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BY W. LEWIS.
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*THE GRAVE OF WASHINGTON
Disturb not his slumber, let Washington sleep,
'Neat!) the bows of the willow that over him
weep;
His arm is unnerved but his deeds remain brigh
As the stars in the dark vaulted Heaven at
night.
Oh wake not the hero, his battles are o'er,
Let him rest undisturbed on Patomaes fair
shore;
On the river's green border as flowery dressed,
With the hearts he loved fondly, let Washing-
ton rest.
Awake not leis slumbers, tread lightly around,
'Tis the grave of a Freeman, 'Tis liberty's
mound ;
His name 'is immortal, our freedom is won ;
Brave sire of Columbia, our own Washington.
Oh! wake not the hero, his battles are o'er,
Let him rest, calmly rest on his dear native
shore.
While the stars and the stripes of our country
shall wave
O'er the land that can boast of a WAsnmeroN's
GRAVE
WORD PICTURES OF CHILDREN
From an article in a recent number of
Chambers' Journal, we extract the following
passages, descriptive of how children are re
garded by parents in different grades of so
ciety :
THE CHILD IN THE COTTAGE.—Look at
the kinely cottage at the foot of the hill, so
far removed from town or village, the still
ness of desolation seems to reign around it,
yet peep within, and you will find a young
mother nursing her first born child, its little
round cheeks rosy as the hard winter apple.
That is her solace, her companion, her sec
ond life ; when it is awake, her tongue is
seldom still for a moment, for she is either
singing or talking to it ; and she has a faith
that it understands all she says, though it
answers but in murmurs or in coos, and in
looks that express its delight. She is never
lonely though her shepherd is away all day
tending - to flocks somewhere far behind the
green summits that rise high above her hap
py homestead, for she has always it to talk
to, to tell what she is doing and how long it
will take her . ; and how, when she is done,
she will nurse it bidding it not to cry, as she
will soon be ready; and placing something for
amusement:in her darling chubby's hands, or
chanting some old love ditty such as she per
chance heard her own mother sing when she
herself was but a child. Then she will hold
it up to the window, or stand with it at the
open door, about the hour of his return,
watching the footpath, invisible to all eyes
but her own, so faint are the traces on the foot
of the hill, and when she sees him approach
ing, she will hold her darling up at arm's
length. And 0, hapy heart ! that little thing
trill at least recognize him, and make a pleas
ing noise expressive of its delight, which
gives her great happiness which is beyond
utterance.
THE - BEGGARWOMAN'S CHlLD—Observe the
look of that beggar woman, as she turns
back her head to look at the little sun-burnt
child which she carries behind in the hood
of her cloak What long rides he has in
that comfortable carriage, which is as warm
as a bird's rest lined with feathers ; what
miles of daisies he passes as he sits peeping
out of his little bag .with his wondering eyes
1 ins. 2 ins: 3 ins.
25 .37a 50
75 1 00
1 50 2 00
225 300
m. 12 m.
00 $8 00
00 12 00
00 15 00
00 23 00
00 38 00
accompanying his untiring mother in her
weekly rounds ! 0, how it strengthens her
to feel that little naked hand on her weather
tanned neck, or those ever busy fingers pat
ting her unkept hair ! Even the door of the
niggard is closed more gently as the light
from that little face streams in, and with a
look pleads its own innocence by an eloquent
silence, that puts to shame her beggar's
whine, and intercedes both for her and itself,
impostor and vagrant though she may be. 0,
could you but see them together sometime by
the roadside, under the shadow of a tree,
through whose branches the sunshine falls and
throws a golden network on the unclaimed
arass l when she has taken it from her head
t,
to dandle, and give vent to that love which
she dare not express while asking alms, lest
her happinesS should be envied, and yob
might think she had never known sorrow or
want, or felt poverty while possessing such
a wealth. But she has many a time looked
in that little face with sorrowful eyes as she
thought of the many happy homes it had
peeped into, then turned to the blackened
ceiling of the low lodging house that shelter
ed.them, and the filthy straw on which"they
slept, and trembled lest the hectic fever,
which ever keeps watch in those loathsome
pest houses, should seize her little treas
ure.
It is the remembrance of this escape that
makes the air of heaven, the green grass and
the shadow of the overhanging trees so dear
to her ; at such a moment she envies not the
comfortable homes she so often sees, nor the
rosy cheeked children who never knew want.
Forgotten as the cold winter days and the
bleak northland wind which she strained
against on the cold hedgeless moor, while
she met the blinding snow flakes face to face,
so that they may not alight upon and chill
the treasured burden which she bore. In
pity look upon it for its sake I.
THE CHILD OP RICH PARENTS.—Nestling
amid eider down, and half buried in rich
folds of costly lace, it needs no second
glance to tell that there the child of the
wealthy slumbers—one that even the winds
of heaven are not allowed to visit roughly.
Let it but moan, and anxious ones are
instantly bent over it ; let its cheeks he hot
ter than usual, and there is the rumble of a
carriage, and the ever . ready physician is in
the room, who wisely prescribes something
perfectly harmless, pockets his fee, and
smiles at the folly of wealthy mothers. Then
nurses move on tiptoe, servants speak with
abated breath, and kind inquiries are made
every hour ; for thousands hang on the, frail
tenure of that life, vast estates and immense
funds, which when you hear of, make you
doubt whether all this anxiety arises from ex
cess of love, or whether or not interest most
predominates after all excepting in the breast
of the fond young mother. When it is real
ly ill, she forgets all about her rank, wealth
and station ; for the same feeling that thril
led in the heart of Eve when little Abel
moaned on her knee, has descended to all her
daughters without distinction. Her fear is
that the Angel of Death is watching some
where near to carry off her little one, to fill
up a childish choir in heaven—that one of
those messengers, who at his bidding,
Ever posts o'er sea and land,
has come to number it among those who ever
kneel and veil their faces with their wings.
Shall it exchange that warm resting place for
a little mound of earth, where the daisies
blow and the sunbeams beat, and the silver
footed showers fall silently I 0, it would
not hear the speckled lark singing aloft like
an angel at heaven's gate, nor the golden ban
ded bee murmuring amid the white and crim
soned clover, but with its little hands folded
meekly on its breast, and those now warm
rosy lips cold, 0, how cold !—would ever
sleep there silently—silently as the dew on
the flowers above its grave, as the monumen
tal stone on which its pretty name would be
carved. And yet, the great blue eye of heav
en that looketh down upon us all, would ev
er be watching here—ay, there is some com
fort ; and beyond the dark portals of the
grave, lies a bright mustering ground, and
there when the trumpet sounds they will
meet to part no more.
CHILDREN IN THE HOUSE OF THE POOR.—
Our last picture is of a busy little hive
among "those huts where poor men HO—
where the children lie one above the other
like the sides of a triangle—where the moth
er and father were out all day, and they are
left to mind one another, and the kiss fol
lows the squabble as the calm succeeds the
storm. One sits nursing what it calls her
doll, which is a dirty rag pinned together ;
another, drumming on the hearth with the
poker holds the youngest child, and finds as
much amusement in the noise he makes as
the little thing he is nursing, nay, so intent
is he on the street tune which he hums and
beats time, that he at last lifts the poker too
high and the head strikes the baby's mouth,•
and then the whole hive was astir and we
HUNTINGDON, MAY 9 1855.
know not what he is to catch when mother
returns. While the tumult lasts the second
has got upon a stool, and reached the sugar
out of the cupboard; and is devouring it by
the handsfull.
The soap is missing ; and one little busy
bee who is just able to talk, points to the ket
tle, which is singing on the fire ; there it is,
and there is a pretty work to do before they
can have any tea. The same persevering lit
tle fellow has been practising drawirg with
the candle on the looking glass, as the grease
he has managed to lay on rather thickly
shows. Only the day before, he was found
rubbing the same material into the ginger
water, having previously loaded his sister's
shue with coal so heavily, that-it at last sank
to the bottom of the pail ; so that like too
many eager adventurers, he lost both ship
and cargo, and really did "catch it" into the
bargain. The eldest child, who has numered
some ten summers, uses her mothers very
expressions when she reprimands them—fol
lows her Ways, and is never idle from morn
ing till night. The rod with which she rules
is a threat of what lie will "catch" when
mother comes home. Of such as these are
numbers,
In many a street,
Who never see the daisies sweet,
Never behold in dale or down
The husky harvest waving brown.
THE BATTLE OF LIFE ;
Or, Physical and Mental Efforts and
Struggles.
A celebrated writer contends that "sereni
ty of mind, together with mental discipline
and self-correction, are absolutely essential
for length of days." This is no doubt true
in the general sense. The BATTLE OF LIFE
is constantly going on. Sometimes it is a
physical struggle, and all the energies are
tasked, with the object of securing the means
of livelihood and independence. At others
it is a mental, and absorbed by one idea, we
become so excited thereby, and devoted there
to, that the strength of the intellect is weak
ened, and its springs are snapped and broken
to pieces. The wres:les and conflicts which
constantly take place in "the working day
world," not only in the walks of labor but in
the marts of commerce, task the faculties to
the utmost. Not a day goes by, perhaps,
that some one, exhausted and broken down,
is not summoned to his final account. He
fights on manfully, until at•last nature gives
way, and Death becomes the victor. In the
circles of industry, and among the toiling
millions, it is wisely ordered, that there is
comparatively little thought for the morrow.
The present alone is cared for, and the future
does not annoy. Thus the day-laborer rises
to his task cheerfully in the morning, pur
sues it with a light heart throughout the day
and is happy and contented at the approach
of night-fall. Let him but have enough to
do, and physical strength to do it, and he is
satisfied. But it often happens that it is oth
erwise—that he has neither the employment,
nor the ability to discharge his ordinary av
ocations. And then the BATTLE OF ' LIFE
commences in earnest. The future looms in
the distance, anxiety and apprehension be
come the constant guests of the mind, and
these picture a thousand vicissitudes and ca
lamities, which unnerve, stimulate, intimi
date, nay, madden. The respansibilities of
a family are then fully realized, and the cares
of life assume a sombre and a painful hue.—
The ills of poverty are magnified a thousand
fold, and the languid and fainting spirit not
only falters and fails, but is disposed to
yield to the gloomiest fan cies and forebo
dings. Often, too, the result is fatal. In
stead of wrestling in a more resolute spirit
than ever, and appealing with confidence to
Divine Providence, the demons of despair
are permitted to have their way, and life it
self is given up with scarce a struggle.—
This is by no means the true policy. On the
contrary, it is the false as well as the cow
ardly. "Hope on—hope over!"—should be
the motto and the doctrine under all,-such
circumstances, and the effort should be to
struggle through the worst, in the expecta
tion of better and brighter days. Adversity
is often but the test of our nature. It tries
us sorely, but if we persevere, the triumph
is almost certain. And there are mental
struggles, which often exhausts and over
whelm, even more spedily than the physical.
Not a few of the sons of men permit them
selves to give way to unnecessary anxieties.
They become ambitious, and if they cannot
gratify all their desires, they grow discon
tented and miserable. They may be in the
enjoyment of a thousand blessings, and yet
they Jack some one thing, and for this they
will sacrifice contentment, health comfort,
and even life itself. They become "seized
of and possessed" of some fancy—vain, vis
ionary and absurd—and yet it will master,
control, subdue, and finally overwhelm them.
There are, indeed, more diseases of the mind
than the hasty observer is disposed to imma-
gine. There are few, in fact s who are not
more or less affected in this way. • Only a
year or two ago, a gentleman of high char
acter in this city i who was surrounded with
almost every comfort and luxury, became
impressed with an idea that he had been
maltreated by a certain Corporation. He im
mediately determined to wage an unceasing
war against its members, and in so doirg he
became deeply excited, so much so as to be
thoroughly absorbed in the investigation, and
to the neglect of almost every other pursuit.
In brief, the matter soon degenerated into a
mental malady; and thus he not only annoy
ed himself, but others, and in the end, mate
rially shortened his days. He died suddenly,
and as many of his friends believed, a vic
tim to the excitement referred to ! But ca
ses of this kind are by no means rare. The
BATTLE OF LIFE is a fearful one, and it re
quires all our vigitence, even to resist and
wrestle with success against the ordinary vi
cisitudes to which all are more or less liable.
When we undertake too much, the responsi
bility is great. Many an individual, lacking
moral courage, has been prostrated by a sin
gle blow of misfortune. Others have experi
enced reverse, after reverse, have struggled
on again and again, and have finally achieved
a single success. There is scarcely a being,
even of middle age, whose earthly career has
not been more or ;ess chequered by storm
and sunshine, by adversity and prosperity.—
The true policy is to exercise as much pru
dence as possible, and yet to be prepared for
a reverse. All is not lost while integrity re
mains, and although it is too much the dis
position of mankind to look coldly upon the
unsuccessful and the unfortunate, yet there
are many appreciating spirits, many who
are truely generous 'nd bonevoient, and who
may be depended on with confidence in the
hour of misfortune. The struggle with the
world is often disheartening, and requires the
exercise of all the energies of our nature,—
moral, mental, and physical—but to be true
to ourselves we must put forward those en
ergies whenever necessary, and then with a
confident reliance upon Providence, not only
anticipate, but deserve a better and brighter
Tuture.—[Pennsylvania Inquirer.
HYDROPHOBIA.
It is no pleasure to a dog to go mad.—
Quite the reverse. Dreadful as hydrophobia
may be to human being, rabies is worse to
the dog. It makes its approach more gradu
ally. It lasts longer, and it is more intense
while it endures. The dog that is going mad
feels unwell for a long time prior to the full
development of the disease. He is very ill
but he does not know what ails him. He
feels dissatisfied . with every thing ; vexed
without a reason ; and, greatly against his
better nature, very snappish. Feeling thus,
he longs to avoid all annoyance by being
alone. This makes him seem strange to
those who are most accustomed to him.—
The sensation induces him to seek solitude.
But there is another reason which decides his
choice of a resting place. The light inflicts
upon him intense agony. The sun is to him
an instrument of torture. which he there
fore studies to avoid—for his brain aches, and
feels as if it were a trembling jelly. This in
duces the poor brute to find out the holes and
corners, where he is least likely to be noticed,
and into which the light is unable to enter.—
In solitude and darkness he passes the day.
If his retreat be discovered, and the master's
voice bid him come forth, the affectionate
creature's countenance brightens, his tail
beats the ground, and he leaves his hiding
place, anxious to obey the loved authority ,•
but before he has gone half the distance, a
kind of sensation comes over him which pro
duces an instantaneons change in his whole
appearance. He seems to say to himself;
"Why cannot you let me alone Go away
Do go away ! You trouble—pain .me !"
And thereupon he suddenly turns tail and
darts back into his dark corner.
If let alone, there he will remain ; perhaps
frothing a little at the mouth, and drinking a
great deal of water, but not issuing from his
hiding place to seek after food. His appe
tites are altered; hair, straw, dirt, filth, ex
crement, rags, tin shavings, stones, the most
noisome and unnatural substances, are then
the delicacies for which the poor dog, chan
ged by disease, longs and swallows, in hope
to ease a burning stomach. He /s most
anxious for liquids. He is now altogether
changed. Still he does not desire to bite
mankind, he rather endeavors to avoid soci
ety ; he takes long journeys of thirty or forty
miles in extent and lengthened by all kinds
of accidents, to vent his restless desire for
motion.
Wheu on these journeys he does not walk.
This would be too formal and . measured a
pace for an animal whose frame quivers
with excitement. He does not run. That
would be too great an exertion for an animal
whose body is the abode of a deadly sickness.
He proceeds in a slouching manner, in a
kind of trot—a movement neither run nor
walk—and his aspect is dejected. Big eyes
do not glare and stare but. they are dull and
retracted. His appearance is very charac
teristic, andi if once seen; can never after
wards be mistaken: In this state he will
travel the most dusty roads; his tongue hang
ing dry from his Open mouth, from which,
however, there drops no foam. His course
is not straight. How could it be—since it is
doubtful whether at this period he sees at all.
His desire is to journey unnoticed. If no
one notices him, he gladly passes by them.
He is very ill ; he cannot stay to bite. If,
nevertheless; anything opposes his progress,
he will, as if by impulse, snapas a man in
a similar state might strike—and tell the per
son "to get out of the way." He may take
his road across a field in which there are a
flock of sheep. Could these creatures only
make room for him, and stand motionless,
the dog would pass on and leave them behind
uninjured. But they begin to-run, and at the
sound the dog pricks op his ears. His en
tire aspect changes. Rage takes possession
of him. What makes that noise? He pur
sues
it with all the energy of madness. He
flies at one, then at another. He does not
mangle, nor is his bite, simply considered,
terrible. He cannot pause to tear the crea
ture he has caught. He snaps and then rush
es onward, till, fairly exhausted and unable
longer to follow, he sinks down, and the
sheep pass forward, to be no more molested.
He may have bitten twenty or thirty in his
mad onslought ; and would have worried
more, had his strength lasted—for the furore
of madness then had possession of him. He
may be slain while on these excursions ; but
if he escapes, he returns home and seeks the
darkness and quiet of his former abode. His
thirst increases, but with it comes the swel
ling throat, He will plunge his head into
water, so ravenous is his desire ; but not a
drop of the liquid can he swallow, though
its surface is covered with bubbles in conse
quence of the efforts he makes to gulp the
smallest quantity, The throat is enlarged to
that extent which will permit nothing to
pass. He is the victim of the most horrible
inflammation of the stomach, and the most
intense inflammation of the bowels. His
state of suffering is most pitiful. He has lost I
all self-reliance; even feeling is gone. He
flies at and pulls to pieces anything that is
within his reach. One animal in this condi
tion being confined near a fire, flew at the
burning mass, pulled out the live coals, and
in his fury scrunched them. He emits the
most hideous cries. The noise he makes Pi
incessant and peculiar. It begins as a bark,
which sound being too torturing to be con
tinued, is quickly changed to a howl, which
is suddenly cut short in the middle, and so
the poor wretch at last falls, fairly worn cut
by a terrible disease.—lllayhetv's Dogs.
The Judge's Mustard Bath
Two or three days ago / a young friend,
who has recently been spending some time
in Georgia, related to us an anecdote which
shows how thoroughly scared the people of
Georgia were during the prevalence of the
yellow fever in Savannah.
It seems that Judge . B—g, of the Su
preme Court of the State, was in the upper
country at the time / but within twenty hours''
run, by mail, of the terrible disease. Quite
suddenly, late one afternoon, he was seized
with a head-ache, pain in his back, limber,
&c: Having heard that these were saluta
tions Yellow Jack extended to his victims on
approaching them, the Judge, in great con
sternation, applied to a friend who was "pog- -
ted," for advice. A hot mustard bath was
urgently advised, and being prepared, the
Judge was seen laving himself in the irrita
ting fluid. Presently he felt better, and find-
a cake of soap i❑ the vessel of water he
begin to apply it quite freely upon his per
son.
After quite pleasant exercise in this way,
he looked down for the first time on his body
and limbs, and discovered that he was turn
ing black ! Oh, horror ! His friend was
hurriedly sent for, came and declared that
the symptoms were intensely expressive of
yellow fever.
"But," said the Judge, shivering the while,
"I feel no pain; I feel well."
"So much the worse; the absense of pain is
a marked symptom !"
"Good heavens!" ejaculated the judge,
"what shall I do V
"The only hope is in the mustard. Rub
away," was all the advice his friend could
give.
And rub he did, with will. lie used the
soap to open every possible pore, and after
some minutes sent for a candle, (for the twi
light wasfading ,) to ascertain his exact cut
icular condition. On examination, he was
as blaek as a crow, and the soap, which a
careless servant had dropped into the tub,.
was discovered to be somebody's "Patent
Paste Placking
We need only add that the Judge survi
ved.
VOL. 10, NO. 47.
Palpitation of the Heart
Where palpitation occurs as symptomatic
of indigestion, the treatment must be directed
to remedy that disorder. When it is conse
quent on a plethoric state, purgatives will be
effectual. In this case, the patient should
abstain from every kind of diet likely to pro
duce a phlethoric condition of body. Ani
mal food and fermented liquor must be par
ticularly avoided. Too much indulgence in
sleep will also prove injurious. When the
attacks arise from nervous irritability, the
excitement must be allayed by change of air
and a tonic diet. Should the palpitation ori
ginate from organic derangement, it must be,
of course, beyond domestic management.—
Luxurious living, indolence, and tight lacing
often produce this 'affection ; such cases are
to be conquered with a little resolution.
To Cure a Cold
Put a large teaspoonful of linseed, with
one-quarter pound of sun raisins and two
ounces of stick-liquorice, into two quarts of
soft water, and let it simmer over a slow
tire till reduced to one quart; add to it one
quarter pound of pounded sugar-candy, a ta
blespoonful of old rum, and a tablespoonful
of the best white wine vinegar, or lemon
juice., The rtan and vinegar should be ad
ded as the decoction is taken ; for, if they are
put in at fit - St, th'e whole soon becomes flat,
and leSs efficacious. The dose is half a
pint, made warm, on going to bed ; and a
little may be taken whenever the cough is
troublesome. The worst cold is generally
cured by this remedy in two or three days;
and, if taken in time, is considered infallible.
A Defeat in Female Ethication.
One of the greatest defects in the present
system of female education, says a sensible
writer, is the almost total neglect of showing
the young lady how to apply her learning so
as to approve her domestic economy. It is .
true that necessity generally teaches, or ra- -
ther obliges her to learn this science after she
is married ; but it would have saved her from
many anxious honrs, and tears, and troubles,
if she had learned how to make bread and
coffee, and cook a dinner, before she left her
father's house; and it would have been better
still, if she had been instructed at school to .
regard this knowledge as an indispensible ac=
complishment in the education of a young
lady.
To Purify the Air of a Sick Chamber:
Take six drachms of powdered nitre, and
the same quantity of oil of Vitro! ;. mix them
together, by adding to the nitre One drachm
of the vitro] at a time, placing the vessel irr
which you are mixing it on a Prot hearth or
plate of heated iron -istirring it with a tobac
co pipe or glass-rod. Then place the vessel:
in the contaminated room, moving it about
to different parts of the reorn. Dr. I. C.
Smith obtained £5OOO from the English Par- ,
liament for this receipt.
SCENE IN CARS.—Nertous Old Lady-- , .
Dear me, what makes the cars stop here 1—
Is there any thing the matter
Smart Young Man.—Yes marm ; a thaw
of tobacco is lying right before the locomo
As soon as it's removed we will be
ME
under way again.
Scene closes, the ol•d lady giving an extra
tie to her bonnet string, and an inquiring
look at a small leather satchel with a cloth
handle:
Cure for Sfarnmering
Where there is no malformation of the or ,
gang of articulation; stammering may be rem
edied by reading aloud with the teeth closed.
This stonld be practiced for two or three hours
a day, for three or four months; The recom ,
mender of this simple remedy says; 9 can
speak with certainty of its - utility."
f&' "Brigban't Young is building two large
and beautibul houses adjoining that which be
occupies now in Salt Lake City, to accom
modate his increasing family. He now re
joices in between fifty and sixty wives, and
from forty-five to fifty children. Elder Kim
ball, one of the Mormon Apostles, has be
tween sixty and seventy 'onsorts.
It 7 it is Observed, that the most censori
ous are generally the least judicious, who
having nothing to recommend themselves,
will be finding fault with otherti.. No man
envies the merit ofanother who has enough
of his own.
"Sammy, Sammy, My son.i don't stand
there scratching your head stir your stumps,
or you'll make no progress in life." '
"Why, father, I've often heatd you say
that the only way to get on-in this world
was to scratch a-head."
It is a sound maxim, that every man
is wretched in proportion to his vices; and
that the noblest ornament of a young gener
ous mind, and the surest sours of pleasure,
profit and reputation in life, is unreserved
acceptance of virtue.
i[l:7 - Live tempeTately, take plenty of ex
ercise, pay the printer, and you•will be happy.