0 DOLLAR PER ANNUM, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE. TOWANDA: Siitnriutn fUoritinn, 3nnc H, 185 U. fcltdtb so£trn. BENEDICT'S APPEAL TO A BACHELOR. BY JOHN G. SAXE. Dear Charles, lie persuaded to wed— for a sensiWe fellow like you, It's hi'.'li time to think of a lied, lihl nniHi 11s and cnflhe for two. Ki have done Willi J our doubts and delaying— With soul so adapted to mingle, \.i wonder the neighbors are saying 'Tis singular you should lie single! Itv.iY say lllAt .yon liav n't got time— That business demands your attention— There is not the least reason or rhyme !u the wisest excuse you can mention, p .n't tell me about •' other fish"— Your duty is done when you buy 'em— Vial you never will relish the dish, Unless you've a woman to fry 'ein! You may dream of poetical fame, Hut your wishes may chance to miscarry— Tiie I>o.-t way of sending one's name To posterity, Charles, is to marry ! And here 1 am willing to own, Alter soberly thinking upon it, I'd wry much rather be known Ky a beautiful sou than a sonnet! Then, Charles, bid your doubting good-bye, And dismiss all fantastic alarms— i ll be sworn you've a girl in your eye, 'Tis your duty to have in your arms! Same trim little maiden of twenty, A 1 eautiful azure-eyed elf. With virtues and graces in plenty, Vail no failing but loving yourself! Don't search fur an " angela minute— K..r, granting you win in the sequel, The di-uee, after all, would be in it, Willi ,i union so very unequal ! The angels, it must be confessed, la 111 - world are rather uncommon ; And allow me. dear Charles, to suggest V i'H be better content with a woman ! Then there's tins economy, dear, l!y poetical algebra shown— If your wife has a grief or a tear, One-half, by the laws, is your own! And as in the joys, by division They're nearly quadrupled, 'tis said— (Though 1 never could see the addition (,'aite plain in the item of bread.) Then, Charles, lie persuaded to wed— For a sensible fellow, like yon, It - high time to think of a bod, Vnd muffins and coffee for two. So have done with your doubts and delaying— With a soul so adapted to mingle, N'o wonder the neighbors are saying 'Tis singular you should live single. HJisttllnncous. Ml CROSS—NO CROWN. BY CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. A youth girded himself for the journey of ;fe. A smile was on his lips ; a glad bound ■: pulse belayed the full, joyous current that :tvc elasticity to his steps, crimson to his •• k-, and ho|ie and exultancy to his heart. Ih had read of those who had fainted by the msido ; but they had not commenced this ! I'.-riinage with a frame as buoyant, spirits as winged, a will as strong, and undaunted a> his own. lie was resolved to win the crown of immor ality, and he knew that he mnst climb many stnonntaiu height before he reached the tem -lit where it was enshrined. But what eared - for the distance that intervened ? —He had 1 long, long- day before him; the path was and the (fewness o[ early morning spar ''*l i" the fresh and Howry herbage. The "wits of the distant hill-tops were soft and ■oth, and Blue as the heavens on which they -i' - fullv undulated. Like Obidah, the son of • "osoria. lie seemed to hear the morning song 1 bird of paradise," and the breezes of rustb-tl in his hair. In imagination, he ' f loyalty on his brow ; and he went on ••'i that crown of burning gold which was so bravely, rejoicingly, though as the rxe higher, the sultriness of advancing J . - WKI on his cheeks, and lie was con •"'l to push back his moistened locks, *ipc the sweat drops from his fervid tem -1 ' -th the sun poured down a full tide of glorv, too oppressive to be borne, youth staggered and turned his wist- 0 a -"ve by the way-side, whose en ' ' min d by interlacing vine, wooed him . lIC l ' m,,ra ' c of a friend. Just as he was " ''"ffowcr himself in the leafy coolness, I" In id upon his arm, and he saw a - in a pilgrim's garb, standing before 1 won. a countenance of grave sweetness, ■' }(' beamed with serene and steadfast * e n °t ' )Car the heat and burden of s ai'l lie, and his voice soanded like ; ,'l' notes of an organ. Think yc the lowiijs allotted to the idler in the >t r ;, it is the guerdon of toil, > l exer ti°n, the reward of self-sacri rij ' l '' ! n . Sla ? ni a,ul ""flagging energy. Do I the prize ? !; , replied the yonth ; the stranger ' ,ut there was something in hisas •o neiioh-il a divine paternity. Xo, fa '"ii Inint and weary, and my feet to blister from the dry and sandy r ' =', it is only to gather strength to , . journey." Mill the stranger ; " the night e. 1,0 'nnn can work.—Go on, if thy I-it ', J 4 "-*' : ""i thy ambition pure. Take ; o. v .i M a " ( i 't will snjijiort your • mi'l my sandals on your feet, an<l _ I 'f i them from the burning sands, ■ on yo U r shoulder and boar ■""M lie gate of the temple. Hear 1 ' l''eding flesh and sliriiikinir THE BRADFORD REPORTER. frame ; for by him who sware by himself, be cause there is no greater, the crown is only for hint who bears the cross and despises the shame." The eyes of the youth seemed gifted with supernatural j)owcr, aud lie beheld what he had not before seen, a cross that most have been borne by the stranger, for the mantle that co vered his shoulder was stained with blood, and he pressed his hand against his side as if op pressed with Weariness. Constrained by a mys terious, inexplicable power, the youth bowed himself down, and attempted to lift a bnrden at once so glorified and so accursed, but his trembling hands fell on his sides, unable to overcome its weight. Fear not, I am with thee ! said the stranger ; and lifting the cross as lightly as if it were a silver thread, he laid it across the shoulder of the youth, and taking his hand with a benign smile he bade him arise and be of good cheer. " And then," said the youth looking back np npon the pilgrim, on whose head the noon day sun fell with a strange glory, "if thou hast borne the cross, where is thy crowu ?" The stranger lifted his right hand to Hea ven, as he slowly receded from view, and to the dazzled eyes of the youth, his face seemed like the body of heaven in its clearness, anil his drapery white and glistening, so as no fuller on earth could whiten it. Aud lie went on, en dowed with strength from on high ; with the pilgrim's staff in his right hand, and the pil grim s sandals on his feet, lie was enabled to bear the burden of the pilgrim's cross. It is true, his heart and flesh oft-times failed, and his spirit panted under the weary load, while tears gushed from his eyes, and blood trickled from his wounded shoulder. But a voice seem ed ever whispering in his ear, "No cross—no crowu." And he fixed his eyes on the mountain summit, and toiled upward and onward, paus ing only to "drink of the brook by the way," for the shadows began to lengthen, and dull ness crept through the air. "(), God," he once exclaimed, in the extre mity of despair, while the cross he had borne seemed bearing down upon him with crushing weight, " my bnrden is greater than I can bear ! Is this rugged path the same I enter ed this morning, so green and fresh, and blush ing with new-born flowers ? Is this leaden heart the same that then throbbed with such glad pulsations ? these weary eyes the same that mocked the dawning sunbeams? Oh, if this be life's journey, why did I enter it? Why were such glorious aspirations given, combined with so much weakness—such longings for im mortality, yet such draggings down to earth— such divine ambition bound by such mortal coils? Alas, my spirit is willing, but my flesh is weak." \\ ho that had scon that crushed and weari ed figure, travel soiled, dim and dusty, with pale and tear stained cheek, and dry, quiver ing lips, and eyes like smoking torches, would have recognized the youth in the morning bloom of his heart and cheek, his hojte, and joy and brightness? His knees bend under him—he is about to sink, as many a poor burdened heart has done in life's pilgrimage when thro' I the parting mountain shadow he catches a | glimpse of the temple which is the goal of his foot-steps, glittering and flashing like the gol den glories seen through sunset clouds. He rises and presses onward, and as he remembers the promise of him who had himself borne the cross and despised the shame, who had placed the staff in his hands and bound the sandals to his feet—when he recalls the divine effulgence in which lie melted from his sight—the sublime gesture slowly sweeping heavenward, his spirit burns within him, and his failing strength is renewed. lie presses onward and upward ; the mountain stream dashes across his path, ami the cold waters threaten to submerge him, but he plunges in, and they soon roll darkly behind him. The mountain side is whitened by the bones of way-farers, who perished ere they reached the temple goal, now almost gain ed by him. Hark ! Is it music that greets his fainting senses ? No, it is the opening of the temple gate, on "golden hinges turning." Halt not, weary pilgrim ; one more step, and the goal is won ! Thou canst lay down the cross, and the crown is thine ! Joy to thee, triumphant tra veler ! From this mountain height—from the sum-lad temple, where thy feet are planted, thou canst look back on the rugged path and toilsome ascent, and the fallen cross. Who that beheld that radiant form, growing with immortal youth and heavenly joy, with that crowd of seven-fold beams of glory on his brow, would recognize the travel soiled and tear blis tered pilgrim, bowing and fainting beneath the crushing burden of life ? Gone were the dust bins from his garments, the tear stains from his cheek, the blood drops from his vesture, and the anguish from his soul. How short the warfare—how enduring the triumph ! How brief the toil—how everlasting the rest ! How different the downward to the upward view ! A young maiden sat in her chamber at the twilight hour, there was no one near to witness the shadow on her brow. The breeze sighed through her lattice, and she sighed responsive to its mournful whispers ; she was young, but her cheek was pale, and her blue eyes were darkened by a melancholy shade ; she was young, but the fragrance had passed from life's flower and the glory from life's dream. She had made herself an idol, and found that its heart was of iron, and its feet of clay ; and she gathered up the fallen garlands with which she had crowned it, and crushed them withering to her Itosom. " (), Father in heaven !" she exclaimed in the loneliness and desolation of her heart, " let me not continue life's weary journey tlins sor rowing and alone. I have gathered with rash hand the blossoms of love, and they have fad ed from my grasp, leaving nothing but the print of the thorns Doom me not to travel a long bleak way, whose darkness appals, and whose coldness chills. O, my Father, one lonely traveller will not l>c missed in the great thoroughfare of humanity. Here let roc rest my burdened heart, and close my weary eyes." The voting mourner bowed her head, and her PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY E. O'MEARA GOODRICH. tears dropped like the summer rain. Was it the breeze that rustled in the loosened ringlets, or the wing of an angel unseen by mortal eyes ? Who is it whispers to her fainting spirit, and bids her rise and go forward on her father's mission ? Like Alary, she has been weeping over the grave of her earthly hopes ; like Ma ry, she hears the voice of the master ; and she goes forth to meet him. Trembling and falter ing, she goes forth obedient to the divine be hest ; she passes into the shadows of night.— The sun will shine no more for her, but one by one, the stars come out, and hold their silver lamps over the wanderer's path. She had bowed her frail shoulder to the burden of the cross, aud the promise of the crown sustains her sinking rest. " Not a golden crown," she cries, ".but one of unfading flowers—one leaf embalmed with the breath of immortal love were worth all the gold that paves the streets of the New Jerusalem. Adieu, ye blossoms of earth ! Never more shall my hand gather your glowing clusters ; your beauty hath turn ed to ashes, and your fragrance to poisonous exhalations—the rose of Sharon, the lily of the valley, shall replace your perishing bloom." Like a pale moonbeam the young maiden parted the shadows ef night, as her still foot steps left their print on the dewy grass. Her steps had been as light as the summer breeze, but the burden of the cross pressed her down wards, and those who followed could tell that a weary foot had preceded theirs. By and by the moon lifted her angel face above a bed of white fleecy clouds, and mingled her soft, holy light with the iuuer light dawniug in the maid en's soul. Long and lonely was the path she trod—sometimes through woods, dark and dense, impervious to the heavenly rays, where the melancholy notes of the midnight bird alone were heard ; over rugged hills aud solitary vales, through cold streams and wild dreary wastes she piisscd, watching for the day-spring on high. Not to the gorgeous temple on the mountain hight was her glance uplifted. It was turned to a green field, where still waters smiled—to a bower where the dove made its nest, and Hose of Sharon bloomed. Exhaus ted nature rallied, as bathed in morning's rosy light she beheld the borders of the promised land. She pressed forward with panting breath and failing limbs, but fell prostrate beneath the crushing weight she hud upborne so brave ly aud cnduringly. l'oor wanderer ! poor for saken wanderer ! hast thou followed thy Mas ter's steps in vain ? is there no rest for the tempest-tossed and world-weary spirit ?—has God forgotten to be gracious, and are his pro mises void ? Xo ! One approaches ami lifts her droop ing form. " His head is wet with dew, and his locks are heavy with the drops of night." L nseen, he has boon the companion of her journey, her protector and her guide. He has not forsaken her, who has put her trust in him. Immortal joy thrills through her frame, glows on her checks, and beams in her eyes. Her robes are as white as those of the biood-wash cd throng that surround the throne of (lod ; and a wreath of unfading roses redolent with divine love, the only crown she sought, encir cles her brows. She stands upon the cross, her stepping stone to heaven triumphant, adoring; and looks back upon the clouds n lling behind her, with a smile that illumines their dark ness. "Xo cross—no crown !" From the tongue of angel choirs sounds the motto for the pil grims in the journey of life. From the bed of pain, the couch of languishment, the dungeon of despair—from the blighted heart of youth, and the frozen breast of age, amid disappoint ment, and sorrow, and agony, this sublime aj>- peal to the immortal spirit struggling for vic tory or release is uttered ; and its echo may be heard in the remotest aliodes of suffering hu manity. "Xo cross—no crown." It is the slo gan of life, the victor anthem of death, the chorus of eternity. JOHN B. GOUGH'S DESCRIPTION* OF COLD WA TER. —Look at that liquid which has been pro duced from the distillery of nature. The Eter nal Father of us all has brewed it for his chil dren. It has been produced, not in filthy dis tilleries, but in beautiful, fragrant places. It has been brewed down in yon grassy dell, where the deer linger and the rippling rills sing their wild lullaby ; or away upon the moun tain tops, where the blazing snn lias lighted if. up with heavenly fire ; or afar off upon the ocean, where showers and storms are born. It sparkles in the ice gem. It makes the grace ful frost tissue on which the moonlight plays. It dallies in the cataract ; weaves the snow wreath and the emerald sitting on* the moun tain peak. It never injures, but always does good. It is blessed always, at evening and at morning. It is ever beneficent and kind.— God makes it glorious. Take and drink.— Take the pure liquid which God, our Father, gave us. Take it as it is—bright, beautiful and blessed. A. Goon HlT. —Some persons being in con versation the other day, on religious subjects, one of them remarked that a certain clergyman who bad been the shepherd of the flock had be come so haughty that he did not know some of the members of his own church, because they hap|>cned to l>e poor. Another observed that he must lie a singu lar shepherd not to know the " sheep" of his own flock. A little girl about eight years old, who was bnsy at her play, replied, " Mamma, they ought to do as grandpa used to do with his sheep— paint their noses." PKF.TTY Goon. —An extensive and wealthy lumberman, in a neighboring county, is the fa ther of n hard nut ot a boy. Heing desirous of reforming him, he offered, as an inducement to give the avails of the lumber from two thou sand hemlock logs, provided he would go to school and behave himself for one year. Young hopeful remained silent for some time, listening to the proposition. Finally in reply to his fa ther's interrogation—" What do you say, my son T'—he said, " Call it pine logs, father, and I'll go it " " REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER." BURIED ALIVE. A correspondent of Reynold's Miscellany, vvlio lias been for many years a practising phy sician, says that he has seen, during the last few months, sundry sketches of persons buried alive ; and always feeling deep interest in the subject, from an occurrence that took place some twenty years ago, he sends that journal the following account of it for publication.— lie adds, that the narrative is a true one—on adulterated with a particle of fiction. It was written ont by a near relative of his, and is given in the narrator's own words. It should serve as a warning to those who " hasten to bury their dead out of sight 1 have been subject to epileptic fits from my | youth upwards, which, though they did not de prive me of animation in the sight of those about me, completely annihilated my own con sciousness. I used to be attacked at all times and seasons, but most commonly about the full of the moon. I generally had a warning of a peculiar nature when these attacks were com ing on that it would be difficult to describe.— It was a sensation that to be known must be experienced. My excellent wife, Martha—l mean my first wife, wlio has been dead now for the best part of forty years—used to say .that she always observed an unusual paleness over my complexion, otherwise ruddy, for a day or two before the fit came on. 15less her soul! she never let me be oue moment out of her sight, from the instant she had a suspicion of ray approaching malady. This benevolence on her part was a great means of enabling her to subdue the violence of the fit when it came, for which purpose her experience had pointed out to her several useful applications. I married again after her decease, because I was oppressed beyond bearing by my loneli ness, which none but persons in such a situa tion—l mean a widower's—can tell. My se cond wife, whom I have also buried, was not so penetrating in the faculty of observation.— She was a woman of an admirable thrift, and to her economy it was that I owe iny preser vation in the terrible event that I am about to detail. Had I been interred in lead it would have been all over with me. Willing to save as much money as possible at my fuue ral, she had my body with all the usual aud proper grief attendant on the ceremony, put into a stout wooden coffin, the weight of which was increased by a couple of old hundred weights, placed one at my head, the other at my feet. Thus the thing passed off well, and money was saved to my heirs. I hereby cast no reflection on my dear departed wife's re gard for me. I was convinced, as I told her, that her motive was good ; and well did it turn out for me that she was so thrifty and considerate. She was a true woman, and was plain in her person—but I wander again from ray story. I had made a most excellent dinner—of this I have a perfect recollection. Of more than this I can recollect nothing until coming out of my fits, as I suppose—for I quickly imagined, feeling the usual sensations, that I was recovering from one of them. I say that 011 coming to myself I was surprised to feel pinioned and iu utter darkness. I had no space to stir if I would, as I soon found, while I struggled to loosen a sheet or some such thing, in which I was scantily enveloped.— My hand would not reach my head when I at tempted to make it do so, by reason of my el bow touching the bottom aud my hand the top of the enclosure around me. It was the attempting to do this, and find ing myself naked, except with the aforesaid covering, that struck me that I had been cu tombed alive. The thought rushed suddenly ujKMi me. My first sensations were those of simple surprise. I was like a child aroused out of a deep sleep, and not sufficiently awake to recognize its attendants. When the truth fiascd upon me in all its fearful energy, I never cm forget the thrill of honor that struck through me. It was as if a bullet had pene trated my heart, and all the blood in my body had gushed through the wound. Never, uev er can hell be more terrible than the sensa tions of that moment. I lay motionless for a time, petrified with terror. Then a calm dampness burst forth from every part of my body. My horrible doom seemed inevitable ; and so strong at length became my impression, so bereft of ho|>e appeared my situation, that I ultimately re covered from it only to plunge in the depth of a calm, resolute despair. As not the faintest ray of ho|>e could penetrate the darkness around my soul, resignation to my fate follow ed. I began to think of death coolly, and to calculate how long I might survive before fa mine closed the hour of my existence. I pray ed that 1 might have fortitude to die without repining. Calmly as I then felt, I tried if I could remember how long man could live with out food. Thus the tranquility of my despair made me comparatively easy, if contrasted with the situation in which I felt myself afterwards when hope began to glimmer upon me. My days must in the end be numbered. I mut>t die at last—l was oidy perishing a little soon er than I otherwise must have done. Even from this thought I derived consolation ; and I now think life might have closed calmly up on me, if the pangs of liuuger had been at all bearable—and 1 had Iteen told that they are much more so than is commonly believed. If my memory serves me correctly, this calm state of mind did not last long. Reason soon began to whisper to mc that if I had been buried, and the earth closed around my coffin I should not be able to respire, which I could now do with case. I did not, of course, dreaui of the vault in which I was placed, but con sidered at first I had been buried in the earth. The freedom of respiration gave mc the idea that after all I was not carried forth for inter ment, but that 1 was about to be borne to the grave, aud that there I should be suffocated inevitably. Such is the inconsistency of the human mind that I, who had just now resigned myself to die by famine, imagined this momentary mode of death a hundred times more formidable.— The idea that I was not yet interred increased inv anxietv to be heard from without : I cull- Ed aloud, and struck the sides and lid of the coffin to no purpose, till I was hoarse and fa tigued, but all in vain. A stilly silence reign ed around me, amid the unbroken darkness.— I was now steeped in fearful agony. I shriek ed with horror. I plunged my nails into my thighs and wounded them. The coffin was soaked in ray blood ; and, by tearing the wooden sides of ray prison with the same ma niacal feeliug, I lacerated my fingers, and wore the nails to the quick, and soon became mo tionless from exhaustion. When I was my self once more, I called aloud my wife's name. I prayed, and I fear I blasphemed ; for I know not what I said ; and I thus continued uutil my strength again left me, and nature once more sought replenishment in temporary insensibility. At this time I had a vision of a most inde finable character, if it was oue, and not a glance, as I am induced to thiuk it was, be tween the portals of death into the world of spirits. It was all shapeless and formless.— Images of men, women, often numberless—in a sort of shadowy outline—came before nnd around me. They seemed as if lifeless from decay. Their featureless heads moved ujwu trunks hideously vital—iu figure-like bodies, which I have seen drawn forth from burned dwellings, eacli being rather a hideous mis shapen mass than human resemblance. Thick darkness and a silence succeed—the darkness and silence of a too horrible reality. If, as I suspected, I slept about this time from weakness, it was but to awake again to a more fearful consciousness of my dreadful situation. Fresh, but vaiu efforts to make myself heard were reiterated as far as my strength would allow. I found with great difficulty I could turn on my side, and then over. I tried, by lifting my back, and by a violent strain, to burst open the coffin lid, but the screws resisted my utmost strength. I could not, besides, draw up my knees, suffi ciently high to afford a tenth part of the pur chase I thould otherwise have made to bear upon it. I had no help but to return again to the position of the dead, and reluctantly gain a little agonizing repose from my exer tions. I was conscious how weak my efforts had made me, yet I resolved to repeat them. While thus at rest—if inactive torture could be denominated rest—l wept like a child, when I thought of the sunshine and blue skies and fresh air which I should uever en joy ; how living beings thronged the streets, and thousands round nie were joyous or busy while I was doomed to perish iu tortures.— Why was my fate differently marked out to that of others ? I had uo monstrous crimes to reivent of. Hundreds of criminal men were in the full revelry of life. I fancied I heard the toll of a bell. Breathless, I listened. It was a clock striking the hour. The sound was new life to me. "I am not inhumed, at leastl" such were my thoughts. " lutcrmeut will take place ; my coffin will be moved. I shall easily make myself heard then." Men may fancy how they would find them selves under similar circumstances, and on the like trying occasion ; but it is seldom a cor ' rect judgineut can be previously formed on | such matters. It was only at intervals that I ' was so fearfully maddened by my dreadful sit uation, as to lose the power of rational reflec . tion, or so overcome as to be debarred the fa j cnlty of memory. Stretched in a position I where my changes consisted only of a turn on | my side upon hard boards, the soreness of my limbs was excruciatingly painful. When I drew up my feet a few inches, my kuees press ed the cover, so that the slight shift of possi bility brought no relief. My impatience of the restraint in which I was kept, began at length to drive me well nigh to madness. I was fevered. My temples burned and throb bed, my tongue became dry, light flashed across my eyes, and my brain whirled round. I am certain that my existence was preserv ed solely by the diminished strength aud sub sequent feebleness which I experienced, and which, from its rendering me insensible to the increasing exacerbation of my braiu's heat, al lowed nature to resume her wonted tempera ment. But alas I this was only that I might revive to eucounter once more irremediable horror. Who could depict the frenzy, the unspeakable anguish of such a situation 1 I thought my eyes would start from my head.— Burning tears flowed down my cheeks. My heart was swollen almost to bursting. I be came restless in feeling without finding space for a fancied relief in a change of position.— In my mental anguish, at times, however, I forgot my motionless bodily suffering, my rack of immoveable agony. llow many hours I lay in this state of ac tive and passive torture I cannot tell. My thirst, however, soon became intolerable.— My mouth seemed full of hot ashes. I heard again the hollow sound of a clock bell, of no small magnitude judging from its deep intona tion. No cranny which I had hitherto observ ed in my prison let in light, though I well knew there must be some fissure for fresh air, for the contiuuancc of life so far. Ilow else had I existed ? It was night, perhaps, when I first eamc to myself in my prison of six dark boards. I grojied in vain for every part of their wooden surface which I could reach. I could find no chink, could sec no ray. Again I heard the hollow knell, which tended to increase ruy fear ful agony. Oh ! what were my feelings ? For a long time after this I lay steeped in my suf ferings—or at least for a long time as it seem ed to me. My head was bruised all over—my limbs were excessively sore—the skin rubbed off in many places with my struggling—my eyes aching with pain. I sought relief by turn ing on my right side—l had never before turn ed but on my left—when I felt under me a hard substance, which I had not before per ceived. 1 grasped it with same difficulty, and soon found it was a knot from the coffin plank which had been forced inwards in all proba bility after I was placed there, I saw also a dim light through a hole, just behind where my chin came. I put my head to it, and found it covered with coarse cloth, which I easily im agined was the lining <>f mv coffin 1 soon vol.. XV LI. —JNTO. i. contrived to force my finger through tliis cloth, though not without considerable difficulty.— Paint enough was the light it revealed, but it was a noon-day sun of joy to me. By an un easy strain of my neck, I could see obliquely through the oj>enii>g, but everything was con fused in my brain. My sight was cloudy, heavy, and thick.||fl at firstj could scarcely see there was light, hut eonld distinguish no object. My senses, however, seemed to sharpen as new hopes arose. I closed my eyes for a mi nute together, and then opened them, to restore their almost worn out power of vision At length I could distinguish that immediately ojr posite to me there was a small window crossed by massy iron bars, thro' which the light I sacv streamed in upon me like joy into the soul of misery. I now cried with delight. I ihought I was among men again, for the pitchy darkness around me was dispersed. I forgot for a mo ment my sufferings. Even the%earful ques tion, how should I get free from my durance before famine destroyed me, was a long time absent from my mind, and did not recur until I could look through the fissure no longer,from the giddiness caused by a too earnest fixedness of gaze. I soon concluded, from the massy stones on each side of the opening, and the 'strength of the bars, that I was in a church vault ; and this was confirmed when I came to distinguish the ends of two or three coffins which partly interposed between me and light. I watched the window until the light began to grow dim, with feelings no language can describe, "no tongue tell. As the gloom of night approach ed, my heart began to beat fainter, and my for mer agonies returned with tenfold weight, not withstanding which, I imagine I must have slept some. I was sensible of a noise like the grating of a heavy door upon its hinges, when I revived or awoke—l canuot say which— and I saw the light of a candle stream across the fissure in my coffin. I called out—" For the love of your soul, release me ! I am buried alive !" The light vanished in a moment ; fear seem ed to have palsied the hand that held it, for I heard a rough voice desire the holder of it to return. "If there's any one here he's soldered up. Tom, hand me the light. The dead never speak. Jim the Snatchcr is not to be scared by rotten flesh." Again I called as loud as I could—" lam bu ried alive, save me !" "Tom, bring thhc axe !" cried the undaun ted body snatcher ; the voice comes from this box. The undertaker made too great haste, I suppose." In a few minutes I was sitting upright in my coffin. Ever afterwards I cherished a st rong re gaid for resurrection meu, who never asked a guinea of me in vain. KISSINC. —The Rev. Sidney Smith once said in writing of kissing : "Wc arc in favor a a certain amount of shyness when a kiss is pro posed, but it should not be continued too long; and when the fair one gives it, let it be admin istered with warmth and energy. Let there be some soul in it. If she close her eyes and sigh deeply after it, the effect is greater. She should be careful not to slobber a kiss, but give it as a humming bird runs his bill into a honey suckle—deep, but delicate. There is much virtue in a kiss, when well delivered. We have had the memory of oue we received iu our youth which lasted us forty years, and we be lieve it will be one of the last things we will think ot when we die." SEVEN FOOI.S. — I. The envious man—who sends away his mutton because the person next to him is eating venison. 2. The jealous man—who spreads his bed with stinging nettles, and then sleeps in it. 3. The proud man—who gets wet through sooner than ride iu the carriage of an infe rior. 4. The litigious man—who goes to law in the hope of ruining his opponent, and gets ruined himself. 5. The extravagant, man—who buys a her ring, and takes a cab to carry it home. 6. The angry man—who learns the ophiclcide, because he is annoyed by the playing of his neighbor's piano. 7. The ostentatious man, who illumines the outside of his house most brilliantly, and sits in the inside iu the dark. DINNER OF A ROMAN EPICURE.—A dinner given by Vitellius to his brother, had, says Scntonius, jiortions of seven thousaud most choice birds in one dish, and of two thousand equally choice fishes in another. There stood in the centre a dish, called, from its enormous size, Minerva's buckler ; and of what compos ed, think vc ? Of the livers of sacri, the brains of pheasants and peacocks, the tongues of par rots and the bellies of lamprey eels, brought from Carpathia and the remotest parts of Spain iu ships of war scut out expressly for that purpose. "Good mind to pinch you, Sal,' ? said au awkward Jcrseyman on his first visit to his rustic flame. " What do you want to pich me for, 'Zekicl ?" " Gollv, 'cause I love you so." " Now, go long, Zekc, yon great hateful ! I should think you might be big enough to feel ridiculous." Men are like bugles—the more brass they contain, the farther you can hear them. Women are like tulips—the more modest and retired they npjicur, the better you love them. UST People turn up their noses at this world, as if they were in the habit of keeping compa ny with a better one. UfaT* Why is the new French baby like the tail of a herring ? Because it is the last of the fir )> 11-JI'I r'v
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers