snd parlly as travelling com
panion to a lad from one of the Southern S ales.
1 roamed all over Europe ; saw everything
worth--seeing visited ruins, temples, churches:
reveled, in -music, paintirig and 'sculpture : and
enjoyed alh witll thecntlinsiasin of a young and
romantic , traveller. My companion, Philip
Loftus/.was a boy of strong natural sense, in
termingled with a keen perception of the ludi-,
orbus. Everywhere he was well received on
account of his never-failing fund of- gopd hu
mor, and his talents and acquirements. ;
- 1; While absent, 1 had made many drawings of
the old mill, which I had delighted to show
Philip.as being the beloved and picturesque
home, of my ch’ldhood. The scene struck his
fancy and he was never tired ot admiring the
random sketches which I hud made of its vari
ous points of beauty.
• “ When we return, Philip,’-' I often said to
him, “j'ou shall see the old place'under the
softest influence of our summer sky : you shall
thep acknowledge that we have seen no place
of wilder .interest, or one of more romantic sit
uation, in Europe.,”
. 1 kept my word : and immediately on our
return, after having visited lii.s Southern home,
we,.proceeded,to.my father’s .residence. All
through the latter part of our journey towards
borne; we had - glimpses of such delicious land
scapes fls have seldom greeted our eyes in for
eign lands, Philip was delighted and when he
arrlvcd-in sight of Harper’s Mill, die warmly
■ declared, that he never yet had seen its beauty
surpassed.
■ ■ A few days served to strip us of our foreign
dandyism, ;and;induct us into the homely ways
Of Harper’s Mill. -My, father had nearly given
up the entire business of the mill into the hands
of my brother, and was now enjoying the green
ojd.age of his,well-spent life—waiting patiently
to. rejoin my mother, who had long preceded
him,to. the-land of the immortals. ,
ItTmy boyish days, I had held a. tender af
fection,fof my-cousin, Ida Harper. Oitr lath
ers wore brothers; but while mine had been
contented to remain at his rustic mill, Stephen
JlnrpcrVambition had led. him into the specu
lating ways of the great • city. Here he had
prospered;beyond his most ardent hopes, and
Ida was now no longer my little playful cousin,
but a wealthy, heiress, basking in the noontide
eun of wealth arid fashion.
. Ott.en as I thought of her and her. little sister
Caroline.,l. wondered if, amidst the glitter that
surrounded them, the warm sunshine of the
heart had not faded away. I resolved as soon
as Philip’s visit should terminate, to ascertain
-What bad become of Ida’s old affections forme.
But while wafting for this, I happened to read
the.announcement of Caroline’s marriage in the
newspapers, and soon after I heard a detailed
account of the same from the lips of one ol my
old college friends.
' It Seemed that it was from no very strong
preference for each other, and from no very ex
aggerated idea of love in any way, that Fred
erick Sumner and Caroline Harper came toge
ther.' The father of the bridegroom had long
held strong business relations with the father
of the bride. “Propinquity,” as the lady in
some old novel keeps harping upon, did the
Whole. They married because they were con-
BY JOHN B. BRATTON.
VOL. 44.
tinually thrown in each other's path, and be
cause no onooonipctcd with theni for the heart
of cither.
Mr. Harper "shelled out, 11 aS young Sumner
called it, handsomely. The bride's .clothes and
jewels, her plate and furniture, were rill select
ed without regard to expense, at thorniest fash
ionable establishment, and cost quite ns much
.as the elegant house which Sumner’s father
transferred' to their, immediate possession.—
" Treading the same walks of life,” he said —
"standing on the same plane of society, .there
was none of those ineffable gauchcries to be en
acted, which, always happen where one party
is above the other, and -the higher-bred ac
quaintance of the one have to,condescend to the
low-bred associates of,the other.”
I supposed, then, hy what my friend said*
that all was smooth and fair in my cousin's loti.
No cloud from the ungenial leaden-colored sky
of poverty lowered on the young couple. If
the bright ’sunshine of the heart and affections
was not there, there were- gilded trappings of
wealth and fashiori—and the latter are prefei
red to the. former.
Sp the Christmas holidays my friond-told'me,
had found them seitled with all tho appoint
ments. privileges, and investments of tho "rich
and fashionable. -Parties were given in return,
theatre and opera boxes scoured for the season,
and all the appliances for a gay, if not an ab
solutely dissipated winter bargained for. It
was no wonder that, in the style that prevailed,
Ihrodghbut the families of Harper and Sumner,
one of thorn 'should have forgotien that be, at
least, was not born into that magic circle, but
came into it by degrees, and ways which he had
rather not remember..
Mr. Stephen Harper did not like retrospec
tion : he would have said—“ Don’t tell me.
what I have been, but tell me what I am now.’’
He did hot even like to.think of his brother, the
milieri Harper’s-Mjli'; and still' more sensitive
ly would lie flinch from the idea that away off
in ah obscure country town there was once a
miserable old farm house, with its shattered
roof and tumble down chimneys, and empty
bafnsand granaries, where lie, Stephen Harper
himself First opened his eyes on this changeable
world. He did not love to remember that tiis
eldest brother, the miller, had impoverished
himself to take his widowed mother, and his
younger brothers and sisters into his own fam
ily ;■ had given Stephen his first start in life,
and had given the two, feeble sisters and bed
ridden mother that, assistance which Stephenln
liis wealth had never thought of sharing with
him. . All this was perfectly tnio ; but Stephen
Ilarpery Esq., never believed it. He ignored
the very, name of Harper’s MiG-still more that
of'Harper’s'farm, tile, dilapidated place where
he was bom ; and had’ so often told' the story
of his being ah only son, and of liis parcnls dy
ing in his boyhood, In .easy circumstances,-that
all his friends received that version of liis
life. ■ - . ,
; - Like old Gob- Thornton, who made, himself,
the hereof many battles, until he came really
to.believe in his own; exploits, Mr. Harper at
least began to put faiih in the statements he
had. manufactured so often. Alithis, I heard
from my friend,‘.and it did not stimulate me at
all to’wish for a renewal qfiintcrcour.se with the
family of my. uncle. -And yet there was .the;
long '.cherished image of my. cousin. Ida- rising
fresh,, ajid bright, and beau tiful Jon. my. vision.
as I'remembered lieryli tier angel, childhood..
. Suroly v,guyily, X thought, so-tnir .'v-proirfee
must u-e tin’s have realized asfiiir a noon. Ida
Harper opuld not be very. different to the being
I had known hi; my boyhood; I, remembered
our last parting.. I ivas at Nioyencrabic age of
fifteen, and she was some two years my junior.
Ten 3'ears had elapsed, and lior father had grown
rich and powerful, while still bore the ap
pellation of the miller of Iftrper’s Mill. How
would she look at my prqjnmption, .should. I
ever dare to address her again as toy little
wife?”
What though I was nollilug-btn a'poor iulor,
and Caroline’ bad married the son of a merchant
prince, did that place me in fact upon any p'oipt
beneath that on which Frederick Sumner staod?
My heart answered no. and I obeyed the im
pulse and set out the next morning for town;
and in two hours after my arrival I ..was in tiro
presence of my cousin Ida. •
Dear soul, she had not kept mo whiting one
moment : but in the simplest of morning dres
ses. had flown oyer the stairs, with the card
still in her hand, which I. had sent up by the
servant, and on which I had written “ Gilbert
Harper, of Harper’s Mill.” She had remem
bered me,' then, through all these, long; years,
and she now came up, to me with a charfiling
frankness, that made me despise myself for the
doubts I bad cherished respecting her. Our
interview was long and pleasant, and we parted
with the promise of speedily meeting again. I
contented myself With merely asking after her
father and Caroline, thinking I would wait for
■time to develop the way in which they would
febeive me. ■ *•
I pass over the subsequent interview which I
had with Ida. It is enough to say; that bur
affections were irrevocably engaged ; bat while
the spell which united us seemed to lie drawing
closer and closer around us, still the dread
came stronger upon us ■ both of the opposition
that might be-expeeted from her father. I
dreaded it even more*than Ida, for I felt I
Could not Ssk her to disobey her father, my
heart told me she, with her present feelings,
would cling closer to me than ever if his con
sent was denied.
Time brought me at length into (die presence
of Stephen Harper, and I learned instinctively
what favor I might expect when my engage
ment to his daughter should be made known. —
In his behavior towards me in his own house,
there was too little of the ceremony duo to a
stranger, and too little familiarity which might
be expected from a relation- Altogether it was
deeply offensive to mo ; and it must be confes
sed- that I paid little of that court which lie
might reasonably expect from one who aspired
to his daughter’s hand. All that I could at
present obtaip from Ida, was an assurance of
undnmnislicd affection, and a promise of corres
pondence ; and with this to console me for the
want of her presence, I returned to Harper’s
I tried to be content with Ida’s letters, but
still there was an uncertainty about my fate
which distressed and annoyed me. Sanguine
as I was, I could see no prospect of ever iiiar
rying her except against her father’s Consent,
and this was painful to think of. Restless and
discontented, I soon found my way back again
to town, where,, with the means which my fa
ther supplied me, I established myself in a bu
siness which, would leave me half the year to
visit Harper’s Mill, or to go abroad, as I might
choose.
This time I saw more of my uncle ; and cm
boldened by what I fondly hoped was increas
ing kindness on his part, I almost bluntly ask
ed him for the hand of his daughter. He look
ed surprised, and briefly answered that any man
who would become his son-in-law must show
his enterprise by amassing a fortune, as he him
self had done.
“ And how is .it, Mr. Harper ?” I asked.—
“Has nothing else any weight with you ? Do
you consider the acquisition of wealth the only
good in life ? Are talents, qualifications, per
severance, and energy, pf no. account in your
estimation ?” •
' Me frowned and bit his lips. "If a man lays
claim to all those in reality,” he said, “ he will
show that he possesses them, by acquiring the
Wealth of which I spoke.” . .
“ That may be partly true,.Mr. Harper,” I
answered : "but we rend that ‘the race is not
al wriyS tp-tho swift, nor llto,battle to the strong.’
Undoubtedly you can remember msny persons
•who started with you in the race of life, whom
you considered as men of enterprise, who have
fainted by the way in pursuit of wealth.”
He could not but own the truth of whritl said,
although seemingly unwilling to do so. "Even
you yourself, Jlr. Harper, may not always en
joy tlia. wealth you.have attained.” ’ *
He looked daggers at me. “Do not name
it,” ho said. “ I have not so lightly laid my
plans—no danger of that kind can be appre
hended.”
I went back to the subject matter of our dis
course, and'asked him if I might consider lhal
as his ultifririte decision.
“ Certainly.” he answered, and we parted. .
Slowly but surely, for the next three years
my business progressed. .'Everything on which
I laid my hands seemed to be. transmuted at
once into gold. . It gave me no joy, excepting
so far as it assured me that through its means
I plight win Ida. Ida, whose beauty had al
ready begun to fade under the influence of anx
iety and hope deferred. I strove to comfort her
with, the hope of my success. She listened
with a mournful smile. Her hopes had with
ered under long-continued expectation.
“ You will marry some one younger than
myself. Gilbert,” she would say. “One whose
youth lias not beoa'Sacrißccd to a father’s love
of gold.” I would try to cheer her then with
the hope of brighter days.
I had gone home on a visit to Harpcr’sMiil.
I walked up to the post office one night', hardly
daring'to, hope for a letter from Ida. : The boy
at tlie window, awkwardly shuffled ovcr’ajpack
age of letters, and said there was none for me :
as he put them back again, my eye caught a
delicate envelope, which I could not but help
hoping.might have come from the Only corres
pondent from whom I eared to hear.
“ Let pie see that letter, my boy,” I said, as
I.pointed to the one in.qucstion. ~ v
The hoy muttered, and unwillingly passed
over the letter There it was in Ida’s fine I tal
ian hand writing, “ Gilbert Harper, Esq., I
opened it then and there. The paper seemed
: to swim before my eyes, as I read the following
words:
“Como to me immediately,.dear Gilbert.—
We arc in the greatest confusion imaginable—
officers in the house. Caroline and my father
almost distracted, and I sick at heart witness
ing their distress. I.haveu vague feeling, that
your presence will restore us to something like
peace and order agafni ’ But.comeatall events,
and that speedily. lux.”
I got the boy at the mill to drive!tne to the
station, whence I took the nighttrain, and- at
nine o'clock was, in .town, and at the door of
my uncle’s house. I rang and asked lor Ida;
she came to, ttie door on hearing ray voice, pale
.but collected.' ' ‘
“ I am glad yon are conic, Gilbert,” she said,
mournfully ;■ “my failier is almost out of his
senses, and Carolinels, if possible, still more so.
The finnhasTailed, and Frederick says we are
all completely ruined' I cip hoi care fornioney,
■yon:well- know;; Gilbert,- but;li, will .btr biird To ;
see my father’s gray hairs Steeped in poverty.
It was.but too truer.- They were irretrievably
ruined. Everything was.brought forward and
given up to the creditors; for my uncle though
grasping,- was at least not dishonest. A day
was appointed-for the sale of their effects, but
before it came around I had hurried Idaiind her
father down to Harper's Mill, where my father
gave them a most cordial welcome. .
Back I went, to town-to attend the'sale, at
which I purchased Ida’s harp and piano, all the
plaie which w as marked with the family name,
a few of the most valuable pictures, and my
uncle’s favorite,arm chair and writing, desk.—;
I procured Frederick Sunnier.a lucrative situa
tion, as clerk, and.saw him established, with
liis wife and father, at a comfortable boarding
house,.an'd then went home to join Ida. Al
ready my fai her had begun to love her as a
daughter. For herself, she whs' In -raptures
with the mill, (he old homestead, and all the
scenes'which she bad remembered so well from
her childhood.
. “ Would you be content to live here always,
Ida ?’’ I asked her one night, as we strayed by
moonlight down to the old mill.
-.-‘.‘l should ask no greater happiness,” site
answeted, “than to know I should never again
behold the busy town. Hero I could live.and
die in peace.”
•No more opposition could reasonably lic.ex
pected from Mr, Harper ; and, while I pitied
his misfortunes, I could not but Teel that they
were calculated to make him wiser and better. -
In another month, then, Ida, will become' my
wife without waiting for any additional.delay
to our joy; . The Clouds which had hitherto
rested upon our lot, seem to have passed away.
The future seems brightening before us : and
although wo have waited beyond the glowing
period of youth, still I do not despair that, af
_ter all, 1 we shall enjoy a lair portion of happi
ness.
Great Flight of Wild Geese.
We believe the extent of the wild-goose emi
gration yesterday, surpassed that of any simi
lar demonstration on any one day in former
years. Flocks of these great birds, stretching
out in the form of an inverted V, with the lea,
dcr at the point, were passing Southward over
this city and the neighboring towns nearly ail
day, Monday. One gentleman counted 100 in
otic flock, and .he says he saw about h dozen
Hocks/ Generally, they flew too high to be
shot, "though . their loud and incessant cries
could be heard. A-few. shots, were fired at
them,.but we believe without effect. These
birds often fly all day and night, and traverse
vast tracts of country in a brief space of time.
Coming from the far North from the Northern
shores of Labrador arid the vicinity of Hud
son’s Bay, their migration to the shores of the
Gulf of Mexico and other Southern points is
made in an almost incredjbleshort time. Their
flight South is commonly believed to be the har
binger, of cold weather, as their . North migra
tion early in Spring is hailed as an indication of
the breaking up of winter. —Hartford Times,
■Dc.c 1.
!. DC? Washington, visiting a lady, in his
neighborhood, on leaving the house, a little girl
was directed'to Open the door. He turned to
the child and said: —“I am sorry, my little
dear, to give you so much trouble.” ,“1 wish,
sir,” she replied, “it was to let you in.”
IE? It was among the loveliest olrstoms of
the ancients to bury the young at morning twi
light ; lor as they strove to give the softest-in
terpretation to death, so they imagined that
Aurora, who loved the young, had stolen them
to her embrace.'
C? I consider the soul of man as the ruin of
a glorious pile of building, where, amidst great
heaps of rubbish, you mept with noble frag l
ments of sculpture, broken pillars and obelisks,
find a magnifleonoe in confusion.
“OUR COUNTRY—MAT ALWAYS. BE' 111
CARLISLE, PA., Tilt
• THE LOST IMI
The train from Paris .to !
station of Jolgny, a town i
after leaving a few pas-seni
The depot, for a moment'll
agents and lookers-on, wai
hut two individuals. J
One of thorn was ah pld|
garb of a woll-to-do farmi'
ot five-and-twenty,.who sj
for some ono to conto ant
personage .the old lhan
self.
“May I presume, sir,” V
you are Clement B?” [
“Tes, my good man,” n
a haughlinossof manner, |
you aro Mr. Martin.’'
“At. your service,.sir,” |
. “'Well, Mr. Martin,” S
the sau c tone, “I began t
od to kcop.mb waiting. V
boon the best manner in u
tody ourself in my good-)
• Tbe old man, instead dl
IUII upon his breast, as it
ducted the new-comer-tot
ioned new carriage, to wh
ing horso.was harnessed.
“Here is your carriage;
you will be good enough
tho honor of conducting
ago.”
“That my carriage, s;
1 c WhV I should be taken (
lar.”
But a few days before,
now put on so many finer
in a crockery store in Pa
reputation of being a qui
fellow. ■ What, then,' ha
sudden ana radical transl
come, since tlie previoui
it may be well understoo
an inct)aie of twenty i
finds it difficult to retain
of a poor clerk. .On th
dusting the largo piles (
charge, a letter bad hrri'
conveying to .him the st
one of his undos, of win
as an eccentric and very
whomhehadneyer seen
chateau in B.urgundy,lel
atee to his estate, to thq
of. heirs. , ' . •)
The lettor-was from a,
who desired him to le
for Jolgny, the town noi
resided, where he wonli
old; confidential sorva
conducted from the raih
the name which the dee
'chateau-and In's estate.
Almost driven out ofJiis'senses by such an
Unexpected.stroke of fotuno, be bast- ned to
obey tbo notary’s dirccfionS) and on bis arrival
at Jolgny joined Martinjas wo have seen.. ..
dri jolted the queer vehicle in which our heto
bad so contemptriouslyjtaken a place, unfit, af
ter, a ride of several misAXhc occupants arriv
ed at Jdartin ofl'ered the hon
ors of tbo Hermitage' Td?the new proprietor,
called ail the servants Hid introduced them to
.their future master, anWtiicn conducted the,lat
ter to his own apartments.;.■;
.“This was th’o sleeping chamber of yoitr un
cle,” said Martin, as tl &vientercd. a vast apart
ment, furnished in (he wtl-fiishidpcfTstyle- “It
dity-angpl”..
' Biir-the nephew, instead of evincingany emo
tion. upon hinnrr 1 lar■chamiinr 'of - his
henidi IniiVai-JCOK'itjf
scorn, and cried i ' V ’ .*>, ■ ' * '
“Upoii iny. word; say libinlCvtnnoU of
the.old boyfstaste!
very ugly in all ray 'life.” ri vlvoSJrS,! ,
■ “Notwitbstandingi sir/’l.^^rad it
is the best we bavdlicre
content yourself, I .rpaljyi Up ■ ijot
you Will find other lodgidgSi” . iaiA^'v.V’..
■ ■ ‘-MCYivedratuf‘‘rToUAn-ifttdmadipJldb I
am such a donkey, I .hope. ; fel
lows, do you j.'s o ll.
shall sell this old crazy rookery -tit. once, and
then bo oil'.” . '. ' y'-.'
. “Sell the Hermitage, yotfr uriclo’s favorite,
piade of residence ! Impossible!- 'And wojserv,-
ahts, who hoped to end ouy- days’ tinder tin's
roof,.what is to hecomejof us?’? . , .
, ’ “ Mr..Mar'tiri,” retorted tlio.yonfig .man, “let
mo have none of yom-Complaints,- X beg.. Get
mo sonic dinner, and afterwards you will drive
me to the mitaryls.” , v i
After having eaten a hearty nical, notwith
standing ho found the: ments'insipid and the
wines sour, the legatee, sfill accompanied by
'Martin, re-entered th«; carriage, and the two
Started off. , .
“If I am not nusfiflten,” phsorved Mr. Clem
ent, after ah hour’s fide, “wa' passed this spot
this morning, arid thiu^-poinlitig to a building
—“is the railroad , depot.;l,pi). wo take the
cars?” ' 'l. '
“You alone will do so,’? responded his com
panion, speaking gravely, and inn manner,
which caused; the young map to tremble in spite
of himself. “I, sir, am Jrmirunclo, and, happi
ly* am hot dead. Having lizard good accounts ,
of your conduct, I to make you heir of
all I possess; hnt, before aqirigso, I wished to
knoiv ll yon were really deserving of ray gene
rosity; and I had recourse foa stratagem,which
has thoroughly exposed your true character to
me; Good-bye, Mr Clerafii|t,;rcturn to your
shop, and remember that your arrogance and
ingratitude have lost you that which wijl never
again he placed within you’r, Teach.” ,
The old man then gave his foolish incpliew a
few hundred franca to iridomnify liim for the ex
penses ol his trip, took loaveiof ijim at the de
pot and returned Ironic. The feelings of tiro
yoftng man may be imagined, but, as the yellow
covered novels sajv dtlroy cannot be describ
ed.” I thinkthis frne story is ftn apt illustration
of tbe maxim, “Hover haloo until you are out
of tiro Woods.” ' i
tying in. Bed with the Head High,
It is often a'question among persons, who
are unacquainted with the anatomy and physi
ology of man, whether lying wUH.th'e head ex
alted, or oven with body, was the most
wholesome. Most persons, consulting their
own case on this’point, arguo in favor of that
which they most prefer. Now, although
many, delight in bolstering up ; their heads at’
night and sleep soundly Without;injury, yet we
declare it to be a dangerous habit. The vessels
through which the blood passes from the'heart
to the head, are always lessened in their cavities
when the head is resting in bed higher than the
body : therefore in all diseases attended With fe
ver, - the head shoiild be pretty nearly on a level
with the body ; and people ought to accustom
themselves to sleep thus to avoid danger.
(£7* An Irishman was addicted to telling
strange stories, said ihe saw a man beheaded
with his hands lied behind him, who directly
picked up his head and put it on his shoulders
in the right place; ’ ;■
‘lla. ha. ha?; said a . bystander, “how could
he pick up his liead.when his hands were tied
behind him V ' „ !
‘And sure, what a purty fool ye are 1 said.
Pat, ‘and couldn’t bo pick it up.wid histalhel
To ould Nick wid yer botheration 1’
(£7* To know, and to think that wo’ know
not, is the highest pitch of merit. Not to
know, and to think that we know, is the com
mon malady of men. If you are afflicted at
this malady, you will not be infected with it.
MB lH ’ 1 & fp vA /A ’
[(t—BuT KIGHT Oil WROXS, OUR COUNTRy.”
SDAY, DECEMBER 2.4, 1857,
anm.
yohs stopped at tho
ton tile route, and
jrs, again went. on.
pwdedwith railroad
Soon, deserted by all
: It is very funny to mark the almost number
less methods which the parental Instinct will
adopt for its satisfaction- The little is satisfied
with a doll,-provided it approaches nearly
enough to. her own size to have one of the char
acteristics of a baby—provided it ho, something
which can be hugged, and will admit of a change
of attire. The boy takes to dogs and.horses —
something,which bo can,drive and order, about,
and. pliy with. Wo know some very estimable
maiden ladies who lavish their waste affections
upon stump-tailed and red-eyed poodles. The
cat is a universal recipient of tenderness, which
was meant to bo maternal, and intended for a
legitimate object. . Lambs, monkeys, canary
birds, crows, parrots, goats, and rabbits, have
all boon favored with the ontpeurings of the
paternal instinct, so universal iqhuman fialui/e.
There comes sooner or later, in tho develop
ment of a man, tho wish to keep a horse. Wo
do not allude to the requirements of bnsinessf
to the exigencies of stage-coaches, express wa
gons, emigrant carryalls, and drays—but to
something incident to a man’s mental condition.
Wo say that this desire to keep a horse comes
in the progress of personal development and
history. This time is not determined by the
data of independent circumstances, for . many
men cannot retrain from'koepinga horse, though,
they ho as poor as Lazarns. :They will keep a ;
horse, and keep him well, though hissUstenarico i
may cost as much as that o( their poorly fed i
families. It comes npon a man between the age j
of .35 and 40, and usually upon those who have .1
given np all idea of ever having-' children, or i
having had several, have ceased to have them, ]
and there is no longer a baby to enchain- the i
attention and demand care. Whether this is i
only a coincidence, or a fact legitimately ilius- I
trative of our philosophy, it may be bard to do- i
termino accurately.
■ ’ The parental instinct wishes for something to
feed, something to’ho blanketed, something to
make a bed for, something to bo called by a pet
name, something to know it as master, -some- i
thing dependent, something that will love, some- (
thing that will obey, something to be proud of, i
something that belongs to it, ami, through the i
fact of possession; becomes pleasant society.— ■
An unappreciative outsider, to bear one of those c
horse-smitten men talk to bis animal in the sta
ble, would think him daft or dreaming. Ho j
deals in terms of tenderness. Ho pats him ns i
bb woiild a- ppt child. Ho really loves the crea
ture. Ho admires him, combs bis mane, braids
his tail or putiMt info pulleys, and really feels
ns a personal insult any reflections upon the an
imal made bya neighbor; whom bo has bitten
or kicked. If this does not make out a clear
case, then we are at faultjn the matter. ~
Therefore, when we see a man buying a horse
for the first time, and bo doesn’t know why lib
does it, We bless him in our hearts, and private
ly hope that ho wjll let ns ride after it occasion
ally. We know that there is no baby in the
bouse, just as weil'as if he bad told us. We
blame no man for buying a horse. He cannot
help it, without doing violence to bis nature;
and lelting.nU bis parental instincts run to waste.
It is a kind provision of nature tor keeping alive
that within a rimn for which there may .possibly
be high' uses some time. It is an excellent
thing; too, for the animals themselves; and here
again is,a cajiitaljitoyision of nature.. What do
tho Morgan and Black Hawk gentlemen care
for their children ? “Not a stitnarkec,so iaras
we.know.tVliat a blessed thing it"is, then, that
they, may become the foster children of men',
. the names of their favorites among
men:and-sw .Poc.a -j
Imofasesj tho General f acksons, (he IToni a olli-:
p]oa—l.-jinrlTTJitert -oiriy IxTlavfsJiod tJio
lilies hot absorbed in the family. ‘ Buy' a hpreo
by all means, when the disposition.comes;'!';<lt
is the only path to mental , peace. Do. hot stop
at a dog if yon tan help it. It isidegrafilsg.,,
•nan, dressed in the
'j fthe other a youth
jmed to ho waiting
1-jnieet him. To this
[ally addressed him-
ujtvlie, “to inquire if
ifplicd the youth, with
land I have no doubt
jbplied the other;
[(tinned Clement, in
iijnngino you intond
pat'; would not have
ffdh.to have insinua-
Stces.’’ ; . •
Replying, let his head
lit affliction, nud con-
Mava large old lasli-
S| livery rough look-
' G "said Martin. “If
rget in, I will have
■on-'to 'the Uermit-
cried Clement,
or a traveling ped-
.ir. Clement 8., who
f, was a simple clerk
and'possessed the
unpretending little
brougiit, about this
vlnation ? lie had hp
day, a rich man, and
i i’ihat flio possessor,of
I itiusand Irancs.a year
i lie ipodest demeanor
i day, while
('■-crockery ' under Ids
> id lor him by the post,
; tling intelligence that
i hi'ho had olten heard
■ jtealthy old man, hut
i just died'at his
• ring Ulemcnt sole leg
!' exclusion of many otli-
rtrtary in the province,
ye Paris immediately,
* which this uncle had
•hhjnet hy . Martin,' an
l*bf the .defunct, and.
hidtblhe ‘Hermitage/,
haedhad given to the
The Toliowin|(.is,from air article by Oliver W,
Holmes, in the last'uninber of the North Ame
rican Review . ' '
“. II the reader of this paper live another year,
.his self-qonscious principle will-have migrated
from Its present tenement to that of another, the
raw. materials even of which are not yet put to
gether.' A portion of that body ol his which is
to'he, wjl| ripen in'the corn of this next harvest.
Another ;po(iion of his future person ho will
furnish, or-others will purchasb for him," headed
up in t.he form of certain barrels of potatoes. A
third fraptionis yct-to bo gathered in the South,
ern rice field. The limbs with which he is then
to walk, will be clad with, flesh borrowed from
the tenements of many stalls and pastures, now
unconscious of their doom.
“ The very organs of speech, with'Which he
is to talk so wisely, plead so eloquently, or
speak so effectively, must first serve his humble
brethren to bloat,■ hollow,' and for all the Varied
utterance of bristled or feathered barnyard life.
[HiS i.h'onos themselves are to a great.exteht iu
pow'and not inessc. ~
“ A bag of phosphafo of limo which )io has
ordered from Professor Mopes for his' grounds l
contains a large part of- that which is to bo ills
skeleton. And more than ail this; by far the
■greater part of his body is nothing after all hut
water[ the'main substance of his scattered mem
bers is to he looked for jn the reservoir, in the
running streams, at the hottonyof the well, in
the clouds that float over his Head, or diffused
among them nil.”
The Siamese spend three-fonrths of their ex
istence in the water. The first act oh awaken
ing is to bathe; they bathe again at 11 o’clock;
they bathe again at 8, and bathe again about
sunset ; fherCTfSci-rccly an hour in the day
when bathers may not be seen in all the crooks,
even'tho shallowest and muddiest. Boys go to
play in-tho river,.just as.poor English children
go to play in the street.!, I once saw a Siamese
woman sitting on the lowest step of a landing
place, while, by a girdle, she hold in the water
her infant of a few months old, splashing and
kicking about with evident enjoyment, ff.i-re
not these people expert ■ swimmers many lives
would bo lost, for the tide flows so swiftly that
it needs the gicatest skill and care to prevent
boats from running foul of one, another; and,
of course, they are frequently upset. :
On one occasion our boat (an English built
gig) ran down a small native canoe containing a
woman and two little children.' In an instaht
they , wore all captised and disappeared, We
were greatly alarmed, and 0. was on (ho point
of jumping in to their rescue, when they bobbed
up, and the lady, will; the first breath slip .re
covered,,poured forth a round volley of abuse.
Tiius relieved in her mind, she coolly righted
her canoe—which had been floating bottom'up
wards—ladled out some of the water; and .bun
dled in iior two children, who had boon mean
while composedly swimming round her. regard
ing with mingled fear and curiosity the barbari
ans who had occasioned the mishap.— Dickens’
Household Words.
OCT - Right principles and comfortable moans
arc the first, necessities of a great enterprise,
hut without apprehensions and tempers, and
expedient methods, the most, henefloient pur
pose must utterly fail.
-[C7” Man may err, and be forgiven; but poor
woman, with all his temptation, and but half
his strength, is placed beyond the hope of
earthly salvation, if she but once be tempted
jnto crime. ;
‘O" There arc three modes possible;for the
devtlopement of the intellect, of an intellectual
being; to know, to will, and’to do.
Kccping-a Horse.
Our Bodies.
Sacks of People..
AT $2,00 PER ANUTJM.
*’ . NO. 28.
“ Died of Thin Shoes."
. "We have seen it stated in an ephemeral news-
I paper paragraph, that tiiere is an inacripfion on
1 a tombstone in a New Jersey grave yard, which
v runs thus,««; . Died of Thin Shoes.”
. As,we.do not put implicit confidence in the
t truth of all the paragraphs it is our privilege to
i peruse, we ate willing to concede that this may
. bo.so or may not bo so. It makes no matter.
« Died of thin shoes,” might be the honest and
veracious epitaph bn thousands of tombstones
that bear a widely different one. The beantiftii
and crowded cemeteries, particularly,which
are to be found in the vicinage of all our Ame.
rican cities, contain scores of victims to thin
shoes, lying in their Cold, unwaking sleep.—
Our town ladies, as every body understands are
considerably more careful about the costliness
and elegance, than about the sense or utility of
their apparel. IVo meet them on the public
street, arrayed as sumptuously and showily as
if they were bn the floor of a brilliantball-room,
or at a fashionable and gay assembly.
One feels an irresistible inclination to stare
at the bedizened creatures as they sweep rusf-
Ilngly by.' It is vulgar and rude to stare, but
howis one to restrain one’s self from haying a
peep at the line sights ? But the dainty feet of
our dashing, belles are especially sacrificed on
the altar, which, alas, is reared in almost every
female heart that beats in this latitude. The
day may be a moist and rainy one, The pave
may be covered with water or chequered with .
puddles, or very damp indeed. Yet every lit- ;
tie moderately minute, or big fopt.which is cun- ■
ningiy exposed to the entranced vision of the.
pedestrians of the. other sex, will be encased in ,
a delicate gaiter, or slipper, the sole .of which (
is from one sixteenth to one tenth of an inch in .
thickness I In such flimsy shoes the.worse than
silly young women tramp around,
“At all hours of the day,
And in all kinds of weather.”
■ They gd out to spend * the evening, whether
at a parlor party or a. public entortaimnent, in
gossamer pedal attire, such as there would be
some excuse tor wearing if they had' to tread on
nothing hut a dry and soft-Brussels.carpet, apd
would be exposed to no fitful draughts of vari
ously tempered air. By-and-by a cold is con
tracted, which grows heavier and more alarming
as it is. dallied with ajfd disregarded. Con
sumption, with all its distresses and terrors fol
lows, and there is one mote ebbing life, and
one more early grave filled by the victim of thin
shoos.
There is no fancy sketching about! hi a. It is
a fact whieb'a legion of the dons of St. Crispin
could attest that American woihbn and particu
larly our/young ladies, nre.c'bnstaptly in the bar
bit of wearing.shoes so light, ae to ho almost in
stantaneously penetrated with water. ■ And we
verity believe, that these miserably thin things
are, in a great measure, responsible for the.fear
ful.inronds, which are yearly made by that fell
destroyer, consumption, upon the pranks, of the
feminine population of our great cities.. Why
can’t our ladies , imitate their .sensible English
sisters, and wear stout, substantial’wholesome
shoes, when they leave tho- house, even at the
risk of never hearing the smothqred.exclamntion,.
“Heaven I what-a foot I’ 5 nor the.common place
compliments of the ball-room, which arc bestow
ed upon the owners of screwed and pinched,
but “ tiny, tripping” feett—Boston Joumtth
Blind wlfot.yon say Before Children.
It is always, well to avoid saying,anything
l t]iat iairnproper, but it. is especially so before
lipj-f- rjironts. pa .well. as„ptbei'a,
ml-fTo/lcn in ianlt. Children nave as many eais"
aagi-oiVn'-'ycO-SanSpnnO 'they-uro gtinaraljy: jnore,
attentive to. what is said before them. UTiat
they hear they are very apt to repeat; and ns
they have no discretion and notsuflicientknbw.
ledge of the world to disguise anything, it is
generally found “ that children and fools speak
the truth.”
Seo that hoy’s eyes glisten while yon are
speaking of a neighbor, in a language that you
woidd not have repeated. He does not fully
understand what you mean, hut ho will remem
ber every word; and it will be strange if ho does
not cause you to blush by the repetitin.
A gentleman, was in the habit of calling a( a
neighbor’s house, and the lady had always ex
pressed to him such pleasure ifi seeing him.—
One day, just after she had remarked to himJier
happiness from his visit, the little boy entered
the room. The gentleman took him on his
knee, and asked:
“ Are yon not glad to soo me, George ?”
“ No, sir,” replied the boy.
“ Why not, my little man ?” ho continued.
“ Because mother don’t want you to come,”
■said George.
Here the mother looked daggers at her little
son, and bccamo crimson. But ho saw noth,
ing.
“ Indeed; how 'do'yon know that, George?”
“ Because she said yesterday, that she wished
that old boro would not call again.”
The gentleman’s hat was soon in requisition,
and ho left with the impression “great is the
truth, it will prevail.”
Another child looked sharply info the face of
a visitor, and being asked what she meant by it,
replied:
. «I wanted to soo if you" bad a drop in yonf
eye; I have heard mother say that you have,
frequently.”
A boy onco asked of his father, who it was
lived next door to him, and when ho heard the
name, inquired if be w:as not a tool.
. “No, my.little friend, ho is not a fool, but a
very sensible man. But why did you ask the
question?” ,
“ Because,’’ replied the boy, “ mother said
the other day that yon wore next door to a fool;
and I Wanted to know who lived next door to
you.”
A Sea-Sick lover.
The following letter, purporting to have been
found iri a'bottloon a voyage from San Francis
co to New York, is supposed to be the bat
adieu of a lover at sea to his inamorata at home:
“My bailin' Julia: “Wc are goin’ down!
At least so the fust mail informs me; very
soon ; and that kind gentleman advises me to
do my little ohoars before the fatal stroke ends
my career oh ycarth. I feel very queer having
ot'no brdakfast, and my supper have gone the
rong wa. The waves is rollin’ moUntins hi;
and orir dying stuard advises pork and molass
cs tied to' a string: I feel very sad ;"I should
like to takotol hat and go ashoor. The cap
tain is very! kind hearted, and I vam so soft
shell stummio’d’that he is always orderin’ mo
b’low, arid I- feel constantly like cornin’ up.—
Oh, if I was ttshoar, I’d never come to sea again,
never, never.'' ” ’
Just to plege mo, the’ve been and salted all
the waiter. ' This morning I was sick tu my
stummiok, and undertook to get a drink. O,
youve no idcr how salt it was. I asked the
mail what the causo was, and ho sed it was on
afckount oLthe pork barrels having leaked.
There, now* we’re agoin ! Ihcari|tho caplin
say tu a large cohered gentleman :—Yo.ud bet
ter light the lamps before you go down—and I
pan feel it two. The ship is pitclun, and the
salors is.duin up the sales tu take cm ashoar,
then knn swim—what kan I do ? I aint ust
lu the Klimatc, and the witter is sow damp
that it cum into mi bunk last nite. All you'll
ever no abput tno will bo this ere bottle, and
yon cant rely upon over gettin very sartin, tlio
whales is sow thick in .this, longcrtude. .
There we’re goin down. Now I must seel the
hot—’’ "’i.— .
The rest was'ilfegible.
A Trne Sportsman.
One of the -New York 'Herald’s
ents has met in the,Far West with that .great
Irish sportsman Sir George Goto; whose hunt
ing adventures in the Rooky,.Momitallls»,jcon
ducted as they were upon rt gigantic scSTe'Tor
the amusement of one man,pr6babfy’cxCeediOg
■anything of the kind ever bcfore attornptod'tm ■
this side the Atlantic. Everything that&spQKlf
man could possibly require, in the way of aho'ot
ibg, fishing, eating and.drinking, Was prbvided
in tho greatest profusion, and alftnlnspoiiedan
safety to tho tlieatre of his exploit., j-
Somo faint idea maybe formed of magnitude
of his equipment when I tell you that' his -ex
tensive retinue contained a secretary, aasistdpk
secretary, clerk, guide, ;fly-maker, hunters,,■
cooks, &0., &c., In all numbering about .fifty
men, with thirty wagons, numerous, saddled
horses, dogs, &c., and supplics to correspond-
Sir George, remained nearly three years in Ihls
connfry, and, with tho exception of one winter,
which ho spent near EortXaramic, was entirely
secluded from tho,world, and moat assiduously
engaged in his favorite sport of hUnting.* " An
accurate account of tho amount of game “hug
ged” was kept by bis clerk, and durifag one sea
son the results were as follows: 122
bears, 5,500 buffaloes, Besides, numerous elk,
black-tailed deer and dll-amounl
ingto the enormous aggregate of Hireofho.usadd
animalsj.nono of which was smnllerthao.theju}-
feiopo.. - u.
1 had flic pleasure of meeting this fnodcftl
Nimrod in St. Lonis, and was highly Onfortain
ed with a narration of his exploits, which .a,! 1
most equal those of Gordon Gumming in Afri
ca. ■ ' ■’. ’>■-; '
Ho also showed me his equipment of beauti
ful guns of Various patterns and caliibreSj-snit- 1
cd to the destruction of all kinds of gatrie'Atom
an'Bhg'isli snipe to a grisly bear, and-ofhong
tiiem I observed'the.names of PnidyiManlo)),
and other celebrated makers. His outfit Atusj'
indeed, hate been most complete. ‘ '
After becoming cloyed with sport- inthß
mountains; and killing .every variety of the
largest and most formidable animals found.lhere -
Sir George proposes (o winter In Texas,.and/,
amuse himself in hunting deef and other small
game. ,'-t
He brings with him a host of trophieS whic|( >
’ ’ ' tor bhs perfbly
will furnish him ample vouchers (or hfs gerfor--
manccs. :
Some of our worth}- • and ‘ staid OfL’
Ootham will probably think id. a vcryaiDgdiar
infatuation for a gentleman po'Ssessing
ly estate, with an income .of S2ooiooo per art
nnm, to voluntarily withdraw from - nlPsocfeyV
and incarcerate himself in the depths of lho
wilderness among Savage men and beasts tot
three long years, exposed to, all perils, and pri- 1
rations consequent npon such a condition. - ■ ■ '
"I Must Go.”
A common word and yet how full ofmcari“
ing. The school bell is ringing, (Bays fha
innocent school boy at play, and “I must go'."
The hour of labor has come says the-man; of
toil, and “t most go.” I have a weighty Case' ,
on hand, demanding all ray. time and attention,
says the professor oflaw; and ‘T must go.’’
Another weary, cheerless, thankless-day-at
the sanctum, says thec'di.iai', and vl must go/*
as if the universal motto of. the ago is heard,
echoed and re-echoed on every aide, by bdth old
and young, high; and low .inch and pobt. hap
py and miserable. All must-go andall Ore got* 1
mg, yet the restless, heaving, surging: tide of
humanity is never gone.. I might, perhaps,. '
introduce this expressive phrase into many
scenes of greater length and.morethan .ordina
ry interest, but having..other thoughts and,
other dbties to.look after, I,- too, must ga, and ;
be content with sketching one or two.
; “Tis getting late, says the lover to hislcwed
one, ana “I must go,” most bid farewell,.fora
lime' to those charmed, blissful^,hdiifs,,.®ice>
more'to mingle in tlie cares and pCrjdjjtities of
a busy world, and therisiraining Kef fondlytir
his,' bosom, and passionately pressing those
sweet lips to his ovyn. he is gone, till those -
happy days may return, or perchance he may
lead, the fair charmer of his life a willing cap
live to the matrimonial altar. , .
One short twelve month roll round and how
changed is the scene. Again,as then, pate .Ink
ing-of-emaciated and fragile form' is lying on
her dying Couch. The long, weary days and
dreary nights have passed avray. The hours’
;of anguish are now-no more. The insidious
;dfStroypr ; has done his work. Friends near and
' dear arc .around’ bef— a. tender bosband bendß- •-
■over■licrrhnt these caiipat arregt. Urn hand of
disease/ or postpone the parting hdur."’ = fitSfk-'! "
the angels are whispering, come, come, ahd'*‘l
must go;;" countless shining opts in white are 1
waiting.to Welcome me; ‘T must go.” Pare
well tilhwe nieet in Heaven ; the -snowy hand
falls lifeless, nerveless by h er side—a smile, of
ineffable sweetness anti beauty faded on those
pallid,.marble-like features, and she is. gone
gone for ever. '
And when the last of earth shall come, and
Time’with us shall be no more, may Wo hear •
The voice of whispering angels, and like-her
respond—“l must go.”
Society in the fifth Avenue.
"I was well aware that no mere political con
stitution coold.so far alter humari natufeas to
extinguish the essential passions of our being,
biit .l was Hardly prepared for such deroliop tp.
rank and position as T find rife among our re
publican cousins. • The passion is, at (tost, as
strong as among Ourselves, only it varies b very
little .in form. ; It is almost identi.es! with wtpit
wc find stf prevalent.in the parvenu society in
our mushroom cities. There is the, same ado
ration of the ranks above ns : the same uneasy
straining after whofis ‘genteel,’ and not. a.lit
tle of the same disdain of the grade below.—
There is nothing very odd in this, after'nil, if 1
wo only consider that it is the same poor hu
man-naturewhich is playing itsX-intastio tricks
hero,as with us. The only drofrthing about it r
is the funny contrast all this gentility hunting
makes with the theoretical equality and'sim
plicity of republican institutions'. But tho :
truth of it is, there is no equality in America,,
except as'to the elective franchise ; and,that is, :
perhaps, the worst quality they could have.
“The old ’ families, principally Dutch, in
Now York State, are said (o be the most detct«
minedly exclusive. "They are called thwKmck
erbocker society. -The new, rich folks of New
Yprk, again, are called the Fifth avenue socie
ty, or, less respectfully, the 'Codfish aristocra
cy.’ They revenge themselves for tin* Knicker
boker exclusion by excluding all the-lower
•World of New York'from their circle. It is
quite the old French ’noblesse and the new Par
sian aristocracy of thcßrouse. The. glory ..of
Fifth avenue is maintained principally -by- a
lavish .display of magnificence. Tho.hopses,
furniture and ladies’ dresses are of fabulous
costliness. Occasionally a magnate of thp ‘Av
enue’-trips and comes down; but issoonup
again, and nobody is a bit the worse but his
creditors, taiclyjllnnlingdon, the forger, fell
from this social empyrean ; and now, again,
Mri Jacob Lillie’s brilliancy has been quench
ed, for a time ; but it is probably a temporary
cclipso. I have heard, on good authority, of
Mrs. Little having purchased one lace dress for
twenty thousand dollars. No wonder that Ja
cob failed.
“This ertravagnneo in the dealings of Iho
men arid the dress of the women is,’ perhaps, a
natural consequence of the high profits conse
quent on the rapid develppement of the resour
ces of the country. The fairy-like growth of
wealth may well turn the heads'-of vain men
and silly women : men’s imaginations are heat
ed, and the whole system of society is fevered
with excitcmtnt. But as profits become more
moderate, trade will become niore sober, and
the whole tone of so'cicty will be healthier.—
Then. too. a large class with superior intclli
gence and moderate desires will arise, to bo the
mainstay of the political fabric.— Sterlme's tet
ters.
(£7* Were but -human beings always that
I which they are in' their best motflerits, then
should we know here already on earth it king
dom of heaven, of beauty and goodness.
The nerve which never relaxes, the eye
which never blanches, the thought which never
wanders —these are the masters of victory. ~ "