ONE DOLLAR °ER ANNUM INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE.
TOAVANDA :
Thursday Morning, April 11, 1861. .
Stlttiti
GONE AWAY.
I see the farm house, re J anil old,
Above its roof the maples sway ;
The hills behind are bleak and cold ;
The wind eoracs up aud dies away.
I gaze into each empty room,
And as I gaze a gnawing pain
1 in my heart, at thought of those
" Who ne'er will pass the doors again.
\nd strolling down the orchard slope.
(So wide a likeness grief will crave.)
Each dead leaf seems a withered hope,
Each mossy hillock looks a grave.
They will not hear mc if I call ;
Thev will not sec these tears that start ,
'Tis sutumn—autumn wiih it all
And worse than autumn in my heart.
0 leaves, so dry, and dead, and sore 1
I can recall some happier hours.
When summer's glory lingered thre,
\nd summer's beauty touched the tlowers.
Adown the slope a slender shape
Danced lightly, with her Hying curls.
An I manhood's deeper tones were blent
With the gay laugh of happy girls. . j
O stolen meetings at the gate .
0 liugerings at the opeu door !
0 nw"nfigl>t rambles, long and late !
MY heart can scarce believe them o'er.
Anil vet the si'ence, strange and still,
The air r f sadness and decay,
The moss that grows upon the sill—
Ves, love and hope have gone away!
So like, so l ike a worn out heart !
Whi h the last tenant finds too cold,
And leaves, for evermore, as tiiey
Have left this homestead, red and old.
foor empty house 1 poor lonely heart !
'Twere well if 1 ravely, side by side,
You waited till the hand of Time
liach ruin's mossy wreath supplied.
1 lean upon the gate, and sigh
Some bitter tears will force their way ;
And then 1 bid the place good bye
For many a loDg and weary day.
1 cross the little ice-bound brook,
(lu summer 'tis a noisy stream.)
Turn round to take a last fond look,
And all has taT-d like a dream.
y — 1 11 "■* -
j? 1Itctti S ale♦
'COBWEBS
Ilist look there !"
f The speaker was one of two young men,
r'io had come up to the mountains on a pe
destrian and sketching expedition from the
I ttvof Philadelphia. As tie spoke, lie laid his
I bud on his companion's arm. The person he
addressed looked, and saw a little girl, about
ten years old, advancing in an old blackberry
path. She was as brown as a berry from ex
posure to tbo sun, and her feet and arms were
hare, hut there was a grace about her, as she
came tripping forward, that a princess might
have envied. Ju>t in front of her a spider had
spun his trap across the path, and as the young
man spoke, shu sligtly stopped her head, and
raising her hands pushed the cobwebs aside.—
It was this artless, natural movement which
completed the picture
" 1 should like to paint her," said he who
had spoken.
" What ! love at first sight ?" answered his
companion, laughing "To think of the fast
idious Clarence losing his Heart to a sunburnt j
fairy i Vou are eighteen, and she about teu
—oh ! you can afford to wait."
The conversation had been carried on in
whispers. The child, still advancing, had by
, this time come opposite to the two young men.
Qj seeing them she stopped and stared curious- j
'it them,as a young deer that had never been
"•ted may be supposed to stop and regard the
f">t stranger that enters the forest. Her
bright, speaking face, as she thus stood gruce
'u'iy arrested, was not less beautiful, in its way
tiian her lithe figure.
"My dear," said the last speaker, "would
you like to be made into a picture ? My friend
bere is a painter, and will give you a dollar if
if you will let him sketch you."
The girl looked from the speaker to his
friend. Something in the latter's face seemed
to restore the natural confidence which the
free-and-easy air of the other had for the mo
jnentshaken. She drew closely up to him, as
if for protection.
"I have read of pictures," she said, gazing
H p in his face, " but never saw one. Is it a real
picture of me you will make ?"
Hie artless appealing of tlie child went to
the young man's heart. He would as soon
hate joined in bantering her as in bantering a
sister. He took her hand as he replied, " I
make as good a picture of you as I can,
if you wilt let me—a picture like one of these"
ftn; i he opened his portfolio, which contained ,
furious sketches.
Oh ! how beautiful !" cried the child. It j
'as evident that a new world had opened to
She gazed breathlessly at sketch after
f *eteh till the last had been exauiiued, and
then heaved a deep sigh.
I'lease, sir," said she timidly, at last, "will !
me ni y picture when you have paint-
No!" interposed the other young man,
wo will give you a dollar."
' S; ie turned on the speaker, let go the hand
'be had been holding, and drew herself up
s idden haughtiness.
I do not want your dollar," she said, with
P r oud dclicacv. She was turning to escape,
ie ji the artist, recovering her hand, said
not ungly, "never mind him, my dear, I will
two pictures, and give you one. Come,
*'ll that do?"
Reassured, the child took the position in
*ted to her, and Clareuce Harvard, for
THE BRADFORD REPORTER.
that was the young artist's name, began rapid
ly painting. Before toon, two hasty sketches
iu oil were finished.
" There," lie said, drawing a long breath,
" vou have been as quiet as a little mouse,and
lam a thousand times obliged to you. Take
that home," and he handed her the sketch,
" and may be, some of these days, you will
think of him who gave it to you."
" That I will, all my life long," artlessly
said the child, rapturously gazing on her new
possession with an enthusiasm partly born of
the artist-soul within her, and partly the
result of a child's pride iu what is its own es
pecial property.
"Oh 1 yes," interposed the other yonth,
"you will promise to be his wife some day,
won't yon, Miss Cobwebs?".
The child's eyes flashed as she turned on the
speaker. Iler iustinct, from the first, had
made he dislike the sneering man. She
stamped her pretty foot, and retorted, sauci
ly, " I'll never be yours, at any rate, you old
snapping-turtle and. as if expecting to have
her ears boxed, if caught, she darted away,
disappearing rapidly dowu the path whence
she had come.
Clarence Harvard broke into a merrv laugh
in which, after a moment of anger, his compan
ion joined him.
" You deserve it richly," said Clarence; "it's
f a capital nickname, too; I shall call you noth
clse, after this, than snappingturtle."
" Hang the little jade !" was the reply.—
! "One wouldn't think she was so smart. But
what a shrew she will make ! 1 pity the clod
hopper she marries; she'll bet peck him out of
all peace, and aeud him to an eaily grave."
Nothing more was said, for at that moment
a dinner horn sotit ded.and the young men rose
to return to the read-side inn where they had
stopped the night before. Their time was lim
ited, and that evening,knap-sacks on back, they
were miles away froai the scene of the morn
ing. A week later they were both home in
. the city, Clarence hard at work perfecting
: himself in his art, and his companion delving
I at Coke and Blackstone.
I Years passed. Clarence Ilavard had risen
i to be an artist of eminence. His pictures were
the fashion; he was the fashion himself. Occa
' sionally, as he turned over his older sketches,
he would coine upon " Cobwebs," as he was
, accustomed, laughingly, to call the sketch of
the child; and then for a moment lie would
wonder what had become of the original; but
except on these rare occasions, he never even
thought ot her.
Not so with the child herself. Nellie Bray
was a poor orphan, the daughter of a decayed
gentleman, who, after her father's death, had
been adopted by a maternal uncle, living on
a wild, upland farm among the Alleghanies.
Her childhood, from her earliest recollection,
had been spent amid the drudgery of a farm.
This rude hut free life had given her the springy
step aud ruddy cheek,which hail attracted tiie
yu.ung artist's attention, but it had failed to
satisty the higher aspirations of her nature —
aspirations which had been born iu her blood
j aud which came ot generations of antecedent
culture. The first occasion on which these
higher impulses had fouud congenial food was
when she had met the young arti.st. 81ie car
ried the sketch home, aud would never part
with it. His refined, intellectual face, liauut
;ed all her day dreams. From that hour, a
new clement entered into her life ; she became
conscious that there were other people beside
the dull, plodding ones with whom her lot had
been ca>t ; she aspired to rise to the level of
such; ail her leisure hours were spent in study
ing; gradually.througb her influence,her uncle's
household grew core or less refined; and, final
ly, her uncle himself became ambitions for
Nellie, and, as he had no children, consented,
at his wife's entreaty, to send the young girl
to a lir.-t class boarding school.
At eighteen the barefooted rustic, whom j
the young artist had sketched, had dawned j
into a beautilul aud accomplished woman,who
after having carried off the highest prizes at
| school, w as the belle of the* country town, near
] which her uncle's possessions lay. For, mean-1
time, that uncle had been growing rich, like j
most prudent farmers, partly from the judici
ous investments of his savings. But, in spite
of her many suitors, Nelly hud never yet seen
a face that appeared to her half so handsome
as the manly one of the young artist, whose
kind, gentle words and manner, eight years be
fore, had lived in her memory ever since.—
Often, after a brilliant company,where she had
been queen of the evening, she found herself
woudering, in her chamber, if she should ever
see that lace again.
" Are you going to the ball next week ?" said
one of Nellie's friends to her. " They say it is
to be the most splendid affair we have ever
had. My brother tells me that Mr. Mow
bray, the eloquent lawyer from Philadelphia,
who is in the great case here, is to be pre
sent.'"
" I expect to go," was the answer. " But
Mr. Mowbray being there won't be the indu
cement."
" Oh, you are so beautiful, you can afford to
be indifferent. Bat all the other girls are dy
• ing at the very thought."
The ball came off, and was really superb.—
j Mr. Mowbray was there, too, with all bis lau
rels. The "great case," which had agitated
i the county for so many months, had been con
■ eluded that very day, and been decided in
; favor of his client. No such speech as Mr.
■ Mowbray's, it was universalfy admitted, had
ever been heard in the court house. Its alter
nate wit and argument had carried the jury by
storm, so that they had given a verdict with
-1 out leaviusr the box. The young lawyer,at that
ball, was like a hero fresh from the battle
field. A hundred eyes followed his form, a
hundred lair bosoms beat quicker as he ap
proached. But be saw only one in all that
brilliant assembly—and it was Nellie. Iler
graceful form, her intelligent face, her style
aud beauty, arrested him the moment he en
tered; be saw that she had no peer in the room
and be devoted himself to her almost exclusi
vely, throughout tbo eveDiDg.
Nor bad Nellie ever shone so brilliantly.—
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY AT TOWANDA, BRADFORD COUNTY, PA., BY R. W. STURROCK.
She could not but feci that it was a great
compliment to be thus singled/iut from among
so many. But she had hud another motive for
exerting herself to shine. At the very first
j glance, she recognized in Mr. Mowbray the
companion of the artist who had ,-ketched her
eight years back In hopes to hear something
of his friend, she turned the conversation up
-1 on art, the city, childhood, and everything else
| that she thought might be suggestive; but in
! vain. She could not be more definite, because
'; she wished to conceal her own identity, for it
was evident Mr. Mowbray did not kuow her;
besides, her natural delicacy shrank from in
quiring about a perfect stranger.
The next day, us soon as etiquette allowed,
j Mr. Mowbrary was seen driving up to the
i farm. Nellie appeared, beautifully attired,
in a neat morning dress, and looking so fresh
and sparkling, iu spite of the late hours of the
night before, that it could hardly be considcr
j ed flattery when her visitor assured her that
she looked lovelier than her loveliest rosc-s.—
Mr. Mowbray was full of regrets at cruel fate,
; which, he said, compelled him to return to the
| city. He could not conceal his joy when Nel-
I lie's aunt, inadvt rtcntly, aud much to Nellie's
secret annoyance, let out the fact that in the
I fall Nelly was to pay a visit to an old school-
I mate in Philadelphia, Miss Mary Stanley.
' "Ah, indeed!" cried the visitor, and his
i face flushed witT pleasure. "I am so deliglit
! ed. I bave the honor to know Miss Stanley.
Yon will be quite at home in her set," he ad
' ded, bowing to Nellie; "for it is, by common
consent, the most cultivated iu the city."
Nellie bowed coldly. Her old distrust in
| the speaker had revived again. Through all
the polish of his manner, and in spke of his
deferential admiration.she recognized the same
sneering spirit, which believed in nothing true
or good, from which she had shrunk instincti
vely when a child. During the interview she
was civil, but no more. She could not, how
ever, avoid being beautiful; nor could she help
speaking with the intelligence and spirit which
niway characterized her conversation; and so
Mr. Mowbray went away more iu love than
ever.
A few months later found Nellie domiciled
for the winter in Philadelphia. Hardly had
she changed her traveling dress, when her
friend eaine to her chamber.
" 1 want you to look your prettiest to-night,"
said Miss Stanley; "for I expect a crowd ot
beans, and among them Mr. Mowbray, the
brilliant young lawyer, and Mr. Harvard. The
former claims to have met you, aud raves
everywhere about your beauty. The latter,
who is a great artist, and very critical, laughs
at his friend's enthusiasm, and says he would
bet you are only a common rustic,with cheeks
like peonies. So I wish you to convert the
heretic."
" (July a common rustic," said Nellie to
herself, heartily; and she resolved to be as
beautiful as possible. Perhaps, too, there was
a half formed resoive tobriugthc offeuder to
iier feet in revenge.
A great surprise awaited her. When she
entered the draw ing-room that evening, the
first stranger she saw was the identical Clar
ence, who had painted her as a barefooted '
little girl; and then, for the first time, it flash-!
Ed upon her that this was the great artist who
had spoken contemptuously of her charms.— j
notion proved correct; for .Miss Stanley, ini
mediately advancing presented the stranger to i
her as Mr. Harvard. A glance into his face
reasurcd Nellie of his identity, and satisfied
her that he lmd not recognized her; and then
she turned away, after a haughty courtesy,
' to receive the eager felicitations of Mr. Mow
bray.
There were conflicting emotions at war in
her bosom that evening. All her old romance
about Clarence was warred upon by her indig- j
nation, as a belief at iiis .slighting remarks aud
at his present indifference; for he had made no
j attempt to improve his introduction, but left 1
I her entirely to the crowd of other beau", pro- ;
minent amor.g whom was Mr. Mowbray.—
Piqued and excited, Nellie was even more |
j beautiful and witty than usual. Late in the !
I evening she consented, at Miss Stanley's re-'
quest, to play aud sing. She first dashed off
some brilliant waltzes, then played bits of a
few operas, and at last, at Mr. Mowbray's sol
icitation, sang several ballads. Few persons
had such a sympathetic voice, and Clarence,
j who was passionately fond of music, drew near
: fascinated. After singing, "Are you sure the j
; news is true ?" " Bonnie Dundee," and others
which had been asked for Clarence said :
" And may I, too, ask for my favorite ?"
" Certainly, sir," she answered, with the
least bit of hauteur. " What is it?"
" Oh ! too sad, perhaps, tor so gay a com
pany. " The land of the Real." I hardly
dare hope you will consent."
It was her favorite also, and her voice
slightly trembled as she begau. From this or
some other cause, she sang it as even she had
never sung it before, and when she finished !
her eyes were full of tears. She would have I
given much to have seen Clarence's face, but'
slie could not trust herself to look up ; and
partly to conceal her emotion, partly by a sud
impulse, she struck into the Miserere of "II
Trovotore."
Nobody there had ever before realized the
full tragedy of that saddest, yet most beauti
ful dirge. Kven the selfish heart of Mr. Mow- ;
bray was effected. When the last chord had ;
died away, he was the first one to speak, and i
he was profuse in admiration and thanks.— J
But Clarence said nothing Nellie, at last, j
looking towards him, saw that his eyes had |
been dim as we'l as her own. She felt that i
his silence was the most eloquent of compli- j
mcnts, and from that hour forgave him for j
having called her a " common rustic."
Clarence soon became a constant visitor at I
Mr. Stanley's. But he always found Mr.
Mowbray there before him, who endeavored in
every way to monopolize Nellie's attention.—
Reserved, if uot absolutely haughty, Clarence
left the field generally to his rival ; and Nellie,
half indignant, was sometimes tempted to af
fect a gayety in Mowbray's company which
she was far from feeliDg. Occasionally, bow-
" REGARDLESS OF DENUNCIATION FROM ANY QUARTER."
! ever, Clareuce would assert his equal right to
share the company of Miss Stanley's guest,
and at such times his eloquent talk soon eclips
ed even that of the brilliant advocate. As
I Nellie said in her secret heart, it was Ruskin
against Voltaire. And the more Clarence
engaged in these conversations, the more be
1 fell that, for the first time in his life, he had
i met one who understood him.
j One morning the footman came tip to the
little paneled boudoir where Nellie and her
friend were sitting, saying j that] Mr. Mow
bray was iu the parlor, and solicited a private
: interview with the former. Nellie rose at
once, for she foreboded what was coming, and
was only too glad to have this eaily opportu
nity of stopping attentions which had become
unendurable to her.
Mr. Mowbray wess evidently embarrassed,
an unusual thing for him. But he rallied, and
came directly to the purpose of his visit which
was, as Nellie had suspected, to tender her his
heart and hand. He was proceeding in a
strain of high-toned compliment, when Nellie
said, with an impatient wave of the hand :
" Spare me, sir. Y'ou did not tdways talk
so."
He looked in astonishment.
" Many years ago I answered you the same
question which yon now ask.
He colored up to the temples. " I surely
do not deserve," he theii said, " to be made a
jest of."
" Neither do I make a jest of you. Do
yon not know me ?"
" I never saw you till this summer."
" You saw me eight years ago. You and
a friend were on a pedestrian tour. You met
a little barefooted girl, whom your friend made
a sketch of, and whom you jeered at and then
nicknamed." And rising, she made a mock
courtesy, for she saw she was now recognized:
I am " Cobwebs," at your service, sir !"
The discomfited suitor never forgot the look
of disdain with which Nelly courtesied to him.
His mortification was not lessened when, on
leaving the house, he met Clarence on the
door steps. He tried in vain to assume an
indifferent aspect, but lie felt that lie had fail
ed. and that his rival suspected h : s rejection.
Nelly could not avoid laughing at the crest
fallen look of her old enemy. Her whole
manner changed, however, when Clarence en
tered. Instead of the triumphant, saucy tor
mentor, she became the conscious, trembling
woman. Clarence, who had longed for, yet
dreaded this interview, took courage at once,
and in a few manly words, eloquent with emo
tion, laid his fortune at his Nelly's feet.
l'oor Nelly felt more like crying with joy
than anything else. But a little of the old
saucy spirit was left in her. She tliojght she
owed it to her sex not to surrender too easily;
and so she said, archly glancing up at Clar
ence :
"Do you know, Air. Harvard, whom you
arc proposing to 1 lam no heiress, no high
born city belle, but only—let me see—what is
it ? —only a common country rustic."
And she rose and courtesied to bim.
"For Heaven's sake dou't bring that foolish
speech up against me !" he cried, passionately,
trying to take her hand. " I have repented
( it a thousand times daily, since the unlucky
moment I was betrayed into saying it. Do
me the justice to believe that I never meant
it to be personal."
" Well, then, I will say nothing more of
that matter. But this is only a whim of
yours. How is it, that, having known me so
long, you only discover my merits ?"
" Known you so long ?"
" Yes, sir," demurely.
" Known yon ?"
" For eight years."
" Hood Heavens I" he cried suddenly, his
whole face lighting. " How blind I have
been ! Why did I not see it before ? You
are''
. " Cobwebs," said Nellie, she taking the
words out ol his mouth, her whole face spark
ling with glee ; and she drew off and gave
! another sweeping courtesy,
j Before she had recovered herself, however,
: a pair of strong arms were around her, for
Clarence divined now that he was loved. Nel
lie, all along, had had a half secret fear, that
when her suitor knew the past, he might not
be so willing to marry the barefooted girl as
the brilliant belle, but all this was now gone.
Two months later there was a gay wedding
at St. Mark's. A month after that, a bridal
i pair, returning from the wedding tour, drove
| up to a handsome house in Philadelphia. As
| Clarence led Nellie through the rooms, in
! which his perfect taste was seen everywhere,
she gave way to exclamation after exclama
tion of delight.
At last they reached a tiny boudoir, ex
quisitely carpeted and curtained. A jet of
gas, burning in an alabaster vase, diffused a
soft light through the room. A solitary pic
ture hung on the walls. It was the original
| sketch of her, eight years before, now very el
egantly Iramed. The tears gushed to Nellie's
eyes, and she threw herself iuto her husband's
arms.
" Ah ! how I love yon !" she cried.
Nobody who sees that picture suspects its
origin. It is too sacred a subject for either
Nellie or Clarence to allude to. But it was
only the other day that a celebrated leader of
| fashion said to a friend :
" What a queer pet name Mr. Harvard lias
| for his beautiful bride ! In anybody else ex
cept a genius it would be eccentric. But you
do not know how pretty it sounds from his
! lips."
" What is it it ?"
" Cobwebs !"
How TO BE A MAN. —It is rot by books
! alone, or chiefly, that one becomes in all points
a man. Study to do faithfully every duty that
comes in jour way. Stand to your post ; si
lently devour the chagrins of life; love jus
tice ; control self; swerve not from truth or
right ; be a man of rectitude, decision, consci
entiousness ; one that fears and obeys God,
and exercise benevolence to all; and in all
this yon shall possess the only true manliness.
A Peep into the Bank of England.
The Bank of England must be seen on the
inside as well as out, and to go into the inter
ior of this remarkable building, to observe the
operations of an institution that exerts more
i moral aud political power than any sovereign
! in Europe, you must have an order from the
I Governor of the Bank. The building occupies
: an irregular area of eight acres of ground—an
j edifice of no architectural beauty, with not one
window towards the street, being lighted alto
i gether from the roof of the enclosed area
I was led, on presenting my card of admis
sion, into a private room, where, after a delay
of a few moments, a messenger came and con
ducted me through the mighty and mysterious
building. Down we went iuto a room where
the notes of the bank, received tlie day before
were now examined, compared with the entries
: in the book, and stowed away. The Bank of
| England never issues the same note a second
time. It receives in the ordinary course of
business, about .£BOO,OOO, or s4,ooo,ooo,daily
iu notes; these are put up in parcels according
i to their denominations, boxed up with the j
date of their receptiou, and are kept ten years,
at the expiration ot which period they are
taken out and ground up in the mill, which I
saw running, and made again into paper. If,
in these ten years, any dispute in business, or
law suit, should arise, concerning the payment
|of any note,the bank can produce the identical j
1 bill.
i To meet the demand for notes so constantly
j used np, the bank has its own paper-makers,
I its owu printers, its own engravers, all at work
under the same roof, and it even makes the \
machinery by which most of its work is done.
A complicated but beautiful machine is a regis- j
ter, extending, from t'ne printing office to the
banking offices, which marks every sheet of
| paper that is struck off from the press, so that j
i the priuters cannot mauufucturc a single sheet
| of blank notes that is not recorded in the bank.
On the same principle of neatness, a shaft is j
made to pass lrom one apartment to another, ;
j connecting a clock iu sixteen business wings of j
■ the establishment, aud regulating them with
such precision that the whole of them are al
ways pointing to the same second of time. In
another room was a machine, exceedingly sim- i
pie, fur detecting light gold coin. A row of
then) is dropped one by one upon a spring
i scale. If the piece of gold was of the stand- ;
j ard weight, the scale rose to a certain height, :
and the coin slid off upon one side of the box;
if less than the standard, it rose a little high
er, and the coin slid oil' upon the other side.—
1 asked the weigher what was the average
number of light coins that came into his hands
and strangely enough, he said it was a questiou
he was not allowed to answer.
The next room I entered was that iu which
the notes are deposited which are ready lor
issue. " We have thirty-two millions of pounds
' sterling in this room," the officer remarked to
| me; "will you take a little of it?" I told him
it would be vastly agreeable, and tie h aided
me a million sterling, which 1 received with
many thanks for his liberality, but lie insisted
on my depositing it with him again, as it would
hardly be safe to carry so much money into
the street. I very much fear I shall never see i
that money again. Iu the vaults beneath the
door were a director and a cashier, counting j
liners of gold which men were pitching down to
them, ea<-h bag containing a thousand pounds
sterling, just from the .mint. This world of
money seemed to realize the fables of Eastern
wealth, and gave me new and strong impres
sions of the magnitude of the business done
here, aud the extent of the relations of this
one institution to the commerce of the world, j
SAVING TIME.—A clergyman who enjoys
the substantial benefits of a fine farm was
slightly taken down, a few days ago, by his
Irish plowman, who was sitting at his plow in
a tobacco field, resting his horses. The rever
eud gentleman, being an economist,' said with ,
seriousness :
"John, would not it be a good plan for you
to have a stub scythe here, and be hubbiug a
few bushes along the fence, while the horses
are resting ?"
John, with quite as serious countenance as
the divine wore himself, repled : "Would it.
not be well sir, for you to take a tub o' pota
toes iu the pulpit, aad when they* are singing
to peal 'em awhile to be ready for the pot ?" '
The reverend gentleman laughed heartily and
left.
The above yarn reminds us cf a story that
brother Chapman, (not the elder,) put Lew. of
the stage notoriety, tells on a certain preacher
at Corning. He gives names, Ac., but we omit
them. It so happened that the preacher
was celebrated more for building Churches !
and putting them in running order, than for
anything else, not being much of a revivalist. !
In pasing along the walk one day, be saw
a little shaver carrying mud and piling it up,
in great ernestness. Well, my lad," says the •
domine, " what are you doing there ?" "I 1
am building a meeting house, sir," repled the I
boy. " Where is your steeple ?" asked white
cravat. " Oh, here is the steeple," said the
little fellow, at the same time running a stick
| down through the mud. "Well, well, that
will do, certainly, for a steeple, and now you
have it nearly complete, only one thing want- I
| ing—a preacher. "O, never you mind, 'old
boss, 1 think I shall have odds and ends !
enough left to make a preacher," said young i
j America, as the priest moved on.— Wellsbvro
Democrat.
STRONG MINDS IN WEAK BODIES. —Why is
it "no go" with some bright ihtellect ? A
strong mind in a weak hody is like a superior
knife blade in a miserable handle. Its work
manship be ever so finished, its temper ever so
true, its edge ever so keen ; but, for want of
means to wield it properly, it will not cut to
much purpose. Ambitious youth, who intend
to carve out fame and fortune with their sharp
intellects, should think of this simile, and see
to it that their bodies—the handle whereby
thej are to manage that wonderful weapoo,
the human miud—are kept in sound-jointed,
firmly riveted, perfectly cleansed condition.
VI,. XXI. —KO. 45
fiiinntional department.
History in Common Schools.
In the foimer article on this subject, the
nm'ti'y for introducing the study of History
into our common schools, was argued from its
great utility in the common concerns of life :
that it is the key by which we unlock the
great storehouse that contains the most of our
present knowledge, and because it is so useful
to the great masses of men, it ought to hare
a place in their system of education. As this
is an age in which the practical is esteemed of
paramount i nportance to the speculative, it is
proposed to carry the line of argument farth
er in the same direction. That which invests
the present vith such great interest, is not
] anything which thete is in it, taken by itself,
but on account of its relations to the future.
We plan and act not so much for present ad
vantage and happiness, as for fattire well be
ing. Our anxieties are not for this fleeting
moment whose intangible form we cannot
grasp, the rustle of whose invisible wings tells
ns of its rapid flight, not for the momentary
joys aud sorrows we at present experience, but
for the long train of good or ill which is to
follow them. The consequences which are to
come from oar present conduct, and the de
velopment of our present plans invest them
with snch immense importance. Hut what
those consequences may be we have no means
of determining, but from knowing what conse
quences havt followed from similar conditions
in the past. The light which shines from the
lamp of experience, is the only light, (save
that of revelation,) which glimmers through
the thick folds of that veil which the Almigh
ty has hung up before the untrodden vista of
the future. Hence other circumstances being
equal, he is :he safest counselor, find his plans
are most successful who has ihe greatest
knowledge of what has been done under like
| circumstances. Hence it is, that past expe
| rience is appealed to, not only by politicians
and statesmen in managing the intricate affairs
of government, but by men in the daily and
hourly concerns of life, to the planting of
! grain, to the harvesting of crops, to the laws
which regulate, supply and demand in trade
and manufacture, to the speculations and ex
periments, as well as to the philosophy of
| mankind. ow it is not claimed that in the
j ordinary course of common school education,
such an extensive knowledge of historv, gen
eral and particular could be gained as to fit
men for all the circumstances and emergencies
'of life, but the scholar would form the habit
j of fathering together and treasuring np snch
knowledge, as fast as it comes under his ob
servation. He wonld form a habit, a taste
to he developed in the future ; just as in
arithmetic, it is not presumed that the pupil
has an example of everything that he may
ever wish to compute in all the multiform oj)-
erations of business, but that he has such a
knowledge of the fundamental principles, that
he can readily apply them to every new case
in which his arithmetic may be involved.
Were it not for the absolute necessity of
becoming somewhat acquainted with the post,
onr knowledge of history under our preseut
system of education, would be truly lamentable.
As it is, the ignorance of our youth of those
events which have marked the eras of the
worlds progress, which let in upon it the light
of civilization and freedom, and which ought
to be inscribed upon the tablet' of the memo
ry with a pen of iron, is deplorable. How
little is known of the character and extent of
that cultivation and refinement which existed
thousands of years gone bj, how little is
known of the struggles for power by unprin
; cipled men, of the toils and of the sacrifices it
cost to brei.k the rod of oppression, of tbo
effects of the popular diffusion of knowledge
and religion, to say nothing of the thrilling
events which transpired in our own country,
and which, if they were known, would stimu
late to higher attainments and juster views
than the masses of our people had yet reach
ed. A\ e need this knowledge to give us truer
views of the principles of government, with
which every voter ought to be familiar ; we
need it to make us less boastful and self con
fident, and more conservative, to have a higher
regard for religion ana virtue. The Deed to
hold up the lamp of experience before the
transparencies of the present, and watch the
outline and play of the figures as they are
projected into the future, so that we may
know what course and what conduct is the
most proper for us to presume, what will tend
most to our own happiness and to the happi
ness of the race. Therefore on the score of
utility, no subject which has a place in our
( common schools, has a stronger claim than
this. The facts which it brings forth sheds a
; light upon all the concerns of life. The farm
er at his plow, the mechanic at his bench, the
merchant at his counter, or the statesman in
the halls of legislation, each iu his sphere,
; needs the lessons she teaches. What thus
I enters into the popular well-being of societv,
ought by all means, to have a place in the
popular system of education.
TERRVTOW.V, PA. P. C.
-♦
A CURIOUS CALCULATION*. —What is a bil
lion ? The reply is very simple, a million
' times a million. This is quickly written, and
j quicker still pronounced ; but no man is able
to count it. Von may count 160 or 170 ia a
1 minute ; but let us even suppose that yon may
go as fur as 200 ; then an hour will produce
12,000, a day 280,000, aud a year of 365
eays, 1 So, 120,000. Let us suppose now that
Adam, at the beginning ot his existeuce, had
begun to count, had continued to do so, and
was counting still ; he would not even now,
according to the usually supposed age of our
globe, have counted near enough. For to
count a billion he would require 9,512 years,
3d days, 5 hours and 39 miuutes.
THERE is something pleasing yet solemn in
tbe review, which as life's evening advances
we tnke of our early cotemporaries ; where
are they, how fare they, and who of all are
yet pilgrims with us tbia side of eternity's shade