D. A. BURELSR, DDITOR AND PROPRIETOR. VOL. We and the . Mowing beautifial tribute to the warner, of Dr. Otrautine, in the National Int& firmer. Ahhousli unaccompanied with the wri ter's sass, no one anqtukinted with hie glowing and stneethi 'ie. can WI to recognise in it the pen of the Nee. Taoism B. Baum, one of the fi nest mikes in the *matey I CHALMERS Funs Britain'a coma lut arrival brought The Matting rows that likotia's moral king, Whose Ups and pen so long have wisdom taught, Had purl away to where the Angels Ling A nun beloved rte* OA* hawthorn land, htim where it liAs fts northern mountain towers To where its Yiurow Mike twin minors stand, And doubling all their hestherberweide ow'ss Profaned, sinome, replete with simple aims And large deigns ; the generous friend et Men, On whom his race drew unprotested claims . For reeranis rich fia Emery useful plan. With giant Inn he grarOd the wand Cloth M 41110141 it lons, to his credentials true, Where peasants flailed o'ex hills and data dams, And from kiiitabbatk tones instruction dm,. In Fifeahirs sales be drefd his Eltepiard's crook, And then where spire. adorn the noble Clyde ; Then Where 'bop crags Edina'n homes tierlook, And isernho, Taste, and Genius all reside. Hosseiee was heard mid Kirks and letteetFlialls, nfescial Truth in accents loud and bold Prom Highland eaves to London'i ranging wills, He strewed his way with grains of moral gold, But off& life this was the greeted deed— . Those cords which chained the Kirk at Wind sor's put, He rent intwain—and from the boundary Tweed To. Orkney isles he severed Church and State. N ow, in that Kirk's selected evergreens, one - event hL honored name embalms, With Isaias' men who pase'd thin' purple scenes, To muter robes and victory's splendid palms. For be mms up the Premier's sparkling ore, His home, and robe, and Academie 011106. And, Hirt his Biros who lived in days of yore, , 4 % For oteliKienCe eoent'd the plumes ofpowsr and pleas. Before that time Baronial Halls were proud Te own this guest, and lofty feudal domed Kept *pea pls.. But when he nobly row'd To free the Kirk, be tum'd to Cottage homes— Where peasants came, and in their tartan frocks Their homage paid,from Dee and Avon F rem Null!' and Spey and wild exterior lochs, All elantherituf dawn from every mountain cliE My dirge is e'er. This theme we freely yield ' Tend/samella rich in mare elegiac lays, Who pensive harps and louder cyntbshi By Anglia's lakes or Scotia's mossy-braes. A nd, as New Zealand birds, whose powerful songs Are said like sweet and pensive bells to sound, 8o may Britannia's bards, in concert throngs, A requiem sing at his sepulchral mound But yet a bard in mountain blue who spends His /Ming days, may pluck one cypress bmC And send it on to where Edina bends O'er that dark pall which wraps ha moral chief. Rierepol Cotter, ( Va.) Arne 28. HEROISM—WHAT IS IT I 4 .00 e invnfler makes a villain, Mises a here—DOA" Portius. The day was, and perhaps now is to some extent, when ,to be a hero was to be a villain, a cut throat; when to gain this title it was necessary to tread the rough . and thorny road of carnage and desolation, amid the revelry of Flittering spears, and the roar ofthundering can non. But, thanks to the influence of Christian truth, and en lightened reason, a new era is dawning up,; . on the world, the age of moral chivalry —when heroism shall be manifested, not on bloody fields of human butchery, and amid dm smoking ruins of burnt cities, but en the bread field of moral conflict, where ninny deeds of pitmend rivalry shall decide the claims oftbeaspiranut for fame. The tnaa who sacrifices the 'mast for his race in propigating truth, who shall breast with the greatest moral courage the assaults of tyrant riot* shall best deserve the name of hero. Who does net say speed the hour 1' And who does sot give a hearty response for tlitewassitwation of that period, Whoa men shall call brother—each shall WI to each Foci um his His We of hv►-sad puss god holy !perch nook tor the owl's high itotivol. Erracri or Nue° Ezaircsrartots.— The slaves constituted formerly the wealth of she planters; now, as free and Romans rated laboters, they ate the soul of our is land commerce, and as each, are the wealth of the merchants. Let us look back at the commercial revolution which has taken Otte in Tinsidad since the dawn of freed om. The' signs of comperative wealth among the laboring people every where appear. The great change in their condi tion has , greatly stimulated nude of every idesesiption. Mechanics of every class haws socreased a hundred fold among the tower eider of society; these are rapidly tieing to respectability and wealth, and Mom ono very distant day to act an im- Irwruallati - ist the internal trade and al- Taira of the colon.. In consequenee of the possession of ntemey by the people, our is land imports has s iacressed to a most sur prising teak, in the course of a few years. --73unidad S)userolor. Nothing can be more unfounded than the setion that stove of reading, or of sci ence.," of any kind of knowledge, unfits at man for his daily occupation, or makes him discontented with it.. SIMILES.—Men we like bugles; the more brass they contain, the farther you can hear them. Lades - "are like violets ; the more modest and retirirg they appear, the better you love them. Tint Tomour.—There is a world of meaning in the following from an old scrap book : U OM wisitest to be vise, Keep there words before thine eyes : What thou speaker, and how, beware, Of whom, to whom, when and where. The Parent who would train the child in the way he should go, should go in the way he would train the child. MAN IS a name of honor fora king AVM the Saturday Courier. BY 01101101 LIPP•ID. It was at the battle of Brandywine that Count-Pulaski a p peared in all his glory. As he rode charging there into Ole thick est of the battle, be was a warrior to look upon but once, and never forpt. Mounted on a large Mack horse, whose strength and beauty of shape made you for get.the plainness of his capparison, Pules ki himself. with a form aix feet •in height, massive chest and limbs of iron, was atti red in a white uniform, that was seen from afar, rttlieved by the black clouds of battle. -His face, grim with the scars of Poland. was the face of a man who had seen much trouble, endured much wrong. It was ■tamped with an expression of abiding melancholy, bronzed in hue, lighted by large dark eyes, with the lip darkened by a thick mustache, his throat and chin wore covered with a heavy beard, while his hair fell in raven masses, from beneath his trooper's cap, shielded with a ridge of glit tering steel. His hair and beard were of the same hue. The sword that hung by his side, fash ioned of tempered steel, with a hiltof iron, was one that a warrior alone could lift. It was in this array he rode to battle, fol lowed by. a band of three hundred men, whose faces, burnt with the scorching* of a tropical sun, hardened by northern snows, bore the scars of many a battle. They were mostly European ; some Germans, some Polanders, some deserters from the British army. These were the men to fight. To be taken by the British would be death, and death on the gibbet; there fore they fought their best and fought to the last gasp, rather than mutter a word a bout "quarter." When they charged it was one man, their three hundred swords flushed over their heads, against the clouds of battle.— They came down upon the enemy in ter rible silence without a word spoken t not even a whisper. You could hear the tramp of steeds, you could hear the rattling of eir scabbards, but that Was all. Yet when they closed with the British, you could hear a noise, like the echo of a hundred haminers, beating the hot iron on the anvil. You could see Pulaski him self, riding yonder in his white uniform, his black steed rearing aloft, as turning his head over his shoulder he spoke to his men : " Ibrwarts, ifrtukrn, forwarts !" It was but broken German, yet they un derstood it, those three hundred men of sunburnt face, woundssand gashes. With one burst they crashed upon the enemy.— ; For a few momenta they used their swords, ' and then the ground was covered with the dead, while a living enemy scattered in .panic before their path. It was on this 'battle-day of Brandywine that the Count was in his glory. He un derstood but little English, so he ',Take what he had to say with the edge of his sword. It was a severe Lexicon, but the British Bohn learned to read it, and to know it and fear it. All over the field, from yonder Quaker meeting-house away to the top of Osborne's Hill, the soldiers of the enemy saw Pulaski come, and learned to know his nameby heart. '- That white uniform. that bronzed visage, that black horse' with burning eye and quiyenng nostrils; they knew the warrior well; they trembled when they heard him say, "Forwats, brndern, forwards 1" It was in the retreat of Brandywine, that • the men of Sullivan, baillr armed, poorly led and shabbily clad, gave way. step by step, before the overwhelming discipline . of the British host, that Pulaski looked like , a battle-fiend, mounted on his•demon steed. His cap had fallen from his brow. His bared head shown in an occasional sunbeam, or grew crimson with a flash from the can non or rifle. Hi. white uniform was rent and stained ; in fact from head to foot, ne was covered with duet and blood. Still his right arm was free—still it rose there, executing a British hireling, when it fell—still his voice was heard hoarse and husky, but strong in its every tone—"For warts, Brodern, forwarts !" He beheld the division of Sullivan re• treating from the field, he saw the British yonder stripping their backs in the mad ness of pursuit. He looked to the south for Washington, who, with the reserve, under Green, was hurrying to the rescue, but the American Chief was not in view. Then Pulaski was covulsed with rage. He rode madly upon the bayonets of the pursuing British, his sword gathering vic tim after victim; even• there, in front of their whole army, he flung his steed a cross the path of the retreating Americans, he besought 'them in broken English, to turn; to make one more, effort; he ebopt ed in hoarse tones that the Any was not yet lost ! They did not understand his words, but the tones in which he spoke thrilled their blood. That picture, too, standing out from the clouds of battle—a warrior convulsed with passion, covered with blood, leaning over the neck of his steed, while his eye seem ed turned to fire. and the muscles of his bronzed face writhed like serpents—ghat picture, I say, filled many a heart with new courage, nerved many a wounded arm for the fight again. Those retreating men turned, they faced the enemy again—like grey-hounds at bay before the wolf—they sprang upon the necks of the foe, and bore them down by one desperate charge. It was at this moment that Washington came rushing on once more to tha battle. Those people knew but little of the A merican General who called him the Amer ican Fabious, that is a general compound of prudence and caution, with but a spark of enterprise. American Fabius ! When you will show me that the Roman Fabius had a heart of fire, nerves of steel, a soul that hungereth for the charge, an en terprise that rushed from wild% like the Skippack upon an army like the British at Germantown, or started from ice or snow, like that which lay across the Dela ware, upon hordes like those of the Hes sians at'l'renton—then I will lore'. Wash GETTIISBIJEG, PA. PRIDAY EVENING, JULY 9, 1847. ington down into Fabius,. This compar ison of our heroes with the barbarian aeon gods of Rome only illustrate the poverty of the mind that makes it. Compare Brutus, the • assassin of his . friend, with Washington. the Savior of the people ! Cicero, the opponent Or Cat:dine, with Henry, the champion of a continent! What beggary of thought ! Let us,learn to by a• little independent, to know our great men, as they were, not by compari son with the barbarian heroes of old Rome. Let us learn that Washington was no negative thing, but all chivalry and genius. It was in the battle of Brandywine that this truth was made plain. He beheld his men hewn'down by the British, he beard them' ahyiek his litine,smd regaidleis of his perional safety, he rushed to join them. :Yea, it was in the dread of the retreat that Washington, rushing forward itithltexery centre of the me2ee, entan gled in the enemy's troops on the top ore hill, south-west of the Meeting house, while Pulaski was sweeping on. with his grim smile, to have one more bout with die eager red coats. Washington was in terrible danger—h' troopers were rushing to the south—the British troops came sweeping up the hill and around him, while Pulaski, on a hill some hundred y ards distant, was scattering a parting blessing among the horde of Han over. It was a glorious prize, ' this Mutter Washington, in the heart of the British army. Suddenly the Pounder turned—his eye caught the sight of the iron grey and his rider. He turned to his troopers ; his whiskered lip wreathed with a grim smile —he waved his sword—he pointed to the iron grey and its rider. There was but one moment: With one impulse that iron band wheel ed their war horses, and then a dark body, solid and compact, was speeding over the valley like a thunderbolt, sped from the heavens; three hundred swords rose glit tering in the faint glimpse of sunlight--and in front of the avalanche, with his form raised to his full height, a dark frown on his brow, a fierce smile on his lip, rode Pulas ki. Like a spirit roused Mt° life by the thunderbolt .he rode 7 .his eyes-were fixed upon the iron'grey and its rider—his band had but one look, one will, one shout, for Washington ! The British troops"had encircled the A- Meriean leader—already they felt secure of their prey—already the head of that trai tor, Washington, seemed to yawn above the gates of London. But that trembling of the earth in the valley yonder—what means it! That terrible beat of hoof—what does it portend ? That ominous silence—and now that shout—not of words or of names, but that half veil, half hurrah, which shrieks from die Iron Man as they scent their prey 1— What means it all 1 Pulaski is on our track 1 The terror of the British army is in our wake ! And on he came—he and his gallant band. A moment, and. he had swept over the Britishers—crushed, mangled, dead, and dying, they strewd the green sod—he had passed over the hill—ho had passed the form of Washington. Another moment I And the iron band hid wheeled—back in the same career of death they came i Routed, defeated, and crushed—the red coats flee the hill; while the iron band ;weep round _ the form of George Washington—they encircle him with their forms of oak, their swords of steel—the shout of his name shrieks thro' the air and away to the American host they bear him in a soldier's battle joy. It was at Savannah that night came down upon Pulaski. Yes, I see him now, under the gloom of night, riding forward towards yonder ramparts, his black 'stead rearing aloft, while two hundred of his own men follow at his back. Right on, neither looking to right nor left, he rides. his eye fixed upon the can non of the British his sword gleaming over his head. "Forwarts, Brudern, forwarts !" Then that black horse; plunging for ward, his fore feet rotting on the cannon of the enemy, while his warrior rider arose in all the pride of bis form, his face bathed in a flush of red light. - That flash once gone, they saw Pulaski no more. But they found him yes be neath the enemy's cannon, crushed by the same gun, that killed his steedyeo, they found them, the horse and rider, resting to. gether in death, that noble face glaring in the midnight sky with gluey eye: • Bo in hos glory he died. He died while America and Poland were yet in chains.— He died,, in the stout hope that both would one day be free. With America,.thte hope has been fulfilled, but'Poland—r-- • , Tell me, shall not the day Came, when yonder monument, erected by'those warm Southern hearts near Savannah, will yield up its dead? Etor Poland will be free at iast as sure as god is just, assure as he governs the Uni verse. Then, when recreated Poland rears her eagle aloft again, among the banners of nations, will her children come to Savannah, to gather up the ashes of their hero, and bear him home, with the chaunt of priests, with the thunder of cannon, with the tears of millions, even as repentant France bore home her own Napoleon. Yes, the day is coming when Kosciusko and Pulaski will sleep side by side beneath the soil of Re-created Poland. FATE OF A GAMBLER. -A tavern keep er in Harrisburg died lately under peculiar circumstances. He was in the habit of card playing, for which his house was re sorted to by a number of persons, and while engaged in the game, holding the cards in his hand, and in the act of laugh ing, he fell back and instantly expired. He had said some time previously, on being talked with in regard to his habits, that he intended to play cards "as long as he liv ed." He carried out his design. DAGUERREOTVPIL-A woman's heart is the only true plate for a man's likeness.— An instant gives the impression, and an age of sorrow cannot efface it. .FEAR6BB AND FREE." A HUSBAND'S REVENGE. DT Wi. T. Rovouts„ JIR Seventeen handfed and seventy-nine;-- 'Twas a cheerlesa evening in October: the sun had already set; a young moon was struggling with the dark clouds that at in tervals obscured her bright 'disc, u they were borne along by the resistless fury of the angry wind which howled dismally among the naked branches of the leafless forest trees. Now it came in fitful gusts, scattering the fallen' levee, and whining piteously at its leek cif power. Now it in creased in strength, snapping the decayed breathes, and bending the tough boughs of the stu rdyl oaks. Anon it 'welled into an overwhelming' blast, twisting the gnarled trunks, and, with a deafening creel uprootiag and over the mighty lords of the then sinking into a sullen moan, it howled a mournful requiem over its spent and de parted strength. Dark indeed. and dismal was the night, and furious the warring of the' elements, bid taker and more diental were the re flexions, and more fierce the-Nvonilict that raged within the breast of the injured pa triot, who forms the subject of our narra tive. MN Charles Forman was a young far. men residing within a few miles of Hack ensack. At the dm outbreaking of our Revolutionary troubles, he had shouldered his musket, and tearing himself from his young and lovely wife, had fought, aye, and bled in Freedom's cause. He wait with the 'army at Morristown, when, having received intelligence of the t illness of his wife, he ed, and obtained leave to visit his home. i He had travelled onfoot and alone for two days—had crossed the rugged "Blue Ridge,' and on the evening of the second day had reached his humbde dwelling.— As he neared the house, the evidences of a Tory visit were—even( at nightplainly discernible. . . Wiih a beating heartlie crossed the lit tle cour yard, and ettlbd upon the door-step. His heart sank wipiu him, as he lifted the latch, and found/the door was, fastened.— Gently he knocked, - feraing to disturb his suffenng wife; again knocked, and again, but knocked in vain. There was no cheerful light, as of late was wont to beam from .his little window, to comfort those withitt;and'diredt the Weary; way worn wanderer to a shelter. No smoke issued from the chimney; no blazing hearth was there; and save the flapping 1 of the shutters; and the rustling of the vines that overhung the . pnrckall else was silent. He could endure suspense no longer: and forcing the door he stood within the hOse. in was darknevis there. He gro ped hie way to the bediide, but it stood tenantless. He called upon his wife by name—no answer came ! "SARAH !" he cried; and the winds howled the louder, as if in mockery of his agony.. Witli a trembling hand he produced his tinder-box, and lighted the lamp that stood in ha ac customed place, upon the mantel! Great Heaven what a sight did its pate rays reveal to him. Extended upon the flour lay the body of his wife, with her in fant clasped to her breast—both cold in death! Blood, too, was there—the lifer blood of his guileless urge, and innocent babe—s cold, coagulated pool ! "Oh, God ! my wife, my child I" h shrieked—his brain reeled, - and tottering a few paces he fell at her side. Boon he re covered himself, and lifting them gently from the floor, he placed them side by side upon the bed, and stood silently gazing upon the placid countenance of his young wife, beautiful even in death. There is sn elottqaue in silence, when the heart is too full foo l .uneranc,,,tind a solemn voice in silent ,grief. :Vein were our attempt to desieritie theAulittsof . fltel•k ing, the crush of emotions that filled the heart of boor Charles, as he bent ovei' the body of his murdered wife. No word es caped him, no sigh, no tear drop started. but his bosom heaved quickly, hislip quiv ered. his eye rolled wildly, and with is de moniacal glare. He seemed u though his very faculty of mind was intent upon one word, which should speak the fullness of his misery and desperation, and his lip struggled to give it utterance! At length it came. "Vengeance!" and be started at the hoarse unearthly tones' of his own voice. "VengeanceP' and the dark Winds swept away theecho as it fanned. " Vat grance I" and his wild and solemn vow stood eternally recorded. All that night he watched by the bodies of his wife and ohild,—and the next-mbrO ing__ buried them with his own hands, Availing over their graves, bitterly to a venge them. Ache was returning from his melancholy task, he found lying upon the grass near the door, a large hunting knife still red with blood. Upon the haft was carved in rude characters the name, "C emits Sierra." This Smith was a violent and cruel Tory partisan (a companion of the notorious Vttnbuskirk) who, with a company of out casts like himself, and a few negroes, made frequent incursions into the upper-coun ties of New Jersey, and were notorious for other cruel and barbarous treatment of the patriotic females. Years ago, when the wife of Foreman was quite young, he had professed an at tachment for her, which she by no means encouraged, and the offer of hie hand was, as might have been expected, refused.— Even then he swore she should have cause to repent it, and still nourishing a deadly hatred, he had taken advantage of the ab sence of her husband, and paying a visit with his troops, to Hackensack. with his own hand dealt the blows which deprived both mother and child of life. "This knife," exclaimed Charles as he glared upon its reeking blade blade, "this knife, which has rendered my life a blank, and utterly darkened my future, shall yet drink thy heart's blood, inhuman monster !" And after carefully wiping the blade, he placed it in his heh, and entered his deso late home. For more than an hour he sat in silent agony, the big drops coursing down his haggard cheeks, as he brooded over his wrongs and dreamed of vengeance. Then, starting suddenly to his feet, he cast one last, long, lingering look upon each famil iar object,and rushed from the house, vow ins as he shut the bolt, never to return while Smith lived to murder and destroy. A week had passed ; 'twas midnight, and from a small house, situated on the verge of a wood, about a mills...to the east ward of White Plains, there issued shouts of boisterous revelry, interrupted only by occasional snatches of some rude baccha- Dalian song. otnith and hie men, were indulging in 1 , their accustomed nightly debauch, after haying returned - from a successful expedi tion. Near the house stood Charles For man, leaning upon a fence, carefully mark ing the progress of this, drunken party; his dark eye flashing fearfully, as the con otant. clanging .of glasses was heard, and his teeth gnashing with rage as the dying cadence of a drinking song came upon his ear. Suddenly 'he aroused himself, and clutching the fatid knife, he moved toward the house. Pausing a moment at the thresholdita collect his strength, ho burst open the door, and stood confronted with dm foe. ..Pingeance r! he shouted, and ere the half-drunken wretches could stay his hand, •he seized the wry leader, and dashed. hint to the floor. "This," cried he, plunging hit knife . into his bosom, "for my murdet ed wife, and this," plunging it still deeper, "for my innocent babe I Haste with your guilty soul to die father of lies, and tell him that a widowed husband,. made childless by thy. hand, has sent thee to deserved tor ments I" , . he rushing upon the affrighted Tories, he plunged his knife , indiscriminately into those who were nearest him, until over powered by „numbers. he fell dead upon the floor, muttering between Lis clenched teeth, "Sarah" and "Vengeance !" COLONEL 'YELL Col. Vim., who died so gallant a death at the head of a small detachment of his regiment at Buena Vista, was himself the authority for the following' hiry, Which forms the -conclusion of a Baltillo letter fromth? spirited correspondent of the St. Louis Ripnblican: - - The Arkansas regiment of Cavalry had reached camp, and had their fires lighted." Some of us gathered around the tent of the Field 01fieelit — to — dry out ch,thei 'lnd tell ovet the troubles of the day's mirth. Bat ing talked off some of the 111 hutnor gather ed on 'the road, one of &Infantry ofilittun turned to:Col. Yell and iddresteti him : "Well; Colonel, that's a good story they told oti one of your men at the Presidie." ' , What is thati" inquired the Colonel. "One of intir ArkatuaisiWys• was stand log guard just after dark. when an officer tif the day came around.. 'Who cooties there ?' hailed the sentinel. 'Thy officer of the day,' was the reply. 'Well, said them try,'you had better begetting to your tent, for the officerdifte 'nigh/ will be round here presently, and he'll give you Jesse.' " "They tell a heap stories on my,men that are not true," said the Colonel, after a hearty camp , laugh had subsided.."and that is one of them. But I'll tell putouts that actually did happen to me whewl was officer of the day. was going the rounds after midnight, and tante to one of my Seen whO had nev er been on guard before. Re hailing 'Mb° comes there rin a thundering voice ! I an swered, 'The officer of the day.' 'I don:t know any such man; said the sentinel, bringing his gun down to a ready. 'Stand back, he shouted. Well, but,' said I; lon know 'me, and I am officer of the, day. 'I don't know any, body is the .eight; said he. _ , , .lIM, I have the countersign, and am go ' litiehyszunds.' . titlfstA know anythingsbout the rounds.' said thirsentimd, getting mad, thinking 1 was tampering with him... 'My orders were to let nobody, pluts t sign or cowiter sign, an t i e I tell yonwhat it is, Mr. Officer, you'd be rbe off. far she's cocked." "W e l what did you do, Colonel 1" ask ed ado nat a time. "W . what could Ido I ,I heard the tick as he brought the gun to his face, and saw the fellow would shoot—so I sloped I It won't do to fool with a lincitenisseker." Poor Yell '•will no more toll his jokes at mess table or camp fire. A Mom Droosta.—An inquisitivelian kee, seeing a laborer, employetLin digging in a retired spot, i nquired what he was digging for. 4 am digging for Money," was the prompt reply. • The fact, of course, was duly heralded to the curious in each matters, and the mon ey digger was visited by 3 or 4 credulous fellows a •hen the following dialogue ensu ed: "We are told that you are digging for money." "Well, I aint digging for any thing else, and if you are wise you had better take hold also." "Have you any luck 1" "First rate—it pays well!" No sooner said than done—the fellows, thanking the generous digger for giving them an invitation to share in his golden prospects, off coats and went to work in good earnest, throwing mit many loads of earth, till at length getting very tired the following colloquy took place ; "When did you get any money last?" "Saturday night. " "How ,much?" "Four dollars and a half." "That's rather a small business." • "It's pretty well—six shillings a day isi the regular price for digging cellars, all o ver town !" The visiting loafers dropped spades and vanished, quite put out wit* the nian that dug for money at the rate of six shillings a day ! ..Jo.hn, can you tell me the difference between attraction of gravitation and at traction of cohesion ?" ..Yes, sir ; attrac tion of gravitation purls a drunken man to the ground, attraction , of cohesion prevents hie getting up again." ETHAN SPIKE'S FIRST AND LAST Vls. l'I"I'0 PORTLAND. "Portland is the all darndest place lever seen. I was down there hi '33, to see a little about my goin' to Legislatoor, and such a ruin time as 1 had, you never heer'd tell on. Did I ever tell you about the Ice cream scrape I had ?" We answered in the negative, and he re. sumed— "Wall, I had been down thar, two or three days, pokin' about in every hole an' tho't I'd seed every thing thar was to be seed. But ono day towards sundown I was goin' down by a shop in Middle street dint looked wonderful slick—there was all manner of candy an' peppermints au' jes samints au' what nots at the windows.— An' then Mar war signs with gold letters on them, hangin' around the door, tellin' how they sold Soda, Mead, an' Ice cream thar. I says to myself, I have heern good deal about this 'crc Ice cream, an' now I'll be darned if I won't see what they are made of. So 1 puts my hands into my pockets an' walked in kinder care less an' says to a chap standing behind the counter— "Do you keep coy ice creams bete?" "Yes, sir," says he,"how have?" "I considered a minit on't says I—a pint, The young fellow's face swelled out, an' he liked to have laughed right out, but ar ter a while he asked— "Did you say a pint, sir?" "Sartin," says I, "but p'raps you don't retailom I don't mind takin' a quart." "Wall, don't you think the teller snort ed right out. Tell yer what it made me feel a sort o' pisen, an' I gate him a look that sobered him in a minis, alt' when I clinched my fiat sn' looked so at him, (here Air. Spike favored us with a Mal di abolical expression) he hauled in his horns about the quickest, an' handed me a pint of the stuff aa perlite as could be. Wall, I tasted a mobthfull of it, an' found it as cool as the north aide o' Bethel hill in Jan uary. I'd half a mind to spit it out; but just then I seed the confectioner chap grin nin' behind the door, which riz my spunk. Gull smash it all, thinks I, I'll not let that white livered monkey think I'm afeared- I'll eat the darned stuff if it freezes my in ertia, I tell yer what, I'd rather skinned a bear or whipped a wild eat, but I went it. I eat the whole in about a minit. "Wall,. in about a quarter of un hour I began to feel kinder gripy about here," continued Ethan, pointing to the lower parts of hisstomach, "an' kept on feelin' no better, very fast, till at last it seemed as tholvtli I'd got a steam ingen eawin' shin glesin me. I sot down on a cheer an' bent myself up like a nut cracker, thinkin' I'dgrin and bear it; but I couldn't set still twiste.d and squirmed about like an angle worm on a hook, till at lust the chap as 'gin me the cream, who had been lookin' on an' inickerin,' says to me, "Mister," says he, "what ails yer!" "Ails, me,"•says I, "that ere darned stuff vour'n is freezin' up my daylights," *aye I. too. much," says he. tell. you I didn't," screamed 1,.61 know what . * m i nor an' whet's too melt without askin' yOu, an' if you don't leave offsniek en& I'll *pile your face." He cottened right down and said bodkin% mean any hurt, an' asked me it I hadn't better take some gin. I told him I Would. So I took a purty good horn and left the shop. • • "Arter I got ont," continued Ethan, "I felt better for a rninit or so, but I hadn't gone fur afore the gripes took me ;kin," eta went into another shop an' took some more gin ; then I Sot down on the State House-steps and there I sot and sot, hut didn't feel a darned mite better. I begun to think I was going to kick the bucket, and ..then I thought of father and mother an' of old Spanker—that's father's boss— and when I thought I should never see 'em *kin' 1 fairly blubbered. But then I hap- I pened to look up au' see - a dozen boys grinnin' and hallo' at me, I tell yer what, it viz my dander,—that had got down be low ntro—rite up agin. I sprung at 'em like a wild cat, hollerite out that l'd shake their tarnal gizzards out, and the way the little devils scampered was a caution to no body. But after the 'citernent of tho race was over, Mit wus :kin, all' I couldn't helpgroauin' an' sereceltin' as I went along. At last I thought I'd go to the theatrer but afore I got there the gripes got so strong that I had to go behind a meetin' house and lay down and holler. Arter a while I got tip as' went into a shop all' eat a half a dollars mouth of baled isters and four pick led cowcumbers, and wound up with a glass of brandy. ')'hen I went into the theatre and seed the plays, but I felt so Carnally that I couln't see anv fun in 'em, for I don't think the isters anti coweumbers dun me me any good. I sot down, laid I down, an,' stood up, but still it went on gripe, gripe. I groaned all the time, an' once in a while 1 was obleeged to screech kinder easy. Every body stared at me an' somebody called out—"turn him out!" once or twice. But at last just as the nig gar Othello was goin' to put the pillar on his wile's face to smother her, there come such a twinge through me, that 1 really though I was bustin up, an' I yelled out —"Oh dear ! oh scissors!" so loud that the theatre ping again. Such a row you never seed : the niggar dropped the pillar, an' Deuteronomy—or what you call her there—his Wife. jumped off the bed and run, while every body in the theatre was all up in a muss, stone lartin' some s the upshot of it,was, the perlice carried me out of the theatre and told me to make my self scarce. Wal, as I didn't feel any better I went into a shop close by, and called for two glasses of brandy ; arter swallerin' it, I went hunt to the tavern. I sot down by the winder and tried to think I felt better; but 'twas no go:, that blessed old ingine was still swallerin' away inside ; so I went out an' eat a quarter's worth o' isles an' a piece o' mince pie. Then I went back an' told the tavern keeper I felt kinder sick { an' thought I'd take some Castor ile, mouthful of cold meat an' a strong glass of whiskey punch,. an' then go to bed. lie got the bins, which I took , ah' went to bed. TWO DOLLAgS Ptit NEW SERIES-A 0. 1. But, tell yer what I !tail ratliele a Fnior; nialit.• Sometimes I was awalaifroanire l n', an' wheal was asleep d better hin awake, for I hail sichpowerftil dreams. Sometimes I thouglet I was shiribe a bear. and then by some hocuspocus 'Would all change to eather side, an' tho tarsal ter would he a skint!? me. • Them 'Tire, I'd dream thili mile rain' logs with the boys, an' jest 'as rd be a shoutin'ont.mowelrenl—Aereshegoes!'‘ -everything would get reiersed I was a log, an' the boys Nero pfyin . end up with .ibeir hand spikes: Then I'd wake up an' screech an' roar 7 —then alto sleep agin'—to dream that Spanker had run. tit Stith mei or that father was whnppinf mei m some other plaggy thing, tiff 'norm'. When I got op I hadn't any appellee tot breakfast, an' the taverii keeper. Witt me that if I was gain' to carry on, scramiee are groanne as I had the night AO6; my room was better than my coinpifit; "I liain't," said Mr. Spike in c'efteMsion'i, "I hain't bin to Portland sifter, bat If I live to be as old as 81ethuSalem, I stroll Myatt . forget that ali , fired Icu (Imam." LAW NONSENSE. The following; pUtting intolanginige e'J 04 body's thoughts do the satinet. We in the New kork Elspress:* To us it has often been a Matter of >w• matement that a sound or sensible Itwyet can reed ode of his own occultations, di pleadings, without Itteghing et himself for writing it. or at the honeerree he has put into it. That any human beirtgi Without long practice, could ever diffuse one ides over so ninny itheelef or concentrate ad much nonsense on offe,.is impossible; but that men should be educated for such a purpose. is astonishing. Law is the per. fiction of human reason f but la* practice r in too many eases, we are sorry to say ( has become the very perfection of folly. There ran be no good reason why, when a case conies before a court and jnry, it should not come in a way and to a land gunge that every body can understand.-- , Norman, French, or Latin formulae; or the trunelatitins of them, ought het to apd pear in pleadings, either to emitittiess the jury or to deprive the juror of fhe power, to comprehend them. Indeed it is next to imptissible new for a man, when surd, BP ter tending the pages of the "declaration" served upon him, to tinderstand exactly whet he is sued for, or What the; plaintiff alleges against him. There are SO many notorious and absurd lies mixed up with the real cause of complaint that it takes a "Doctor of Latve" to discriminate iimout them. These things ought not trt he so. Lawyers need not fear the simplificatiott of law practice, or its translation into plain English and common gentle. Law Is n science that he who attempts td practice it intuitively ( will be about as wisN and about, as successful as, he who atteMpls !hip( building or shoe-makingby instinct. There must always be a Profession of Lawyers I. Because men have not time to attend MI their own legal business, (and it is eheap( er to have it attended to,) and 2d. If they had, they On% know how to attend to if in the best way. Now, the more expen4 sive law is made by forms and firermfbutt by long declarations and interminable i 3 ings, by dearly written instead of chuap o w ral examination, the fewer will indulge id it, and the less the profession will have, td do. As things now stand, it is almost Ad ways better to lose a hundred dollars than to go to law about it. Indeed, if a man sues you for a hundred dollars, and is tier terinined upon pressing his suit, nine time* out of ten, it is cheaper to pay hiM, eve* though you never Wed a cent, than is go to law about it: The delays ( the harrows ing ralls, the :istraction from Moines:Bi make law a vain remedy for redress, full one half of the time, Thus the sitnplitiend Lion of practire %%weld increase the Htitad , lion by reducing die expense: anti *hat the lawyer lust itt long tiaras art piper, caned declarations, pleadings ( Etc„ he ivould more than makeup iii the itiereamerl number of his dieing ( and the rapidity , with which he would then have his came. decided, 'FtII Pnainic6.--firydilt hits ti'fittett delightful poem—second only nihittoThanw utopsis"—on these "gardens Of the desert;" A poetical contributor to the liatlingtpit (Vt.) Free Press lid* also opostrophitedl Mum, but in a more practittal and furtikef style, He says : Great western waste of larttorn Flat as a pancake, rich as grew! Where gnats art full as big as toadsi And 'skeeters areas big as geese f 0, lonesome, Windy greasy place, Where buffaloes and snakes prevail! , The first with dreadful looking fare, The last with dreadful sounding tee I'd rather lite on Camel's rump, And be a yankee doodle beggsk, Than whete they never see a stump. And shake to death with ferter-ientilv SWEDISH CIfiLDREN.-.Mr. M'Donal l Ar in his Travels through through Stiede*,.. says—" Young children, from the age of one to that of eighteen monthw; ant *rat* lied up in bandages, like eylitakimil wick baskets, which are contrived so as rkkeeit their bodies straight without intetfering ninth with their growth. They ate um? pended from pegs in the wait; or laid in ad ny convenient part of the robin; With°Wt. moth nicety, where they exist in great si= lence and goad humor. I have not, Itestri the cry ors child since I came to Steedett.4 FAST.—The word "Tag," is as great . * contradiction as we hart in the WO.. The Delaware was fast; betaute th ee' was immovable; and their the its diblp peered veryfoat for the tentrary reiton.•—• it was loose. A clock is calledfosi, whew it goes quicker then tittles hut a mid it told to stand/eat when; tie is desired to te? mairt stationary. People fast Whit alttax, have nothiag to eat, and tat' lasi,. sumo! , queotly, what: oppottnnity Offers. Graves are hqt the pewits Of the 16:4 4 Mei* ttf the angel of elefftorl life. Peace ;theevettfingatar yin Us is no run, she the tine me never thit ape rt. , Eateenr is the mother of itnaii daughter le efteitohkre **ft 111110.hij`77 !.T
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers