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