TERMS OF PUBLICATION, - • on am Cash:System. ' 'The Miners' Igurna! will aller the Ist of ,t ianuary next. De published on the followingterms and condi. .. . I . -WW: • .. 'For one year, ' I 4 • • ' ' -:Six months, Three months; . Payable screi-annually in advance' by those- who re ide in the county7-and annually in advance by those who reside at a distance. - 11:7 - No piper will be sent unless the subscription i paid in Five dollars in advance will pay for three years subscription. . ltd Papers delivered by the Post Rider--will be charged 2.5 cents extra. ' TO ADVERTISERS . Advettisements not exceeding a square of twelve ' lines wine charged $ 1 for three insertions, and 50 cents for Jne insertion . Fxve lines or under. iscents "for each aisertion. - Yearly advertisers wtll be dealt with on the following terms: One C o l umn _ ...$ 20 I Two squares , .....$ lO Three fourths d 0.... t 5 One - do. ... 6 Half c01unan,.......1 2 Businesscanls, slihes, 3 All advertisements must be paid for in advance un less an account is opened-with the advertiser. The charge of Merchants will be $lO per annum, with the privilege of keeping one advertisement not weeding one square standing during the year and inserting a smaller one in each paper. Those who occupy o larger space wilibe charged extra. Notices for Tavern Licence. S 2. All notices, for Meetings'aud proceedings of meet tics cOid naered of general interest, and many oth• er notices SVhieh have been inserted heretofore gra mitiouslY„with the exception of Marriages, and deaths. w 111 , 14 e ebargedias advertisements. .Nobces 'nflll'eaths, in which invitatious arc extended to the friends and relatives of-the deceased, to attend the fu •tteral wilt be charged as advertisements PERIODICAL , AGENCY OFFICE THE subscriber has opened a Periodic& A pricy Office in connection with his estab. lishinent; and is now prepared to furnish pets ms residing in this place with all the Maosztrms Pubitstied in Philadelphia, New York, Boston, and Washington, at the publisher's subscription ',prices, FREE or PosTide, by leaving their names la , . the office of the Miners'-Journal. Persons re. siding in the neighburhOod._and hp the country, I.y subscribing at this Office for pub!icstions, ill have thetri mailed at this place regularly and the postage will'be only for the interthediate dis. tance, The fultdsvine are Borne of the publications is rued in Philadelphia, Kevo York, guidon and Washington,' LADELPIIIA. G Cy '8 Lady's Book, Craluiles Nlagazins, adios' Musical Library, World of Fashion, Young People's Book, • Mineuni of Foreign Literature and Science, NEW YORK. Lady's Companion, Knickerbocker, limit's Merch ant's M agazine, BOBTON The Vokon MI/meth/11Y, Hobert Merry's Menurit, WA•nin \ GTGN. Democratic Review, GILD WATER MAGAZINE This periodical will be issued monthly, in the sin e' style as Robert Merry's hlusenm, with piateti, price SI per annum-. The first nurnber is now issued. Any number supplied free of post ge by applying at this office. Suicicriptions mir.ii received fur the 1141)11n University MAgaz:ne, s4'oo Rentley's - Miscellany, 5 00 Black WOOlf,t 4 00 Christian Family Magazine. 1 00 All delivered free of postage. Sulb.critiera to aDV of the weekly publication? in Philadelphia and New 'York can make ar vaugemertts tr. their advantage by ntwlt ‘ ipg to the subscriber. BF.NJ A‘l IN B NN AN. Miners Juurnatstnd PeriodLcal Agency Office. June lb, • \ • 25 . COUNTERF'EITERS' D6\711-BLOW. 111 F. iniblic please observe that no Biandreth a Pills are gen one. unless the box has three labels ilpon it, ( the top, the side and the bottom,) each routaining a fac-sithileAignature of my hand writing, LIKANIMETII, St D. These labels'are en gravedsin sleet, beautifully designed, and dune at an ripy,sh of over E.c?..0b0. Therefore it will be seen that the only thing necessary to procure the medicine 1..; purity. is io ~ trierve the labels. 1/emrniber the top, the side, anu the bottom. The 1,41 owing respective persons are duly authorized, and t„ld_ . Certificates of A 'edey for the Sale of Brandreth's Vegaable Lintversal Put,, - SCIICYLKILL COUNT Y. • ‘Vm. Alm-Liner:Jr. Pottsville. Iluntztliger & Levan, Schuylkill Fl. K.llatmer.Corwigsburg. S. Seligman, Port Carbon, James Robinson ..St Co., Port Clinton, Edward A. liutzner Benjamin !limner, Tamaqua. • Observe that 'each Agent has an Engraved - Certif . !. :ate of Agency: containing a representation or Dr. BI{ANDRETIES-51ahulactory at Sing Sing, and up on which will also be. seen exact copies orthe new ;abets now Used upon the Brandreth Pill Boxes.. Philadelphia, office No. 8, North Eighth Si. • DRANDRETH D . February 19. B—ly (;OLDF.N4 SWAN lIOTEk.,-; (REVIVED, ) 69 N. Third et,, above Arch, Philadelphia c r : ? BOARD ONE DOLLAR !PER DAY. Ctrill ARLES WEISS has leased-this old.estab %-j-lished hptel,which has been completely put in' order for the accomriMdattoi of •11•11 • travelling and pertnaoent_boarders. ""fr• It proximity to bustitess, renders it ISO • desirable to strangers and residents ot the etty.s Every.portion of the house has um derzime a complete cleansing. The culinary Lg.:lame:a is of the first order—with good cooks. arid servuots selected to insure attention to guests as accommodations for 70 persons. T hose who may favor the house with their eastern; may be assured of finding the best of fare the best of .attentinin, and, as is stated above, ery reasonable charge.. Single da y. $ I 25. lEr Room for horses and vehicles. Also horses to hire. 'GermantownLl and Whitemirsh Siege Office December 11, 1841 50—tc POTTSVILLE INSTITUTE. !NIUE Winter Session of this institutior. cum. menced on October 7th, and will continue twelve weeks exclusive of the vacation. it is earnestly requested that.all having wards or chil. Oren to enter,. will do so at tile commencement of the session, as much of the success of the pm pits depend upon a prompt and judicious c:•issifi-, 1 cation. No htlowanne wilt hereafter he made for absence except in eases of protracted sickness. TERMS. Plain English, branches, Et 4 00 - Higher " " 6 00. Classics • „.• 800 Stationary, 25 C. W ". PITMA : . , I 4 . B. Principal. N. Q. Books will be furnished to the pupils at tyre customary prices when requested by the pa. rents. Octn , er 31. FRESH SPRING GOODS W E have just received and are prepared to w sell at reduced prices A general assortment of Staple and Fancy Goods, consisting of Prints, Lawns, Muslins, Checks, Linens, Fancy Hand'fs., Lace Veils I.lO4iery, Gloves, Silk and Summer lidts., Nankins, Gents. Summer Wear, Bleached and Unbleached Muslins, Cords, Drills, Beaverteens, Tickings, Eaces,'Corsetts, Miners Wear, & c. Those wishing to purchase are invited to call at . E. Q & A. fIENDER,SONN. :Slav 28. j -.22 ___ • .1 , MOSES & LOTS - •11115 l FOR SALE, el .../it lailiL 'iiii I a ',..,'," Also, a latee num b er , or 11111 i i W.' --,..-..;:a Buildings and out Lore. of —''''' '''S- 14 -- , 63111J U IS sizesoon the Navigation tract, lying princt i all) in the Einough orrotteville. Apply to ! SAMUEL LEWIS, July IC , . 29 , 1 f Real estate agent, Centre St. JAMES 11. CAMPBELL, , • !ATTORNEY AT LAW. POTTF VILLE, PA. II AS removed his pail to the west side of Centre iiiredt:a few doors above Mihantongo st. May 21, 21-1 y P4ALMSMNS—V.er the use of the Gertnan R.efertned Church. Jest received oaf fur sale B. HANNAN. '''August 5, 32 ~....... , , . . . ...,,,.... ,:::. ~ . .. . . F R . . .. . . . . , . . • , ' R • ..: „, .. ~, $ 2 GO i 00 VOL XVIII. POTTSVILLE. iATUIMAT MORNING, OCT. 29, 1842. Whilst looking over un old Port Folio the oth er day, we suddenly came across the following emanation froni- our youthful genius. At the present day, we can easily. moralize-over and laugh at the feelings which' prompted this lachry mose effusion. Sympathy is a very fine thing,' and we would not be averse to reforming the world on that scale, if it were practicable; but as we have deferred this matter until the projected railroad to the moon is completed, we will let it rest for the nonce. There is something very com ical associated with the . idea of trampoosing over these mountains, knee-dap in 4 tead leaves, with a poetical air and look, holding a copy of poor Barry Cornwall, who, had he been alive, would have cracked his sides at the spectacle. No !no ! we are an olherguess sort of personage than the following lines would stamp us to be, and instead of wearing our shoes out by chasing up inspira tion, we have a more imperative duty for them to perform ; which, is that of supporting the wear er through the business troubles and toils; which ever since Adam's transgression have infested the surface, of this dirty world,. Utilitarians may turn up-their noses at the style of the article which we thus so solemnly introduce, but we dont care a fig. for that. Fanciful and visionary as its tone is, we nevertheless publish it ; feeling certain that in its wearied round it will meet somewhere with a kindred response. Thoughts like these fall upon the travelwom wayfarer o'er life's high way like dew upon the scorched temples_ of the fevered invalid ; and as we are sure of finding plenty of our , fair friends to champion the act, we send it forth careless and regardless of its gen -5 00 end reception. $3 Ol 3 110 J 00 3 00 2 00 6 00 3 00 5 (10 ' 5 00 a 3 00 1 00 I would never walk by habit, it never amounts to plea Sure. I would walk when my feelings . prompted—when my heart yearned for the earth 'and the air and the sky. I would stray onward in the cool rich sunset., with the leaves stirring and gently keeping pace with one's own thoughts as the soul drinks in the full richness of enjoy ment. I love walking, it is caprice with me; the feelings must be mellowed to the scene, and the eye hoick for nature, one must not pass a flower unnoticed. and I love in my idle and listless mo ments to stray among the filler) leaves and hear the low rustling music as I pass on with a page of Barry Cornwall, or a stray leaf from some kind hearted good natured author. I say I love this, fur I have experienced, at such times4,ensatiuns I can never forget. If one has companions, they must suit his taste or he can have no sympathy with them—you want one who can feel with you and act with you—one who can think when you are silent —who can recall a favorite author by applying him as you would have done—one, in title, who anticipates and meets your oats thoughts. But if he has a course eye for beauty, he will never do, for he will distract your own train of delicious thought. Oh there are treasures of thought garnered up in our own souls, were we aught else than the ;working and every day mor tals that we are, that would make our whole life a ceaseless scream of intoxicating joyousness. There are springs—full fresh fountains in our own hearts—with the soul ,co drink in the beauties which surround; and the rich inheritance of love that never wearies; beautifully bath the passion ate hearted Shelly said ,' 'Common nslight. is love. And its familtar voece wearies not ever." Why prefer the vortex and bustle and heartless ness of de to the enjoyments that are shed around our daily paths! Why pervert the gifts and na tures given to us, seeming as if for us the sky and stars, the earth and air, were made in vain. When tal men cease to put to the hewing ,of wood and the drawing of water, he angels they entertained on earth. ITors.—As the beacon light is to the storm tos sed nisi hier—as the sunlight to the noonday—as the dawning of eternal bliss_totbe _tempest riven are , tht; whisperings at d consolations of Hope to the human heart. It were dark indeed, to tread the cold callous path of life, unaided by the visions of bright and better days to come. It were dark indeed, remembering but the days that were recounting bitterly and sadly the past, and shedding tears, hopeless tears, for the passing end fading Things of clay—seeking the fallen images of the past, and heeding:caring, naught for happy days in store. Hoping— ever hoping, 'ti,,7l eurn, \ lot of humanity. Hoping against al past experience— Building over the very heart's destructl'on_i-Form ing new idols, new visionaj flinging the shadows and the darkness of dint rdmernbered and sad scenes from us; and looking with as firm a fond ness, as bright a belief, onward as we did ere the storm had swept our Hope's first blossom end blasted it. Forgetting,Aforgetting that the end of all things is dust. Office Lyrics, No. 20. There is a shadow on'thy brow, A coldness in thy.tone. And my heart quivers with the thought Offears it would not own. It cannot be that I have thrown, So fearfully, the fate Of this heart's happiness on thee, And mourn it now too late. It is not,viell of thee, this change Is death unto my heart ; Its depth, its passionate tide of love Was of its life a part. Tit misery to keep its hopes So utterly alone, And feel too late that earth. alas, Holds not one.answering tone. 3. Fousyrstria.—New York, while its business cognome is the commerical emporium, may well be'also named the Fountain city. No city in the world can have such fountains as we. No one has each a head or such an abundance of water. The fountains of Paris, and Europe, generally, played by machinery, and at great expense: but with us, the water leaps forth with its own joy of liberty. We have filmier to sport with 7 .to use profusely--to let flow without measure. There is nothing in the whole world to compare with our Croton water. [Journal of Commerce. POTATO TKADE.—the WitiCalSet (Me.Y Re publican says = — , Tho Potato trade in this town now appetite pretty well under way. They are selling quick at a shilling a, bushel, cash,:and 20 cents in ex change for GOotbi. The crop in this section is heavy. El WEEKLY. BY BENJAMIN BANNA.N, POTTSVILLE, SCHUYKILL Walking. AND POTTS [ FOR TM AUNICRe JOURNAL. ], • The Sphit. 4 of Song. - Flow shall I woo thee, with high numbers swelling, Their sounds of triumph on the purple air.; With the rich gush of tenderness o'er-welling The heart, where thou wert shrined from mortal care t With the wild heart's fierce raging dark commotion"; With the crushed spirit's penalty f woe. With the flint spirit that heralds that emotion, Only the ravished depths of pang can know t Not with rude touch wont,! I assail tby numbers. The heart's deep, fond, and bright imaginings Should wake thy charm pure as an angel's slumbers; Its warm soft breath should tremble on thy strir.gs. The heart alcine should thrill its deep devotion, And love's fresh fountain the parched spirit lave ; Thesame fond breath that wood the swelling ocean,. And roused young beauty from the crystal wave. And strong affections warm and kindly glowing. The good, the beautiful within the breast; Like a pure stream bright and freshly flowing. Soothing the saddest with a dream of rest. flow shall I woo thee r the pale brow is flashing, And the dim eye sheds out the spirit's fire; And the heart's fountains, all unsealed. are gushing, And the pale fingers tremble; o'er the lyre. Where is thy dwelling? Earth's dark ties are riven, Lo the soul gasps for thee with burning prayer; • Surely thy home must be in yonder heaven, Whither we turn aside from mortal care. loNs. TUE ANGEL BRIDE. ( A Tale from the MSS, of a late Physician) It was evening—the evening of a summer Sab bath. The sweet latish of Nature, unbroken by a single sound of busy life, harmonized but too painfully with the oppressive stillness which per- Tailed the chamber whither my footsteps were bent. It was on the ground floor of a pretty residence in the outskirts of the village of C— . Its open windows overlooked a garden where taste and beauty reigned supreme—a second Eden, which extended with a scarce perceptible declination to the very margin of a stream, where it was bound ed by a white picket, and a hedge of low-trimmed shrubbery, over which the eye caught the flashing waters . as they swept on, glowing in the crimson radiance of the su ( ret. I entered the b use, and stepping lightly slung a carpeted passage, tapped softly at the dour of the chamber of sickness—ay of death. Welcome, Doctor,' said the silvery voice of - a lady, who sat b r the low couch, partially hung with white drapery. Welcome! the dear suffer er is now in a quiet slumber—but must presently awake, and one of her firat enquiries will be fur you.' Huw is your sweet Lucy now V She has been quiet and apparently comforts• ble all day. It is her Sabbath, as well as the wor shipper's who gu up to the earthly courts of our loved Zion. Oh she added while the sunlight irradiated her features, pale with long vigils at the bedside of her sweet Lucy—‘,Oh !' how full of consolation is the scene of mortal suffering, of earthly bitterness, of expiring hope !' Yes, my dear friend,' I replied, • your cup of affliction is indeed sweetened from on high. I have seen death to-day clad in its robes of terror. He took from my hopeless care a victim all un prepared, even after lung and fearful warning; and, the recollection of the sad struggle,, theurri ble anguish of the vanquished; the fierce triumph Of the Conqueror, sod the piercing wail of ex hauted Nature, haunt my memory stilk,and even in this earthly paradise I cannot forget them.' And is poor Edwarda gone at last to his dread account ! how fearful,' and the gentle lady covered her face and wept. sometime elapsed. I lingered at the conch of Lucy till she should awake, and taking from the stand a small though elegant copy of the Bible, I opened its silver clasp, and my eye caught the simple inscription on the flyleaf; To my Lucy —a parting gift from Clarence.' I had designed to read a portion of the word, but though was for the time engrossed. I had known Lucy May from her infancy, and she Was scarcely leas door to me than my own daughter. Indeed, they had grown up like twin blossoms, and were together almost•every hour ul the day. Seventeen summers they had each num bered—though Lucy was some months older. No brother nor sister had either of them and hence the intensity of mutual love. Their thoughts, the.r affections, their desires, their pursuits, were in common. They called each other 'sister,' and their intercouse honored the endearing name. And Clarence—the giver of the little volume in my hind—who was he? Clarence Hamilton was the son of my best earthly friend, and a no• bier youth—in all the lofty faculties of endow• ment of the heart and intellect—never rejoiced in the vigor of life and early manhood. To him has Lucy been betrothed far more than a year, and he was now absent from the village, though we trusted when each sun rose, its setting would bring him back in answer to our cautious sum mons. Especially had hope amtexpectation grown . within our hearts on the eveurng, yet had not a word been spoken on the subject by the widowed mother of the lovely Lucy. At length, however, she raised her head, end observing the open vol ume in my hand,:she saidrin en assumed tone of cheerfulness, Limn Clarence will come this evening. ft ie now Clarence!' ;paid the sweet patient, opening her dark eye., and looking eagerly around. Her eye only rested on her mother end myielf, and with a slight quiver en her lip, and a sad smile, -she said, He is not‘come r No! my darling, he •has not yet come; but there is more than an hour ;to the close of day, and then —' • God grant be at AY come,' said the maiden, and she added with energy— • i it be his His holy will. Oh ! Doctor, my kind, ear friend, you Lucy is wearing away fast, is e h snot?' and then observing the emotion which I attempted to con ceal. she said,• But I am better to.day, am I not!' Where is Ellen—why does she not come!' Her mother turned an enquiring glance upon me as I took the, thin white hand of the young girl in mine, and marked the regular but feeble beatings of the puke; , • tThall I send for your daughter, Doctor I' she asked. I, I acquiesced, and in a few minutes Ellen was sobbing violently, with ter face hidd ' en on the bo. som of her sister. Ellen my sweet sister,' said Lucy:, your fa. Cher has told me that I must leave you—and hit voice (altered—my own dear mother‘—end but she did not utter the name of her lover, for at that moment the voice of a domestic - was distinct ly heard, • ..He 5s aline, Mr. Clarence is dome! Now God bless my dear youn& lady. Lucy uttered a scream SATURDAY MORNING OCTOBER 29, 1842. of joy; and - clasping Ellen around the neck, mar. timed Father in Heaven 1 thank thee,' and then fainted with " , exiess of .happiness. Her swoon was brief. Bbe recovered . almost immediately, and her face was radiant, with happiness.' Clarence Hamilton twit .ilureuing his studies at a distant college. and the letter which summoned him to C—,•had scarcely intimated danger in the illness of his betrothed. It hatrbeen delayed on the way. And but half the time of its journey had sufficed to bring , the eager, anxious student to the spot where his heart had stored its affections, and centered its hopes, next to Heaven, for Clar ence, was more than a noble hearted, high smiled man ; he waa a deciple of Jesus Christ, and ;he was fitting, himself to be an Apostle of his Holy Religion. He had nearly completed his coarse of studies, and was then to be united to the beau tiful Lucy May. Three months before the Sabbath evening on which we write, Lucy was in health, and with her companion Ellen was performing her delightful duties as Sabbath School teacher. Reiuming she was exposed to a sudden storm of min, and took cold. Her constitution, naturally feeble, was speedily effected, and consumption, that terrible foe to youth and beauty, seized upon her as an other victim for its mighty holocaust to death.— A t first the type of her disease Was mild, but with. in three weeks it bad assumed a fearful character, and now her days were evidently few. For this dreadful intelligence Clarence was not prepared. He feared, but hi hoped more, and though his heart was heavy, 'Hope kindled a bright smile on his manly face , as he entered the little parlor, where he had spent se many hours of ex quisite happiness. He had alighted from the stage just before it entered :the village, and pro ceeded at once to the restdende of Lacy. As Mrs. May entered the roam, the smite on his lips faded, for her pale fire told a tale to his heart. 'Clarence, my dear Clarendf;you have the we! come of food hieing.' How is Lucy I Why is your face so deadly pale? oh! say is she not dangerously ill, tell me' —and a thought of keenei =misery entered his heart: s she ia—oh my God,imy. Father in Heav en, strengthen me—she is dying—even now dy ing!' 'Nay. nap, Clarence, said the mother sooth ingly.; Lucy lives, and we must hope for the best ; but be not alarmed if you see her face even paler than my own. Are ion able to bear the sight now 1' - • There was but little consolation to his fears in the reply of Mrs. May. Liley was living; but there was an anguish in thi expression—. hope for the beat,' and - he said hurriedly : Oh take me,:to her at slice—now,' ssid he pressing his hands on hie throbbing brow, and then sinking on his knees, while 'Mrs. May knelt be side him, he entreated God, in a voice choked with emotion, for strength to bear this trial, to kiss the rod of chastisement, to receive the bitter with the sweet; and prayed that the cup might pass from hi-n, even as did his Master in the days of his in carnation mad anguish. lie arose, and with a calmer voice said : can see her now.' At this moment I joined them with Lucy's ear nest request that Clarence should come to her at once. We entered the chandier just as Ellen bed partially opened a blind, and .the last rays of sun light streamed faintly tbroogb into the room, and fell for a moment on the whitecheek of Lucy, ren dering it hue still more snoley. Alas! for Clar ence. As his earnest eyes Met those of his be trothed—her whom he bad left in the very flush and perfection of youthful loeliness—now, bow changed f His heart sank within him, and with a wild sob of anguish be clasped her pale thin fin gers, and kissed her colorless lips, kneeling ; Me while at the side of her couch. 'Clarence, my own Cleretiee: said the sweet girl, with an effort to raise, which she did suppor ted by his arm. He spoke ost—he could not— dared not speak ! 'Clarence, cheer up my beloved ;' but her forti tude failed, and all she could do was to bury her face in her lover's bosom, and weep, We did uot attempt to check their grief ;r nay we mipt with them, and sorrow for a while had its luxury of tears unrestrained. Clarence at length , broke silence. Lucy, my own loved Ludy ! God forgive me for my selfish grief;' and he added fervently lift ing his tearful eyes to Heaven,---. father give us grace to bear the trial aright,' and turning to me added, Pray for us Doctor—oh! prey that we may have power to meet this hour hke Chris trans. When the voice ;of prayer teased, all feelings were calmed, but I deemed it: advisable to leave the dear patient to brief repose ;—and Ellen alone re. maining, we retired to the patter, where Clarence learned from us more of her illness and of the true condition, for I dared not deludo him with false tapes. • Doctor,' said he, with visible anguish, •is there no, hope r • Not of recovery, I fear, though she may linger some time with ns, and be better than she is to day. Then Go-i's will be done,' acid the young man, while a holy confidence lightened up his face, now scarcely less pale than that of its betrothed Lucy. Day after day the dear girl lingered, end many sweet hours of converse did. Clarence' end Lucy pass together: once even the was permitted to spend a few moments in the portico of the house, and as Clarence supported her, andiaw a tint of health overspread her cheek, hope grew strong in hid heart. But Alice doubted not that she should die speedily, and happily this conviction had reach ed her heart ere Clarence came, so that the agony of her grief in prospect of separation from him, had *yielded to the blissful anticipation of :heaven, that glorious clime where she should ere long, meet those from whom twos • more than death to part. ',Dearest Lucy,' said Clarence, as thel"!t°° 4 ga zing on the summer flower% kl oa are beiler, love, may not our heavenly Father :yet spare you to me —to your motherw-to cousin Ellen—to happi fleas; , Ab, Clarence, do not ,speak of this. It will only end in deeper bitterness. I must go-rand, Clarence, you must not mourn when I exchange even this bright world for, tbe Paradise of humor , Clarence could not answer. He pressed her hand and draw bet closer, to his throbbing heart, and she resumed, pointing to a bright cluster of a- Maranth—.Bie there, Clarence,'is the emblem of AL ADVERTI,SM. 1;=11 _ . . . IMMO ..-_, . . - ) 3' ~ . • - N. . : -...- : A ' ' ... • -:;..;.. .... . -...... . :,-. ..- : :',.:! . - .1 . .- . C . . ME NM the life and the joys to which I ant hastening : ' • • •• Three weeks had passed. It was again the evening of the Sabbath. .I stood by the couch of Lucy May. Her mother and Ellen sat on ei ther side, and Clarence Hamilton supported' on a pillow In his arm the head of the fair girl. , Dis ease had taken the citadel and we awaited its sur render to Death. • The man of God, her pastor from childhood now entered the room, and Lucy greeted him affection , . stely, and when he said, it well with thee, my daughter—ls it well with thy soul r she an swered in a clear and sweetly confiding tone of voiee .It is well! Blessed Redeemer, thou art my only trust.' Chirence now bent hts head close to the heed 0 Lucy, and whispered in her ear, but so distinctly that we ell heard: 'Lucy. since you may not be mine in life, ob ! dearest be mine in death, let me follow you to the grave as my wedded wife, and I shall have the blissful consolation of anticipating a reunion in Heaven.' The eye of the dying girl lighted up with a quick end sudden joy, as she smilingly answer ed It is well, Clarence—l would fuin bear thy name before I die ! We startled at this strange re quest and answer, but no. heart or lip ventured to oppose it. Lucy then said Mother, dear mother, deny me not my last requeit; will you and Ellen dress me in my bridal robe? I will wear it to my tomb.' Clar ence also besought Mrs. May to ,gram this wish, and let him wine bride and a mother; and abie answered— As you and Lucy will, but it will be,--and her bean epoke—• it' will be a mournful bri- dal.' Lucy now motioned us from the room, and we retired. Clarence was the first to speak. • You will not blame me that I seek even in the arms of death to make her my wife. 06, how much of blies has been crowded into this one anticipation, and though it will indeed be a • sad bridal," it will sweeten the cup of bitterness which is now pressed to my In a few minutes we re-entered that hallowed chamber. The light of day had faded, and a sin gle lamp was burning in the stand. Lucy wee arrayed in a muslin robe, which scarce outrivallel her cheek in whiteness, sass where the dead hectic, now heightened by excitement, flushed it. Clarence seated himself by her, and she was raised to a sitting posture, and supported to his arms. She placed her wasted hand in his, and saM, half playfully, half sadly, 'tis a worthless offering, Clarence.' He pressed it to his fevered lips, his face pale_ and flushed by turns. The minister arose and stood before them, and in a few words and aim ple, united those two lovely beings in a lie which all felt must he broken ere another sun shonid rise. Yet was that tie registered and acknowledged in heaven. 3 j•• As the holy man *flounced them 'one flesh,' and lifted up his hand and hie voice in benediction, Lucy put her feble arms around Clarence, and in a low voice murmured— • My-husband.' My wife!' responded Clarence, end their lips met in klang and sweet embrace. We gave them congratulations through quick tears, exchanged the sweet kiss of holy love, and friendship, and lett the wedded pair to a brief realization of bliss, of which we cannot tell the reader aught. That night before the last hour, the angel Azriel came as a messenger of peace to that bridal chamber, and though new fountains of earthly bliss had been opened in the heart of Lucy Ham ilton, she repined not at the summons, but while heavenly joy saton her features, and her lips mur mured—peace—farewell, husband—mother—sis ter—all—her pure spirit took its flight, and her lifeless Cody lay in the ardent embrace of the woe stricken, but humble Clarence, who still lingers in this weary world, doing his Master's work, and waiting his Master's will to be re-united to his angel bride in Heaven. FIN►L EXPLOSION OF THE SOCIALIST COM MUNITY IN HAYSSIIIRE,AND FLIGHT OF ROBERT OwEß.—Socialism is at last, by the confession of its dupes, declared to be impracticable. The whole scheme in Hamehiro has failed, and after having spent £37,000 in the half.formation 'of their Grand NOR Moral World establishment, that du. ring the present year was to astonish us all, they are at length compelled to admit that the whole matter was founded in folly. The workmen have been discharged—Eobert has fied—sad the parties sent down to wind up the affair, announce that Robert Olsen is "childish, aim} unfit for the of. fice of New Moral World manufacturer. He l e ft the 'New World on Sunday, the 10th July. drt. ving himself off in the fine carnage presented to him by two silly women, named Pierce, whom we have Wore referred to, and whom he has left minus £7,000. They make the most bitter Is. mentatioris, and declare themselves completely ruined by the loss. Owen, it is believed, has taken himself off to America, from which 'place he is not likely to return to England. We sincerely prey it may be so, and that even yet, although with him the harvest is past and the summer ended that now, in the eleventh hour, he may be led by God's grace to see his awful condition, and like the thief on the tross,'seek the Saviour's interces. sion--We also learn that, after all tneir boast of possessing land and estate, they have not even paid the deposit money for Rosehill! A farming gentleman living in thestime parish writes in refer ence to the bad state of their crops.— "To those who may have observed the manner in which they dressed and behaved to their land, it must be iseiderd that some extraordinary power must have been exerted to prevent their prosperous —or, at least, that His blessing, without which nothing prospers. has been with held in the pres ent instance. No expense was spared in cultiva tion, and all that human labc;r and human skill could do was done, yet are the crops singularly bad. They, like the fig tree, bear no good fruit; there',aie theyAried up and lithered. They are now , so completely destitute of fonds that they cannot even employ laborers on the necessary farming operations. Thus have all their pror peas been nipped in the bud. They have not been permitted so much as to enter upon the new arrangements, but- they -have been permitted to waste all their strength in erecting what they never can enjoy.? Verily "Theta is - that which maketh rich, but it tended to poverty." thtit they were wise, that tbey understand this', end would consider their latter end:'—London paper. From tho Dublin University Magazine for May SONG. BY G. P. R. JOil4Eft. Oh ask me not! To days long gthie Those pleasure sounds belong; Some memory wakes with every tone 1 dare nut sang that song. ljearned it first in boyhood's hours: ❑t youth's exulting May; And sung it oft amidst the flowers Thai strew early way. When those days flrd and manho.id's prime Brought care and store along: Still in repose of even-time. I've soothed me with that song. To ears, that now no more can hear. To spirits that have fled - l've sung that song, to thOO6 most dear. Deep loved and early dead. Boyhood's glad sports—youth's vanished dream And manhood's calmer hours , Come with each note on memory's stream. ' A wreath Of withered flowers. And one. who, heed my voice no more— To him those notes belong! Evi is now mine eyes ore running o'er— How can lying that song ! From the N. Y. Sunday Mercury Short Patent Sermon ItT 1:10W. J I have taken the following as a tett for this 1:13=1 The autumn learea now-falling fast To all this warning give, Prepa-e to die, ye sone of earth. Ye shall not always live._ My hearers—l fear that ton many of you flat ter y ourselves witli the idea that you are to live to a great and good old age, and then die, in the piety bought hope of a happy hereafter; and I know that some of you appear to live as though you were perennial plants of mortality, never to be transplanted to the ' soil of some unknown isl and in the vast ocean of ctenaity. But, erring friends, do not deceive yourselves. The evidence of decay is exhibited upon every earthly object around you; change; wondrous change is daily taking place in the world, and all things animate are steadily progressing towards one common tomb. Could we but see at a glance, what mul titudes of us, insignificant insects that crawl a long life's narrow pathway, are hourly being crushed beneath the big boots of Time, we should shake in °IA shoes, through fear lest we be the next victims; but being blind, as we are to dan ger, we canter fearlessly along in our wicked ca reer, till we feel the dart of death sticking in our gizzards, when we straighten out like a dying frog, give a gasp and a galvanic quiver, th.m yield our souls to Gud the Giver, and our bodies to grave-worms for dissection. My friends—the autumn leaves that now fall around you warn you, with speechless eloquence, to prepare for death.' They seem to say that ev ery fair object of earth must fade and falP4--that the wreath of beauty must be stripped of its blos soms—the laurels that bind the brow of Fame must wither—and that the proud, noble, Majestic form of man must soon be laid to moulder in the dark and dreary sepulchre. The glories of the year are passing away, and so also are the glories of the world. The day is not far distant when Time will bring an autumnal frost upon the whole. boundless universe. The starswill cease to bloom in heaven's vast field; they will fall dike leaves before the October wind, and mingling withlthe common rubbish of chaos, they will doubtless look like broken bits of diamonds glittering among the worthless refuse of creation. The sun will ap pear like a rusty shield upon a field of blood and carnage : the moon will melt and drop into the ashes of annihilation. &ea piece of toasted cheese; the earth will shake itself like a spaniel just emerg ed from the water, and scatter all its vermin up on the borders of eternity. My hearers- 7 -this generation will have passed away ere that awful crisis shall occur, and you will all escape its attending terrors ; nevertheless you are doomed to die, and the sooner you begin to think about it, and make the necessary prepa rations, the better it will be for you. Now is the season of the year to be serious and thaughtful. You, whose hearts have grown harder in iniquity than a ball of putty in the sun, and you, in whose heads a couple of worldly and wicked ideas are continually rattling like gravel in a gourd shell, may go in your reckless career till you find your self irrecoverably lost in the labyrinth of destruc tion—and the devil may help you. for I can't. But to the wise, the prudent, and the virtuous, I would say, go walk in the woods, at this sweet Sabbath of the year, 'and worship in the sacred temple of Nature. All is solemn and silent. All their is calm and still. The Niels have ceased their summer carolling-a—the chickeree shells his nuts in quietness—no sound is heard, save when the light fingers of the b'eeze are feeling about the rustling leaves, and the warm light that sheds a-golden lustre along the landscape, has as relig-, ious a hue as sunshine through the stained win dow. of a church. Yes, go kneel/at the death bed of Flora, or sit at the couch of - vegetation, and meditate like a hungry horse, upon human frail ty, and the shortness and uncertainty of life. The flowers all faded and gone, show how quick ly youth casts its bloom never 'to blossom again, and the decaying verdure of the trees proclaims fo man that the season of maturity must shortly give piece to the autumn of age and decrepitude, and that the cold cheerless winter of existence is nigh at hand. My worthy friends and fellow citizens—when you see how each tender plant is drooping, and the leaves are dropping one by one to the ground, you have a picture before you representing the constant egress of your friends and kindred iron this world of wickedness and wo; and you ought by all means, to put yourselves in readiness to de part when Death shall knock at the door of your hearts, and demand a release of the sod' from its prison house of clay. What is man but a vege table that springs from the dust, buds, blossoms, ripens and sows' its seed, and then amalgamates with its original dust In the spring time of youth he flourishes like a squash vine near a barb yard—in the summer of manhood he exhibits both fruit and flowers—in the autumn of age be withers and decays—and then the winter of death hides hiM for ever.from the world. My dear hearers—learn your destinies from the falling leavis. Young maiden!—allowing you three score and ten'years to enjoy yonrsel& painfully at beat, upon the Almighty footstool, it will be but tat:narrow ere your raven hair is gray as a woodchuck. AM aeon thosesparklingeyes will lose their lustre in : the dim evening twilight of existence.. Titue - trill _kiss . every particle •cui . paint from yourcheekii*—theroses Will lade in the wreatli.of - loveliness, and , you will be no more an object- of , attraction than a:dried mullen . stock in sheep pasture. -. Decorate, then, the Mind EEC with the garlands of wisdoin, in Order that you may be thought beautiful, even when the perish, able portion shall havabecorne blighted and-with ered by the frosts - of-age. I have' no doubt but the.old an loons, of both sexes, are profited by the lessons they receir4from the hartooniour but o wonderful operatiorls . ttf , nature; but as, for at- empting to set them seriously thinking, npon the precarious situations in which they are'placed_bi the aid of my potent preaching, I tnippose Insight, as well un ‘ dertalie to iyhitewish the ray in onlet to render the'evenings light and pleamat Uzi absence of the morn. My hearers—all thit I wish is. that you may live in such a manner that your 'last days may be as mild and glorious as those of &unman, and that when you depart; you may hid adieu to the world with hop'e in your hearts'and . a smilo upon yciutfi lips. So mote it be NO. 44. Doctor: Cbfaimattg• The New York Journal of COMmerce Fontein,: the following nrief tribute . to the memory ofthiti truly great and good man. P. Dr. Chinning area hornet Nerpoit. I... Hts grandfather was %Villistri tllery; oft . of thOggn ere of the Declaration of Independe nce : 101.64 rher was en eminent merchant of Newitiirt t el firm of Gibbs dr. Charming. His grandfither tamed the powers of his mind to extreme atitige; being accustomed to reed une or more chiPteeleii ery morning in his Greek Testament—a practicli which he continued until he wes not/ants of nine- . ty years of age: He once remarked that if JIM men would exercise their minds more, they wdold retain their intellectue(faculties as long as they did their physical powers. Dr. C.•inhented the vigorous intellect of this tevereuti relative. • U 1 the Dr.'s father we are not particularly in formed, but Dr. C. himself, though fur many years an invalid, was, in early life, quite vigorous. -Though small in staturesati possessing a light , (rime, be had muscular strength, end in college was considered an athletic young men: lie was Also one of the leading spirits iii his class. Du i ring a part of his collegiate course, his friende ex pected that be would, on taking his degree; pur sue the study of medicine; but his attention was turned to the ministry by the Hollis Professor of Divinity in Harvard College, where Dr. C. gradu ated. At Commencement, when he took the de gree of A. B , he had • distinguished-part, and was then looked upon by competent judge, es one of the. most promising young men of the day.— Soon aPer, hr went 'to Virginia, where he tended some time, we believe, as a teacher. Here he was supposed, by exposure or neglect of his health, to hove undermined his constitution. He fever fUlly recovered the robuststate of health be had previously enjoyed. In 180.3, Mr. Cbanning was ordained ov e r the congregation in Federal street, Boston. 1 , yhe lines between the Oirthodo x and thutarianli th - nominations weeks not. at that day, set distinctly drawn as they are at the` present time. In fact, the Unitarian was not in general Use. Mr. C. was considered a serious minded young Treat:tier, of irreptoachable morals, with , S cultivated mina, refined - taste, unique eloguk nce, and leaning to e vangelical views in theology. Rev. Dr. Mason, of this city, and other staunch divines of (Mho doe sentiments, in diffeient parts of the country, used to preach in Mr. C.'s pulpit. Circumatan. ces ace molted a more marked division of theolog ical men, not many years alter, and Mr. C.'s preaching and theological writings assumed @ LOOM decided character. Hts celebrated sermon vinare off the ordination of the Rev. Jared Sparks' (the historian) made this division more complete. Mr. C.'s congregation increased—his people erec ted a more spacious edifice on the site Of the'old church—and a colleague, Rev. Mr. Gannett, was associated with him in the charge of the congrega tion. - Dr. Chaining's published Sermons during the, war of 1812, brought him into general notice throughout the country. Subsequently his Re stew of the writings of, Milton, the character of Napoleon Bonaparte, and other able performances, established his reputation among the eminent scholars and belies-leures writers of the country and the world. The Liam of the Edinburgh , Ho.7 view, at an early period, that Dr. C. r, touched lof ty keys, hut with no very mot force," was not echoed by the numerous readers and admirers of his writings. Dr. C.'s publications on the soh ject of American Slavery have attracted no little attention throughout this country and Europe.— He belonged to no Anti-Slavery Society—he even doubted the wisdom of these associatione--but he was an uncompromising enemy to slaVerY, and thought, spoke, and wrote accordingly. One of the latest, if nut the last public performance of Dr. C., was on the first of August, the anniversary of emancipation in the British West Indies, when be delivered a dis Course in Berkshire county, Masa. A'reprt of it was published in the Even ing Post, and attracted the admiration' even of those who do not espouse the cause in behalf of which Dr. C. directed so much labor and sympa thy., - Dr. C. was a man of great independence of mind. He was never awayed by popular applause to do an act which his ptileciplea condemned.— He paid no respect to men en account of their wealth or °t rim. He honored mural worth tabu ever he found it. His sermons on the parental character of God, on the loveliness of the example of Jesus Christ, on the evidences of Christianity, and on political and moral integrity, ate admire. ;de. He spoke on', in intelligible terms, "on cone jugal infidelity and licentiousness. In the pulpit, his gravity and solemnity exceeded that of moat preachers, and many who boast of more .correct theological principles, might have taken useful lessons from him, not only in the pulpit, but in all his s.cial circles. In all circucuatances, his feelings were under greet self commend. On one occision, at s dinner party, where a distinguished onhodox clergyman overstepped the boundaries of propriety, Dr. C. remirked to the' person near him, as A strange men Mk.' On another men. eon, when the audience were greatly I Erected by the eloquence of 'ii distinguished preacher, a pro fessional brother whose feelings were easily aim ted.-expresved astonishment that Dr. C. appeared to be so little movcd. oMy tears," said Dr. C., are not so near my eyes as yours are." Dr. C. had great contempt Cm ephemeral popu. laritY, for office-bunting, for the airs often assum ed by upstart aristocrats, fur the tricks and com pliance of politicians. What was worthy of es. teem anti veneration in men, whether they were rich or poor, white or colured;he reverenced, and could luuk down upon arroganCe, folly, and the unprincipled, with pity and virtuous indignation. His elocution, as ha. been iritimated, was peculi eloqumee unlike that of any other man. His preaching arid his writings were curroborated by a life 01 high moral character. Ur. C. was the poor man's friend and siivotate. He prized the principles of our tiovernmenl, but wet chiefly anxious tlitt the pecipti ; should be riOtenua rather than proefierons. t He loved the cause of peace, and by his tongue and pen did all he could to avert the calamities of war. la fine. however much men might diate his theological opinions, no one who knew him could fail to piiie his purity of character. his inflexible integrity. hie lofty Purposes, his literary taite, his eloquence. and his able discussions. His death is e great foss. not only to hisfamily, _but to the. city where he resided, to the comatrY.'which give NED birth, to the cause of letters; and. tireoluta throughout the world. • ' •" Ecomoor. —Noah W °bier says, shit, by snb• stunting to for unto, in his seisioli of tbstibto,lts hes•saved thirtylour pages of doss' , IstteNniss. 9
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