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Ru«iness bare*.
Ztpii. p° r f ear ‘ =
nb' dimly tlirougl' the mists of years;
°That rod their dreary waves between,
The gorgeous sunset land appears.
in hues of fadeless green.
And from that far-off sunny clime.
Old half-forgotten songs *" 36 -
and stealing o’er the waves of lime
The sweetly lingering music dies.
As some bright Wanfcof
Forever blooming—ever «ir.
Though cold, dark billows round tl-be.
Eternal sunshine hovers there.
Thus o’er the silent sea of years.
Out eager longing looks are cast,
Where robed in fadeless spring appears
The sunlit Eden of the past.
There memory weaves her garlands green
iLide the lone, hope haunted shore!
Audmusio ’mid the Arcadian scene,
Twines flowers that bloom for us no more.
Ob'hallowed clime! blest land of love!
Sweet paradise of early dreams !
Still throagli thy vales may fancy Tove,
Slill bask beneath thy evening beams.
And there they dwell—those cherished ones .
* With snow white brows and waving hair;
I see them now—l hear their tones
Of sweetness sigh along the air.
Tjjrh i how their silvery voices ring
In cadence with the wind’s low sigh;
Hot sweeter is the wind-harp’s siring
Thai wakes at eve its melody.
Thej all us; see, they wave their hands—
As by the mirage lifted high,
Thtl dime in all its beauty stands
Against the forehead of the sky.
Willi wreathed brows —with laugh end song,
Willi lender looks—hand clasped in hand,
Tiiev move along, that love linked throng—
Within the hannled sunset land.
duty and kindness.
There was an angry frown on the coun
lennce of Deacon Jones Browning. There
sere tears on the face of his wife.
"He shall be be sent to sea !” said Deacon
Browning sternly.
There was a pleading look in the eyes of
Mrs. Browning, as she lifted them to the iron
lice of her husband. But no words passed
her lips.
"Philip is very young, Jonas,” said Mrs.
Browning.
"Not too young for evil, and' therefore not
100 young for the discipline needed to eradi
cate evil. He shall go to sea ? Captain
Ellis sails in the Fanny Williams on next
Monday. I will call upon him this very
day.
"Isn’t the Fanny Williams a whaler?”
The lips of Mrs. Browning quivered, and
her voice had a choking sound.
“Yes,” was firmly answered.
“I wouldn't send him away in a whaler,
Jonas. Remember—he is very young, not
thirteen until next April.’’
“Young or old, Mary, he’s got to go, said
the stern deacon, who was a believer in the
gospel of law. He was no weak advocate
of moral suasion, as it is familiarly termed.
He went in for law, and was a strict con
structionist. Implicit obedience was the
statue for home, and all deviations therefrom
met the never withheld penally.
Mrs. Browning entered into no argument
with her husband, for she knew that would
be useless. She had never succeeded in
changing his purpose by argument in her life.
And so she bent her eye 6 meekly to the floor
•JM, while the tears crept over hdr face,
and fell in large bright drops upbn the
carpet. Deacon Browning saw the tears
but they did not move him. He was tear
proof.
FMip,lhe offending member of ihe Brown
mg family, was a bright, active, restless boy,
*tofrom the start had been a rebel against
unreasonable authority, and as a matter of
witse, not unfrequently against authority
™lt just and reasonable. Punishment had
™ly hardened him; increasing instead of
diminishing his power of endurance. The
Particular offence for which he was now in
I! gf>ce was, it must be owned, rather a se-
Wis one. He had, in company with three
™ er boys of his age, known as the greatest
in the village, rifled a choice plum
the fruit it contained, and then
a favorite dog, which happening to
iscoier them at their wicked wotk, altempl
-10 drive them away from the garden,
g e neighbor had complained to Deacon
rownmg, accompanying his complaint with
10 have Philip arrested for stealing,
you don’t do something with that boy
‘'hpht o ' 8 ’ ’ ' ie ac^et * with considerable feeling,
4e a J’ s ‘ n ® la,e Prison or on
[j ej ar words were Ihese for the -ears of
Hard° n ® rown ' n g> •he rigidly righteous !
ioihe* 0^3 and w ' ( h prophetic conviction
He had not a very creative imag
liiao ° UI ’ '. n ** IIS ' nslance the prediction of
Uk ne ighhor conjured up in his mind
as^/S a prison and a gallows, causing
cold D er . 10 pass over his nerves, and the
Fjorn!?'^ 1 ' 01110 stand upon his forehead.
B ra „, . J 1 m °tnent the resolution of Deacon
»as taken.
was on the brink of ruin, and
inesoj . aa y ed at all hazards. As to the
heart 0 r n°' D ° t * l ' s ’ ‘ l never entered into the
let oiu U f acon Browning to conceive of
Pi'Se, TK o SUcb as involved harsh disci
taasi v e . anaanile was in the land, and
"'iiii V dr l ven out with fire and sword.—
Sca oce lm A" e word duty had a stern signi-
Esoy, 0 '.. j. d always tried to do bis doty,
lad crust,- I 'l y onw ard in the path of life,
ipta os “ own a H vanities and evils that
by llle wa yi under a heel shod
®° f° Bea •” That was the last
of atnet ly. In his mind, as in the
* E ltip was *'* e Itinti some years ago,
"Wti a l 8 B re at school of reform; and
sent off ik WaS deemed incorrigible, he
0 6ca ' usually to have his evil
THE AGITATOR-
Befcotei? to tlje ssxttnsion of tijt WLvtx of JFreelrow an«J tijt SprtaO of 3&ealttig afcefotw.
WHILE THESE SHALL BE A WRONG UNSIGHTED, AND UNTIL “Man’s INHUMANITY TO MAN” SHALL CEASE, AGITATION MUST CONTINUE,
YOL. Y.
inclinations hardened into permanent bad
qualities.
When Deacon 'Browning met his son
Philip, after receiving intelligence of his
great offence, it was with a stern, angry re
pulsion. He did not see the look of appeal,
the sign of repentance, the plea ibr mercy
that was in his tearful eyes. A single -word
of kindness would have broken up the great
deep of the boy’s heart, and impelled by the
warmer impulses inherited from his mother,
he would have flung himself weeping into bis
father’s arms. But Deacon Browning had
separated duty from kindness. The one was
a stern corrector of evil, the other a smiling
approver of good.
From his home to the wharf, where the
Fanny Williams lay, all equipped for sea,
Deacon Browning bent his steps. Captain
Ellis, a rough, hard man, was on board.—
After listening to the father’s story and re
quest, he said, bluntly—
“lf you put your boy on board the Fanny
Williams’, he’ll have to bend or break that
is certain. Take my advice and give the
mailer a second thought. He’ll have a dog’s
life of it in a whaler. It’s my opinion that
your lad hasn’t stuff enough in him for fbiti
experiment.”
“I’ll risk it,” replied the Deacon. “He’s
got too much stuff in him to stay at home,
that’s the trouble. The bend or break sys
tem is the only one in which I have any
faith.”
“As you like, Deacon. I want another
boy, and yours will answer, I guess.”
“When do you sail?” was inquired.
“On Monday.”
“Very well. I’ll bring the boy down to
morrow.”
The thing was settled ; the Deacon did
not feel altogether comfortable in mind.—
Philip was young for such an experiment,
as the mother had urged. And now very
leaf in the book of his mem
ory was tnrned,jan which was written the
story of a poor boy’swrongs and sufferings
at sea. Many years before his heart bad
grown sick over the record. He tried to
look away from the page, but could not. It
seemed to hold his eye by a kind of fasci
nation.
Still be did not relent. Duty required
him to go steadily forward and execute his
purpose. There was no other hope for the
boy.
“Philip !” it is thus he announced his de
termination, “I am going to send you to sea
with Captain Ellis. It’s my last hope.—
Steadily bent as you are, on evil, I can no
longed' suffer you to remain at home. The
boy who begins by robbing his neighbor’s
garden is in great danger of ending his days
upon the gallows. To save you if possible,
from u fate like this, I now send you to sea.”
Very sternly, very harshly, almost angri
ly, was this said. Not the smallest im
pression did it seem to make upon the boy,
who stood with his eyes cast down, an im
age of stubborn self-will and persistent re
bellion.
With still sharper denunciation did the
father speak, striving in this way to shock
the feelings of his child, and extort signs of
penitence. But it -was the hammer and ihe
anvil—blow and rebound.
Very different were the mother’s effort’s
with the child. Tearfully she pleadecj with
him—earnestly she besought him to ask his
father's forgiveness for Ihe evil he had done.
But Philip said— 1
“No, Mother. I would rather go to sea.
Father don’t love me—he don’t care for me.
He ha'es me, I believe.”
“Philip! Philip! Don’t speak in that
way of your father. He docs love you ;
and it is only for your good that he is going
to send you to sea. O, how could you do so
wicked a thing 7”
Tears were in the mother’s eyes. But
the boy had something of the father’s stern
spirit in him and showed no weakness.
“it isn’t any worse than he did when he
was a boy,” was his answer.
“Philip I”
“Well, it isn’t; forH heard Mr. Wright
tell Mr. Freeman that father and he robbed
orchards and hens’nests; and did worse
than that when they we're boys.”
Poor Mrs. Browning was silent. Well did
she remember how wild a boy Jonas Brown
ing, had been ; and bow when she was a little
girl, she had heard all manner of evil laid to
his charge.
Very unexpectedly—at least to Mr. Brown
ing the minister called in on the evening of
that troubled day. After some general con
versation with the family, he asked to have a
few words with the Deacon alone.
“Is it true, Mr. Browning,” he said, after
they had retired to an adjoining room, “that
you are going to send Philip to sea 1”
“Too true,” replied the father soberly.
“It is ray last hope. From the beginning
that boy has been a rebel against just au
thority ; and though I have never relaxed
discipline through the weakness of natural
feelings, yet resistance has grown with his
growth, and strengthened with his strength,
until duly requires me to use a desperate
remedy for a desperate disease. It is a pain
ful trial ; but the path of duly is the only
path of safety. What we see to be right we
roust execute with unflinching courage. I
cannot look back ond accuse myself of any
neglect of duly, towards this boy, through
weakness of the flesh. From the beginning,
I have made obedience the law of my house
hold, and suffered no deviation therefrom to
go unpunished.”
“Duly,” said the minister, “has a twin
sister.”
He spoke in a changed voice, and with a
manner that arrested the attention of Deacon
Browning,-who looked at him with a glance
of inquiry.
WELLSBORO, TIOGA COUNTY, PA., THURSDAY MORNING. SEPTEMBER % 1858.
“She is as lovely and gentle as he is hard
and unyielding.”
The Deacon looked slill curious.
“When the twin sister of duty, is away
from his side, he loses more than half of his
influence; but in her beautiful presence, he
gains a dignity and power that make bis pre
cepts laws of life to all who hear them. The
stubborn heart melts, the iron will is subdoed;
the spirit of evil-shrinks away from the hu
man soul.”
There was a pause.
“The name pf that twin sister is Kind
ness.”
The eyes of Deacon Browning fell away
from the minister’s countenance, and dropped
until they rested upon the floor. Conviction
flashed upon his heart. He had always
been. stern in executing the law—but never
kind.
“Has that beautiful twin sister stood ever
by the side of duty I—:has Jove been in the
law, Deacon Browning V’ '
Side fay side with the minister stood duty
and kindness—the firm, unshrinking brother,
and the mild, loving sister—and so his word
had power to reach the deacon’s heart, with
out giving offence to pride.
“Kindness is weak, yielding and indulgent,
and forgives, when punishment is the only
hope of salvation,” said Deacon Browning,
a little recovering himself from the first emo
tions of self-condemnation.
“Only when she strays from the - side of
I duty,” treplied the minister! “Duty and
Kindness must always act together.
Much more, and to the same purpose, was
urged by the minister, who made only a brief
visit, and then withdrew, that his admoni
tions might work the desired effect.
When Deacon Browning came in from the
front door of his house, parting with
the minister, he drew a chair up to the table
in the family silling room, and almost in
voluntarily opened the large family Bible.
•His feelings were much softened towards his
boy, who, with his bead bowed down upon
his breast, sat a little apart from bis mother.
The attitnde was not so much indicative of
stubborn self will, as suffering. Deacon
Browning thought he'would read a chapter
aloud, and so drew the Holy Book closer,
and bent his face down over it. Mrs. Brown
ing observing the moment waited for him to
begin. The deacon cleared bis throat twice.
But his voice did not take up the words that
were in his eyes and in his heart. How coaid
they ?
“As a father pitieth his children”
Had there been divine pity in the heart
of Deacon Browning lor his rebellious and
unhappy boy 1 Nay—had there not been
wrath instead?
“As a father piiieth his children”
From a hundred places, in (he mind of
Deacon Browning, there seemed to come an
echo of these words, and they had a meaning
in (hem never perceived before. He closed
the book, and remained in deep thought for
many minutes ; and not only in deep thought
but in a stern conflict with himself. Kind
ness was striving to gain her place by the
side of Duty ; and cold, hard, imperious
Duty, who had so long ruled without a rival
in the heart of Deacon Browning, kept all the
while averting his countenance from that of
his twin sister, who had been so long an ex
iled wanderer. At last she was successful.
The stern brother yielded, and clasped to his
bosom the sister who sought his love.
From that instant new thoughts, new
views, new purposes, ruled in the mind of
Deacon Browning. The discipline of a
whaler was too hard and cruel for his boy,
young in years, by no means as hardened in
iniquity as he had permitted himself to im
agine. A cold shiver ran along his nerves
at the bare thought of doing what, a few
short hours before, he had resolutely in
tended. Kindness began whispering in the
ears of Duty, and crowding them with a
world of new suggestions. The heart of the
stern man was softened, and there flowed into
it something of a mother’s yearning tender
ness. Rising up at length, Deacon Brown
ing said in a low voice, so new in its tones
to the ears of Philip, that it made his heart
leap—
“My son, I wish to see you alone.”
The deacon went into the next room, and
Philip followed him. The deacon sat down
and Philip stood before him.
“Philip, my son’’—Deacon. Browning took
the boy’s hand in one of his, ariiHooked him
full in the face. The look was returned—
not a defiant look, but one of yielding wonder.
“Philip, I am not going to send you to sea
with Captain Ellis. I intended doing so;
but on reflection, I think the life will be too
hard for you.” _ !
Very firmly, yet kindly, the deacon tried
to speak, but the sister of Doty way playing
with the heart-strings, and their lone of pity
was echoed from his voice, which faltered
when he strove to give it firmness.
The eye of Philip remained fixed upon the
countenance of his father.
“My son”—Deacon Browning thought he
had gained sufficient self-control to utter
calmly certain mild forms of admonition ;
but he was in error; his voice was still less
under his control, and so fully betrayed the
new-born pity and tenderness in his heart,
that Philip, melting into penitence, exclaimed,
as tears gushed from his eyes—
“O, father! I’ve been very wicked, and
am very sorry !**
Involuntarily at this unexpected confes
sion, the arms of Deacon Browning were
stretched out towards his repentant boy, and
Philip rushed, sobbing into them.
The boy was saved. From that hour his
father had him under the most perfect sub
ordination. Bnt the twin sister of duly
walked ever by his side.
Let’s Take a Drink.
“Let’s go and take a drink, boys,” said a
well dressed young man as the cars stopped
at Waukegan station. And so the boys did,
re-entering the cats with their faogoage and
persons marked by the bar-room odor.
Take a drink! The young men were well
dressed fools. They have taken a step which
will bear a fearful retribution. Years hence
a thousand woes will blossom in the foot
prints now made in young life. A false light
gilds the deadly miasma which dogs their
footsteps. They see not the smoking altar
towards which they are tending. A host of
shadowy phantoms of vice and crime are
flitting on before. Red-handed mutder laughs
at their folly ; and death is waiting at the
fresh opened grave. There are tears to shed
by those who at this hour dream not of the
sorrow which these false steps shall bring
them.
Take a drink ! All the uncounted host
of drunkards whose graves in every land
mark the pathway of intemperance, look a
drink. They took drinks and died. The
drunkards of to-day are taking drinks.—
Three out of four of the murderers of 1856
took a drink. Their steps were towards the
dram shop, and then from the scaffold out
upon the fearful waste that lies beyond. The
palsied wretches which totter in our streets
all took drinks.
We involuntarily shudder when we see
young men crowding the deeply beaten path
to the dram shop. They are all confident in
their own strength. With the glass in one
hand where coils the deadly adder, they ha !
ha ! about the fools who drink themselves to
death ! They boldly leap into the tide where
stronger arms have failed to beat back the
sullen flow. They dance and shout' in the
midst of the grinning and ghastly dead, and
riot upon the reeking, fumes of the grave’s
foul breath! They boast of their strength,
and yet they are but the reed in the storm. —
They wither like grass under the sirocco
breath of the plague the nourish. A brief
time and they are friendless, homeless and
degraded. Another day and the story of
their lives is told by a rude, stoneless grave
in the Poller’s Field.
Don't take a drink ! Shun the Dead Sea
fruits, that bloom on the shore where hail
lions have died. The bubbles which float
upon the beaker’s brim, hide the adder’s fang.
The history of ages points sadly to the mad
dening hosts who have offered themselves
soul and body to the demon of the cup. The
bondage of iron, galls but the limbs. That
of the dram fetters the soul. —Cayvga Chief.
What an Editor night Have Been.
Holland, the editor of the Springfield Re
publican, has been up in Vermont, to ‘where
he come from,’ and he thus sketches what he
should have been, if he had not left home
and become an editor:
“Your correspondent would have grown
stalwart and strong, with horny hands, and
a face as black as the ace of spades. -He
would have taught school winters, worked on
the farm summers, and gone out haying for
fifteen days in July, and taken for pay the
iron work and running gear of a wagon.—
At two and twenty, or thereabouts, he would
have begun to pay attentions to a girl with a
father worth two thousand dollars, and a spit
curl on her forehead—a girl who always
went to singing school, and ‘sal in the seals,’
and sung without opening her mouth—a pret
ty girl, any way. Well, after seeing her
home from singing school one or two years,
taking her to a Fourth of July, and getting
about a hundred dollars together he would
have married her and settled down.
Years would pass away, and that girl with
the spit curl would have had eleven children
—just as sure as you live—seven boys and
four girls. We should have had a hard time
in bringing them up, but they would soon be
able enough to do the milking, and help their
mother washing days, and I getting indepen
dent at last, and feeling a little stiff in the
joints, should be elected a member of the leg
islature having been assessor and school
committee man for years. In the evening of
my days, with my pipe in my mouth, thir
teen barrels of cider in the cellar, and my
newspapers in' my hands, I should sit and
look over the markets, through a pair of gold
spectacles, and wonder why such a strange,
silly piece as this should ba published.
An Eloquent Extract. —“ Generation
after generation,” says a fine writer, “have
felt as we now feel, and theTr lives were ns
active as our own. They passed like a va
por, while Nature wore the same aspect of
beauty as when her creator commanded her
to be. The-heavens shall be as bright over
our graves as they are now around our paths.
The world will have the same attractions for
our offspring yet unborn, that she had for us,
when we were children. Yet a little while
all this will have happened. The throbbing
heart will be stilled, and we shall be at rest.
Our funeral will wind its way, and the prayers
will be said, and then we shall be laid in si
lence and darkness, for the worm. —And it
may be for a little lime we shall be spoken
of, but the things of life will creep in, and
our names will soon be forgotten. Days will
continue to move on, and laughter and song
will be heard in the room in which we died ;
and the eyes mourned for us will be
dried, and glisten again with joy ; and even
our children will cease to think of us, and
will not remember to lisp our names.’’
If all the rascals who, under the semblance
of a snug respectability, sow the world with
dissensions and deceit were fitted with a
halter, rope would double its price, and the
executioner set up his carriage.
©ommmiications.
Leaves by the Wayside.
BY-AGNES.
“Who does not love the dreamy, rich, col
oring of our autumnal days, which come to
us like a picture, where in all warm, emo
tional life fades from our sight iaone'gor
geoos tint and coloring,” said Lillian as she
fished up one more shining lily the
depths-of the Merrimac. ■
“But I,” exclaimed Zaidee, “love winter !
she comes so regally, with her flourish of
music in the'martial blasts of her night-winds,
and reigns proud queen of that portion of the
world over which she throws her mantle.”
“But I love spring!” exclaimed Maggie.
“She comes in tears and sunshine, and[with
an earnest soul warmth seeks to seve!r the
monarch chains of winter, and to infuse life
and freedom into every fettered thing of na
ture ! Hers is a toilsome mission ; but I llove
her all the belter for the struggle.” , |
“And I,” exclaimed Mattie, “lovesummer,
with her blue skies and her fragrant flowers !
I even love her scorching breath whichjfalls
upon my brow, for it speaks of a healthy de
velopment of our earth, without the sighs of
decay.” j
••.‘But I,” said Metta, “love the sky, the
stars, the earth in the deep hush of midnight,
when the great stampede of life is checked
and the soul is free to hold communion jwith
invisible forms of worth and beauty, vyhose
Jove for us blends with the worship of the
Great Eternal.” j
“But I,” exclaimed Walter Wenlers, “love
to roam in the regions of thought, and by
the power of my intellect bring men to my
feet in admiration I Aye I by the sound of
my voice and the force of tny will I would
overturn political dogmas, church creeds, and
make this nation a truly free and happy one,
after the order of my utopian notions !”i
“Hurrah, for our future statesmen!” cried
I, “and now for my choice of destinyj: I
love ” ere the sentence was finished,
there came a flash of lightning and a peal of
thunder, which caused us to hide our faces in
terror. After the threatening aspect of the
sky had passed away, I said : j
“You see, my school fellows that the thun
der-bolls of Jove pursue me. In ten years
from this lime, I-will, on this same sput, sum
mon you to meet me, that we may compare
notes, and see what the journey of life has
meted out to each.” “Familiar spirits!” I
cried with mock solemnity, “will you come ?"
They all arose, and promised by the gold
en ties of that friendship which bound us,
to meet me there in coming years. |
- - ? * 1
“Home again !” echoed musically through
my soul, as 1 slood upon ihe shores of Amer
ica ! .1 had been a wanderer; England,
Spain, and last, “brighi, sunny Italy” had
been visited. My soul was awed by a (pres
ence —a mystery as it were, as I gazediupon
the wilderness of paintings, and sculpture of
the old time, whose silent forms spoke |o me
of the great masters of art who long (since
had played their part upon the drama of life,
and had loft the serene beauty of theitj Ma
donnas to tell of the exquisite conceptions of
their minds. j
But now I had come home. As I jwan
dered among the scenes of former days, I
felt it was but a sepulchre. My mother and
sisters were sleeping in the'churchyard. My
old friends had gone their several roads in
life. I was alone !
One morning as I watched the sun rjso, a
sudden flash pi recollection shone upon my
mind. I saw before mo the old trvsling
place of our school-friendships—the gather
ing of the water Allies—and ray summons to
my school-fellows to meet me again in the
same place. I resolved, as it was just ten
years that day since the above had happened,
to visit our play ground ; not that I expected
to meet any pf my childhood’s playmates,
but I yearned once more to lay my head upon
the grass at the foot of the tpees, beneath
whose shadow I had sported in boyhood. 1
I longed once more to gather some of .'those
fragrant while Allies, which reminded me of
the lime ere the thunderbolts of sorrojv had
rendered life a tempest-tossed, tragical per
formance. ■
As I stood beneath the trees that shaded
the waters of the Merrimac, how strangely
throbbed my heart. I had felt no such emo
tion for years. Was it a foreshadowing of
coming friends ? Yes, surely ! for therb soon
fell a shadow by my side, ahd turning,;! met
a pair of eyes of which I had often dreamed,
but had not seen for years. , 1
“Ernest!” came in glad tones frojn her
lips. “God grant, much loved Lillian, that
a greater number of our school fellows .may
be here Taking both ofherihands
within my own. “Ernest, there will ;be no
more here! I will tell you the histgry of
our school fellows if you have not hea'rd al
ready.” .
I assured her that I had not heard one
word from them, since my return home.
“We will commence with She
married a millionaire. That was well,’ if she
had not wedded the position, instead !of the
heart of her husband. She reigns jqueen
over a circle of votaries of fashion and of
folly, and Ako the -season she loved best, is
dazzlingly beautiful, but cold and arbitrary.”
'“Maggie married a minister. As shejmeek
ly walks her way among the sheep iof her
husband’s fold, I often think she has met the
tfulfllment of the foreshadowing of he{ desti
ny, as it fell from her lips ten years ago, be
neath these trees. Is she happy I Ask the
murmuring winds as they pestle in thejbosom
of the great oak which sings in murmured
numbers to their caresses.” j
"Mafia married ; but not wisely.' Like
the hot breath of the seasop which shes'luveci,
Rales of Advertising.
Advertisements will be charged SI per square of
fourteen lines, for one, or three insertions, and 25
cents fur every subsequent insertion. AH advertise
ments of less than fourteen lines eonsideredas a
equate. The following rales will be charged tor
Quarterly, Half-Yearly and Yearly advertising:—
3 months. 6 months. 12 mo’s
Square, (14Iincs,) . $2 50 S 4 50 SG 00
2Squares,. . ... 400 600 800
i column, .... 1000 1500 2000
column,. . . . .18 00 30 00 •40 00
All advertisements not having the number of in
sertions marked upon them, will be kept in until or
dered out, and charged accordingiv.
Posters, Handbills, Bill,and Letter Heads, and alt
kinds of Jobbing done in country establishments,
executed neaUy and promptly. Justices’, Consta
bles’and other BLANKS, constantly on band and
printed to order.
NO. 5.
she feels Ihe withering, scorching influence
of her husband’s nature, quenching every
well of gladness within her soul. But “He
that tempereth the wind lo the shorn lamb,”
sends some comfort lo her stricken heart.—
For from ihe stormy clouds which hang over
her pathway in life, she catches glimpses of
"the better land” where there is rest lor the
weary/
"Of Meets : Come with me to-morrow lo
the church yard, and I will show you a grave,
beneath a weeping willow, on which rests n
marble slab with these words, ‘Meets, aoed
18.” ' °
“Culm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit ."rest thee now!
E’en while with ns thy footsteps trod,
His seal was on thy brow.
Dust to its narrow house beneath I
Soul to its place on high !
They that have seen thy look in death,
No more may fear to- die.**
“Of Waller: He Commenced the practice
of law, and by the several stepping stones of
political preferment, stands now in our Con
gressional halls, a law maker for the people.
His eloquence and power is felt by all who
listen to him. But in his tempest tossed ex
istence, I often ask myself, can be be hap
py?”
■> “’Tis strange,” 1 said, that eaclt with such
prophetic exactness have foretold their own
destiny in life.”
“But now, Lillian, tell me thy historv and
I .will tell you mine; and then sweet Lillian,
I will bind your brow with,the shining water
lillies in token of our well kept faith.”
I looked upon the moon and stars, but I
lotjed them no more ; 1 listened to the night
winds, but they only sang a dirge (or me.—
How I waited for another coming day, and
mingled with renewed zeal in the stampede,
bustle and excitement of life. But all to no
purpose. My dream of the low, thrilling
voice of good, noble Lillian, was only a
dream, like (no many of the visions offite.
Lawrenceville, Pa.
TEACHER’S COLUMN.
For the Agitator.
“How shall an interest be excited in small
reading classes ?”
I have adopted this plan sometimes, and
succeeded well: I would arrange my class
on one line, and if they read correctly I
would have them pass over on another mark,
opposite the class. If any failed from want
of previous preparation, they bad the morti
fication of retaining their places. Again, I
have varied the exercises by reading myself;
“playing that they were teachers and 1 their
scholar,” and they, necessarily, must tell me
all the hard words. Again, 1 have allowed
my Ist and 2d Reader classes to thoroughly
prepare those lines of Spelling prefixed to
their reading lesson, and; after our usual ex
ercise, request some member of the class to
take the book, stand some distance from the
class and’ give out words for the others to
spell. This I found lobe peculiarly pleasing
to them and highly beneficial in making them
familiar with the most difficult words occur
ring in their, lesson, also cultivating distinct
articulation. We generally give a narration
of what we have read, and not unfrequentlv
tell stories which go far beyond “the printed
one.”
We enlist attention to the punctuation by
having the pauses occasionally'called off ns
we come to them in reading. Sometimes wc
send some member of the class to the board
to make them, and have their names speci
fied by others.
We find that a variety is an essential to
the improvement of the children, and we aim
at gratifying them in this particular. ‘
Constance Bishop, A. sf.
A Sweet Boy. —My neighbor T had
a social party at his house a few evenings
since, and the “dear boy” Charles, a five
year olp, was favored with permission to be
seen in, the parlor. “Pa” is somewhat proud
of his boy, and Charles was, of course elab
orarelyj got up for so great an occasion.—
Among other extras, the little fellow’s hair
was treated to a libera! supply of Eau de Co
logne, to his huge gratification. As he en
tered the parlor and made his formal bow in
the Indies and gentlemen, “Look-ee he re,”
said he, proudly, “if any of you smells a
smell, that’s me/” The effect was decided,
and Charles, having thus in one brief sen
tence delivered ,an illustrative essay on hu
man vanity, hero of the evening.—
Every one coufd call,to mind some boy of
large growth, whose self satisfaction, though
not perhaps so audibly announced, was yet
evident, and not belter founded.
A New Recite to Kill Flies.—Gci a
four horse power engine, pul it in the hick
kitchen, run shafting in every room connect
ed with the aforesaid engine by belling. On
ihe shafting place fly wheels; smear the
wheels with molasses and set the engine go
ing. The (lies being altracled bv ihe mo'us
ses on ihe fly wheels will light on them, and'
the wheels revolving rapidly they will be
wheeled off. Have a boy under each «h>el
with a flat shingle, and let him smile them
as ihey fall and before ihey have lime Jo re
cover from their dizziness. A smart boy has
been known to kill as many as fifty a day.
A writer in Blackwood says that every
man who is not a monster, a mathematician,
or a mad philosopher, is the slave of some
woman.
Rum, while in hogshead is capable of do
ing but little mischief but when it gets into
men’s heads look out.
lie that does good without beip? goot| pulls
down with one hand what he builds up with
the c Iter.