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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.