Bradford reporter. (Towanda, Pa.) 1844-1884, February 12, 1857, Image 1

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(ElinrsNan fHornmp. irbrnarn 12. 1857.
Selcttcb soctrn.
Alone I walked on the ocean strand,
A pearly shell was in my hand,
' I stopped and wrote upon the sand
My name, the year and day ;
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast,
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my line away.
And so, mcthought, it will quickly be
With every mark on earth from me !
A wave of dark oblivion's sea
Will sweep across the place
Where I have trod the sandy shore
Of time, and be to me no more ;
Of me, my day, the name I bore,
To leave no traek or trace.
And yet with Him who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in his hands,
I know a lasting record stands,
Inscribed against my name ;
Of all this mortal part has wrought.
Of all this thinking soul has thought,
And from these fleeting moments caught,
For glory and for shame.
Sthtltb ©alt.
Till {plitsa£llf" > 3 SDlf.
On my last voyage to Bristol, the owners of
the ship took passige with me. The whole
cargo belonged to them, and they not only
widled to do some business in England, but
they also had a desire travel some. Besidss
the three owners, I had four passe users in the
cabin. The passage from New-York to Eng
land on that occasion was the most severe and
stormy I ever made. I have experienced hea
vier storms ; but never such continued hard
weather. The old ship was on a strain the
whole of the time, and though I run into Avon
without losing a life or important spar, yet
she had received much damage. Her main
mast was sprung, her rudder damaged, her
timbers strained, and for the last week, the
pumps had to be kept going all the time, own
ers, passengers, officers and all doing their
siiare of work at the brakes.
As soon us we could get the cargo out, the
ship was hauled into the dock for repairs, and
we found, upon examination, that it would be
a week before she could be fit for sea, and if
she had all the repairs which * she absolutely
needed, it would take her nearer two weeks.
A contract was make for the jo > and one of
the owners agreed to stay by and superintend
the work. This left me at iibertv, and I be
gan to look around for some place to visit. I
had heard much of Salsiburv Plain. Tne fa
mous stone hedge was there, and so were three
other relies of Roman and British antiquities.
Accordingly to the Salisbury Plain I resolved
to go. When I went on board the ship to
make arrangements with the owners who had
remained there, I found one of the passengers
just leaving. His name was Nathan Leeman.
He was a young man, not more than thirty
years of age, and I supposed him from his fea
*urc-s and idiom, to be an Englishman. I told
han I was going to Salisbury, and he informed
E" that he was going the same way.
Leeman had been intending to take the
c.i£e to Davizes, and then to take some of
the cross coaches ; but I had resolved to take
k !:nr*c and travel w here, and how, and when
I pleased, and he liked the plan so well that
he went immediately and bought himself a good
torso and saddle.
I was about the middle of the forenoon
ben we set out, and I found that Leeman in-:
tended to vi-it the curiosities with me, and
'Ami keep 011 toward London, bv the way of
Andovi r and Chertsay, he having sent his
baggage on ahead to Salisbury by the great
Qai! route, which ran many miles out of the
*' l , T I found my companion excellent compa-1
and on the way he told me some passages
• >ui Ins own life. He was born in England, i
h-t tins was the first time he had been in the
I sngdotn since lie was fourteen years of age,
I Md J was led to infer that at the time he ran
I "ay from his parents. During the last six j
I [-ars of his residence in the United States he
I |'n en engaged in Western land speculations, i
I ,r ' ( lhe was now independently rich.
I We took dinner at Bradford, a large manu- j
•"•"t iring town, six nvles southeast of Hath,
M soon as our horses were rested we set out
:uin Towards the middle of the afternoon
'J began to grow overcast, and we had
P-omise of a storm. By live o'clock the great
| were piled up in heavy masses, and it
rran to thunder. At Warmiuister we had
•Vn the direct road for Amesbury, a distance
miles, and when the storm had
■'•'li upon us we were about half way be
the two [daces. I was in no particular
' -""v. and 11s I had no desire to get wet, I
that we should stop at the first pluce
CarDe to. In a few moments more we came
,' r a point where a small cross road turned off
J, "' right, and a guide-board said it was five
7 to Dej.tford Inn.
j l' rr T° v, d that we should turn into thishy
a ""'kc f° r Deptford Inn as fast aspos
and my conijianioii readily assented. We
a mile when the great drops of rain
v"> to fall ; 1 Mit as good fortune would have
; "• espied a small cottage, not more than a
"head, through a clump of poplars.—
* ade for this [dace, and reached it before
v'''''' Vlt "'ere was a good si fed barn on
and a long sheep shed connected
•f" the Beneath this shed we drove,
V'f as We a ''ghted, an old man came out.
lor;! ' i ' ,n that we had got caught in a
v . and a>ked him if he could accommodate
',' tr fight. He told us we should have
hi* humble place could afford, and : f
we would put up with him that we should be
As soon as the horses were taken care of,
we followed the old man into the house. He
was a grey-headed man, certainly on the down
hiil side of three scores, and his form was bent
by hard work. His countenance was naturally
kind and benevolent, but there were other
marks upon his brow than those of old age.—
The moment I saw him I knew he had seen
much of suffering. It was a neat room to
which we were led, a living room, but yet free
from dirt and clutter. An old woman was just
building a fire for supper, and as we entered
she arose front her work.
"Some travelers, wife, caught in a shower,"
said the old man.
" Surely, gentlemen, you're welcome," the
woman said in a tone so mild and free that
I knew she spoke only the feelings of her
" It's poor fare that we can give you, but
the heart of the giver must e'eu make up for
1 thanked the good people and assured
them I would pay them well tor all they did
for us.
" Speak not of pay," said the woman taking
her tea kettle from the hob, and hanging it
upon the crane.
" Stop wife," uttered the old man, tremulous
ly. " Let not your heart run away with ye. If
the good gentlemen have to spare out of
their abundance, it becomes not such sufferers
! as we to refuse their bounty."
I saw the woman place her apron to her
eyes, but she made no reply. The door, close
i by the fire-place, stood partly open, and I saw
! in the room beyond, a bed, and I was sure
| there was some one in it. I asked the old rnau
I if he had sickness.
" Yes," he said, with a sad shake of the
head. "My poor bov has been sick a long
while. He's the only child I have—the only
helper on the little farm, and he's been sick ail
the spring and summer. I've taken care of
the sheep, but couldn't lant. It's hard, hut
we don't despair. My good wife—God bless
her—shares the trial with me ; and I think
she takes the biggest share."
" No, no, don't say so," uttered the wife.—
"No woman could do the work rhut you do."
" I don't mean to tell too much, .Margaret,
only you know that you have kept me up."
A cull from the sick room took the wife
away, and the old man begun to tell me, in
answer to my questions, some of the peculiari
ties of the great Plain, for we were on it now;
and I found him well informed and intelligent.
At length the table was set, the clean white
cloth spread, and we were invited to sit up.— !
We had excellent white bread, sweet butter, :
some fine stewed damsons, and a capital cup
of tea. There were no excuses, no apologies—
only the food was before us, and we were urg- i
ed to help ourselves. While we were eating,
the rain ceased falling, but the weather was by
no means clear, though just as we moved from
the table a gleam of golden light shot through j
the window from the setting sun.
It may have been half ah hour after this—
it was not more than that—when a wagon
drove up to the door in which were two men.
The old man had just come in from the barn,
and it was not so dark but we could see the
faces of the men in the wagon. They were
middle aged men, one of them habited in a
sort of jockey hunting garb, and the other
dressed in black clothes, with that peculiar
style of hat and cravat which marks the offi
cer. I turned towards our hast for the pur
pose of asking if he knew the new comers, and
I saw he was very pale and trembling. A low
deep groan escajied him, and in a moment!
more his wife moved to his side, and put her !
arm about his neck. She had been trembling, I
but the groan of her husband seemed to call
her to herself.
" Don't fear, John," she softly said. They
can't take away our love, nor our souls. Cheer
up. I'll be a support to ye, John, when all
else are gone."
A tear rolled down the old man's cheek, but
when another started he wiped it away, and
having kissed his wife, he arose from his chair.
Just then the two men entered. He in the
jockey coat came first, and his eyes rested up- j
on Leeman and myself.
" Only some travelers, Mr. Vaughan," said
our host.
So Mr. Vaughn turned his gaze elsewhere
about the room, aud at length it was fixed up
on the old man.
" Well," he said, " what about the rent ?"
" We haven't a penny of it, yet, sir," answer
ed the host, trembling.
" Not a penny. Then how'll you pay me
twenty pounds ?"
" Twenty pounds 1" murmured the old man,
painfully. " Alas, I cannot*pay it. You know
Walter has been long sick and every penny I
could earn has been paid the doctor. Yon
know he wus to have earned the reutif he had
been well."
'• I don't know anything about it," returned
the landlord doggedly—for Mr. Vaughan own
ed the little farm, it afterwaids appeared. "All
I know is, that you have had the house and
land, and that for two whole yeirsyou haven't
paid me a penny. You know I told you a
month ago that you should have just one month
to pay me. That month was up last night.—
Can you pay me ?"
" No 1 No !—O, God knows I can't.
" Then you leave the house."
" When ?"
" To-night !"
" You do not mean that. Yon will not turn
us out so quickly as—"
'• Out upon your prattling 1 What do you
mean by that ? Yon had notice a month ago.
How long a notice do you I give '( If
you haven't had time in a month to move,
then you must look out for the consequences.
To-night you move ! It you want a shelter
you may go iuto the old house at horse
" But there is no window in it."
" Beggars shouldn't be choosers," remarked
Mr. Vaoghun. "If it hadn't been for hunting
up the officer, I should have been here this
morning. But 'tisn't tuy fault. Now I can
have a good tenant right off, and he wants the
house to-morrow. So there is not a word to
be said. I shall take you' - two cows and your
sheep, and if they go "for more than twenty
pounds after takiug the expenses, you shall
have the balance back."
The poor peasant gazed for a moment half
wildly, into the landlord's face, and then sank
into a chair, and covered his face with his
" My cows ! my sheep !" he groaned, spas
modically. " Oh, kill me, and have done with
it !"
" I God's name, Mr. Vaughan," cried the
wife, " spare us them. We will leave the cot
and will work with all our might and strength
until we pay you every farthing, but do not
take away our very means of life. My poor
boy will surely die 1 O, you are rich, and we
are poor 1"
" Nonsense 1" uttered the unfeeling rrpin.—
" I'm used to such stuff. I make a living bv
renting ray farms, and this farm is the best one
I have. A good man can lay up more than
ten pounds a year here."
" But we have been sick," urged the wo
" That isn't my fault. If you are paupers
you know where to go to get taken care of.—
Now, I don't want another word. Out you go,
to-night, unless you pay me twenty pounds, and
your cows and sheep go, too."
I was just up"n the point of turning to my
companion to ask him if he would not help
me to make up that sum, for I was determin
ed that the poor folks should not be turned out
thus. The woman sunk down, and she, too,
had covered her face with her hands. At that
moment Nathan Leeiuan sprang to his feet.—
His face was very pale, and for the first time
I saw that tears had been running down his
" Look ye, sir," he said to Vaughan, " how
much do these people owe you ?"
" Twenty pounds," returned he, regarding
his interlocutor sharply.
" And when did this amount come due in
the year ?"
"It was just due one month ago. The
rent is twelve pounds, but I allowed him
four pounds for building a bridge over the
" Show me the bill."
The man pulled out a large leather pocket
book, and from it took u bill. It was receipt
ed. Leeniau took out his j>urse, aud counted
out twenty gold sovereigns.
" I believe that settles the matter, sir," my
companion said, exerting all his powers to ap
jiear calm.
" Yes, sir," returned Vaughan, gazing first
upon the man who had given him the money,
to see if he was in earnest, and then turning to
the window to see if the gold was jmre.
" Yes, sir," he repeated, " this makes it all
" Then I suppose we can remain here undis
" But I have no surety of any pay for the
future. A month has already run on an un
paid term."
" It is right yon should have your jiay sure
ly. Come tomorrow, sir, and I will arrange
it with you—only leave us now."
Mr. Vaughan cast one more glance about
the room, but without speaking further, he
left, and the officer had to follow him, without
having done anything to earn a fee. As soon
as they were gone the old man started to his
" Sir," he uttered, turning towards Leeman,
" what means this ? Do you think I can ever
pay you back again ?"
" Sometime you can," returned my compan
" Yes—yes, John," saiu the wife, "sometime
we shall surely pay him."
" Alas I when ?"
" Any time within a month will answer,"
said Leeman.
But the old people looked aghast.
" Oh, you have planted more misery for us,
kind sir." cried the old man. "We could have
borne to be stripped of our goods by the land
lord better than w can bear to rob a noble
friend. You must take-our stock—our cows
and sheep."
" But not yet," resumed Leeman. " I have
another way. Listen : Once you had a boy—
a wild, reckless, wayward child."
" Yes," murmured the old man.
" And what became of him ?"
For some moments the father was silent,but
at length said :
" Alas ! he fled from home some years ago.
One night—we lived then far off herein North
amptonshire—my boy joined with a lot of oth
er youths, most of them were older than him
self, aud went into the yard of Sir Thomas
Boyle and carried away two deer. He was de
tected, and to escape punishment, he fled, and 1
have not seen him since. But Sir Thomas would
not have punished him, for he told me so af
" And tell me, John Leeman, did you never
hear from that boy ?"
" Never," answered the old man.
As soon as I heard my companion pronounce
the old man's name, the truth flashed upon me
in an instant ; aud I was not alone in my con
viction. The quick ear of the mother hud
caught the spark of hope and love. At that
moment the fire upon the hearth blazed up,
and as the light poured out into the room, my
companion's face was fully revealed. The wo
man arose, and walked towards him. She laid
her hand upou his head, and tremblingly she
whispered :
" For the love of Heaven don't deceive me.
But speak to me—let me call you Nathan—
Nathan Lcrman /"
" And I for that is my name,"
spoke the young man, starting up.
" And what would you call me ?" the wo
man gasped.
" My mother 1"
The fire gleamed more brightly upon the
hearth, and I saw that aged woman upon the
bosem of her lost boy. And then I saw the
father totter op and join them—and I heard
murmured words of blessing and of joy. I
arose aud slipped out of the room and went f o
the bftrti ; when I got there I took out my
handkerchief and wiped the tears from my
It was an hour before I returned, and then
I found all calm and serene, save that the mo
ther was still weeping, for the head of her re
turned boy was still resting upon her shoulders,
and her arm was about his neck. Nathan arose
as I entered, and with a smile he bade me be
" You know all, as well as I can tell you,"
said he. " When we first stopped here I had
no idea of finding my parents here ; for when
I went away sixteen years ago, I left them in
Kingsthrope, upon the Ken. I knew them, of
course, but I wished to see if they would
know me. But from fourteen to thirty is a
changing period. I think God sent me here,"
he added in a low tone, " for only think what
curious circumstances have combined to send
It did truly seem as though some power
higher than our own had brought this all
about. But at all events, there was a higher
power thought of that night beneath the
peasant's cot, for God was praised again and
On the following morning I resumed my
journey alone, but had to promise that I would
surely call on my return. I went to Salisbu
ry, from thence to Winchester, and thence to
Portsmouth, to see the great ships of war. I
returned to the cot in eight days, and spent a
night there. Money possessed some strong
charms, for it had not only given the poor
peasant a sure home for the' rest of his life, but
it had brought health to the sick boy. An
experienced physician from Salisbury had visi
ted him and he was able to be about. I re
mained long enough to know that an earthly
heaven had grown up in that cot Nathan
Leeman said to nie that he had over a hun
dred thousand dollars, and that he should
take his parents and brother to some luxu
rious home, when he could find one suited to
his taste.
That was some years ago. I have received
some letters from Leeman since, and he is set
tled down in the suburbs of Bradford, on the
banks of the Avon, where he has bought a
large share in several of the celebrated cloth
factories in that place, and I am under solemn
promise to visit him if I ever land in England
THE TWO ROADS. —It was New Years's
night. An aged man was standing at a win
dow. He mournfully raised his eyes towards
the deep blue sky, where the stars floating like
white lillies on the surface of a clear calm lake.
Then he cast them on the earth, where few
more helpless beings than himself were moving
towards their inevitable goal—the tomb. Al
ready he had passed sixty of the stages which
lead to it, and he had brought from his jour
tiey nothing but errors and remorse. His
health was destroyed, his mind unfurnished,
his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of
Tlie days of his youth rose up io a vision be
fore him, and lie recalled the solemn moment
when his father had placed him at the entrance
of two roads, one leading into a peaceful, sun
ny land, covered with a fertile harvest, and re
sounding with soft, sweet songs ; while* the
other conducted the wanderer into a deep,
dark cave whence there was no issue, where
poison flowed instead of water, and where the
serpents hissed and crawled.
lie looked towards the sky, and cried out,
in his anguish :—" 0, youth* return ! O, ray
father, place me on e more at the crossway of
life, that I may choose the better road !" But
the days of his youth had passed away, and
his parents were with the departed. He saw
wandering lights float over dark marshes, and
then disappear. " Such," he said, "we e the
days of my wasted life !" He saw a star shoot
from heaven, and vanish in darkness athwart
the church-yard. " Behold an emblem of my
self !" he exclaimed ; and the sharp arrows of
unavailing remorse struck him to the heart.
Then he remembered his early companions,
who had entered life with him, but who, hav
ing trod the paths of virtue and industry, were
now happy and honored on this New Year's
night. The clock in the high church-tower
struck, and the sound falling on his ear recall
the many tokens of the love of his parents for
him, their erring son ; the lessons they had
taught him ; the prayers they had offered up
in his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and
grief, he dared no longer look towards that
heaven where they dwelt. His darkened eyes
dropped tears, and with one despairing effort
he cried aloud, "Coiue back, my early daya 1
Come back !"
And his youth did return ; for all this had
been hut a dream, visiting his slumbers on New
Year's night. He was still young ; his errors
only were no dream. He thanked God fer
vently that time was still his own ; that he had
not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that
he was free to tread the road leading to the
peaceful land where sunny harvests wave.
Ye who still live on the threshold of life,
doubting which path to choose, remember that
when years shall be passed, and your feet shall
stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry
bitterly, but cry in vain, " O, youth, return 1
O, give ine back my early days !"— Richltr.
TOUCHING A RAW PI.ACE.—A Justice of the
Peace, meeting a minister mounted on a fine
horse, peevishly asked him why he did not
ride on a donkey or ass, in imitation of his
humble Master ? " One important reason is,"
returned the minister, " that at this time they
are scarce, having been transformed by an all
wise Providence, into magistrates."
J. P. incontinently left.
BsS- Julia —Now Alfred dear, T mnst leave
you. lam übout to shut myself out from the
Alfredr- Why, in the name of madness, Jn
lia, you are not thinking of retiring into a con
vent ?
Julia —Xo, dear, don't alarm yonrself. I
am only going to put on my new crinoline
dress 1
An Arkansas Joke.
An Arkansas correspondent of the Xew Or
leans Picayune tells the following pood one :
In early times, in a county not far off, those
country dram-shops were common, as they were
all over the State, where the b'hoys met every
Saturday evening to shoot for whiskey and get
drunk ; and cool off with a fight or two. On
one of these occasions a big strapping six-foot
er full of " bust head" and Dutch courage,hav
ing been beat at the mark by another, slapped
his fists together, and swore he was "spiling
for a fight," and could whip any man who could
beat him shooting.
This was not noticed by the man for whom
it was intended. That of course, made him
braver and madder. He roared ont :
" I kiu whip any blink-eyed sucker who kiu
beat me shooting—whoop ee !"
The man aimed at still said nothing.
Six-footer here Hied over—so he walked
i right up to him, shook his fists in his face, and
said :
" You kin shoot, kin you ? but you dar n't
to fight me—l'm a unanimous hor'sse 1 Whoo
pee 1"
The man addressed still said nothing.
Six-footer roared again the louder, and said
he must have a fight if he had ' to buy it.'
" Look 'ere ! Slickemgoeasy, you'll give me
a far fight I'll give you a cow and calf."
Slickem deliberately began to strip. Say 3
he, " if thar's anything to be made I'm in."—
Six-footer turned a little pale—couldn't back
down now—struck a ring—pitched in, and Six
footer got most confoundedly and soundly
thrashed. Rose, shook the dirt off and swore
he wouldn't pay, " for 'twarn't in the bargain
he was to be swolloped."
Slickem said, " I'll sue you."
" Sue away !'' said Six-footer ; and mounted
his bear-skin and rode off.
Slickem went to the county seat, saw a law
yer, and told him his case ; lawyer told him it
was a good case, and he would gain it for him ;
told him to make out an account " for labor
done," and sue before a justice of the peace.
He did so ; justice of the peace gave judgment
for plaintiff, and ordered the constable todrive
the cow and calf to him. Here it rested. The
defendant was heard to say :
" Well, I reckon that mout be law, but my
losing that cow and calf all come o' my not
kivering all the pints in the trade, I 'spose 1"
introduction of machii hry and steam the old
system of purifying and refining sugar with ani
mal albumen, in the form of bullock's blood,
which formed a new source of deterioration in
the sugar, has been superseded. The raw su
gar from the West and East Indies is chiefly
imported in cases ; from Jamaica, St. Domin
go and St. Croix, in hogsheads ; from Manilla
and Mauritius, in double sacks, plaited or wo
ven from the leaves of reeds. The quality va
ries in degrees, from white Havana to the dark
brown, moist and sticky. The more coarsely
granular, the harder, drier and whiter, the
greater is the value of the sugar. The first
operation of the refiner after removing the su
gar from the hogsheads, boxes, &c., is dissolv
ing the sugar in a pan by means of steam pas
sing through a perforated pipe in the bottom
of the pan. The color is then extracted from
the solution by means of chemical and mechani
cal means, when it is passed to what is known
as the vacuum pans, heated by steam, for the
purpose of being boiled. By this means the
liquor is so concentrated that the sugar is only
held in solution by the high temperature, so
on cooling a rapid crystalization takes place,
which produces that uniform fine grain, such
as is required in loaf sugar. The syrup, after
boiling sufficiently, is poured into the moulds,
which are of the funnel or sugar-loaf form, for
the purpose of assisting the separation of the
mother liquor. The syrup or liquor which runs
from the mould is again boiled, from which the
lower grades of sugar is produced. The syrup
coming from this second process is sold for mo
lasses. The production of molasses is about
one-fifth from each hogshead. To produce
fine grain or irregular conglomeration of crys
tals, the liquor must be poured into the moulds
at a certain temperature, just when the crys
tals have begun to form, and as the liquor leaves
the vaccum-pan at too low a temperature, for
the purpose, it is heated up in a vessel, fur
nished with a falsr bottom for the admission
of steam, and then cooled to the granulating
point in vessels capable of holding the entire
quantity of liquor boiled in a day. As the
temperature falls, the formation of crystals of
too large a size is prevented by stirring. The
larger the bulk of syrup the slower is the cool
ing, and the more regular the crystalization.
ECONOMY OF THE ARTS. —The horseshoe nails
dropped in the streets, carefully collected, re
appear in the form of swords and gnus. The
clippings of tinker's shops, mixed with the
pairings of horses hoofs, or cast-off woolen gar
ments, appear afterwards in the form of dyes
of the brighest blue, in the dress of courtly
dames. The bones of dead animals yield the
chief constituents of lucifef matches—phospho
rus. The dregs of port wine, carefully reject
ed by the port wine drinker in decanting his
favorite beverage, are taken by him in the
form of Seidlitz powders. The washings of
coal gas reappear carefully preserved in the
ladies' smelling bottle as an ammoniacal salt.
ADVERSITY exasperates fools, dejecta cow
ards, draws out the faculties of the wise and
ingenious, puts the modest to the necessity of
trying their skill, awes the opulent, and makes
the idle industrious Much may he said in fa
vor of adversity ; tot the worst of it is it has
no frieud.
ISF" TIME subserves all uses, bnt we do not
always know how to regulate it. Light as a
feather—weighty as a stone—brief as a mo
ment—tedious as ages—-we are varioosly affec
ted by it.
TIME AND ATB. —Time, like air, is invisible,
Bnd must b- estimated bv its uses and effects.
VOL. XVII. NO. 36.
From Talleyrand's Aphorisms.
Our welcome of a stranger depends upon the
name he bears—upon the coat he wears ; our
farewell upon the spirit he has displayed in the
There is so great a charm in friendship,that
there is even a kind of pleasure in acknow
ledging ourself duped by the sentiment it in
Unbounded modesty is nothing more than
nnavowed vanity ; the too humble obeisance is
sometimes a disguised impertinence.
The reputation of a man is like his shadow—
gigantic when it precedes him, and pigmy in its
proportions when it follows.
Beauty, devoid of grace, is a mere hook with
out the bait
He win cannot feel friendship is alike in
capable of love. Let a woman beware of the
man who owns that he loves no one but her
The Count de Coigny possesses wit and tal
ent, but his conversation is fatiguing, because
his memory is equally exact in quoting the
date of the death of Alexander the Great,and
that of the Princess de Guemonee's poodle.
To contradict and argue with a total stran
ger, is like knocking at a gate to ascertain if
there is any one within.
The love of glory can only create a hero ;
the coutempt of it creates a great man.
The errors of great men, and the good deeds
of reprobates, should not be reckoned in our
estimates of their respective characters.
It is sometimes quite enough for a man to
feign ignorance of that which lie knows, to
gain the reputation of knowing that of which
he is ignorant.
Both erudition and agriculture ought to be
encouraged by government ; wit and manufac
tures will come of themselves.
Too much sensibility creates uuhappiness ;
too much insensibility creates crime.
It is an attribute of true philosophy, never
to force the progress of truth and reason, but
to wait till the dawn of light ; meanwhile, the ,
philosopher may wander into hidden paths,but
he will never depurt from the main track.
A generous man will place the benefits he
coufers beneath his feet—those he receives,
nearest his heart.
If yon wish to appear agreeable in society,
you must consent to be taught many things
which you know already.
To succeed in the world, it is ranch more ne
cessary to possess the penetration to discover
who is a fool, than to discover who is a clever
Experience teaches us indulgence; the wisest
man is he who doubts his own judgment with
regard to the motives which actuate his fellow
There are many vices which do not deprive
as of friends ; there are many virtues which
prevent our having any.
Nothing succeeds so well as success.
The " point of honor" can often be made to
produce, by moans of vauity, as many good
deeds as virtue.
More evil truths are discovered by the cor
ruption of the heart than by the penetration
of the mind.
Schismatic wranglers are like a child's top,
noisy and agitated when whipped, quiet and
motionless when left alone.
The rich man despises those who flatter him
too much, aud hates those who do uot flatter
him at all.
ESNCI. —Nine-tenths of the miseries and vi
ces of mankind proceed from indolence and
idleness. Persons who have naturally active
minds—whose " quick thoughts like lightning
are alive " —are most perniciously affected by
the evils of sloth. The favored sons of ge
nius, endowed with great original powers, were
not made for repose ; indolence will quickly
" freeze the genial current of the soul," and if
left idle long, they perish from inaction, like a
scimitar corroded and destroyed by rust. Put
the active occupation of our faculties is a safe
guard against these great evils, vice, penury
and desponding gloom. Says Colton, " ennui
has made more gamblers than avarice, more
drunkards thaq thirst, and more suicides than
despair." ]f we would be both useful and hap
py, we must keep ourselves industriously and
virtuously employed. Old Pumbiedikes was
wise in charging his son to " be aye sticking
in a tree when he had naething else to do."—-
Count de Caylus, a French nobleman, being
born to wealth and princely idleness, turned
his attention to engraving, and made many
fine copies of antique gems. One of the no
bility demanded from him a reason for this
procedure, and was told by the industrious
Count, " I engrave, that I may not hang my
time is for occupation ; the past for contem
plation ; the future for anticipation. "Some,"
says Fuseli, " confine their views to the pre
sent ; some extend it to futurity. The butter
fly rouud the meadows ; the eagle crosses tho
seas." •
MAKING CANNON. —An Irishman being ask
ed if he knew how cannons are made, replied :
" Av coorse I do ; they make a long liolo
and thin pour brass around it."
JB6T" An editor out west calls on maidens
to take courage, because the census shows
that there are half a million more men than
women in the United States.
POF.TRY. —It is the gift of poetry to hallow
every place in which it moves ; to breathe
round nature an odor more exquisite than the
perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint
more magical than the blnsh of morning.
BrAinrri. Snm,r—Horace Mann compared
the death of an infant to a bird strnck down
by a fowler in the midst of his morning song
aSrllsppinesß is a perfume that one cannot
shed ov. r another without a few drops falling
on one's self