Newspaper Page Text
1110 70 1.
The Dithered, Flower.
46 e y brought her from the city vast,
To this dim forest dell;
ease they said, her pain toVead
The paths she loved so well.
.."-They lcd her forth by bill and spring,
•end down the flowery glen;
'Th e y deem'd her childhood haunts wouldbring
'-'filer childhood back again.
'"be flower buds glisteiicd in the grass,
'1 The birds sang in the tree;
few shnasertumers since, alas !
she sang as blythe as he.
tell me not, in summer time,
Within this happy dale,
;hat lady's eyes could long be dim,
-7 Her check could long be pale!
inventiy they lost their light, •
like stars when day's begun—:
blue bells sweet, which chill winds bright,
When summer days are done.
And hour by hour life's sun sank low,
A sunset sad and bleak—
for death crept quietly and slow,
Like twilight o'er her cheek.
Twas now the golden autumn time,
The old ago of the day ;
Each flower cop was folded up
[ Beneath the patting ray ;
• When, as the Sabbath's dying light
, Stole through the lattice in,
That lady doted her eyelids bright
-! Upon the world of sin.
Each flovv'ret ope'd its silken bell,
When.merry morning shone;
But noon and evening came—yet still
h She'silently slept on
The lilies grew beside her feet,
The violets at her head ;
Angel might not grieve to meet
With such a blessed bed. •
They brought her from the city vast
To this dim forest dell:
gere first it sprung,' and bele at last
The withered flowret fell.
[From the U. S. Gazette.]
Children at Play.
LT J. A.•USPFfIDUT.
Oh! blame them not fnr their joyous strain_
Foi this is the hour of their glee--- -
And soon the pall of manhood's care
Will cover all their gayety.
Then let their laugh be loud and clear—
Chide not thy little band,
Whose mirth-must soon, alas! give way,
To Time's unsparing hand.
I love to hear their wild clear notes
Ring out on the wintry Fir,
- 7 :They tell the joys which once were ours,
Ere we knew this world of cave.
And the lively scenes of the school-boy spot,
In Memory's glass are shown,
And a thousand scenes ar s e numbered now,
Which we thought forever flown.
Give them their fleeting hour of mirth,
For the clouds are gathering now,
IThich will burst in fury on their heads,
And limo* each gentle brow.
And are mill be where joy now sits—
I And thorns where flowers appear ;
01! chide them not—oh chide them not,
For soon will come life's taro.
Frott the Westem Literary Messenger.]
There is a hope that soothes the fear—
The dread that we must die
Must leave,.ah! leave all that we love here,
Fo'r sable pall and narrow bier;
'Tie hope of LIFE on high.
There is a hope that peace imparts,
Though want may cloud our sky,
Though rugged be our path in life,
And each step gained with toil and strife,
is hope of ZEST on high.
There is a hope—a heavenly hope, -
That makes each sorrow fly,
That wipei'away each falling tear—
And says, though grief be our part while here,
is tvDLI:SS or on high.
Song of the Rkcr.
I sprang, from the rock, from the MOuntain aide,
Sparkllng, pure and bright, •
?.m.l I gather strength as I rapidly glide
From my birth-place into light.
Riches I bear to land and tree,
Beauty to hill and dale, . •
Beast and bird delight in me, •
Drink. and we strong and hate.
"-Fresh are the flowers that deck tay , banks,
The itod is greenest there t
Arttl the warbling winged encasing their thanks,
As they think of the everywhere:
lin-the only drink was given •
To, man, when pure and free ;
....num, then, to the gill of Heaven,
You 'rp safe when drinking' me.
ra 5\ l
~.,, \ .
It . was in thenutumn of the year 1800,
when the republican army under Ney.
Moreau, Lamb, Cir., and other of its
bravest generals, was pursuing its vic
torious career, and laying waste some
of the most important towns in Germa
ny, the cir,cumstance that we are about
to relate took place.
The frequent want of stores, ammu
nition, and money, lin the republican
armies, and the hope of plunder, then
so frequently held out to the French
boliliers, as the reward of victory,
aused no. inconsiderable alarm in the
breast of the more peaceable inhabitants
of those places which were likely to
becume the theatre of hostilities.
Among these, the inhabitants.of a
German town of considerable impor
tance—and. which foi distinction we
will call Ebristien—had ample reasons
for their misgivings ; the daily, almost
hourly, approach of the French being
The family of Paul Kinmayer, a
merchant citizen of great wealth, was
amongst those most agitated by the
afflicting intelligence. His household
cobsisted of his wife, an only daughter,
and a few domestics in whom•he could
place. confidence—His daughter was
' the spring which.regulated every action
of the merchant's life; she was the ap
ple of his eye, the sunshine of his ,
shady places; for her he had accumu
lated his wealth, that her rare beauty
might win with it a station of rank and
influence ; and now the hope of a whole
lifetime might be wrecked in a few brief
Ills wife was the first to suggest a
plan for the concealment of their trea,
sures. Their mansion was situated
near the extremity of the town, and
from it a secret passage communicated
With a bower in the garden adjoining ;
from thence, in the evening, a man
might easily steal . unperceived to the
adjacent woods ; and there she propos
ed that the merchant should, at night
time, bury his treasure; or, at any rate,
that he should proceed through the
forest and deposit° it with a relation
who was to be trusted, who would not
be - Suspected of possessing so much
wealth, and who resided about two days'
journey from the place.
For.a time, Paul Kinmayer resisted
every importunity of his wife. Who
would protect thent should the antici
pated aittack take place in his absence.?
the domestics were old and infirm; and
they would be too much alarmed for
their own safety • to care much for others
not akin to them. But when his wife
spoke upon the future, when she im
pressed on him that it was wealth only
that would be required of them, and
that, deprived of that, all for which
they had so-long struggled. would be
scattered in a moment, his resolution
" I go," he said " and I leave you in
the trust of one whose all powerful
hand will protect you ; unless indeed,
in his infinite wisdom, he deems it fit
ting that the innocent should fall as an
example and terror to the guilty."
Collecting all that was most valuable
into a small packet; as the evening ap
proached, the merchant was prepared
to depart. One jewel only remained
behind—it was his own minature, set
in a locket, with diamonds of great val
ue. It was his wedding gift to Ame
lia, and with it he hesitate& to part ;
and he placed it again 'around her neck
with the same fervor and affection that
he felt when he first presented it. To
her and his daughter, the name-sake of
her mother, he gave some necessary
directions for their welfare during his
absence, and taking an affectionate fare
well, he departed, unknown to anv but
It was on the evening of the fourth
day after the merchant had departed
that the roll of the drums, the shrill
voice of the trumpet calling to arms,
and the tumult among the inhabitants,
without - proclaimed to the inmates of
the mansion that the enemy was fast
appreaching. The town was, indeed.
filled with Austrian troops, but these
had been so often and lately harrassed
and defeated by the victorious arms of
the French, that it was not without rea
son the citizens felt strong misgivings
in their prowess.
All chance of the merchant being en.;
abled to reach his house, or even to
obtain admittance within the town pre
vious to the termination, was now en
tirely shut ottt. The wife had but lit
tle doubt that his reputed wealth would
not permit the house to pass unmolested;
and after causing the doors to - be bard;
cadet', and the windows and 'flutters
secured, she proceeded with her daugh-
Regardless of Denunciation from any Quay/en—Gov. POUTER.
cOOVT,ILIZELto 311341DWOMID ZPME 1 11'51 . 9 2.&09 EiS&V ads, ilP4.ilic.
ter to the innermost apartment of the
On the return of the merchant, the
French army was evacoating.the place,
carrying with them the trophies they
had wrested from the , conquered Aus
trians, and a large supply of stores and
plunder from the devoted town.. Paul's
heart died within him as he stealthily
entered the suburbs, and proceeded
towards the place of his own resi
NVithin the town all was confusion
and dismay; hero were open store
houses, rifled of all their contents, the
Very doors torn from their hinges ;
there, the trim gardens of the richer
classes broken down and trampled over;
in the market places were groups of the
middle and lower classes, loudly com
plaining of the excesses of both Austria
and France. Still, Paul stopped not to
join in the general outcry ; his only
anxiety was his own home. At length
he reached his dwelling. With what
a pang of intense anxiety he rushed
through the open portal. The servants
, had evidently fled ; the stairs bore the
marks of heavy footsteps. Paul stop
ped not to examine them or he would
have seen that they were traced with
With the speed of thought he rushed
into their accustomed sitting'room„ and
there a horrid spectacle awaited him.—
On the ground lay his wife, stabbed
through the heart; one hand had fallen
back as if to protect her from the attack
of the assassin, while the other grasped
tightly a few links of the slight gold
chain to which had been attached the
diamond mounted portrait.
Of his daughter there were no traces.
Loudly did he call, and wildly did he
seek, first in his own house and then
through the whole town, until it was
whispered • abroad that he was mad ;
and so, for a time he was ; but anxiety
brought weariness, and repose led to
How deeply . Paul Kinmayer re
proached himself for not taking the
miniature with the other valuables, need
not be related, since he little doubted
that his wife's resistance to part with
it had led to the fatal catastrophe. One
redeeming thought only flashed across
his mind, that by its agency—if indeed
she had not shared the fate of her mo
ther—he might be enabled to discover
the missing daughter. To this end he
resolved to devote the whole of his fu
ture existence; and after the funeral
of his wife, he diiposed of his house,
the wreck of hishousehold goods and
prepared to travel whither, he knew
not; but anywhere to fly from the
scenes where all his hopes of earthly
happiness had been blighted by the
ruthless hand of the destroyer.
, LAndiretie," he said, as he turned
from his native town and home, "these
are the deeds perpetrated under the
sacred banner of liberty. Alas ! how
is the divine attribute desecrated ?
How little, but the name exists in the
blood-thirsty dynasty of France."
Shall we follow the steps orPaul
Kinmayer for twelve years t Shall we
relate how he traveled in strange lands,
ever in-the wake of the French army—
sometimes in disguise—how minute,
but yet how cautious were his inquiries,
and, alas ! how fruitless ? Shall we
say how the hale man grew grey and
feeble, as though half a century had
passed over his head, in scarcely more
than the tithe of one ? No ; for we
could relate nothing that would interest
the reader—nothing but the patient
suffering of a bereaved man ; hoping,
but hopeless, seeking, but finding not ;
until it almost seemed that the faculties
of the wanderer had ceased to embrace
the original object of his mission ; but
they did not—they only slumbered.
It was something beyond twelve
years after the scene above. related took
place, that a French officer was reciting
in one of the principal cafes of Paris,
to an eager crowd of listeners, the par
ticulars of an inglorious retreat from
Russia, of which he was one - of the
few survivors. His age could nothave
exceeded thirty ; but the dreadful hard ,
ships of the Russian campaign had told
fearfully upon his hardened features.—
War, however, had not tamed, but had
evidently added to, a naturally fero
cious disposition ; for he was detailing
with savage satisfaction, the horrid tor
ments of the enemy, already forgetting
of the severities he had just escaped,
and to Which so many of his comrades
had fallen a sacrifice. .
Among those , who listened most at
tentively was a stranger, vvho sat, al
most unnoticed smelting,. in an obscute
corner of the room ;- an involuntary et
pression of disgtst at length- betrayed
him, and' all eyes were immediately
turned to where he sat.
441'11 wager a Napoleon," said the
officer, - " that the old German never
smelt- powder but on a review day, and
never saw-more smoke - than that which
proceeded from his ownmaerschaum."
Better if others were like me, who,
remembering only that they are soldiers,
forget that they are men."
" How !" exclaimed the officer, start
ing on feet, " such ; sentiments. here
are dangerous ; but you Germans are
very mystical however', I'll tell you a
German adventure, so garcon, another
bottle of coil roil, and then ---=-"
" Do Sou happen to know the Ger
man town . OfEbristien ?" inquired the
The dull eye of the stranger seemed
suddenly lit with a liquid tire, as he
answered in the affirmative.
"It was my first campaign," con
tinued the other; " my father had been
one of the bravest" (he meant one of
the most blood-thirsty) " leaders of the
revolution. His influence obtained for
me a commission ; and crowned with
success, I found no difficulty in earning
for myself promotion. In the action
alluded to we were allowed but two
hours to make what pillage we could in
the town of Ebristien before we pro
ceeded onward to greater and more
glorious victories. Well, there was a
jeweller of great wealth, whose house,
which was pointed out to me by an
Austrian prisoner, we entered, but in
which neither jewels nor portable valu
ables could we find. The servants fled
on our first entrance ; the wife and
daughter alone remained. The latter
had locked themselves in a room, which
we soon burst open ; we demanded of
them their valuables ; the trumpets had
already sounded "To hoise l" and I
was preparing to leave the house, when
a gold chain around the neck of the
old& female attracted my attention.—
There was attached to it—"
is A. portrait ?" asked the stranger,
in a tone of ill-concealed anxiety.—
•. Don't interupt me," said the narra
tor ; the story is droller than any would
The blood of the stranger came and
went rapidly, and, putting down his
pipe, lie was observed, for the moment,
feeling about his pockets, as if in search
of some missing articles.
„ You're right, it was a portrait ; apd
in a most valuable setting. Provoked
at obtaining no booty, I demanded it \ of
her ; she should have had the worthless
miniature, but she was obstinate. I
tried to force it from her, but she resis
ted, nay, more, she tried to seize a pis
tol from my belt, and in the heat of my
passion—l stabbed her."
Have you that portrait still ?" asked
" I have ; though it haq been taken
from the setting in which one of my
own now glitters. You said you knew
I did, years ago."
" And probably the original of this
picture ?" said the officer producing it.
Well, well !"
" Ah ! is he alive ?"
He Is—to be the dvenger !" And
before a movement was observed, Paul
Kinmayer had with fatal precision,
levelled a pistol at the French officer,
and shot hitwin the breast.
Mortally wounded, but not dead, he
who had braved the heat of a hundred
battles, and whom death had spared that
he might make a more suitable atone
ment for his guilt, was carefully remov
ed to a more private apartment.
Paul, who might have escaped in the
confusion, did not attempt to do so; and
he was, of course, taken into custody,
and incarcerated in one of the dungeons
of the police.
The following morning he was led
forth for examination; the wife of the
fallen officer, he was told, ' would be
his accuser. But_ he walked with a
firm step and a lighter heart than usual.
One portion of his mission had been
accomplished—he had 'avenged his
wife's murder, but he had found no
traces of his daughter.
On reaching the place of examination
he wars commanded to stand forth ; a
shriek—a Imp agonizing shriek—was
hoard, and the prosecutrix fell senseless
on the floor.
Restoratives were applie d,. `
her recovery the cause of her agitation
was seen apparent.
"it is my fatheil" she Said, and
breaking through the crowd, she again
fell senseless in his arms."
The impetotypf . her fall Caused a
locket to dtop from her bosom, where
it was still suspended by a Chain. Paul,
Kinmayer snatched it up. Yes. it was
the same—the same circlet of brilliants ;
but — now it contained the poitrait of
whom his daughter's husband;=4
the murderer of his wife;
Passing her to one of the attendants,
the old man , emote his breast, and called
aloud in hie trouble—`
Was it for this thou wart preserved,
my beautiful—my pure 1"
In consequence of the state of: the
witness, the examination was postpon
ed, and the same evening the dying man
requested that the prisoner, together
with the chief of the police, might- at-'
On their arrival life Wa3 ebbing fast.
The Confession of the officer was brief;
he admitted the murder of Paul's wife,
and the justice of his retribution ; he
farther confessed that the, daughter, be
ing almost a child, was carried away
by the common soldiers to the rear of
the army ; that she was forced from
the apartment previous to, and knew
nothing of her mother's fate ; and that
repenting of his act, he had her convey
ed. to Paris, and educated at his own
charge. With her years, her loveliness
increased, and she knowing him as a
benefactor, 'at last consented to marry
This confession was attested and for
warded to the Emperor. Meanwhile
the friends of the officer came forward
as prosecutors, his wife refusing to do
so. The murder in the latter case was
fully proved, and Paul was sentenced
On the morning appointed for his
execution he was reprieved, and suffer-,
ed to enter a monastery, where he soon
sunk under a broken heart.
With his wealth, which was con
siderable, he founded a.convent for the
Sisters of Mercy," and in the beauti
ful abbess, whose piety and benevolence
so many have, with jus i tice, lauded and
adMired, may be discovered the unfor
tunate daughter of Paul Kinmayer.
The Mother's Reward.
I saw a little cloud rising in the wes
tern horizon. In a few moments it
spread over the expanse of heaven, and
watered the earth with a genial shower.
I saw a little rivulet start from a moun
tain, winding its way through the val
ley and the meadow, receivhig , each
tributary rill which it met in its c ourse,
till it became a mighty stream, ; beering
on its bosom the merchandize_of many
nations, and the various productions of
the adjacent country. I saw a little
seed. drop into the earth. The dews
descended, the sun rose Upon it ; it
started into life. In a little time it
spread its branches and became a shel
ter from the heat, " and the fowls of
heaven lodged in its branches."
I saw a little smiling boy stand by
the side of his mother, and heard hint
repeat from her lips one of the sweet
songs of Zion. I saw him kneel at her
feet, and pray that Jesus would bless
his dear parents, the world of mankind,
and keep him from. ;temptation. In a
little time I saw him' with the books of
the classics orider , his arm, walking
alone, buried in deep thought. I went
into a Sabbath school, and heard him
saying to a little group that surrounded
him, " Suffer little children to come un
to me." Ii a few months, I went into
the sanctuary, and heard him reasoning
of " righteousness, and temperance, and
judgment to come," I looked, and saw
that same mother, at whose. feet he had
knelt, and from whose lips he had
learned to lisp the name Immanuel.—
Her hair was whitened with the frosts
of winter, and on her cheek was many
a furrow ; but meekness sat on her
brow, and - heaven
,beamed in her dim
eye glistening with a tear ; and .1 thought
I saw in that tear the moving of a ino
ther's heart, while she reverted to days
gone by, when this Boanerges was first
dawning into life, banging on her lips,
listening to the voice of instruction ; and
inquiring in childlike Simplicity, the
way to be good ; and I said, " This is
the rich harvest of a mother's toil ; these
are the goodly sheaves of that precious
seed which probably was sotirn in
weeping, and your grey hairs Shall not
be brought 'down' with sorrow to the
grave, but inlhe bower of rest, you
shall look' down on him who " will
arise and call you blessed," and finally
greet you where hope is swallowed up
in fruition, and prayer in-praise.
Ma. EmTou.---pati you tell me'whai
is f ood for sore eves ?
Certainly theitl with youi
bows. Lucy, dear.
Ktix Rttotrt.--4. 1 'am 'often found
at, the .tablei .of ithe rich," -caid.a.coi
coink to h 00 - neighbor..
86 is a tar s head,". was the
A rttax is taller in the morning than
he if; at night, to the extent of a half an
inch or more; owing to the relaxation
of the cartilages,
ecopamozoi 60414 i
Guide to- life Workhouse:
[TD 'KOVNO MARRIED c9upi.Es
Sou are supposed to begin house:-
keeping with a decent' coMpetence;
which, with induitry and frbgality,will
enable Yon to lite comfortably; and put
Something by. Never, therefore, dream
of saving, except of saving yourselves
trouble.. Be - sure to rise very late ;
you will thus 'bait, 'the less time 'to
spend in minding your affairs. Also,
wives particularly,---be its long as you
can in dressing of a morning; whereby
you will pleasantly get over two or
even three hours, which might have
been devoted to domestic drudgery.—
On no account do anything for your
selves that Servants can do for you ;
and therefore, do not be, content with
one servant. Bear constantly in mind
the maxims following :—lt is impoisi
ble for a lady to darn stockings. She
can by no means makba shirt for her
husband, or a dress for herself. She"
must never be seen in the kitchen. As
to looking after her linen; helping to
make beds, or cook, the very thought
of such exertions ought to kill her.—
Yeti should have two dinners daily ;
one for your servants at two, anttan
other for yourselves at seven, until you
are' blessed with a family, and then you
should have three. Hot dishei every
day are indispensable ; neirer, for econo
my's sake put up with a cold dinner.—
Have fires in every room in the house:
Strictly follow the fashions ; you should
not wear out an old dress if ever s 6
good. Use towels, handkerchiefs, and
the like, without the 1 least r.gard to.
your washing bill. In the matter of
perfumes, gloves, and stationary, con;
suit nothing but your senses, common
senses excepted. As regards eating
and drinking have the best of every
thing. Give plenty of parties ; and if
you doubt whether you ought to keep a
carriage or not, give yourselves the
benefit of the doubt and keep one.—
The extreme of luxury in furniture is
too obviously advisable to be dwelt up- .
on ; and you will feel the advantage of
it when your things come to be sold off.
Indulge yourselves, generally, in every
wish; awl never put up with the least
inconvenience' to avoid the greatest ex
pense. Do not bildle your respective
wishes, or . sacrifice anything, except
each others fortune, for each other ;
whenever you want what you cannot
have, get into an ill-humor—and show
it. Accustom yourselves to call every,
the smallest act of self-denial, horrid,"
shocking." miserable," dreadful."
intolerable ;" shut your ears against
advice, and let your sole considerations
be your own will and pleasure, and the
world's opinion. Having five hundred
a year, live at the rate of a thousand,
and plunge without scruples headlong
into debt. You will find these direc:
Lions an infallible Guide to the Work:.
Netter believe, much less propagate;
an ill report of your neighbor, without
good evidence of its truth. Never
ten to an infamous story handed you by
a man who is a known enemy of the
person defam,ed; or who is himself de;
faming his neighbors; or who is wont
to sow discord among brethren, and ex
cite disturbances in society. Never
utter the evil which you know or sus
pect of another, till you have ah oppor;
tunity to expostulate with him. Never
speak evil of another while you are un
der the operation of entry and malevo
lence, bht tvait till yoiir spirits are cool=
ed clown, that ybu may better judgb
whether to utter or suppress the matter.
Never express the evil which you would
say to your neighbor in terms too strong;
orth language which ivohld convey ad
exaggerated idea of his conduct. ° No;
ver throw out against a man broken
hints and inuendoes, Which would
leave the hearers to suspect any thing;
and every thing that ill nature can km.;
gest. Never speak evil of your neigh- ,
bor to his known enemy, who wishes
for an occasion of slander, for he wilt
certainly paint the image anew, 'and
touch it off with batter corers: lii
short, never speak evil of a matt when
your speaking may probably do much
butt, but cannot' posiibly do any goods
DIFFERENT FORMS .-- An old lady Ealil
her. hushand was fond of peaches 'gild
that waihis only fault. -
Faith madam I said one, how an you
call that a fault?
Why because there are diffetent ways
of eating them.' My husband takes then
in the form of brandy;
Fort zits LADIE§.--Ir its stated that if
the ladies will k eep their Mignonetto
from floWeriog . for a year, it becomes
a shrubby, perennial plant, and Its scent .
Will greatly increase.