Bradford reporter. (Towanda, Pa.) 1844-1884, April 21, 1847, Image 1
7:40E21 =0 Wr.i.B7El)&,a IMIli The Stream of Death There is a stream whose narrow tide TheanOwn and unknown worlds devide, Where all moot go. Its wsyeless waters, dark and deep, 'Mid sullen silence onward sweep, _ With moanless flow I raw where at that dreary good, A smiling pratling infant stood, - Whose hour had come. Untaught of ill, it neared the tide, Then sunk to cradled rest and died, Like going home. Followed with languid eye anon, A youth diseased, and pale, and wan And there alone. He gazed upon the leaden stream, And feared to plunge—l heard a scream, Arid be was gone. - And then a form in manhood's strength, Came bustling 'on, till there at length, He iaw life's bound:: He shrunk, and raised the bitter prijer Tao I■te—his shriek of wild despair, The waters drown&. Next stood upon_ the gurgeless shore, A being bowed with many a wore, .01 toilsome years ; Earth bound and sad, he left the bank, Back-turned his dimming eye, and itank-- Ah ! full of team.' How hitter must thy waters be, 0, Death !—How bard a thing, ah me! It is to die. -I mused—when to that stream again, Another child of atonal man, With smile, drew nigh l'his the last pang, he camly said : To me, 0 Death ! thou hest no dread— Savior, I come ! Spread out thine arms, on yonder shore, I aer--ye waters bear me o'er— Tates re Me amts. The Angel Bride THE 311 4 4. OF A LATE PHYSIC/AN. IT was evening—the evening of a summer Sibbath. The sn net hush of Natute, uubro tea by a single sound'of busy life. harmoni zed but tin, painfully with the oppri . 4sive still- IKSS wlitrh pervaded the chamber whither my were bent. It was on the ground fl , ur of a pretty residence in the outskirts of the village of Its open windows overlooked a garden_ where taste and beauty r,agned supreme—a second Eden, which ex truded WWI a scarce perceptible declination to the very margin til a stream, where It was hounded by a white picket, and a hedge of :ow maimed shrubbery, over which the eye caught the lLishing waters as they swept, glowing in the crimson radiance oh the sunset. I entered the house, and stepping lightly ah , rl a carpeted passage, tapped softly at the doe: of the chamber of srckness—aye of death. Welcome, Doctor," said Ahe silvery voice of a lady, who sat by he low couch, partially bur l utth white drapery. t. Welcome, the dear sufferer is now in a quiet slumber—lint must presently awake. end one of her first in- Tories. will he for you." • " Motor is your sweet Lucy, now 1" "She has been quiet and apparently comfor table all day. It is her Sabbath. Doctor, as sell as the worshipers' who go up to the earth ir courts of our loved Zion. Oh I" she ad ded, while the sun-light ;of joy irradiated her 'features, pale with long vigils at the bedside of her sweet Lucy. Oh ! how full of con solation is this scene of mortal suffering, of earthly bitterness, of expiring hope ?" " Yes. my dear friend," I replied, ", your rap of affliction is indeed sweetened from on ingh. I have seen death to day - clad in his rte of terror. took from my hopeless care a %letup all unprepared, even after long and fearful warniog ; and the recollections of the 'ad struggle. the terrible anguish of the ran quished• ; the fierce triumph of the conqueror. and she pierci,g wail of exhausted nature. haunt my memory still; and even in thitiearth pradise, I cannot forget them. And is poor Edward gone at last to this dread account ? . Oh ! how. fearful," and the rattle lady covered her' face, and wept. Sometime elapsed. I lingered at the couch of Lore till s`le should% ake, and, taking from the sta nd a small, though elegant;copy of the 86le. I opened its silver env, and my e,e ought the inscription on the fly-leaf. .fo Lucy—a parting gift from Clarance."— I had designed to read a portic - I'of the word, -but thought was for the time engrossed. I had known Lucy May from her infaney, and she was scarcely less dear to me than my ^wit daughter. Indeed they had grown up Tike twin - blossoms, and were together almost every hour of the day. Seventeen- summers they had each numbered—though Lucy was some months older. No brother or sister had either of them, and hence the intensity of mu ral love. Their thoughts. their affections , their desires. their. pursuits were in common. They called each othersisters, and their inter course honored the endearing name. . And Clarance—the giver of the little volume i n my hand—who was he 1 Clantnce Hain , Iltion was the son of my best earthly friend. and do !nobler youth -- in all the lofty faculties and en wments of the heart and intellect, never re tneed in the vigor of life and early manhood. To him bad Lucy beeit betrothed for more roan a year, and he was now absent from the village, though we trusted when each sun rose. i bat its setting would bring him back in answer ! , :t our cautious suminOrts. Especially a had hope and expectation grown within our hearts kenhs ever.ink" yet had not a word been spa on the subject by the widowed mother o THE .- . I RADFORD- - :i'-\.,„ REPORTER. w,mwm,m,wmwmimr the lovely Lucy. At length, however, she raised her head, and observing the open vol ume in my hand—she said, in an assumed ne of cheerfullness : .• I trust Clarance will cothelhis evening.— is now—" " Clarance I" said the sweet patient, open ing her dark eyes, and looking eagerly around. Her eye raised only on her mother and my self, and with a slight guiver . on her lip, and a sad smile, she said, He is not come !" " No ! my darling, he has not yet come ; but there is more than an hour to the close of day, and then—" " God grant that he may come," said the maid.n, and she added with ennrgy. "if it be His holy 'will—Oh ! Doctor, my kind, dear friend, your Lucy is wearing away fast, is she not t" and then observing the emotion which attempted to conceal, she said, " But lam better to-day, am I not t Where is why does she not comet Her mother turned an inquiring glance upon me as I took the thin white hand of the young girl in mine, and marked the regular but feeble beatings of the pulse. Shall I send for your daughter, Doctor t" she asked. I arquieiced, and in a few minutes Ellen was subbing violently; with her face hidden on the bosom of her sister. " Ellen my sweet sister." said Lucy." your father has told me that I must leave yon—and her voice faltered—my own dear mother—and —,but she did not utter the name of her lover. for at that moment the voice of a domestic was distinctly heard. • He is come, Mr. Claraitce is come I Now God bless my dear young lady." Lucy ut tered a scream of joy, and clasping Ellen around the neck, murmured, •• Father in Heav en I thank thee." and then fainted with excess of happiness. Her swoon was brief. She re covered almost immediately, and her face was radiant with happiness. Clarance Hamilton was pursuing his studies at a distant college,' and the letter that sumo mooed him to C—. had scarcely intimated danger in the illness of his betrothed. It had been delayed on the way. and but half the time of its journey had sufficed to bring the eager. anxious student to the spot where his heart had stored its ,affections.and centered its hopes, next to Heaven, for Clarance was more than a noble-hearted.l high-snuled man ; he was a disciple of Jesus Christ, and he was fitting himself to be an Apostle of his Holy Religion. He had hearly completed his course of studies. and was then to be united to the beautiful Lucy May. three months before the Sabbath evening of which we write. Lucy was in health and with her companion Ellen. was performing her de !Wanl duties, as Sabbath School teacher.— Returning home, she was exposed to a sudden storm of rain. and took cold. Iler constitution. naturally feeble, was speedily affected, and consumption; that terrible foe to youth and beauty. seized upon her as another victim for its mighty holocaust to death. At first the type of her disease was mild.but within three weeks it had assumed a fearful character, and now her days were evidently few. For this dreadful intelligence, Clarance was not, prepared. He feared, but he hoped more, and though his heart • Lwas heavy, hope kindled a bright smile on his manly face. as he entered the little parlor where he had spent so many hours of exquisite happiness. He had alight ed from the stage just befOre it entered the vil lage, pod proceeded at once to the residence of Lucy. As Mrs. May entered the room, the smile on his lips faded, for her pale face told a ,tale to his heart. tt Clarance. my dear Claranee. you have the welcome of fOnd hearts." " How is Lucy ? Why is your face so dead ly pale ! Oh ! say she is not dangerously ill, tell me.—" and a thought of keener misery en tered his heirt ; " she is—oh my God, my Father in Heaven, strengthen me—she is dy ing—even now dying !' " Nay. nay. Clarance," said the mother, soothingly., " Lucy lives, and. we must hope for the best : but be not alarmed Wynn see her fare even paler than my own. Are you able to bear the sight now !" - There was but little consolation to his fears in the reply of Mrs. May. Lucy was living. but there was an anguish in the expression— hope for the best, and he said hurriedly, "Oh take me to her at once—now." and he pressed his hand on his throbbing brow, and then sinking on his knees, while Mrs. May knelt beside him, he entreated God, in a voice choked with emotion. for strength to bear his trial, to kiss the rod of chastisement, to receive the bitter with the sweet ; and prayed that the cup might pais from, even u did his Master in the days of his incarnation and anguish.— He arose, and with a calmer voice, said. "I can see her now." At this moment I joined them with Luey's earnest request that Clarence should come to her at once. We entered ;he chamber just as Ellen had partially opened ti blind, and the last rays of sunlight streamed faintly through into the room, and fell for a moment on the white cheek of Lucy. rendering its hue still. more snowy. Alas ! for Clarence. As his earnest eyes met those of his betrothed—her whom he had left in the very flush and perfection of youthful loveliness—now how changed ! His heart sank within him, and with a wild sob of anguish, he clasped her pale thin fingers,. and kissed her colorleis lips, kneeling the while at the side of her couch. Claranee. my own dear Claranee." said the sweet girl, with an effort to rise. which she did. supported by his arm. He spoke not— he could not—dared not speak. " Clarence. cheer op, my beloved -" but her fortitude failed. and all she could do was to bury her fate in 'her lover's bosom. We did not attempt to cheek their grief. nay we wept with them. and iorrow for a while bad its lux ury of tears unrestrained. Clarence at length broke silence. IPSOAROLESS OF DCNIINCIATION .FROM •NY WARFEL" Lucy. my own loved Lucy I God forgive me for my selfish grief ;" and he added ter. rently. lifting his tearful eyes to Heaven— •• Father, give us grace, to bear this trial aright," and turning to me added. •• Pray fir us. Doctor oh I pray that me may have strength to meet this hocir like Christians." When the voice of prayer ceased, all feel ings were calmed, but 1 deemed it advisable to leave the dear patient to brief repose ; and El len alone remaining, we retired to the parlor. where Clarence learned from us more of her illness and of her true condition, for 1 dared not delude him with false hopes. •• Doctor." said he, with visible anguish,. ' "is there no hope I" . •• Not of recovery. I fear, though she may linger some time with us, and be better than she is to-day." " Then God's will be done," laid the young man, while a holy confidence lighted up his face, now scarcely less pale than that of his betrothed Lucy. Day after day the dear! girl lingered, and many sweet hours of converse did Clarence and Lucy pau together ; once even she was permitted. to spend a few moments in the por tico of the house. and as Clarence supported her, and saw a tint of health overspread her cheek. hope grew "strcng in his heart. But Lucy doubted not that she should die speedily. ant happily this conviction had reached her heart ere Clarence came. so that the agony of her grief in prospects of separation from him. had yielded to the blissful anticipation of heav en, that glorious clime }where she should ere long matt those from whom it was more than death to part. •• Dearest Lucy." said Clarence. as they stood gazing on the summer flowers, " you are better, love. May not our Heavenly Fath er yet spare you to me—to your mother—to cuusin.Ellen—to happiness 1" Ah. Clarence, do not speak of this. It will only end in deeper bitterness. I must go— .and Clarence, you must not mourn when 1 ex change even this bright world for the Paradise of Immortality." Clarence could not answer. He premed : her hind and drew her closer to his throbbing beart„and she resumed pointing to a bright cluster of amaranth. •• See there, Clarence, is the emblem of the life and the joys to which am hastening.", Three weeks had passed. It was again the evening of the Sabbath. I stood by the couch of Lucy May. Her mother and Ellen sat on either side. and Distance Hamilton supported on a pillow in his arms. the head of the fair, girl.. Disease had taken the citidel. and we awaited its surrender to death. The man of God. her pastor from childhood, now entered the room, and Lucy greeted him affectionately. and when he said. It is well with thee. my daughter—is it well with they soifl 1" She answered in a clear and sweetly confiding tone of voice—" It is well ! Bles sed Redeemer, thou art my only trust." Clarance now bent his head_cloae to the head of Lney. and whisperrd in her ear, but so distinctly, that we all heard. " Lucy. since you may not be mine in life. oh dearest. be mine in - death ; let me follow you to the grave as my wedded wife. and I shall have the blissful consulation of anticipa ting a re-union in Heaven." The eye the dying girl lighted up with a quick add sudden joy, u she smilingly an swered. "It is well. Clarance-1 would fain hear thy name before I die." We, were all star tled at this strange request, and answer, hut no heart or ventured to oppose it. Lucy then said— " , Mother. dear mother, deny me not my last request ;. will you and Ellen dress me in my bridal robe I I will wear it to my tomb."— Clurance alto besought Mrs. May to grant this wish, and let him win a bride and a mother ; and she answered : As you and Lucy will, hut it will be—" and her heait spoke—" it will be a mournful bridal." Lucy now motioned us from the room, and we retired. Clarence was the first to speak. You will not blame me. that I seek. even in the arms of death. to make her my wife.— Oh, how much of bliss has been crowded into this one anticipation, and though it will be in deed a sad bridal, it will sweeten "the cup of bitterness, which is now pressed to my lips." Ina few minutes, we re-entered that hallow ed chamber. The light of day had faded, and a.single lamp wait burning on the stand. Lucy was arrayed in muslin robe, which scarcely outrivalled her cheek in whiteness, save where the dead hectic, now hightened by excitement. colored it. .Clarence seated himsel by her. and she was raised to a sitting posture, and supported in his arms. She placed her wast• ed hand in hit, and said. half sadly. 'Tie a worthless offering." He pressed it to his fevered lips. his face. pale and flashed by turas. The minister arose and stood before them, and in a few words and simple, united these two lovely beings in a tie. which all felt must be broken ere another sun should rise. Yet was that tie registered and acknowledged in HeaVen. As the man pronounced them one flesh. and lifted up his hand and voice in bene.liction, Lucy put her feeble arms around Clarence, and in a low voice, murmured— " My husband." My wife." responded Clarence, and then lips met in a long and sweet embrace. That night. before the last hour, the angel Aerial. came as a messenger of peace to that bridal chamber. and though new fountains of earthly bliss. had been opened in the heart of Lucy Hamilton, she repined not at the lam mins, but while heavenly joy sat on her fea tures. and .her lips murmured—peace—fare well. hosband--mother--sisterall—her pure spirit took its Bight. and her lifeless body lay in the ardent embrace of the woe-stricken. bat bumble Clarence. who still linger/ in this wea ry world, doing his Muter's work, and wail ing his Matter's will. to be re•untted to his angel bride in Heaven. A Week in Ireland. A Dzscatrzton or THE FAMINE AND DISEASE. Burrift has" written a description of a week's visit to the agricultural districts of Ire land, which is published in an extra from the office of the Christian Citizen, accompanied by a most eldqueni appeal to the citizens of the United Utates for the relief of Ireland. We have room only for a brief extract. which transeends in horror any description of human misery we have ever read : The first habitation we entered in-the Cas tle-haven district, was litirally a hole in the wall, occupied by what might be called, in America, a squatter, or a man who had - bur rowed a place for himself and family . in the acute angle of two dilapidated walls by the road side, where he lived rent free. We entered this stinted den by an aperture about three feet high, and found one or two children lying asleep, with their eyes open in the straw.— Such, at least, was their appearance ;" for they scarcely winked while we were before them. The father came in and told us a pitiable story of want, saying that not a morsel of loot had they tasted for twenty-four boars. He lighted a wisp of straw, and showed us one or two more children, lying in another nook of the cave. Their mother had died and he was obliged to leave them alone during most of the day, in order to glean something fur their sub sistence. We were anon- among the moat wretched habitations that I ha! yet seen, far *dm thah those in Skibbereen. Many of them were flat footed hovels. half buried in the earth. or built up against the rocks, and covered with rotten straw, sea weed, or turf. In one, which was scarcely seven feet square, we found five per sons prostrate with the fever, and apparently near their end. A girl about sixteen, the very picture of despair., was the only one left who could administer relief ; and all she could do was to bring water in a broken pitcher to slake heir parched•lips. As we proceeded up the rocky hill overlooking the scene we encoun tered new sights of wretchedness. Seeing a cabin standing somewhat by itself in a hollow. and surrounded by a,moat of green filth, we entered it with some difficulty, -and found a single child, about th ree years old, lying upon a kind of shelf, with its little face resting upon the edge of the board, and looking steadfastly out at the doar as if for its mother. It never moved its eyes as we entered, but kept th•tn fixed toward the entrance. It is doubtful whe ther the poor thing had a mother or father left to her ; but it is still more doubtful whether those eyes would have relapsed their vacant gaze, if both of them had entered at once, with every thing-that could tempt the palate in their hands. No wordi can de!cribe this peculiar appearance of the famished children. Never have 1 seen such bright, blue, clear eves look ing so steadfastly at nothing; I could almost fancy that the Angels of God been sent to un. seal the vision of these little, patient perishing creatures, to the beatitudes of another world ; and that they were listening to the whispers of unseen spirits bidding them to wait a little longer." Leaving this we entered another cabin, in which we found seven or eight attenuated young creatures, with a mother who . had pawned her cloak, and could not venture out to beg for bread because she was not fi t to be seen on the streets. Hearing the voice of wailing from a cluster of huts farther up the hill, we proceed ed to them, and entered one, and found several persons weeping over the dead body of a wo man lying by the wall near the door.— Stretched upon the ground here and there lay several sick persons, and the place seemed a den of pestilence. The filthy straw was rank with the festering fever. Leaving the habita tion of death, we were met by a young woman in an agony of despair. because no one would give her a coffin to bury her father in. She !whited to a cart at some distance, upon which his body lay ; and she was about to follow it to the grave; and he was such a good father she could not bear to lay him like a beast in the ground ; and she begged a coffin for the honor of God." While she was wailing and weeping for this boon, I cast my eye towards the cabin we had ju-t left, and a sight met my view which made me shudder with horror.— The husband of the dead woman came stagger ing out, with her body upon his shoulders, elightly covered with a piece of rotten canvass. will not dwell upon the details of this specta cle. Painfully and slowly he bore the re !nail's of the late companion of his misery_ to the cart. We followed him 'a little way off and saw him deposit his burden along side of the father of the young woman, and , by her as sistance. As the two started for the graveyard to bury their own dead, we pursued our walk still fur ther on, and entered another cabin, where we encountered the climes of human misery:— Surely, thought I. while regarding this new phenomenon of suffering, there can be no low er deep than this, between us and the bottom of the grave. On asking after the condition of the inmates, the woman to whom we addressed the question, answered' by taking awn the straw three breathing skeletons, ranging from two to three leet in height, and entirely naked: and these human things were alive! If they had been dead. they could not have been such frightful spectacles. They were alive; and wonderful to say. they could stand aeon their feet, arid even walk ; but it was awful to see them do it. Had the bones been divested of the Skin that held them together, and been co- vered with a veil of thin muslin, they would not have been, more visible. Especiallywhile one of them clung to the door while a sister wu urging it forward. it assumed an appear ance which can have been seldom paralleled this side of the grave. The effort which made it cling to the door disclosed every joint in its frame, while the deepest lines of old age for• rowed its face. The enduring of ninety years of sorrow seemed to chronicle its record of woe upon the poor child's 'countenance. I could bear no more; and we returned to Skibberpsn. after having been all the afternoon among those abodes of misery. On oar way we overtook GOODRICH . & SON. the cart with the two uncoffined bodies. The man and . the young woman were all that attend ed thed to the grave. Last year the funeral of either would have called out hundreds of mourn ers from those hills ; but now the husband drove his oneoffined wife without a tear in his eye. without a word of sorrow. Patio: interview between Emmet and his Banded Emmet was unfortunately betrayed by his enemies. in an attempt to emancipate his countrymeni from tyranny and oppression.— Re was therefore convicted of the crime of treason. arid sentenced to he executed. The evening before his death. while the workmen were busy with the scaffold; a young lady was ushered into die dungeon. It was the girl whom he so fondly loved. and who had now come to bid him an eternal farewell. He Was leaning. in a melancholy intim!, against the window frame of his prison, and the heavy clanking of his chains smote dismally on her heart. The interview was bitter y affecting, and melted even the callous soul of the jailer. As for Emmet, he wept. and spoke little ; but as he pressed his beloved in silence to his bo som, his countenance betrayed his emotions.— In a low voice, half choked by anguish. lie be sought her not to forget him ; he reminded her of their former happiness, of the long past days of their childhood, and concluded by request. ing her sornetidles to visit the scenes where their infancy was spent, and though the world might repeat his name with scorn, to cling to his memory with affection. At this very in stant, the evening bell pealed from the neigh boring church. Emmet started at the sound ; and as he felt that this would be the last time he should ever hear its dismal echoes, he fold ed his beloved still closer to his heart. and bent over her sinking form with eyes streaming with tears of affection. The turnkey entered at the moment, an], as though ashamed at temporary hetrayal;of sympathy, dashed the rising drop from his eye, and a r frown again lowered on his countencnce. The man meanwhile ap proached to tear the lady from his embraces. Overpowered by his feelings, he could make no resistance, but as he gloomily released her from his hold, gave her a miniature of himitelf. and with this parting token of attachment, im printed the last kisses of a dying man upon her lip.. On gaining the door. she turned round as if to gaze on the object of her widowed love. He caught. her eTe as he retired ; it watt but for a moment; the dungeon door swung back again upon its hinges, and as it closed after her, informed him too surely, that they had met for the last time upon earth. Fars OF Tux Arosnxel—The following brief history of the fate of the Apostles, we have never seen in a popular print till a day or two ago. It may be new to those whose reading has not been evangelical, to know that St. Matthew is , supposed to have suffered martyrdom, or was slain with a sword at the city of Ethiopia. 4 St. Mark was dragged through the streets of Alexandria, in Egypt, till he expired. St. Lake was hanged upon an olive tree in Greece:. St. John was put into a cauldron of boiling oil at !tome, and escaped death ! He after wards died a natural death at Ephesus, in Asia. St. James the Great was beheaded at Jeru ealem. St. James the less was thrown from a ptnna• etc. or wing of the temple. and then beaten to death with a fuller's club. Se. Philip was hanged up against a pillar, a Hillarpolis, a city of Phrygia. • barbarous Si. Barthol tew was flayed alive by the command of barbarous King. • Si. 4ndrew as bound io a cross , whence he preached unt the people till he expired. Si. Thomas wa run through the body with a lance, at Coroman46 in the East Indies. St. Jude was shot to — dPntlarith arrows. St. Simon• Zealot was erJeified in Persia. St. Matthias was first stoned and then be headed. St. Barnabas was stoned to death by the Jews at Satenth. St. Paul was beheaded at Rome, by the tyrant Nero. CONSCIENCE.—it is a good thing to be re minded, now and then. that moral principles have an impressive effect upon others, and guide the guilty from sin to virtue. Examples teach better than prrceptohough the latter should not be forgotten in anxiety,for the for mer ; and the good man will rejoice• at the evi dence of repentance of the commission of sin, because with the voluntary confession of un worthiness comes also the assurance that the future life of him who makes it will be better than the past. The heart that is touched with that true humility which recognizes the extent and baseness of the deceit which it has prac tised upon the confidence reposed in it by an other, will not lend an impulse, to the commis sion of another wrong, but rather impart its strength to the purpose of vittue, and maintain itself in what is good, because it has felt the degradation both outward and inward of vice. • " NEWSPAPER READING. — Of all the MUSS. menus that can be possibly imagined for a hard working man.afier his daily toil, or at intervals. there is nothing like reading an interesting newspaper or book. It calls for no bodily ex ertion. of which he has already had enough or perhaps too much. It relieves his home of its dullness and sameness. It transports him into a livelier, and gayer. and more diversified and interesting scene, and while, he enjoys himself there, he may forget _ the evils of the present moment, hilly as much as it he were ever so drunk, with the great advantage of finding him self the next day, with money' in his pocket, or at least laid out in real necessaries and com forts for himself and family...and without a headache. Nay, it accompanies. him to his next day's work, and if what he had berth read ing be anything above the idlest and lightest, give him something to think of besides the mere mechanical drudgery of his every day oc cupation—something he can enjoy while ab sent and forward to with pleasure. SrffEnalia 4119 lifietloto of Wo!toff. Expressing my serprise mu day to Wolcott. that his satirical disposition had not got him in more szrapes, he told me he never wee in but one that •eriouely alarmed him. It was with the late General M'Cormiek. We had passed the previous forenooxr together. when some thing I said to the General roused Isis anger.,-- Ile retorted. ,I was more sarcastic than be fore. lie went away, and sent me a challenge for the next morning. Six o'clock was the hour fixed upon ; the ground to be the Green. at Truro, which at that time Was sufficiently retired. There was no seconds. The win- dow of my room, however. commanded the Green. .1 had scarcely got oil of my bed to dress for the appointment. when 1 saw the Ge neral walking up, and down the river, half an hour before his time. The sun was just rising cloudily ; the morning bitterly cold; which, with the sight of the General's pistol and his attendants on the ground before the hour ap pointed were by no means calculated to strengthen my nerves. I dr.•esed. rod while doing so, made up nay mind it was a great folly fur t.nro old friends .to pop away at each other's , Tires. My resolution was speedily taken. I rang for my servant girl. Molly, tight the-fire instantly ; make some good toast ; let the breakfast be got ilia minute, for two." Yes, sir." My watch was within a minnte of the time. Pistol in hand. I went out the bark way from my house. which opened on the Green. I crossed like a lion and went op to M'Cormick. Ile looked firm but did not speak. I did. Gool morning to ye, General." The General bowed. This is too cold a morning for fighting." " There is but one alternative," said the General distinctly. P • •• It is what you soldiers call an apology.— My dear fellow, I would rather make twenty when I was so much in the wrong as I was yesterday ; but I will only on one condition." cannot talk of conditions, sir," said the General, Why, then I will consid r the condition assented to. It is that you will come in and take a good breakfast with me, now on the ta- Me. lam exceedingly sorry if I hurt your feelings yesterday, for I meant not to do it." We shook hands like old friends, and soon forgot the differences over tea and toast; but I did not like the pistols and that cold morning: notwithstanding. I believe many duels might end as harmlessly, could the combatants com mand the field as well as I did, and on such • bitter cold morning, too. PRINTERS ap A CLAM— The following re marks, made by L. H. Redfield, Esq., of Syra cuse, at .a social entertainment given by him'to his brethren of the craft, are entitled to a fa vorable constderation from printers. He calls their attention to an evil from . which they suf fer perhaps more seriously than any other class of Mechanics. Printers, es a class, are warm-hearted. ar dent in their attachments• and social in their Teelings. They stand nut, and are distinguish ed from the great mass of mankind, as posses. sing more intelligence than any other class of men of equal number. Their peculiar business is calculated to produce this distinction• and to make them more intellectual. Nature must indeed have been niggardly in her gifts. if the printer should fail to become intelligent. But with all the advantages of superior in telligence. and an elevated position in the esti mation of the world, why is it that printers do not succeed better in business ?—why is so large ,a number of them poor? It is not be cause they lack industiy, for no class of men work harder, or more hours, or more diligent ly, Neither is it because they are spendthrifts, or improvident with their earnings. I will tell you the secret, gentlemen.— Printers are not paid a fair equivalent for their services. And why are they not? Is it the fault of the public ? No. I regret to say, it is their own' fault. They alone are the cause of it. To obtain business they often adopt the degrading and ruinous system of underbidding each other, till the price which is finally paid. rendqrs the job worthless• or worse than that. an actual loss to the one that is so tenfortunate as to obtain it. " lfear, this practice is too prevalent all over the country. And may 1 not ask, if it is not also true. to some extent, at least among the craft here 1 ► " No business, gentleman, can be made pro fitable without it least fair prices. Men may do business enough. and they may ynrk hard enough, even until old age may dim their sight, and until they are worn down to the third nick, and he poor the whole time, if they du business without profit." YANKEE TRICE.—Uncle Eb, as we used to call him, among lots of good qualities, had a failing. He did love good liquor, but such was the state of his credit that no one would Trust him. He, therefore, one day -resorted to a trick to answer the great eesirc of his appe tite. lie took two case bottles, put a quart of water into one of them, put one of them in each pocket, and started for the store. I'll take a quart of your rum." said uncle Eb. as lie plac ed the empty bottle on the counter. The rum was'put up, and the bottle replaced in his pocket. when uncle Eh pulled from hi• purse what at a distance might be seenta quarter of a dollar.— " This is nothing but tin, uncle Eli." said the trader. Eh. now, it's a quarter," raid uncle Eb. It'a tin." said the trader, I shan't take it." It's all I've got." Very well, you can't have the rum." Uncle Eh. without much demurring, pulled from his pockect the quart of water. The trader toak it. poured it into his rum barrel and off walked uncle Eb, chuckling. Tna Batts Beam or, AMERICA.—There are s ever a l newspapers end periodicals in this country under the editorial charge of ladies. and since the explosive nature of cotton has been demonstrated, it may be truly said that every lady controls a magazine.