— Far At Agitator.
lIPEE. j
in »n mignM - -r
m**Su bSa-ftnlttre* and the ooeofcmrt grow,
U $ d™*r *n<n*» Q Ufol vds ot Trrn
Ti» reign of *amniei I* ever there, i,
Ewr lbs w»len like crystal flow I
ittetmily. : bkimUy'«teep*'tUe «lr; .
- 'duster*, like btnk* of*w>Wi
Adowntte
pebbWwfnds Itr wiy*
By many «o evergreen, ebeily ***•
Td the coral ware* of a hmdJoeted, toy.
Dp the ttream in the swlhlnj etade,
It* water* expand in a g|any pool ]
And thither joe* each Typeean maid
To lave in (he water* an clear and cool
Form* that are east in beaoty’a mould,
Dlowioj with health and in action free,
A wealth of charm* more precioua than gold—
Such la the maid df ilie vale of Ttks.
a. w. s.
OBieiNlL.
For ike Agitator,
History ot a Tree,
BY MELANIE,
Close by a babbling brook, at a little dis
tance from my early home, lies an old fallen
pine, .once shaded by green trees, on which 1
hare sat for hours, watching the floating
clouds, the sky, and the birds that came to
the brook to drink. I have often lost myself
in revery while meditating upon the changes
that have taken place, since that tree com
menced its growth. As one of our writers
has said, “what stories are treasured up in
its, heart, if we could but get them.” Some
things that, have happened near it we know,
and with the assistance of the imagination 1
have fancied that if the tree could speak, it
would tell something like the following story:
Nearly four hundred years ago, I com
menced the uncertain pilgrimage of life, by
pushing aside the leaves and earth which
covered me, ahd unfolding to the air and light
about a dozen jsmall leaves. Tall trees were
around me, of which, from my lowly posi
tion, I could hardly see the tops. 1 knew not
that I was to be like them, but well pleased
with myself and all about me, I was happy.
Yet I sometimes wondered what my destiny
was to be, and wished for some one la ex
plain to me things that I did not understand.
Then a voice seemed to whisper to me, and
told me what I wished to know. “L am the
Angel of the Trees,” said the voice, “I am
commissioned to tell you your destiny."
“You shall be,” said he, “higher than the tall
est tree you behold. For many years you
shall flourish, until you fancy that you are
too strong to be moved. Yet you shall be
overthrown at last; the destroyer will not
spare you.
Unlike your own raqe, I was in no haste
to be mighty, for 1 had happiness enough al
ready, and I sometimes saw that the trees
were furiously waved, and seemingly almost
overthrown by the wind; once, too, during a
violent storm, a gigantic pine was shivered
into ten thousand pieces by the lightning’s
stroke, making me even glad that it would be
long before 1 should be so exposed. Yet I
sometimes had cause to tear for my life, for
at one time a squirrel in digging a home for
bimsdlf nearly uprooted me, and sometimes
the wild deer, or a passing Indian would
trample me downj yet I hoped on, aud soon
grew stronger for each rude buffeting I re
ceived.
But at length the air grew colder, and at
night chill frosts settled on all around. My
companions were soon disrobed of their sum
mer adorning, the birds were no longer heard,
the cricket and grasshopper lay dead on tho ;
ground, the squirrel ceased his merry chatter
and darted silently by, with his mouth filled
with food for his winter store. Everything
seemed dying and decaying. The mournful
sound of the wind as it rustled the dry leaves,
that were sometimes piled higher than my
head, filled me with sadness. But 1 was not
suffered to despair. The angel of the trees
again appeared, and with words of kindness
soothed my troubled spirit, He told me 1
must bo content with my lot, though for a
time I should be shut out from the air and
light, and all the pleasant sights and sounds
I had learned to love. He would still be near,
and watch over me, and if I trusted him 1
should be supported. Soon his words were
fulfilled. The snow covered roe, I know not
how deep, but through the long winter I was
kept in peace. And, ns now, spring at length
appeared, the trees were again clothed in
green, flowers decked the earth, and birds
again made the air vocal with their music.
With but little variation, thus passed the first
few years of my life. I steadily increased
in size, and soon outstripped those who had
much the start of me. I soon found myself
high enough to avoid being covered with snow
mwi lier. As 1 grew tall enough to see at a
distance through the woods, I no longer won
dered why the various inhabitants of the for
est so often passed that way, or why in just
such a spot the Indian’s camp-fire so often
blazed. That murmuring brook you think
you love so well, the Indian loved better still.
When weary with the chase, he sought its
hanks to erect his hut for a night’s repose,
and drank from Us clear water with pleasure,
for he knew nothing of tbe-desire for strong
drink which has since nearly destroyed his
race. The Indian maiden loved as well as
you, to watch by its side for the first yellow
violet and water-cress that Spring produced.
But sometimes its water was stained with
blood, for the red man lay in wait, watering
for the deer to come and drink, then with his
swift-sped arrow pierced his heart. Wild
beasts of prey watched there, too, and oft the
air was filled with cries and the ground lorn
in the unavailing efforts of some strong, no
ble slag to free himself from the claws of
the ravenous panther. Thus passed three
hundred years of my life. But how changed!
Instead of the sprout uprooted by a squirrel,
or the sapling in which the Indian boy de
lighted to swing, behold p lofty tree. 1 would
look abroad for miles over the forestland
long would be my storyl, if 1 should attempt
to tell you all I have seen. On yonder hill
side, now so peaceful and so fair, the savage
tribes once mingled in deadly combat. The
flinty arrow-heads you sometimes find have
known other uses than to pierce the bounding
deer, or savage wolf. ’Twas on a lovely
summer day that two tribes of red men met
in battle, and from the rising to the selling
sun, with (fearfbl cries and yells they rent the
air, while the arrow and tomahawk did their
tnf
fids
COBB, STURROCk « CO.’,
VOL. 1.
deadly work. The conflict at last was end
ed, but the stars that night looked down on if
fearful scene. The funeral fire blazed, high
for those who )ud fallen and;boon taken pri
soners. For years, that battle ground might
have been known, but time has destroyed the
last vestige that marked the spot.
But, “passelh away" is written on ell, be
low, end at length.the scene was changed
again. The hupter seldom came; <tbe camp
fire blazed not within the range of my , vision.
I wondered long, what it meant, bur the An
gel sighed as be whispered,, “take heed, your
glory will soon depart.”
A strange hjunter came, ho bore.not the
visage of the red man, but his brow was
thoughtful. “Here,” he exclaimed, as. he
drank of the crystal water, and gazed upon
the lovely scene, “here shall be the home of
the while man. This brook shall give water
to my cattle, and when patient labor has re
moved the forest, these hills wilt yield me
wheat and corn. Thus- he spoke, and after
refreshing himself went bis way. Then the
sound of the axe was heard, and at a distance
1 saw the trees go down and disappear, while
soon great fires gave sign that they were con
sumed faster than by an Indian’s hand. Then
frequently too, the fire overspread its intended
limits, and ravaged the woods like a devour
ing monster. These wooded hills wear scarce
half the beauty they used to do, before the
fire had so often destroyed them.
1 had thus far withstood (he blasts of win*
ter, and the gales of summer unmoved, but
the destroyer was near—not the axe I so
much dreaded—but the fierce whirlwind.
You well remember the day when so many
trees were torn from their foundations, and
laid beside those whom age had destroyed;
by that same gale I was prostrated. From
that time, you know jny history, how often
the children have played along (he brook and
climbed my sides to get the best bushes to
build their play-houses, how I have furnished
a seat to the woodman who came to drink, or
the cow-boy who sought his cattle in the
woods beyond. But the axe has destroyed
the beauty that surrounded me; the trees and
bushes are all gone; I am exposed unprotec
ted to the snows of winter and the heat of
summer and soon I expect the axe and fire
will end my days.
A Tough Story.
Dave Constable sdys there is one ad
vantage about old-fashion frigates: they drag
so much dead water behind, that if a man
falls overboard on Monday, you need not
stop till Friday to pick him up again. He
never gels beyond a few yards from the
stern-post. In confirmation of this opinion,
he refers us to a well-known anecdote con
nected with Copt. Pompous of the frigate
“Wash Tub,” One evening while running
up the Mediterranean under a ons horse
breeze, Pompous cajne on deck just before
sundown, and entered into the following con
versation with Mr. SjaiLE, the first lieuten
ant.
“I heard a little noise on deck just now,
Mr. Smiler. What was the cause of it?”
■‘A man fell from the fore yard, Sir.”
Without saying another word, Captain
Pompous returned to the cabin, and was not
seen again until next morning, after break
fast, when he once more refreshed the deck
with his presence, and entered into conversa
tion with the first lieutenant.
"I think 'you told me, Mr. Smile, that a
man fell overboard from the fore yard, last
evening.”
“I did, Sir.”
“Have you picked him up yet 7”
“No, Sir.”
“Well, you had belter do it some time du
ring the morning, or the poor devil will be
gin to sisrve.”
The lieutenant obeyed orders, lowered a
boat about noon, and found the gentleman
who had disappeared from the fore yard but
eighleen inches further astern than he wos
fourteen hours before. He was lying on his
back, fast asleep.
We get this from an “eye-witness.”
The Kiub.
Riding through one of our country villa
ges a short time before our annual election,
we chanced to meet a boy, wilh books, slate
&c., under his arm, whom he recognized to
bo a Protestant clergyman’s son, of the same
village when the following dialogue en
sued :
Well, my son, have you been to school to
day I
1 don’t know, sir.
You don’t know! But what makes you an
swer thus 7
Oh, mother say I must follow the example
of my pious father; and that is the way he
answers, when he asks him about the Know-
Nothing party ; and she says ho don’t lie,
cause he says there is a kink in it.
But when 1 asked you if you had been to
school, you said you did not know. Now is
that iho truth 7
Oh, there is a kink in it; they don't call it
a school; they cell it the Academy t
Truly, thought I, that’s young American,
and no mistake I
A Girl’s Waist. — A school-boy Down
East, who was noted among his play-fellows
for his frolics with the girls, was rending
aloud in the Old Testament, when, coming lo
the phrase, “making waste places glad,” he
was asked by the pedagogue what it meant.
The youngster paused, scratched bis head,
but could give no answer, when up jumped a
more precocious urchin, and cried out.
“I know what it means, master—it means
bugging the gals: for Tom Ross is atlprs
hugging ’em around the waist, and it makes
’em as glad as can be.”
r
WEUgEOBOUGH, TIOGA COtSfe tA., TSOBSPAY MORMIKG, JDUE U, 1855.
“ON DE POOB tiH.”
Desubjicfcob ray lecture on die portent
casioo am universally known as “2>e Poor
Mam
Now if dare am enny set of critters dat
am disposed more dan anodder.it am.de fel
,|er pained in dexes, not, from any fault.ob
hisjieeder.too, but jist bekiasoit am so. De
world look ’pon him as somfin to loth and
hate, and de rich treat him wid dat sublime
contempt which de bigbulefant in de catrivan
bestows pon de wiffit poodles dat da ole
maids fetch wid dera to de show.
Railrode* hab cars speshly for deiruse, and
so does de stearobotes on de forrid decks; dey
aint allowed to mix wid old ruffle shirts and
gold-wrist buttons no. more dan de Millerite
wood mix wid de Mormons. In fashihable
churches dare am a place set apart speshly for
de poor, aod in odders dar am a part set a
place for de same purpose.
Dis universal dislike ob de poor people
am, I is afraid,cotchin, fordo you know I be
gin locate dera myself. It’s a fac. I got poor
relations dal I nebber care to see from one
year’s end to anudder, onless dey got deir
Sunday close on. I nebber go to see dem,
kase I was onco poor myself, and jia know
what a disposed pack ob set dey am.
Sum specimen ob mankind, and speshly
women kind, knowing how much de poor man
am snubbed, contribe by making a great deal
on little means and odder false pretences, to
’pear to be as rich as their naibors, and ma
by dey am, and richer too, and dat ’counts for
de meny big Tailor bills and dry goods bills
dat find deir way unpaid into de Sperm Court,
and one half de misery in de Police office.
Pride and Poverty am as sure to be found
together as de toofake and bad temper.—
When a man gets rich he can afford to kick
pride to Belzabub, but while he am poor it
slicks to him like warm tar to a bale of cot
ton, besmerin and spilein him.
We often hea,h de poor man, as he looks
round on his wife, 20 children and 50 dogs,
cuss his stars dat he was born in sich a fix,
but de more he cusses de less he works; pov
erty is bad enough, and pride and lazyness
all togeder am jist about damnable.
It aint de stars fault at all, it am selfish
mankinds and nobody else. Kind Providince
made dis world big enuif and lubly enuff for
all do human mankind family to get a good
liben on if dey go to work and make it, but
as fast as de world become popelated dar was
all ober it lazy debils sprung up and made up
deir minds dey’d let de rest ob mankind do
all ob de work, and dey’d do all de cheatin’
and skinnin’. Well, sum ob dem hab got
rich, but dare aint one ob dem got huff de
look for a front seat in hebben dat you fellers
hab, as big debils and wicked scorpions as
you know you all am.
Do you sposo dat de alt wise eber intended
fur one man to lay off in lavender in de Fif
Abenue and all de rest turn night scavengers
to support him in his laziness —ef you do you
am a bigger set ob fools den you wuss lass
year, when you refused to raise my salary.
One haff de poverty in dis world am brought
on by pepil demseffs. Sum folks hab got good
wages de whole year round, but dey am no
belter off from one monfs end to anudder—
and wats de reason ob it—why I will tell you,
and I don’t care on who’s toes 1 tread, by do
in the same.
" On a Saturday nile you fellers git paid off,
you go home, wash up, and put on a clean
shirt, and lake your market basket, and strut
into Cafarine Market jinglin your ten haff dol
lars all true de market-house. You come up
to de butcher manj and trowin you beds back,
ax him how much he sella his best porter
house stake a pound ? “Twenty fibe cents,”
sez de butcher man. “Well, cut me off six
or eight pounds,” aes you—you put dot in
your basket, den you muss hab a chicken or
two, and oysters, &c., but before the followin
Friday, your funds run low, end you sneak
down to do market, and skulk behind the
stalls, and you hail de butcher boy wid a
whimper. You can’tface the butcher heseffur.
ter cuttin it so fat on him only de Saturday
night before, and you ox ’do boy—“ How do
you sell your liver a pound to-day 1" “Three
cents,” sez de boy. “Well, cut me off two
pounds and put it in a piece of paper, and
I'll take it home in my hat.”
De moral ob dis am—don’t eat all up on
Sunday, and starb tree days in de week to
pay fur it.
Recife fob Floating.—Any human be
ing who will have the presence of mind to
clasp the hands behind the back, and turn
the face toward the zenith, may float at ease
and in perfect safety in tolerably still water
aye, and sleep there, no matter how long.—
If not knowing how to swim you would es
cape drowning when you find yourself in
deep water, you have only to consider your
self an empty pitcher —let your mouth and
nose, not the top of your heavy head, be
the highest part of you and your are safe.—
But thrust up ode of your honey hands and
down you go; turning up the handle lips
over the pitcher. Having had the happiness
to prevent one or two from drowning by this
simple instruction we publish it for the benefit
of all who cither lose aquatic sports or dread
them.
Unavoidable Incidents.—An editor “out
west,” (of course) said that he hoped to be
able to present a marriage and p death as or
iginal matter for bis columns, but unfortunate
ly, a thaw broke up the wedding, and the
doctor got sick, so the patient recovered.
Puisicians rarely take medicine, lawyers
seldom go to law, and ministers steer clear of
other parson’s churches. Editors, however,
read ail the papers they can gat hold of.
t iv> i
AtllTA
■ .Vi*' t ’—. ’ L ‘
*' thk AorrATioM or thought is THS isonraiHQ or «mnx."
BY FBOY. JOUIM CKSAKHAHNIBBI*
THK VOKAH WOI WOWS HOW TO HAtfASX
,npiinm.
“Well, hero I be;' wakegnskes, the dajri
iaa breakio;”nowTseset my eyes on a
good many strange things in my day, bnt
ibia gellin’ married business beats everything
I ever did ope.; It goes ahead of Sara Fling,;
when ha wanted tb'bnydno of my cheeseto
make a grindstab. When I htjd a husband
—Devil's whisfeer»-~Jf he only said-heaps to
me, I made him jump rtjond like a stumptail
cow m fly time.
But there's Mrs. Fletcher, she’s three parts
a natural bora fool, and t’other part is as soft
as biled cabbage. gwoman *hat don’t stand
up for her rights is a disgrace to my sect.—
How any man should ever want to marry
such a moiassdfrcandy critter as she is, is
one of the secrets of human natur. And aa
to handsome—handsome never stood in her
shoes. For she looks as if she’d break in
two if she tried to lift a pot of potatoes. I
suppose her fingers were made to play the
pianny.
“Now, it’s my notion, when n women
gives a roan her hand, it ought to be big
enough to bold her heart at (he same time.—
Such a band as mine is worth giving, for I
can stop a bung hole with my thumb, and I’ve
done it toov
1 went 4nto Fletcher’s this morning and
true as I am a virtuous women, he was abus
ing on' her like a dog for lending his receipt
book to Miss Brown, who’s food of reading.
1 spose he didn’t keer for the receipts that
was written in the book, but it was the re
ceipts that wasn’t there, and ought to be, that
stuck into his crop. And Mrs. Fletcher hung
down her head, and looked for all the world
like a duck in a thunder storm. I just put
my a;ms again my sides, and looked her man
right in the eye till be looked as while as a
corpse. It’s always a way everybody’s got
when I fixes my eye on ’em. And the way
my looks white-wash bis brazen face, was
better than slacked limb. There, says Ito
Mrs. Fletcher, your husband had ought to
had me for a wile.“ When my man was
alive, he’d no more think of saying nothing
impendent to me, than he’d take the black
sow by the tail when she’s nursio her pigs ;
and you must laro to slick up to your man
jest like a new hair-brush.
I never found any debility in managing
these critters, for 1 always teach em what’s
sarce for the goose is sarce for the gander.—
There’s no two waya with me; I’m all of a
size, slob-twisted, and made of horse shoe
nails. I’m chuck full of grit, and a rough
post for any one to rub their backs again ;
any gal like me what can take a bag of meal
bn .her shoulder and tote it to mill, ought to
be able to shake any man of my hell. Some
think I ought to get married, and two or
three has tried to spark it with me, but I nev
er listen to Done of their flattery. Though
there was Blarney Bob came flatterfying me
like a tub of new butler. For I’ve no notion
of being (ramihelled up in their halters of
hymens. I likes my liberty, and wants no
halters or bridles put upon me.
Sam Mooney was shioin’ up to roe too;
and ihen there’s Jim Sweetbread,the butcher;
bu. he didn’t find me half enough for his
market. It isn’t everything that 'sticks its
leg through broadcloth that’s going to carry
off a gall of my spirit. My charms ain’t to
be had for (he bare axing.
Gettin’ married is a serious thing, as I
tel led my old man when I was walloping him
with a leg of mutton, because he took my
shoe brush to clean his teeth with. When
ever there is a nose, there is a mouth not far
off, and that proves that nature bos given
woman her rights as well as man.
Tbs foixowiito conversation is said to
have passed between a venerable old lady and
a certain presiding judge in——. This
learned functionary was supported on his
right and left by his worthy associates, when
Mrs.’P. was called to give evidence.
“Take off your bonnet, madam.”
“I had rather not, sir.”
“Zounds and brimstone, madam! take off
your bonnet, I say.”
“In public assemblies, sir, women gener
ally cover their heads. Such, I am sure is
the custom elsewhere, and, therefore, I will
not take off my bonnet.”
“Do you hear that, gentlemen ? She pre
teds to know more about these matters than
the judge himself, Had you not better come
and take a seal on the bench I”
“No, sir, thank! you for I really think there
are old women enough there already.”
Adjectitious.—A rather young and pe
dantic gentleman, who was pursuing his stud
ies at the University, having occasion to ask
a lady to hand him the snuffers across the ta
ble, concealed the impropriety of the request
undre the following cataract of long waisted
words;
“Most beautiful and charming lady: will
your ladyship, by the unmerited, undeserved
condescentson of your infinite, supreme good
ness, please to extend to your most obsequi
ous, devoted and very humble servant, that
pair of ignipolent bisectors, that I may exore,-
pate the excrescence from this nocturnal cyl
indrical luminary, in order that the refulgent
brightness of its resplendent brilliancy may
dazzle the vision of oOr ocular optics more
potently,"
An Irishman, on arriving in America look
a fancy to the Yankee girls, and wrote to
bis wife as follows: "Dear Norab, these
melancholy lines are to inform you that {I
died yesterday, and I hope you are enjoying
the same blessing. I recommend you to
marry Jemmy O'Rouke, and take good caije
of the children. From your affectionate bus
band till death.
r:r i *'
i *
T 61.
PUBtfinteßS &' PROPRIETORS.
Jk Skeepr ifcoiilalloa.
A vary verdant youth,'on. the shady aide'
.oi thirty, travelled out of aighUif borne for
purpose* unknown, and stopped ala hotel to
prdetiro refreshment*. The -usual loungers
ortho bar-room, together with acoople of
drovers faonndTor the eastern market with a
Choice collection of sheep, were in that hap.
py good humor said to be produced by a sat*
■siaetory. dinners igotag.jpifcr'anything to
prolong the chew. A tip of the eye from
one to the other aaJte entered indicated that
they considered (hi* awkward specimen 'game*
pad "mine host” , glanced inquisitively at bis
Jrptigh exterior, as'though (sjting aninvenfo
ry and balancing accounts for dinner, T'ha
innocent object, seemingly uoeotwotoa*, stared
at everything With dull satisfaction, ahd an
swered the queries addressed to him, with a
stuttering, foreign accent, highly amusing.—
His dinner being ready he addressed himself
to the “cold bile," not at all disturbed by the
choice bits of conversation coming up from
the bar-room below, such os “raw dulchman
—fresh from Baden—capital fine fun,” &c.,
mingled with uproarious laughter, which sud
denly ceased on his return.
“Sheep, eh I” he said, addressing drover
No. one.
-“Yes, sheep; would’nl you like to pur*
chase some four or live hundred to slock
your farm with ? ha I ha !*’
“H-h-how du sell ’um 1” asked the Dutch
man.
.‘Seeing it’s you,’, said drover No. two,
taking him by the button-hole and speaking
with mock seriousness, “seeing it’s you,
neighbor you may have all you can pay for
at two dollars per head,’’
“P-p-pick V exclaimed the Dutchman.
“Yes, have your pick, and lake all you
can pay for at two dollars per head.”
"Well, I g-g-guess I will look at ’em,” so
off went the drovers and Dutchman, follow
ed by all in the bar-room, even mine host
himself, to see (he fun.
“Gentlemens, you hear the bargain.”
“Yes, we hear the bargain; have all you
can pay for at two dollars per head. Come,
hand out your money, and pick your
sheep.”
Dutchman rather leisurely opened his cap
acious wallet, and surprised the bystanders
by presenting in all twenty dollars, and pro
ceeded to select his sheep. Here the drovers
discovered that he knew what was mutton,
and had probably learaed to distinguish wool
from another article called iiair.
“Hold on, man I” said drover No. one,
“you’ve your number, here’s ten,”
“Well, but m-mdy be M I might find
enough t-t-to pay for a few more.” So he
threw over in all one hundred and twenty
five, than straightening up—
“ H-h-here’s your money, sir: I’sposo I-I
could p-pay for few more, but I guess 1-1
Ve got all the g-g-good ’uns
The drovers found little satisfaction in the
roars of laughter that greeted this announce
ment, and they cursed the Dutchman most
heartily, who proved to be a Yankee after all.
Moore’s Rural New Yorker.
Live Yankee in Paris.
Among the Americans who attended the
late ball given at the Hotel de Ville, Paris,
was Jack Spicer, of Kentucky, Jack rushed
the dress somewhat strong, and sported ep
auletts on his shoulders large enough to start
four Major Generals in business. Jack was
the observed of all observers, and got mixed
up with a party that his friends could not ac
count. for. Wherever the marshal of France
went, there went Jack; and when the mar
shal sat down, Jack did the same, always
taking the post, of honor. The day after the
ball Jack called on bis old acquaintance, Mr.
Mason, our Minister to France, who started
up a little conversation in the following man
ner :
“I hear. Jack, you were at the ball last
night I”
“I was, sir, and had a high old time."
“For which you are indebted, 1 suppose,
to the high old company you got mixed up
with 7 By the way, how came you associa
ted with the marshals?”
“How ? by virtue of my office—they were
marshals of France, while I urn nothing else
than a marshal of the Republic. 1 showed
my commission and took post according
ly.”
“By right of office, what do you mean ?”
“ Read that and sse,”
Here Jack presented Mr. Mason with a
whitey-brown paper, with a seal big enough
for a four pound weight.
“What in the name of Heaven is this ?”
“My commission of“marshal”-r-I received
it in 1850, when I assisted in taking the
census in .Frankfort.”
“You don’t mean to say that you travel on
this?"
“I don’t mean anything else. That makes
me a “marshal” of the Republic* and i in
tend to have the office duly honored.”
Mr. Mason allowed that Jock was doing a
large business on a very small capital. We
should not wonder if the reader dill the same.
A census marshal of Frankfort mixing in
with the marshals of France is certainly
rushing matters in a manner that j requires os
much brass as epaulettes. Jack, we are
happy to soy, is equal to the requirements.
A young lady recently from a boarding
school, being asked if she would lake tome
more cabbage, replied: “By no means mad
ams— gastronomies) satiety admonish me
that I have arrived at the ultimate of culina
ry deglutination consistent with the code of
Esculapius.”
Gather up knowledge with a diligent hand,
it is the only earthly good that will not some
times give you pain.
SOMETHING HU THE MEW. ■
Civilization, the great engioe’ of baotui
progjM*, baa'wrooght out walta whicb.coo
•itJered as a whoie, are grantTaodcgterwia.
“ baa developed the ml brtha
eanli, and pbured out lla.
to ennch mankind ; it baa openedtba fids
domain of science for oar inr«ltiga&o,an4
lte great book of nature to grfUi :
fy »wcraying*orthe imroofUln£tw:tihaa
unlocked th®
haagiven uaa knowledge rfthp moaaaby
which we may obtain the grealeral po«jbi«
amount of earthly happiness j in abort, k baa
raised man from a condition scarcely above
that of the brulecrealibn, to bis. present high
and proud position. Tbdie, 1 say, ate the
general results of civilization ; but as we lake
a nearer view, we see that it. has also been
attended with tome of pa opposite character,
and which are greatly to be deplored. While
it has developed the vast wealth of land nod
sea, it baa also developed apd Jhe
cupidity, the avarice, the meanbeaa of the
human mind. While hihaa given uv a know*
ledge of of aacnce, it has
also given ua the poster of using tbat ksbw
ledge to impose upon, and iDjureoarfellow
man. While it haa, given' no, the means of
rendering oureelvea very bappy,~H boa at the
same lime given us the daogerous power of
making ourpelvea oatremely miserable. Thug
we may conclude that it has increased iba
amount both of good and of evil, of happi
ness and of misery. Under the strong light
of extreme civilization the mind of man has
been stimulated and quickened to almost un
natural activity, and the car of progress has
been hurried onward with astonishing speed,
especially during the last fifty years; hut,
physically, by the practice of refined vices,
mankind have degenerated into imbecility,
and shortened in no small degree (he average
period of human life. Truly, “ihe world
grows weaker and wiser !’* Many .of the
customs that exist in highly civilized society,
and which are considered’ refinement? d.u
necessarily belong to civilization, ate, in 1V..:
perversions, contrary to nature, to reason, and
to common sense. The.truth of these as?<.-,i ■
lions might be shown by numerous examples,
but the facts upon which they are based are
so plain and obvious, standing out as they do
upon the very face of society, that.proof is
entirely unnecessary. I shall, therefore, men
tion, in Ihe present article, tpit one of the
many evils and practices that prevail in so
ciety, and which I consider the wrong results
of extreme civilization ; and to this one point
I shall confine the remainder of my remarks.
I refer to the practice that obtains so generally
among men, of shaving off the hair which
Nature, for wise purposes, caused to grow
upon the face. The subject I have oilmen
is a novel one, and has been hitherto over
looked by reformers. And indeed considered
wiih reference to its effect upon the ultimate
happiness of the human race, it is compara
tively unimportant; but as it respects the
present ease, comfort, convenience, and dig.
nity of the male portion of mankind, it justly
merits our serious attention. The practice bf
shaving is, in my opinion, a war against na
ture, and hence unnecessary, unphyaiological,
unprofitable, unwise, and unjustifiable by any
circumstances that now exist or ever existed.
It is a mark of weakness and effeminacy en
tirely unworthy of the strength and dignity
of manhood; one that was unknown in those
ancient days of grandeur and glory—ihe
days of manly strength, of dauntless cour
age, of noble daring, of exalted pa'nutism—
ihe days when Achilles fought and Homer
sung—the days that witnessed the wonderful
acts of these demi-gods and heroes, the ftmo
of whose exploits has survived throughube
lapse of ages;—and it belongs to the multi
tude of false and foolish refinements that have
had their origin and support only in the lux
ury and corruption of modern limes. The
beard is the distinctive sign of manhood; it
is the feature peculiar to man and was evi
dently given him as an obvious mark to dis
tinguish him from ihe “beardless youth,” on
the one hand, and woman, on the other. It
is important that such a sign should exist be
tween the sexes, independent of dress and
other artificial distinctions that are continu
ally changing to suit Ihe whims or capricea
of the fashion makers; otherwise dangerous
impositions might be practiced upon society.
Why then should man seek to destroy this
mark that was placed upon him by bis ma
ker’s own band!—lf there is anything nobis
in manhood, anything worthy of pride in
the fact of being a “lord of creation.” why
should he wish to conceal, the feature that
more than all others adds dignity to his looks
and distinguishes him from the weaker classes
of his own species? Does he suppose that
by so doing he improves upon nature, and
adds to ihe external beauty of “God’s im
age?’’ He does indeed make his face some
what smoother and fairer—make himself look
more like a woman ; bot he is greatly mista
ken in supposing this to be an improvement.
In the creator’s works we always look for a
correspondence between the interior and ex
terior; between the nature of a thing and its
structure ; for without such a correspondence,
nature would present on inconsistency, which
would be wholly incompatible wi ti the su
preme wisdom of its divine author. Woman
is characterized by I’enileiip'ss and timidity ;
man, by those opposite and sterner qualities
that fit him to do greui deeds, 10 tame Ihe
wild elements, traverse the trackless ocean,
lay low tho Goliaths of the forest, and bring
all things under subjection to his almighty
will. Fairness of feature, then, becomes a
woman, but it does not become a man, it is
no part of manly beauty. The following
couplet will show I tow it was viewed iu the
days of Homer
NO. 48.
“111-fated Paris! Slave to woman-kind,
At smooth of face as fraudulent of miod 1"
Among ihe Greeks and Romans, and in.
deed, among alt ibo nations of antiquity, men
who showed signs of timidity and weakness,
who were lacking in manly courage, were
stigmatized aa women. The same praeiiro
prevails to soma extent among the nations of
modern times. Even among the American
Indians, that noble but vanishing race, a mao
can suffer no greater reproach than to 1$
called a woman.* Passages like the following
from the llllad, abound itf Homer -and all the
ancient poets:—
“Oh wosirn of Acini*! men no more!
Hence let us fly, and let him waste bit Store
In loves and pleasures oaths Phrygian there."
. Me Agiltfr.
A REW WBVWRBi
vv-