ONE DOLLAR PER ANNUM, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE.
:
Suturhnn ftlorninn, SVpril, 21, 1835.
jwledtlt |Joetr)j.
[From the Independent, January 2">.]
AN EVENING PRA YER.
I come to Thee to-night,
In my lone closet, where no eye ean see.
And dare to crave an interview with Thee,
Father ol love and light.
Softly the moonbeams shine
On the still branches of the shadowy tree-.
While all sweet sounds of evening on the breeze,
Steal through the slumbering vine.
Thou gav'st the calm repose
That re-t.s on all—the air. the bird, the flower,
The human spirit in its weary hour—
Now at the bright day's close.
'Tis Nature's time for prayer :
The silent praises of the glorious sky,
And the earth's orisons profound and high,
To Heaven their breathings bear.
With them my soul would bend.
In humble reverence at Thy holy throne,
Trusting the merits of Thy Son alone,
Thy sceptre to extend.
If I this day have striven
With Thy blest spirit, or have bowed the kuec
To aught of earth in weak idolatry,
I pray to be forgiven.
II in my heart has been
An unforgiving thought, or word, or look,
Tlio' deep the malice whieh I scarce could brook,
Wash me from this dark sin.
If 1 have turned away
From grief or suffering which T might relievo,
Careless the - 'cup of water" e'en to give,
Forgive me, Lord, 1 pray—
And teach me how to feel
My sinful wanderings with a deeper smart.
Anil more of mercy and of grace impart,
My sinfulness to heal.
Father, my soul would be
Pure as the drops of eve's unsullied dew :
And as the stars whose nightly course is true,
So would I be to Thee.
Nor for myself alone.
Would 1 these blessings of Thy love implore,
But for each penitent the wide earth o'er,
Whom Thou hast called Thine own.
And for my heart's best friends,
Whose steadfast kindness o'er my painful years,
lias watched to soothe affliction's griefs and tears,
My warmest prayer ascends.
Should o'er the ir path decline
The light of gladness, or of hope or health.
He Thou their solace and their joy and wealth,
As they have long been mine.
And One—o Father, guide
The youthful traveller in the dangerous hour :
Have him from evil and temptation's power,
And keep him near Thy side.
Watch o'er his couch to-night.
And draw him sweetly by the cords of love
To blest communion with Thee, far above
Faith's withering cares and blight.
And now, O Father, take
The heart 1 east with humble faith on Thee,
And cleanse its depths from each impurity.
For my Redeemer's sake.
Stltcfti ©itlt.
[From Household Words.]
TLTII glkaxer.
'• They have all been touched, and found base metal."—
Shakespeare.
"S<>. this is my return to my native village!
This is my reception from relatives who owe me
so much !" Thus thought, rather than said, a
poor looking old man, as he stood leaning over
the pate of a newly cleared whcatfield, in the
bright, bustling, busy harvest time. " One,"
exclaimed lie, as his musings took a tone of
passion whieh broke unconsciously into words,
"one—yonder portly landlady, forsooth, kitting
in lu-r bar, us she is pleased to call it —her bur,
quotha! In my young days it was the little
lioarded parlor opening from the tap-room. A
bar in the old Bed Lion ! What shall we hear
of next ? One, bedecked, and bedizened, with j
htr gotvu like a rainbow, her fringed apron, j
and her cap stuck out with flowers, sitting in
■or liar, if that be its style and title, amongst j
|tT glasses and punch bowls, with a bell upon j
! ucr tabic and a net of lemons dangling above j
cr head ; >hc, Miss Collins, as she call.* her
die used to answer to the name of Jenny :
' ".lilts twenty years ago—refused point blank j
I ' acknowledge me ! denied to my face that |
I •" had ever seen nio ! called me a cheat and j
I mi impostor ! wondered at my impudence iu j
[ ' 'onipting to pass myself off for her dear uu-
I " Michael Norris! threatened me with the
;' 'ks ami the round-house, the justice and the
1 i'reeious minx ! She whom I rescued
l!n drudgery and starvation, from living half
woman, half maid, with the stingy terma
' clear-st;irchcr, in Belford Marsh ! whom
' ;1 P m that very Red Lion—perched upou
"j 'crone, in the arm-chair, in the bar !—pur
! the lease, the furniture, the good will ;
Pj'd nor first year's rent; stocked her cellars ;
. a hundred pound bank note into her
And now that I coinc home, old and
M'k and ragged, she reviles me as a va
,auf' an lot poster, and tells me to be
|''l '° her compassion and tender-heartcd
that she does not send for the constable
un". me to jail ! Liar that she is ! —base,
j - ' •-'hi. perjured liar ! for she know me.—
t!i ;i t dm knew me; aye, as well
,■„ ' U r would be glad to be no more
". in the years that have changed her from
ifu"' f ' ! ~ twenty-fire to a 1)1 oated woman
forty, than I, in those same years,
•A ail my griefs !"
t0", 7 ' T l ' ro f" uer —'—It maddens
t e( l , n!nK °f their baseness—whom I eduea
. apprenticed, finding him money after
!■ ' nto partnership with old
'•d r:V!Q £ been draper. He, indeed,
... P rfc tend to deny that I might be his on
• i-'fant that I were, what claim had I
9 " ' -" ' " " r " -v r j" ' •"
upon his charity, more than any other starving
wreteli ? What was I to him ? He pitied ine,
Heaven knew ! but what could I expect from
him ? O, the smooth-speaking, soft-spoken
knave, with his pity and his charity ? Hypo
crite in look and word ! His tone was as gen
tle as if he had been bidding me welcome to
bed and board for my whole life long. What
a fawning parasite that would have been now,
if I had accosted him like a rich man ! Well,
there is some virtue in these rags, since they
teach false tongues to speak the truth. Then
came ray cousin Anthony, whose daughter I
portioned, whose runaway son I clothed uitd
sent to sea. And this Anthony is now u treat
meal man—a rich miser, who could buy up half
the county. What says he ? Why. he was
poor himself—the scoundrel—nol o ly knew how
poor, and had becu forced to make a rule to
give nothing to beggars; aye, he called me a
beggar ! 1 might go to the Union, he said ;
the workhouse 1 O, the precious rascal ! The
son of my father's brother, brought up in mv
father's house—worth a hundred thousand
pounds, and would have sent me to the work
house—me, his only living kinsman ! O, this
world ! this world ! Then—for I was resolved
to try them all—l sought out my old school
fellow Nicholas Hume, the spend thrift, whom
I bailed in my young days, when little richer
than himself, and saved from prison by paying
his debts. What was his gratitude ? Why
he, forsooth, had never heard my nauie. Mi
chael Norris ? Who was Michael Norris? O,
they knew me well enough twenty years ago.
when I returned from the West Indies a rich
man. husband of a wealthy Creole, master of
flourishing plantations, to visit my early haunts,
help my poor relations—l found them all in
distress, some way or other—and shook hands
with inv old friends ! Nobody iiad forgotten
me (hen. But now that I come back a ragged
cripple, houseless, and friendless." And the
old man paused, and lifted his wretched hat
from his thin gray hairs and passed his tatter
ed handkerchief over his furrowed brow, with
an air which proved that he was as much oj>-
pressed by mental suffering, by indignation and
disappointment, as by the sultry heat of an
August noon.
"There are none left now," thought old Mi
chael to himself, as. exhausted by his vehemence,
he sank into a milder mood ; " none left for
me to apply to now, except the three orphan
children of my poor nephew, William Leslie,
the cousin of these hard-hearted Collinses, and
their mother ; and they, I tear, are themselves
in great want, and great trouble. He, lately
died, after a series of undeserved misfortunes,
and a iong and wasting illness ; and she, work
ing as hard as ever woman did work to keep
herself and her family out of the work-house—
that Union to whose comforts my precious
cousin Anthony so tenderly consigns me. Poor
things ! They may well deny any knowledge
of me. for they never saw me ; ami I have had
a good sample of the slight impression that
benefits conferred leave behind them ! Wil
liam was only eighteen when I left England
and returned to Jamaica, after my last visit.
A line, frank-hearted lad he was. J remember
wishing to take him with me. But my poor
sister would not part with him. She had mar
ried again after the death of her first husband,
William's father, and a wretched match she
made ; for this second husband proved to be a
habitual drunkard, always half mad when in
toxicated, who broke out at last into desperate
frenzy, and, but for my interposition, would
have murdered the poor boy. I seem to see
the struggle now," thought the old man, clos
ing his eyes ; " he flinging himself upon Wil
liam with a table knife, and I rushing between
them just soon enough to receive the blade in
my arm. I bear the mark of the wound still.
Tiie madman was sent to an asylutn, and there
soon died. And my poor sister, well oft' for
her station, cotil 1 not part from this only son.
He was a fine lad, was William, spirited and
generous ; and when she also died he was al
ready attached to the girl whom he afterwards
married. I helped them, too, for I loved the
boy ; I helped on that match, for it was one
of sincere affection, and they were in away to
earn a handsome competence ; there must have
been some imprudence, or great ill luck, to have
reduced them to such poverty." So ran the
train of the old cripple's revrry. " I never sus
pected it; he never wrote to mc ; and I, on- j
gaged in my own affairs, and with children then
of my own—well, I will sec them, however.— J
They are in t hits field, gleaning. So said their :
neighbor. Yes, this is tho field; there they ]
are. I'll see them," thought Michael Norris, ;
"though it is probable that they, tuo, will j
know nothing of me." And, opening the gate,
the old man limped slowly across the furrows,
and began gathering the scattered ears of corn
in his withered hand.
We have said the field, although, after pass
ing the gate, which admitted him between the
two high hedges that bound it on the northern
side, the wide expanse from which the wheat
had just been carried assumed the appearance
rather of a large open ridge of arable land bor
dered by the high road, and terminated by a
distant village, than of (he small wooded enclo
sures so common to the midland counties. A
pretty scene it was, as it lay before him, bath
ed in the sunshine ; and a lovely group was
that to which his attention was immediately
directed. A pale young woman, whose regu
lar and beautiful features received additional
Interest from her oln.-n widow's cap, stood be
fore hiio. holding a fine infant, in a arms ; a
very pretty girl of twelve or thirteen was
flourishing a tuft of wheat cars before the ba
by's eyes, smiling herself at the smile she ex
cited, while her little brother clung to the mo
ther's petticoat in momentary fear of two high
fed dogs attending a gentleman and lady riding
slowly along the road.
Tuo poor cripple drew hack, and sat down
under a clump of maple and hawthorn, gay
with the purple wild veitch, the white bind
weed, and the pretty clematis, known by the
still prettier name of " the traveller's joy
whilst the riding party called off their dogs,
spoke graciously to the child and his mother,
ar.d parsed slowly out o? sight. A3 they le:t
her, Mrs Leslie, for the it was. approached
the old man, to replace her infant x his cradle;
PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA„ BY E. O'MEARA COODRICH.
" REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FS.OM ANY QUARTER."
niches under the fragrant shade of some over
hanging hazel-stems, just beside his rude seat.
Struck by the evidence of poverty, sickness and
sorrow, afforded by his tattered apparel, and
his wrinkled yet venerable countenance, she
took uj) a pitcher, which stood by the cradle,
and, with the kindness which the very poor so
often show to each other, and a remark upon
the heat of the day, offered him a small cupful
of the milk which formed the contents of the
jug. He took it with a trembling hand, and
thanked her with an emotion whieh our readers
will comprehend, but whieh at once surprised
and interested its object.
"Your name is Leslie?" asked he, as, after
returning the cup with thanks and blessings,
he made room for her beside him onthethymy
bank. " Your name is Leslie ?"
"Margaret Leslie. It is so.*'
" The wife of William Leslie ?"'
" His widow. Ah, mo ! his widow !" re
plied she, with a sigh. " The widowed mother
of those children. Michael,' added she. as the
boy came near them, " take some milk yourself,
and carry a cupful to your sister, and bring
what wheat cars she and you have gathered to
mv little heap.
"Michael !" echoed the old man, "vourhus
band's name was William ! How came you to
call his son Michael ? But the name belongs to
your family perhaps ; your father, or some fa
vorite brother ?"
"No," replied the widow, "it was for a dif
ferent reason. A very dear kinsman of my
husband's bore that name, and in token of
love and gratitude to him, and in fulfilment
of an old promise,so our only son was christened."
" T remember," muttered the cripple to him
self. " I remember William said that his fn>t
boy should bear my name, and 1 think lie wrote
to that effect after the child born ; but
the letter must have arrived at that time of
misery." Then rousing himself, and turning to
the gentle creature, whom a feeling of unusual
interest still detained at his side, lie added
aloud, " I do remember now that William Les
lie had an uncle called Michael Morris, but
what peculiar cause of gratitude———"
" What cause interrupted Mrs. Leslie ;"a
thousand causes ; from a mere infant, when 1
have heard my husband say that lie gave him
the fir-t shilling lie ever possessed, that kind
uncle, abseut or present, was his good genius.
He insisted upon his being sent to Bedford
School; paid himself for masters, whom his
guardians thought superfluous ; rescued him
from the frantic frenzy of his step-father ; sav
ed his life at the utmost peril of his own, from
the furious assaults of that wretched madman;
placed him in the paper mill, which, but for the
rash speculation of his partner, would have been
not merely a comfortable income for himself,
but ail affluent provision for his family ; and,
last and dearest kindness, when William, with
his characteristic generosity loved a poor girl,
the portionless orphan of a naval ollicer, when
interested connections and officious friend-, all
opposed the union, did not he, from across the
wide ocean, send himself not merely his appro
bation of the destined marriage, but a portion
for the destitute bride ?" "i never saw him,"
continued .Mrs. Leslie, in a lower tone than that
which had been dictated by her enthusiastic
recollection of her benefactor's goodness ; " but
night and morning I have prayed for him, and
night and morning do uiy poor children join in
those prayers ; and my dear husband, amongst
his latest words
" Did lie pray for the uncle who seemed to
have forgotten him?" asked the old man, his
voice half stiHed with emotion. " Look, Mar
garet," added he, stripping up his sleeves and
showing a deep sear extended diagonally across
his left arm : " tin's sear was received from the
knife with whieh his furious and frantic step
father was pursuing William Leslie. I am Mi
chael Norris. You do not disdain to acknow
ledge the cripple who comes to your door hun
gry and ragged. Here, too," said he, taking
from his pocket a bundle of papers, "are char
acters that you well know."
Tearfully, yet joyfully, the warm-hearted and
grateful Margaret returned the embraces of
her venerable kinsman —presented her three
little children to him one by one, and replied
to his questions as to their change of cireum- :
stances.
It needed few words to tell the story. No- '
thing is more rapid than a descent. The roll- :
ing of a stone down a hill is a true type of a i
falling fortune. Taking advantage of a long ,
illness with which William Leslie was afflicted,
his partner engaged in desperate spec ulations, j
They failed. The rush speculator absconded, ;
and William remained a bankrupt, without a i
friend or resource. Honest to the ia>t, his j
wife resigned her small settlement to satisfy the !
creditors. llis debts being paid, he tried eve
ry means of living, and whilst he retained his
health had supported his family by tbc most
persevering industry ; but a lever, occasioned
by over-exertion, had come 011 ; his constitu
tion, impaired by anxiety and labor, had been
unable to resist the attack, and since that pe
riod the wife who had been the faithful part
ner of his cares and his toils had at least so far
succeeded as to maintain her children without
the assistance of charity, whether public or
private.
" Why not have written to me when this
bankruptcy took place ?" inquired the uncle.
"Alas, dear sir! we had before heard of
that terrible hurricane, in which "
" In whieh," said the old man, filling up with
stern composure, the sudden pause that from a
mixture of delicacy and sympathy had arrest
ed Margaret Leslies words—"in which the
plantation where I resided was laid waste, my
house leveled with the ground, and uiy wife
with four helpless children in the ruins! In
striving to rescue them, this thigh,"-—striking'
the withered liir.b with a hazel twig—" this
thigh was broken I owe ray preservation to
the gratitude of an emancipated negro ; but
for months, for years, ail uiy life, all nature
was blank before me ! I have sometimes won
dered how I could have survived such a blow;
for what purpose I was spared ' The doubt
was sinful, and finds its rebuke, its thrice mer
ciful rebuke, in this blissful nour. You beird
then, of ray losses, dear Margaret ? Poor W il
i ax heard of them !"
" We were sure that something must have
gone amiss, from receiving no reply to the let
ter which announced the birth of our boy, and
claimed your promise of standing godfather at
his christening: William did not like to write
again upon such an occasion ; it would have
seemed like encroaching upou your too gener
ous spirit. But when the news of that awful
hurricane arrived, and Nicholas Hume and the
Collinses made inquiries in London, and ascer
tained that your plantation had indeed been
amongst those laid waste —then your silence
was too well explained ! I head this sad news
first ; for it arrived during the dreadful illness
which preceded my husbaud's bankruptcy.—
And when he regained so much breathing time
after his own misfortunes as to ask news of you,
no tidings could be obtained ; all traces of you
seemed lost. O, that he had lived ta see this
day! His will be doue ! But 0, that my
poor husband had lived to see once more the
kinsman he loved so well!"
The old man pressed her hand in speechless
emotion, and Margaret, smiling through her
tears, went on:
" You must live with us, dear uncle, and we
shall wait upou you and work for you, and be
happy together—as happy as we can be with
out him—after all. My Annie is a good girl
—O, such a good girl I and pretty, is she not,
dear uncle ? and poor Michael, your namesake,
is a boy of a thousand We have had much
to be thankful for. Farmer Rogers, the over
seer, whose books my husband kept, (little Mi
chael keeps them now, as well, the farmer says,
as his father did,) supplies us with milk twice
a day, Mrs. Liseelles, the rector's wife, em
ploys Annie and tne coustanly it) iieeiMe-work
for her large family ; and if we can but. keep
our pretty cottage—if we can keep that cot
tage at whose porch poor William planted the
honeysuckle and the China rose, and the vine
which now covers the thatch—that cottage
where we worked and wept together, and where
he died the death of the righteous ;* if we can
but live together there, witliiu sight of the turf 1
that covers his dear remains, I should ask for
nothing better on this side of the grave."
The"widow's.tears flowed afresli, and once
again the old man pressed her hand.
" Is there any doubt of your retaining this
beloved habitation, dear Margaret? And does
my coming cause that doubt ?"
"O, no, no, dear uncle, not in the slightest 1
degree. The cause of doubt is, that we have
no lease, and that Miss C'oliius, as she calls j
herself, poor William's cousin, wants it for
some purpose another—people say with some j
view of marrying, but this is idle talk—village !
gossip. What is certain is, that she wishes to
take it, and is willing to give two pounds a year '
more rent than I now give or can afford to !
give. If our old landlord, Mr. Godfry, had '
stayed, he and Lady Elizabeth had promised !
that 1 should remain ; but the Ilall, and the
village, and the whole estate are sold, and the
new lord of the manor is coming this evening.
Hark ! you may hear the bells ring even now.
Mr. Godfry and Lady Elizabeth intend stay
ing a few days at the rectory ; you saw them
ride by with their dogs ; they have promised
to speak in my favor to the new landlord ;
they mentioned it even now, and the good rec
tor and his excellent lady will second my peti
tion ; still—"
"Be of good cheer, Margaret. Even if you
should leave your pretty cottage, T would wa
ger something—" The old man checked him
self, and resumed, in an indifferent tone—
" Who is the new lord of the manor? what i.->
his name
"The property was purchased by Mr. Price;
but he is understood to be an agent, and I
have not heard the name of the real proprietor,
who is said t" be an elderly gentleman, and so
rich that lie will hardly be tempted lo turn an
old tenant from her cottage for so trifling an
addition of rent. Nevertheless— "
" Once again. Margaret, be of good heart,"
reiterated her uncle.
'• The tenant* arc to meet him in the avenue
- the farmers ami their sons oa horseback, the
cottagers, women and children, on foot. Ought
I to join them ? 1 have no shame in honest la
bor. hut do shrink from meeting the scorn of
those purse proud kindred who—" and poor
Margaret's tears fell fast. " Ought I to be ,
there, dear mule ? 1 will go ol- stay us you
direct."*
" Go, Margaret. Go, fear nothing. Gath
er up your treasures ; the jug, whose generous
draught was the sweetest I ever quaffed ; the
wheat ears, and the cradle with its irowing
babe—blessing ou it (Far face ! Go boldly ;
I will not shame you by these unseemly rags,
but will rest aw hile under the friendly shade of
the hazel, while you return home and prepare
for the procession. Be sure that you fail not.
We shall meet again soon, dear ones ! For the
present, farewell."
There was something about the old man,
ragged, sick and lame as be was, that Margaret,
found it impossible to disobey. So, heartened
up, she knew not why, [for many have felt,
without being able to give the feeling its true
name, the mingled power of sympathy and ap
preeintini! to comfort ami to cheer,) she called
about her her bloomingehildren and departed,
Annie and herself bearing the cradle between
them, and the boy laden with the gleanings of
the day.
The setting sun gleamed brightly between
the noble elms that formed the beautiful aven
ue to Curston Hail, gilding the rugged branch
es anu turning into pendant emeralds the leaves
of the branches which met across the wide car
riage road ; luut and Interleaved in a lengthen
ed arclnvay that might well have suggested the
rich intricacies of a cathedral aisle in the proud
est days of Gothic architecture. The village
bells pealed amain, horses pranced, flags waved,
the children of the parish schools strewed the
gaudy flowers of the early autumn ; and as the
carriage of the new lord of the manor rolled
between the vivid lodge to the gray old Hall,
a quaint, irregular structure of Elizabeth's or
James'day, with a tame peacock sunning him
self on the stone balustrade, a large old Eng
lirh spaniel basking on the steps, and the ten
ants in their holiday apparel grouped round
the porch, an arb6t, whether painter or poet,
aLjnt have envied the accident wxea protiuc-
Ed an arrangement so felicitously picturesque.
Something of this feeling, however, unper
ceived or unguessed by himself, mingled with
the natural cinotions.of curiosity ami interest,
iu unr friend Margaret's bosom, as, standing
humbly apart between her two cider children,
with infant in her arms, under a large syca
more, she gazed around upon the scene, and
perceived, gaily adorned, in the extreme coun
try fashion, the rival candidate for her belov-
cottage—the buxom landlady of the Red
Lion, surrounded by the unfriendly kindred of
her late husband. Neither Margaret nor her
William had ever applied for assistance to
these people ; and yet she knew instinctively
that some from pride ami some from shame
felt the silent reproach of her unassisted pover
ty and her blameless life—that all wished her
absence, and would contribute, as tar a a thorn ,
lay, to turn her from her home ; \in spite
of the encouraging influence of her lately known
kinsman's cheering forebodings, her heart sank
within her as the door of the cottage was
thrown open. An elderly gentleman, very neat- j
ly dressed, but pallid, oinaeiated and lame, was
assisted by Ids servants up the two low steps j
that led to tlio porch. Having ascended them j
with some difficulty, he turned around, took oft";
his hat, bowed with a gracious sitiifr to the
assembly, and then paused, as if in search of !
some one whom he expected to see.
The effect of this apparition Was a start of
surprise and horror from the portly landlady, I
seldom equalled on a stage or off; her brother ;
the haberdasher, who had just flourished his
hat preparatory to leadiug the general cheer, j
let it fall in dismay, looking the curses which i
his habitual hypocrisy scarce repressed ; cousin i
Anthony, the rich, miserable miser, smothered
a groan ; and Nicholas Hume, in spite of his '
consummate impudence, fairly stole away.
What, in the meanwhile, did our friends in j
their humble nook under the sycamore Little j
Michael danced for joy. A unie chipped her ;
hands, and poor Margaret, for the twentieth !
time (luring the la*t six hours, burst into tears; j
this time, however, of unmiugled joy.
" Mrs. Leslie ! Margaret! my dear neioe !" ;
cried Michael, [or, as we may now call him, :
Mr. Norris,) advanced to meet her, "to you j
alone, of all my relations now living, do I owe
any account of my motives for coming among
vou as I have done to-day ; with the re.-t of
my kindred I have done forever. But I also
owe some explanation to my tenants and future
neighbors. You all know that I left England
about fifty years ago, a poor and friendless lad.
I returned, nearly thirty years afterwards, with
riches honestly obtained, the happy husband of
a wealthy and excellent woman, and the father of
four hopeful children. I came to Corston,
found my relations, some indigent, some com
fortably situated,did what I could uuumg them
and went back to Jamaica, with the view, at
some future day, of placing my sons at the head
of my plantation iu that island, and coming
home to die in my native village. A hurricane
passed over the estate where 1 lived, destroy
ing mv dwelling, my wife, my children, and al
must myself.
"For many years T was dead to the world ;
but care had been taken of the large property i
that remained to me, and when, by God's mer- j
ev, I was restored to health, mental and bodily, ;
1 found myself rich indeed, so fur as money J
was concerned, richer than ever ; but in the j
blessed charities of life, must poor—a childless. j
desolate, bereaved old man. I knew that a;
report had gone abroad that 1 was ruined bv j
the hurricane, and 1 resolved to prove the re-j
lations I had left in England, l>v coming among
them in seeming poverty. 1 have done so, and
the experiment answered well. And now, my
dearest neiec, I need not tell you that the cot
tage is yours ; but for the second time to day,
J throw myself upou your charity. Aou will
not abandon me because 1 happen to be rich ?
You will never have the heart to do that !
You remember your promise that we should
live together ; so eotnc with those dear ehsi
tlrcu to brighten and gladden the old Hull.
PREJUDICE. — All men are apt to have a eon- j
'■eit of their own understanding, to bo tenaci
ous of t lie opinion they profess; and vet almost
all men are guided by the understandings ol j
others, not by their own ; and may be said
more truly to adopt than to beget their opin
ions. Nurses, parents, pedagogues, and after
them all, and above them all. the universal pe
dagogues, custom, fill the mind with notions i
which it has no share in framing, which it re-;
eeives as passively as it receives the impres- j
sions of outward objects, and which left to it
self, it would never have framed, perhaps, or
would have examined afterwards. Thus, pre
judiees are established by education, and ha
bits by custom. We are taught to think what
what others think, not how to think for our
selves ; and whilst the memory is lo.idod, the
understanding remains unexercised, or exercis
ed in such trammels as constrain its motions,
and direct its place, till that which was artifi
cial becomes in sort natural; and the mind can
go uo further. It may sound oddly, but it is
true in many cases, to say that if men had
learned less, [heir way to knowledge would be
shorter and easier. It is indeed, shorter to pro
cced from ignorance to knowledge, than from
error. They who are in the !a-t condition.must
unlearn, before they can learn to any good
purpose ■ and the first of this docile task i?
not. in many respects, the least difficult, for
which reason it is soldoni undertaken.
Ha?" We have a friend, a Fx footer, who
was promiiiading, on a public oecas'ou, with u
magnificent woman. "We are the observed
of all observers," said the gentleman " Yes,"
replied the lady, "we are two brilliant stars."
" Put the .'.tars together," responded 'he gen
tleman, "and what a brilliant SUN they would
make."
A genius in Ohio has perfected a rifle
that knocks the Minic into a cocked hat. He
f flared an ounce ball in it on Tuesday evening
ast, and fired at the sky. A few moments af
terwards. the dog star commenced howling,and
in such a manner that the people of Cleveland
" are lm was wounded in the thorax.
VO L. XV. IS O. 45.
HADRIAN - AND THE PLANTER —Tiie Emperor
Hadrian, pacing near Tiberius, in Galilee, ob
served an old man digging' a large trench in or
der to plant some fig-trees : " Hadst thou pro
perly employed the morning of thy life," said
Hadrian, " thou needest not have worked so
hard in the evening of thy da vs."
I have well employed mv earlv davs, nor
Mil 1 neglect the evening of"my life ; and let
God do with me what he thinks best," replied
the man. " How old mnyst thou be, good
man ?" asked the emperor. " A hundred years,"
was the reply. " What," exclaimed Hadrian,
" a hundred years old, and still planting trees?
Canst thou, then, hope ever to enjoy the fruits
of thy labor ;?" " Great kijig," rejoined the
hoary headed man, " yes, I do hope, if God
permit, I may even cat the fruit of these verv
trees ; if not, my children will. Have not
my forefathers planted trees for me, and shall
I not do the same for my children Hadrian,
pleased with the honest man's reply, said,
"Well, old man, iff ever thou livest to see
the fruit of these trees, let me know it. Dost
thou hear, good old man ?" and with these
words he left him. The old man did live long
enough to see the fruits of his industry. The
trees flourished and bore excellent" fruit. As
soon as they were sufficiently ripe he gathered
the most choice figs, put them in ff basket, and
marched off toward the emperor's residence. —
Hadrian happened to look out of the windows
of his palace ; seeing a man, bent with ago,
with a basket on iiis shoulders, standing near
the gate, he ordered him to be admitted to his
presence.
" What is thy pleasure, oldmau?" demand
ed Hadrian.
" A ray it please your majesty," replied the
man, "to recollect seeing once a very old man
planting some trees, when you desired hi:u, if
ever he should gather the fruit, to let joukuow.
1 am that old man, aud this is the fruit of those
very trees. May it please you graciously to
accept them as a humble tribute of gratitude
ft>r your majesty's great condescension." Had
rian. grut'hed to see so extraordinary an in
stance of longevity, accompanied by the full
manly faculties and honest exertion, desired
the old man to be seated, and ordered the bas
ket fo be emptied of the fruit and to be filled
with gold, gave it him as a present. Some
courtiers, who witnessed this uncommon scene,
exclaimed, " Is it possible that our great um
peror should show So much honor to a misera
ble Jew ?" "Why should I not honor him
whom God has honored ?" replied Hadrian.—
" Look at his age. and imitate his example."
The emperor then very graciously dismissed the
old man. who went home highly pleased and
delighted.
S_JS_ M
WHEN VOL (SHOULD TAKE YOLK HAT.—
Young men, a word. We want to tell you when
you should take your hat and be off. Aud *
miud what we offer. It is when you are asked
out to take u drink.
When you find out you are courtiug an ex
travagant or slovenly girl.
W hen you find yourself in doubtful company.
Wlien you discover that your expenses ruu
ahead of your income.
When you are abu-iug the confidence of your
friends.
When you think you are a great deal wiser
ilmn older aud luore experienced people than
yourself.
When you feel like getting trusted for a new
suit of clothes because you have no money to
pay for them.
When you wait upon a kidy just for the fun
of it.
When you are making a noise in a printing
office.
W lieu you don't do your duty.
THE N'IUIITUARE. - Somebody gives the pub
lic the benefit of the following receipt to get
up a night-mure :
" Fifteen minutes before brd-tjiuceat upono
dozen of cold boiled cabbage, with five or six
pickled cucumbers. Eat heartily, and wash
down with a pint oi' brown stout. Undress and
jump into lied. Lie fiat ou your back, and in
about a half att hour, or thereabouts, you will
dream that the devil is sitting on your chest,
with Htiuker lliil Monument in his lap."
Tbuis XELKH AND BOSOMS. —Fashion in
Washington during the past winter has been
carried to the vcrg.'ofmadel artist exhibitions.
Low neck dresses have been all the go. A
good story is t<>id of a country man being ask
ed, after leaving one of the Presidential levees,
if lie had ever seen such a sight before. " No,"
was the emphatic rcplv, " not finer I icas item
ed f
Opg- A soldier on trial for habitual drunk
enness was addressed bv the President, " Pri
soner, you have hard the prosecution for ha
bitual druukeuness ; what have you to say in
defence ?"
" Nothing, please your honor, but habitml
thirst?
&r- Brigham Young, the Mormon Prophet,
thinks that St. Paul, in saying that a piehop
should be the husband of one wife, meant, not
to in'erdii t him for having any more, but that
he should have one icir to begin u ith.
|t--.?*" It's a very solemn thing to gG mar
ried " said aunt Bethany.
'• Yes, but it's n groat flea! more solemn not
to," said her niece.
fikiV Temperance, the, only thing that ren
ders nun lit for employment; Morality, the on*
ly principle to fit him for society; Religion,
that which brings him to God aud prepares
him for immortal life !
fe-sr- The person who goes into society with
the simple wish to please and to bd pleased,
generally succeeds in bnrh objects.
Plow rlav lands d?pp in the autumn and
winter, and bandy land= in the spring.