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ILLMEgI, Proprietor. t Prig:LIAM K. PORTER, Editor. f VOL.. LX. TERMS OF PUBLICATION. The CARLISLE HERALD is plltetSiloll weekly on a iarge sheet containing twenty eight columns, an d furnished to subscribers at $1.50 i :paid strictly In edvai4i $1 75 If p ill within the year; or .$2. In all miles when payment is delayed until after this expiratin r of the year. N revel red for e less porl.id than Pin months. and none discontinued until nil arrearages are paid, nulls:, at the option of rho publisher. Papers sent to subscribers living out 'of Cumberland county Must tin - paid Ibr in admin.°. fir the payment e'ssuined by sonic rend nisible person living in Cumberland coun ty. Timm ter,mn will lie HMIy inflicted to In ell rams.• • ic r i) VrIIt.TISEMCENTS Advertisements will be charged $l.OO per 'square , ol twelve linen for throe Insertions. and 25 rents for emelt Aithsequent Insertion. All advertisements of less titan twelve lines considered as'a square: Advertisements Inserted before Marriages and deaths $ rents per lino for first Insertion, and 4 cents per' line for subsequent insertions. Cointatunirations on sub '.iects of limited or Individual interest will he chlrged 6 emits per line. 'rhe Proprietor will not be responsi: his in dantiges for errors in advertisements, Obituary maims or Marriales not ntreeding five lines, will be Inverted without charge JOB PRINTING The Car!No Herald Jolt PUNTING OFFICII Is the largest and mast complete ostahlbdunent In the county. Three .good Presses. and a general variety of material anltettor plain - end Fancy work of every kind.-enabler =NIMEINETZUMECM=O3III: 111103 E ii).lsll.bie tOrillg. l'PrSlll,l in want of - 11111 a, 4 11 , mkg or anything, in MI Jobbing Ito. will find it to . riho interest to give no it coll. . =i It. llr WINNIY. WI:47111,0r. am sitting In Om twill..lit And I'm thinking of the past, As HIP Ultd - • Loitgth•illtig shadow, darkly cast. I ho so tri veled Ip 111...• s journey Dark o'er lonny,weary miles. Desert wastes and ftagtani; Meadows - Rath - 61 with tears nod wreathed I•Vr.t hey toll or ,Oyit aaod surroll3, .tied I besot to livt; again Its thorn days of happy hum,. ' A fill In those of earn and pain. ... There a inlin.alone shonot . 9te foot path - That I room one witttry day, Whim otortn, and fhnrn and thlokk . _ All alnico. I lot irgy Whutt I heard no gentlelwbisper. And I KNOW , /ioart do tintfalterl ctivonut with tin ino:I•trIll!" So I kept _Ulu hindly.rtuneul 11l that f:landly And with 'ovor step unfaltering , Oakno tho,way 141nd not known. There, beyond me, In a donobstoue I . t eerfug up amid the gloom. And K marks the quiet resting young hope§ within the tomb; Aye, and I ran now remember now I grieved end wept and preyed, When I know that e'en Tuns WILT In the grave they must be laid. ' Yonder la a troe whose. branches Sheiterell we from wing and rain, And I love it us I linger 'Nesth ils gaud old bouglis - again. sippihg fronia brooklet Whose sweet waters quench any ,thirst, As they gld. when worn and woari,7 . . On ijs banks I knelt at Here Pro come to ruined castles,. ''Whose foundation built in air, Could withstand no storm or tempoet, So they lie all mouldering there. Fairy fabrics reared at pleasure, And they glistened all with gold ; But their brUhtness and their beauty .Now are covered o'er with mould, Now I'm searching for a Illiwret Peeping from Its mossy bed, With a dewdrop. brightly glistening On its tiny purple head. And I coo a sunbeam near it, For a lesson once I learned From these silent, little teachers— That MULL THINGS must not ha sPurri'd Though I knew how very feeble Wan WC effort in 7114 UOCID, - 2 - Vol these taught mu It were worthy Old I do the BEST I COlll.l, Friends aro with me talking gently Of th . e future with its dreams,- , While the song In low soft music Out upon the zephyr stream's, 'One my hand Is fondly clasping, Andanother smoothes my brow, VW that In tho happy rlslou I forget the spa. now ; For I turn to meet them smiling, And I find, that ALL ALONE I've been playing with the shadows That the ehades Tare round me thrown, And tho moral of these musing) ' In uly heart I allant drew, That the paths of life are pleasant i When the Rlßnr 03116 we puma's; And when In our onwardjo6rney We the dark S and troubloua meet It will make us bmver•lmarted, If there's BITTER With the ARM. I=3 'TIIOCGVITIII THAT CONCERN tip ALL IDLENESS.—No. II Often, in my ramblings' in the street. ant -I ,led to reflect on the result of the idleness I see indulged in daily. Of course. I dot not in tend to assail the faii sex who daily crowd our principal streets, impeding the progress of the business-inclined portion of the population : wider the pretence of 'exercise, when their whole motive ie to get awsiy front home, and •to present to the public gaze Rome new article of dread. Perhaps it nice set of furs,nr the 'heavy flounces of 11 new and costly silk, va lued only for the exorbitant price paid for,i ; or, if the streets luckily chariot) to be wet or muddy, to displayto the gaping eyes of the multitude a delicately escaped ankle, or a neat: and beautifully embroidered skirt, over which the dear creature's mother wasted so much precious time. Or, if-their fancies and affec tions centre on a rich mei beautiful cloak, or a duck of a bonnet, who, I ask, has aright to take elcaption to it If . Op lovely.creature have a fine warm set of furs—deep and heavy flounces on their su perb and costly ailkft=neat and tasty embroi dery. on their anow•white skirts =beautiful ankles, finished and symmetrical in all their proportions, tapering out to neat and dainty feet, encased in Oriental satan . '!— ,, lr their an gelic beads be adorned with a duck of a bon net, as bides. an oyster ghat; or their Maims • der neck and shoulders wrap iu the ample folsis of a cashmere cloak, cut fashionably low. who, I again ask, has a right to murmur.? D . they are carrying'out the requirements of du till& and obedient daughters( or loving and affectionate wives and mothers :.."Why, the very-fact of their dying so, tacitly implies con• sent on the part of the parents and husbands; for who could be so ungenerous as to impute deception or disobedience to the sincere and chaste natures of the, dear gentle creatures? 'Nor could any one be so ungallant, as for a moment to Rupp. se that' he dear meek things would revolt, and' assume the reins e,f domestic economy, and act in defiance of the lords of Orqatiorit_for that•Mould give rise tout gyneo ozraoy. ,Besides all this,'What would-be, the cue of these arlie es, if they were bairkd the , pleasure of a public exhibition on the street? The beauty of the embroidery would lose its charm, if they were deprived oraipionmeitide tiabitigh the-mud iid.attrah, With their deems mb7lutly drawn up ever the margin of their 'beautifully wrought skirts; and even'the neat and delicately aluiped ankle, would wither. and lose its adored beauty, if it could nut ho show'n at every street corner do a windy day. I can follow them no farther, if the wind does, but turn my attention to the %sterner sex, with.the exhortation to theta to go and.— do likewise. . The whole of my present paper was origt-' nally inO6deti to be directeit.to that class, popularly - known as loafers; but was betrayed into the aiIOVC remarks, by way of apology to the ladies, for fear they might feel aggrieved and slighted if not noticed at. all, or imagine their modesty and . loveliness insulted, by a general application of remarks made for a special purpose. With this brief apology for my, remarks, and-She obje6/ of them, I turn my attention to those• who buzz around our bar-room doors, and patronize our billiard tables, terthin alleys, and lager beer saloons. When I see young men just in the prime anti". vigor of life, with the prospect before them of spending it with profit to themselves and use: fulness to others; 'and yet sgaandering it lounging around bar-rooms, and frequenting billiard and lager•beer salOons, in worse than idleness—contracting habits which (Imp-must eventually carry with them to the grave; and have their memories (which should he sacred to 'every noble and generous impulse,) sullied • and dontamindied with the records of infamy and disgrace—l feel naturally concerned for their future welfare, and am led rationally to reflect on the resith of such an existence, as well tta.to devise sonic method for the cradica tion orthe evil ; feeling satisfied that a tirade against intemperance can ns.vor—accomplish ' the object It must be_iol ..u6 by an appeal to their better-natures, by moral suasion, and by a fixed example,• founded 'on Christian principles. : They must be brought to a sense of their degradation, morally, socially, rind' physically—not by sinking them in their own estimation, or the estimation of others, for by _so:doitut_you_b/unt-4-Iteir=sonsibilities,antLr.unt_ in the mould. the:verY image you were trying to fashion. It Must be done by convincing them of the clainui society hits upon them.— They must be shown that it weakens the Intel ledi, deadens the energies, di(torts the nervous syetem. makes n-mreek of the whole physical organiiation, and that hence the amount of crime, infamy, and brutality. brought to light. daily by our courts of justice; and that nearly all the poverty and suffering, which daily .. forces itself to our•notice, can date tire -corn mencpment: of its miseries hack to the first moment ignmitiniously wasted, lounging round bar-roont.tioors, and in the associations neces• sarily_coneomitant / Crime and degradathonare not itistantanenas in their action; but ,are the result of daily contact, and hence their deleterious effects. If the transition from apparent perfection, to the lowest depth of degradation, was momen tary, I dannot think that there is that soul, so.,lost to every pure and holy emotion. but .whrrid shrink with horrcir from the disgusting BMW, But as it steals slowly and silently( , upon us—first deadening one virtue and then another, the process is rather pleasing than - ollie'rivise ; and thus the entire organization if succumbs to the tnantL es of the powerful hydra-heated monsacr, ice. Those who arc now merely spectators i the scenes of degra• dation, may, ere another cycle is added to the oalender of time, be actors in the bacchanalian tragsaly of ruin; and theu, long ore time will have set his signet on their brows, premature old ago will steal silently upon them with its, attendant evils, and in their rags and filth they:will have to take their chance for.the dolings of clarify Perhaps 'Our well dressed sots, and those of our blackguards who as yet nlaintain a rank in society,• may feel their dignity insulted at being classed or meditionedin connection with the degraded..out-casts of society : - To them I would say li your connections are but a matter of titoms-rifesetations mutual. You will in herit no tight line. In a few years, at least, 'the bloom will fade on your youthful cheeks; your splendid apparel become worn and thread bare: costly jewelry pawned; health and rep utation lost ; and the rags and squallor of debauchery settled like a pall on your cada verous and emaciate forms. Slowly yet stead• ily the bloom and freshness fades from the cheek, and the seal of Bacchus is stamped' on every lineament. One by-one the faculties die out; and at last the victim is left, a hopeless wreck on the sea of temptation, at the mercy of his appetite. And•oow it is, that :he met amorphis is complete. First we saw you iiiii moving ivith a lithe, athletic step—then hang ing at bur•rootn doors—then as participants in the inidnigiTC'earousal—and, I tstly, Lotter• ing to the grave—an eye-sore to society —a burthen to yourselves—a-pollution to Lilo very air around you ; and thus a life, whose sun rose in brilliancy. and hope, passes the meri. dian of its existence in folly, and eventually ads unmourned in eliatuo and disgrace " For the Herald. FLOATING FANCIES INSCRIBED . TO THE BALTIMORE BOOIAL LITER • ART ASSOOIATION. By Prof. U. C. BenizeTtl.' LAST WAIL. They had just paid for their church,builtl ing. A debt like that often takes rnanyyears to liquidate, even among a loving and deco -ted-people,-as they were... It was-a beautiful structure of stone, standing in a peacablo part of a populous city. I have looked upon . its' great gray tower many a time—and oft listened to its Sabbath chime. It was a Sat urday night of the summer of 1847. The af ternoon previous a young man ascended that tower, as the people were wont, to' view the surrounding landscape—the dark blue lake of the north, and the fertile valley of the South:. This young man thpuOtlessly threw down the cigar. he was smoking upon' the floor of the tower —a breeze from the northwest fanned to n flame the seemingly smothered fire—and when the mid-night pealed from the ,granite tower, it was the first notes of its, own re quiem, for like a lighted candle a flame flowed steadily downward so as'to baffle every effort of gallant firemen toextinguish it. Sad counte nances and tear be-dimmed eyes looked mt.-- soon the hell swung to and fro by tie force of the fire-current,—tnournfully rang out those accents upon . the air—plaintive notes that touched the heart's holiestsympathies—at the sound of them, women of the ohurch 'mobbed aloud,-they knew it was the death-peal to - t• their many hopes and long continued labors You wonder," said an old man to me once when lookitig upon a burningeburch, -You wonder to see me weep—but thlit bell now ringing Its own knell has swung in that tower for one Hundred and fifty years;--Aly grandfather was married when it hung now in its steeple, and blithly.it rung the wedding hour,•-it gave forth his -funeral dirge ;my mother clft tripped lightly up the steps while it rang out its cleir Sabbath mites upon " the loceusehreathlng morn." and . l—l ltaxe.listencil to it eyer eincelf. could bear. "'I fancy- ittrilipitiplied tones of many years, rest tonne whet* or go round and around through the circles or the Infinite—but ace! the steeple totters—hark! the last wail tolls out luintly, but as full of attguishlasa depart. ing . spirit amid the crash and dull heavy full ing in, of roof, rafters and disman t ling cornice : and I ehall.hear it no more!—but when' wan: der. on yonder woodland Letitia' fancy that bear ic away .up among those gnarled and twisted old boughs; they that have gathered up . ..within them the mystic; circles of its sounds, al earthen one hundred and fifty years— endrthc: old grey litolten-ooYered rooks too up there, in their hollows'is,,garneredallthetiea• surf of the past in Sound—notes of gladness and oFsorrow, winds, and mournful A - - 'PARMn2sI' • :WO& . WIE4 :_ : yr.a. 4.sitAT . asmaan& sighs and moans Of maduess all are, there gleeful•marriagq matins—tones of glory —mad the 'gravel ••;*,,••* * * All had been carrying water to put out the fire, for the entire village was "tinged with flames"— a great seminary that. over-shadowed it wasburning seven hundred students looked on, and heard the death-wail of the bell, that brought the burning tear to many aneye. * "We were in a terliblo gale oil Cape Hat teras," said Capt. W. "It came on to blow so that we were obliged to out away the meats., Above the roar'of the gale, the surging of the sea; and. the, creaking timber, the bell rang loud and mournful, striking terror to every sailor's heart; and immediately the ship went • to pieces." Hells of burning ships at sea sound most mournfully ; they say to•the sailor that lie is alone upon the deep—all hope but in Provi dence is Utterly cut, off The sailor fancies that from the clouds above ocean; at stilly eve or morn, come mystically the tar-off tones of the bolls of lost ships. * * I have stood in the clear mountain air of 'a milliner morning, and heard bells from ram , : Fancy. said it was notes -lost•-and wandering around the solitudes, or "mo'flthig:bells-of eternity wafted o'er' the blue plains of Tura• disc." 86 Bitommtik, BALTIMORO, 4,(1 March, 1860 DOWN • HILL A TRUE LIFE. PICTURE Not long since I had occasiOn to visit one of our Courts, and while conversing with a legal friend, I heard the name-of John Ander son called. . 'There is a hard case,' remarked my friend, I looked upon the, man'in the prisoner's dock. Ile was standing up, and plead guilty to the crime of Theft. Ile was a tall man, but bent and infirm though not old. His garb as—torn,-aparse—and--filthy-;--his—face—w.i. bloated, and his eyes bloodshot; his hair was matted with dirt, 'and his bowed form_quiver• 'ed "with deliriurit.Certainly I never saw a more pHiable_object. Surely -that,inan was not born a villain. I moved my place to oft= taitt a nearer view of his fade. Ile saw my movement, and he turned his,head. lie gazed upon me a single instant, and then,- covering his face with his hands, -- he sank powerless into his seat. Good Good !" I involuiiihrily exclaimed, starting forward. "Will—" I had half spoken hie name when hequick ly. raised his head, and cast upen me a look antic!' imploring agony, that my tongue was tied at once. „Then he covered his face over again. _ _ I asked my legal companion It the prisoner had counsel - . Ile said no. I then' told him to do all in his powar, for the poor fellow's benefit, and I would pay him. Ho promised, and I lef, I sould not remain and See this man tried; tears came to My eyes as I looked upon him, and it was not until I .gained the street and walked sornd distance that 1 could breathe freely. • John Andorso . n! Alnsr he wasashamed to bo known as his mother's eon. That was not his real name, 'but you shall know him by no other. I will call him by the name thatqltanda upon the records of court John /indention was my schoolmate, sod it Was not many years ago—not, over twenfy— that we loft our academy together; he to re turn to the home of wealthy paronitt- , 4 to sit' down for a (ow years in the dingy sanctum of a newspaper office, and then wander across the ocean. I was gone some four years, and when I returned I found John a married man. His father was dead, and had left his only eon a princely fortune. . 'And C--,' he said to me, as he merme at the railway,station, 'you shall aee-what-a bird I have caged. My Ellen is a lark, a princess of all birds that ever looked beauti ful or sang sweetly.' ' lie was enthusiastic, but nut mistaken; for, I found hie wife all that 'lie had / said, simply omitting the poetry. And - so good, too—so loving . and kind. Aye, she so loved John that she really loved all his friends. What a lucky. 'fellow to find such a wife, and what a lucky Woman to find such a husband. John Ander son was as handsome as she—tall, straight, manly, high brewed, , with rich chestnut curls, and a face as faultlessly noble and beautiful as artist ever copied And he was good, too; and kind, generous an true. • I spent a week with them, and I was happy all the while. John's mother lived with them. a fine old lady' as ever breathed, and making herself constaid joy by doting on her 'darling boy,' as elm always called him. I gave her an account of my adventures by.sea and land in foreign climes, and she kissed me because I loved her darling. I did not. see John again for four years. In the evening I reached his house. He was not in, but his wife and mother Were there to re ceivo me, and two curly headed boys were at ploy about Ellen s chair I knew nt once they werenty friend's children. Everything, seemed pleasant until the. little ones were abed and asleep, and thou. I could sea - that Ellen writ - a - troubled. She tried to hide it, but a face so used to the sunshine of smiles could: not conceal a cloud. Jn. --t At length John came.,,, His face was flushed and his—eyes looked inflamed. He grasped my hand with a happy laugh, called Me • old fallow,' , old dog,' said I must come and live with him, and ninny other extravagant things His wife tried to hide her tears, while his mother shook her head and said : • 'loll sow his wild oats soon ; my darling can never be a bad man.' 'God grant it!' I thought to myself; and I knew that the same prayer was upon Ellen's lips. It was late when we retired, and we might not have done so even then, had not John fel• len asleep in his chair. On the followingmorping I walked out with my friend. I told him I was sorry to see him as I saw him the night before. .oh,' said-ht., with a laugh, oh, that was nothing r —only a little wine party. We'hadt glorious time. I wish you had been there.' - At first I thought I would.say no more, but. was it not my duty'? I knew his nature„bet ter then he knew it himself His appetites and pleasures bounded his• own vision. I knew how kind and generous he was—alas! too kind, too generous. lohn,•could you' Nave seen Ellen's face last evening, you worthillave trembled. 'Can you. make her unhappy Ile stopped me with: .Don't be a fool. Why should she be unhappy 'Because she fears you are going down hill,' I. told hint. •Did eke say ea.?! lie asked, with a flushed face. 'No I read it in her looks,' I said. ' , Perhaps a reflection of.your own thoughts?' he suggested. 'Surely I thought so when you came home,' .1 replied. • Never can I. forgot the look he gave use then, so full of reproof, of surprise, of pain.' I forgive you, 'for I kn - i you to homy Mnd; but never speak to me like that. I going down hill You know better. That can never be. I knovi my own'-power, 'and 1 know my wants. My mother knows me bet ter than Ellen does.' Ab ! had that mother been as wise BA she was loving;'Blte" would. haVe coon that the wild oath' which her eon wee sowing would grow up and ripen to furnish seed only for re sowing! But she loved him—loved him almost too well„or, I should, say. But I . could say no more—l ,only prifyeii That aod mould guard him, and then we'oon versed on otherisubjects.' - I could spend but a day.lrith hill ; but we promised to corres pond often: • -• ..• Three yearifinirre r paseed, diming which CARI / ISL ' PA., WEDNESDAY, MARCH 186.0. loliu Anderson wrote tb me at least once inonth.'and .oft eller sometimes; but at the end Of that time his letters noosed coming, and I received no more for two years, when I again foOnd thyself in his native town. re -wa s early in the afternoon when r Arrived,. and r took dinner ht the hotel. • - I had finished my meal, and was lounging in front of thnwhen I earl funeral procession winaag'lnto a'distant oh rellyard. I Asked the landlord whose funeral was. •Mrs. Anderson's,' lin:said. e e spoke I noticed a•olight drooping'of 'the cad, no if it had cut him to say so. ,• • 'What! John Anderson's wife?' I ventured. 'No,' ho said, -, it is Itiinbther,' and As ko, told one Ibis he turned Ow ; but a gentlO man near by, who oveihdart our convOrsa• lion, at onoe took up the" , theme. 'Uur host don't seem inolihed to converse on . that subject,' he remarked , with a shrug, inquiring, 'Did you. know John Anderson?'• 'lle as a schoolmate iti boyhood, and my bosom friend in youth,' nold him. , • Ile then led me to one .side, and spoke as follows 'Poor John!, Ile wits the pride of the limn six years ago._ This-man'.upened-lhe hotel at that time, and cought custom by giving, wine, suppers. John was present at many of them, the gayest of. the gay, and the mostgenerous of, any of the party. In fact, be paid fur nearly ell of them. Then he began to go down hill over since. Ar times his true friends hero have prevailed on him to stop, but his stops were of short duration. ' A short season of sunshine wahla gleam upoh his %eine, and then the night came more dark and dreary than before. lie said ho would never get drunk again, tuft still he would take a glass of wino with a friend ! That glass of wins was but the gate thatlet iralho flood. Six years ago he was worth sixty - thousand dol lars. Yesterday lie borrowed the stint °Nifty dollars to pay his mother's funeral expenses. Tlt o,p_o o r maim rintre_it p_asiongas_sh onould— She saw her son—her darling ,by,' as tilto . always called him —brought - home drunk many times. And she even bore blown from him ! But•now she is at rost. 'for 'darling' wore her life away;wind brought h •r gray hairs in' sorrow to thin grive I Oh! I hope this may . reform him.' " •But his wife I asked. • 'Her Heavenly lobe has held her up thus far ; Litt she is only the shadow of the wife she wits six years ago,' he'returned. My informant was deeply affected, and so wits I:- consequently.l,asked no more. , . ' • Duping. the rent - Milder of the afterneon,,l debated with myself whether - lo pall •ttpon John at all. But finally resolve! to go, though I waited till after ice. I found John and hie wify &One. Therhad both been woepinm„ though 1- wild- see at a glance that Ellen's 'Owe was beaming with hope and love. But old she was changed—sadly, painfully so.— Yhey were glad to too nie, and my hand was shaken warmly. 'Dear C. —. - don't day a word of the pnst,' John urged, shaking my hanl. a second time. I know you spoke the truth five.years ago I was going down hill. But I have gone as tir as I . can—here I stop at:the foot.- Bvery• thing is gone but my wife. d have sworn, and my oath shall be kept—Ellen and I are going to be happy now.' The poor fellow burst , intcleark, Ellen fol lowed-suit; and kept Mat MlMPi.ny. .1 could not help crying likemAild. MY God! what a eight! The once ntibla, true man no fallen --become a mere broken glass--tho last frag ment only reflecting the imago it once bore; a suppliant at the foot of --hope, bbgging grain of warmth for the hearts of himself and wife ! And how I had honored and loved that man ! - And bow I loved him still ! Oh, I hoped--ny, more tban•hoped—l believed that he would be saved. And as — I gitzed - upon that wife—so trusting, so loving, so true, and eo hopeful, even in the midst of living death prayed more fervently than I ever prayed before that Uod would bold hitn up—lead hint back to the top of the hill. - In the morning ['Haw the ehildrenL—grown to two intelligent boys; .and though they look ed wan, yet they smiled and 'aeonied happy whetw their father kissed them. When I went awayNolin took me by the hand, and the last words ho said were: • artist Me Bell'm nu now.. I will.bo man honoefurllt while life lasts.' A little over two years had passed. when I read in a uewe,paper the death of Ellen durson I liarted for the town where they lied lived as noon as possible, thinking I might help some one 1 .,. A fearful presentiment pos sessed my mind! Where is JohnAndersou 2 was my first question. Don't know. Ile'e been gone them 1 three months. His wife died in the mird,house last week.' 'Anti the children V 'Oh, they both . died before she did' I staggered hack and hurried from the place; I hardly knew which way I went, but instinct led me to the elturchyard. I found four graves which had been made in tire° yearn. • The mother, - wife, and two' children slept. in them. d. 'And what has done this?' I naked myself. And a voice answered from the lowly resting places : 'The demon Or the wine-table.' But, this was not all the work. No! nu!-- The next I saw---oh God! was for more terri ble! I saw it in On oily Oitr,t-room. But that was the last. I saw my legal friend on the day following the trial. lie said John Anderson was in prison. I hastened to see him. The turnkey conducted me to his coll. The key turned in the largo lock ; the ponderous door, with a sharp creak, swung upon its hinges, and Lgaw a dead body suspended by the:neok from a grating window ! I looked upOrthe horrible fund; I could see nothing of..Johrt Anderson therm= but- the face I had seen in the court- room was sufficient to connect the two; and I knew that this was all that remained of him whom I vo loved! And this was the last: of the demon's work —the last act in'the terrible drama. Ah I from tho first sparkle.of the red wino it had been down. down,down ! until tho foot of the bill had been finally reaah'ed. When I turned away from the oell, and once _more walked amid the flashing saloons and revel halls. I wished that 'my voice had power to thunder the life story of which I had twain witness into the ears of all living, men: ° . , Met' MOTUXR.—It has been truly.saitl that the firnt - thifig that rushes to the recollection of a soldler.or a sailor, in his direst difficulty, is his mother. She clings to his memory end affection in the midst of all the forgetfulness and hardihood induced by a Eoving life.. The last message he leaves is for her'; his last Whisper breathes her name.' The mother, as she' instils the lesson's of piety and filintobli %alien into'tlai heart of lies-infant son, should Always feel that her labor is not ia vain. She may drop into the gave; but she has left be hind her an influence that will Vvork for her. The be* is broken, but the anew Is sped and will dolts' office. • _ . A MODERN Itscrs.—"Lorti in'a cottage, in. deed!" said Lauretta one day to one of her admirers, a sentimental swain, "I do not fan cy flip , picture. A 'cottage always reminds ma of pigs, and poultry,'and dirty children, and sluttieh women, and coat's out at elbows, and broken witulowe patched• t,ith paperoor Stopped with old hats—things that I hold in utter aboniination. Give' me an'elegant eufil ciencya handsome house in the city, spleen didly furnished, in the most fashionable - style —a dashing equipage—a Well filled casket of jewels—a magnificent wardrobe—n;'circle of gay and 'fasliionablel acquaintanceiLa Wealthy and indulgent husbind—and then—perhaps—.. I might think of love. TRUTH ' S.'" 13:1231 Life is a tree, and we and all mankind • Are but the tender germ or fruit thereon, , •- gome born to blossom, some to fade away, • Somali) endure the end by farthest stay. And so Wimps, at Opt in waxeh buds Doth Infancy appear; then Childhood, rich In promise 011ie greet hereafter smiles Amid Ito rosy bloom; and afterward There cometh Boyhoodigreen In all device, .• In whom as yet the stream of knowledge runs...'. 'Mut sour and undefined. Thenfolloweth MAO. Assuming both the tone of rounder thought _And comeliness more sound. Hence anxious year, With triellim grace do dwell within the minds Until the heavy-laden weight of age Stritgglitli with life, e'en as thefrultage ripe Dojii wrestlikwith its stem ; and then both fall • to earth frim wheract both sprhng. Yet mortal, hear, • And chiefly note. 0 ma Et. the fiuli shall die Whilst:thou endure • the vest eternity Let then thine and be such thou may's!. rejoice 'ln the full garner of thy Master's choice. _l_The.einptitiess of fettle is-well expressed in the following "I think the thing you call renown, ' ' That uneubstantlal vapor, • • ' For which the soldier burns a town, • • 'The sonneteer a taper, • • Is like the,mist, which as he flies • • The horieman leaves behind him; • • De can nit mark its wreaths arise, Or if•he can, they blind . As every sacrifice wus'to lie seasoned with salt, so every mercy is to.-be sanctified by prayer. As gold sometimes is laid, not only on cloth and silk, but also uplin - Silver, so prayer is that golden duly that Must be laid, not only upon all our natural and civil ac- Lions, as eating, drinking, buying,-and son nmsll.L.Quisilver_duties_upo all our most religious and spiritual perfor• minces. A STJLI, pool soon becomes stagnant.: A machinewithOutmotiou becomes rusty. And matt—grCat, glorious, majestic in his creation —without action, still, lilhless, dead, be. comes an icy w,eight—a common nuisance— whom everybody,feels disposed to kick out of the way.' We stirring' times... It becomes every man to do something — to ex. ert himself for . the common :weal—to be zealons, active, and push ahead. .Whatbet• ter are you than a man of snow, which- the Children laugh at and pelt till it is knocked over and- lost, while yotrfold your arms, lie your feet, and day• after day,- gazing with a vacant stare above and around you Arouse, or the - worms, will-soon begin to feed un your carcass,. . In our reading we have never met a finer apostrophe than one by Isaac Watts in these lines: "Infinite truth! tholifo of my desires. Come from the sky, and show thyself to me. I'm tired of hearing. and this roadiug tires, But rm never tired of telling thee, 'Tie thy fair facemy spirit burns to are!" TAKe heed of boisterous and over.violent exercises,- Ringing oft. times has made good music on the bells, and put mend' bodies out of tune, so that by over•heating themselves, they have rung their own passing bell.—Soilth _ And the stately 011,4 go on, To the haven under the bill, But oh, for, the touch of a Tanishod hand, And the sound of a vol. that Is still: . ' - —Tennyson. TRIFLES.' 1 - Mel-there a great deal of well•deser ' ved satire in the follmiing anecdote? and would it tested, prove to be of a pretty wide titilication "A dark-colored man once went to Port' land, Maine, and'attended church. He went into a good pew ; when the next neighbor to the man who owned it said ; " What do you pot a nigger into your pow for ?" Nigger 1 he's no nigger, r he's a Haylien." • " Can't, help that.i he's black as the ace of spades." " Why, Sir, he's a correspondent of mine." "Can't help that, I tell you, he's black." " But. ho i; worth a millica; of dollars." "Is he, though ?—INTRODUCE ME I" "Am I not a little pale?" inquired a la• dy who was short and corpulent, of a crusty old bachelor: "You look more like a big tub," was . the blunt reply.. Thu followin g may be sec t on a grave. stone in Derwin (Denbigl t •e) church. yard : "Husband died aged : , wife died aged 98, their son died aged 97, their daugh ter aged 107, their grandson aged 98. To. tal, 497 ; average, 99i." , • .An epigram op Pope:— • ' „ "SO much dear Pope, thy English Romer charms, "As pity melts us,or as passion 'arms, ' Thatafter ages will with wonder look Who 'twos translated llomei into Greek." ON the death of the Earl of Kildare : "Who kili'd Kildare? who dared 'Kildare to kill?" BLASI! Asantrut; "I kilyd Kildara, and dare kill whom I will." ON an architect:— " Lte heavy on him, earth, for he , Loll many heavy made on thee." "Caught in her own net'," as the man said when he saw one of the fair sex hitched in her crinoline. Why are pimples on a drunkard's face*.• like the cuts in a witty eotemporary? Be cause they are illustrations of Punch. If philanthrophris pre - perly deaned to bu- -, a love of mankind; most women have an unequivocal title to be considered philanthrci:C gists. :A .school girl was married in Boston last week. A-little girl, of the same school, and about the same age, said to her parents when she wont home—" Why, don't you think" Mary Jane Slocum has got married, and hain't gone through vulgar fractions yet!" Why is a yoUng lady like a bill of exchange? Because she ougitt'to be "settled" when she arrives at the ago of maturity. A gentleman having a musical sister, be ing asked what . branch she excelled in, de. dared that the piano washer forte. If you would have a thing kept secret, never tell it to any one ; and if' you would not have a thing known 'of yon, never do it. "The ocean speaks eloquently and forever" —Beecher. "Yes, and there's no-use in tel. ling it to , dry up."—Louisville Journal. • We suppose that si man who, in - the hour of danger, turns pale and makes his escape, may be said to come off with flying colors. A young lady who had lost or mislaid her. beau, was advised to hang .up her, fiddle. She said the advice did great violence to b'er - heart strings. . . Pleasure like quicksilveri, is bright and shy. If we strive to grasjiit, it, still eludes us; and still glitters. 'We perhaps seize it 14t last, and find it is rank poison. • . . . • . , THEPhio,riyor is,gettinglowor and lower .everyday. .Ithas almost ceased to run. All . who look at it can at once perceive that it exhib i ita very little speed, but a great dpal of THE MAIDEN'S DEEADI.. The little girl road, In her fairy book, Strange taloa of that nld, old time, An 1 Jr .a I n I viol thin 10 that happened then, In that far oil, wonderful clime. She read of the cottage girl, that at ° In the door at the close of day, Aud the beautiful prince that on hoisebackeates And corned her far away. . • , Far away to a palace bright, In a city by the sea; 'And there, forever, in love and light; A beautiful queen lived she. The little girl slant o'er hor hook, and dreamed ; • And over hor slumbering brain The tale sho had read, of toe beautiful prince Aud the cottage girl, 'crime again. • ' • • But, somehow, the cottage girl wore her hair. .And dress and her form were the same. And, when the beautiful prince Cll2llO by, lie , lie called her her own sweet name. And nut was the cottage girl Unit rode The lady and queen to be, And to ne• f r ayo wit!) hor beautiful prince In the city by the °ea. Now In every maiden eoul that breathen— Ly Valley or stream= - - 19hether they road the old talent- not. Buyers the name sweet dream. . • Away In the depths of thelr'vlrellti Where other dreams tome not In, Rid from the world's unkhully oyes, And the soiling breath of Mu. And each one thinks it a prophet's voice— And vo it may prove to some— But they all alt down, like the cottage girl, And wait lb, their prince to come. 'MODERN MARRIAGES. lAmong the many strange things Which wo meet with in life, nothing is stranger than the way in which .some people talk about mar riage. They regara.it as aapeculatiOn which iruy..jno gektor,barl=_-ftsLn—prn,o-ta_be_played. which requires sagacity and skill—as a qua .lloll of polition —as a marketable commodity —as something by which wealth is Lobe se ctind —as a mutual compact for, material ag grandfsetnent—:sometimes for the building up of a family, sometimes for the eitenaien of a trade. Listen to a few of the phrasewcurront in society, which' will Awry° to prove our as. 'aim "Slip has played her. cards, we 11,." exclaims ode; "What a capital hit, who could have over expected her to be soiartunata," nays another; "A good connection indeed; hp • •is likely to be a rich matp-before long," is the remark of a s third; or, on the other side, ono-' hears, "what a fool the girl was tb throw her- I Self away so;" "flow could she refuse sitch. I an offer, she would have been Well - strtled for life." , , I • "To be sure if she couldn't love the man," I exclaims some mild voice, "site did right to I say so: but young ladies are very fanciful, 1 she would have liked hiM well enough if they had once married. "• "For my .part," dries a. lady, who Yes made a good match herself. and lives in style, thOugh :open say. n a very happily, - "for my part it seems -unreasonable to suppose a woman can find a husband ex. actly suited to her. Levels all very well in poetry, but when it'comes to real life, we must. take the best chance that offers." • A score of such remarks might' be added, but it is unnecessary, • unfortunately they are' so common, that our readers will be able at once to recognize their, truthfulness, and to add to them. Thus the holy state of matrimony becomes a sort of commercial transaction. The man or the woman who 'marries for the sake of .. „ . money, or of connexion, or to scours an es tablishment and !Come for life, does in fact, wed'and worship ' certain oonveAtiotial.propri sties, takes to himself or herself to have or to hold,•till death part them, tiocit warm — , lov• ing, humor soul, with whom' cares may be lessened by sympathy and pleasure multiplied by participation, but a given quantity of hard cash, of worldly reapeotibility, of househOld ambition. Satisfy them to their' hearts don tent, crown their mean aitnawith stuccos, sur round them with everything they prize,most . .highly; and then to all simple and true heart ed natures, to all that have been unperverted by worldly maxims, and know what real hap piness means, and how comparatively it is af fected by outward circumstances, the things which stand'round Ud, but ate not - part of our being—to them how false and vain does all the glitter appear. They will not tell you, and truly enough, we think that•the„ shadow has been selected in preference to the sub stance—that instead of the light heartedness 1 of joy, an uneasy burden had been chosen; under which every finer fancy musite dwarf ed, eve!) , moral sentiment degraded, that if the feelings do sometimes prove dangerous guides, the common maxim of the world, so very prudent and so very shallow, are infin itely more baneful, since they- would load us to renounce the very life of life for the sake of some material guarantees, in the shape of bricks and mortar, servants, jewelry, carriages, a title, or a coat of arms. We hold then, and all the best and noblest of women will'agree with us, that a marriage whiolt is not found on mutual love dad esteem —which does not bind hearts as well as hands —becomes nothing more or lees than a sordid and disgraceful bargain. We believe that fathers and .mothere, whose great aim is to see their, children Well eet'led, in a worldly ' point of view, aud'who ignore love, whenever interest is concerned, are guilty,- not only of a folly, but of a crime—against God, a pinet society, and against those whose I earthly happiness lies so much in their keep ing. But on the other hand, wild and imprudent 'carriages, and all engagements which' have not common scum., and 'Prudence for their hand maidens, merit severe reprehension. and richly deserve all that the wit of the poet And dramatist can level against them., Unfortu nately, in no sense of the ,word can this age of ours be termed golden. There are very few of us who can afford to palm the dumpier rily; whatever we realize, must ba t worked for, intervals of leisure and rest come to'ue like angels' visits, and marriage itself, far from being a state of beautitude, is fraught 'with bares, " . peiplexities, and sorrow. But than, ou the whole, in most truly happy Mar riages, the joy infinitely transcoOds the pain, and the evils with.which the married state is - connected, may in a great measure ho avoid ed by foresight and patience. If, for exam ple, a young couple begin too son, with very limited, and perhaps uncertain moans, a few y era will find them surrounded with difficul ties—perhaps burdened with debt, In such a calm, 'the suffering is self-entailed, and the punishment deseried. But, to our thinking, there is among the middle classes, a consider• able amount of ciarefulness in the matter. and the wish to commence life, as it is called, in the same style as his father closes it. often deters 's young man from marrying, when, his ittcomels really large enough to secure every comfort. Nearl • all ladies who have not arrived at an uncertain. age, look forward naturally enough, to the day when they shall leave their 'father's root, and under the' protection of a nearer one and a dearer one, take their part in the duties of life. IlOrrimportatit it is that they should learn , to. chum well, that. they should not be attracted Jay external appear ancelor-tnere lunation, - CIA that - fir this great step, which has,beetioalled, though untruly, a leap in the da rk, should consult their judgement as well as their feelings, and that Hound common sense, which, in things of lee -or momeiti, is ,deerned eh important. But.. above all, it is necessary tfifia — ilmtnan should piko`for her friend and counsellor one who will not only be a helpmate in this world, but who? will also stimulate hor noblest aspiration''. and prove a faithful companion In tho journey heavenward.. $1.50 per annum In advance $2 00 if not paid In advaneo GEM . . lIINT6 TO YOUNG 1.1.131168. Don't make a confidante of the first inter esting young lady you meet. A woman can't keep a secret tiny more than a tithe can hold Wller, and 'ten she'll tell the ivhole story to the sister of the nice young man in question. Then you can imagine the consequences I Don't sit down to your crotchet work or embroidery unless you have 'first mended, that hole in your stocking. No. use crowd ;*tinder. the heel of your shoe—rags, like mnider, will out; and they speak' with terribly loud voices and at inconvenient sea snns, sometimes. Don't undertake to write skim milk poetry when you feel a little disposed towards en. tbusiasm. Go and do a kind notion, or speak kind word to somebody, if the feeling must have, vent. Depend upon it, you'll be better satisfied afterward. Don't pretend to be angry because gen tlemen have the audacity to lo'ok at you, when you' promenade the street in your beat bonnet. What do you go there for, if not to be seen? The more you affect- indignation the more the. offending Wretches won't be lieve ft." . • Don't pay thirty or forty dollars for the aforesaid bonnet, and then complain that "Pa",..is in such narrow circumstances you can't afford to give twenty live cents in char ity. . . Don't eat blue and yellow candies the whole time, like a mouse nibbling at a-pine. apple cheese,•and then lament because you haven'eany, appetite for dinner. Don't ask a beardless boy what sehoolle attends, and whether he prefers kites or mar. tiles, unless you are certain he is neither a "rising yOung lawyer", nor a member of the Legislature.' Don't keep a gentleman waiting haltai lour, when he calls, whilst you put on lace and ribbons, and arrange curls; he-isn't a fool, whatever you may think on the subject, and will probably form his own ideas -upon your original appearance. I Don't run and hide, like a frightened rab• irbit, when a gentleman puts fits head into the "room-where you are sweeping or dust•• • ing.• If there's anything to be ashamed of in the buSiness, why do you do it ? Don't proclaim to the worlitthat you can,"t exist without six Paris bonnets an-a — yeir, and that life would be a burden without an opera box and diamonds, and' then Wonder that the young men "sheer offl • , And above all, when :some one ct6es pro. pose, don't .say no, when you mean yeal He may take you at yonr-wordl If you follow all these precepts you may One day succeed in- getting. married, and that you know, is the summit of aU earthly, ambition! MRS. GEORGE WASHINGTON WILLTS THE HOUSEKEEPER. Asa general rule, it iS most economical to buy the beet articles. The 'price is, of course, always a lit,tie kigl4or;: but good articles spend best. leilit: , sacrifice of money to buy poor: flour, meal sugar, molasses, butter, cheese, lard, B,co.,'4oll,y,nnthing of. tho injurious of foot upon ticii-Inialth. Of West Wig Sugar and Molasses, the Santa Cruz and Porto Rico are considered the. best The Havana is seldom clean. - White sugar from Brazil le sometimes very good.— Refined sugars usually contain most of thil saccharine substance; therefore there-is pro bably more economy in using loaf, crushed • And granulated sugars; than we should at first suppose. - Butter that is made in September andOo tober is the best for Winter use. Lard should be hard and white; and that which is taken from a hog not over a year old is best. . Rich cheese feels soft under the pressure of the finger. That which Is very strong' is li - either good nor healthy. To keep one thet ,Ic cut, tie it up in a bag that will•not admit tiles, and hang it up in a cool dry place. If mold appear on it, wipe it off with a dry cloth. Flour and meal of all kinds should be kept in a cool dry place. The best rice is large, and has a clear fresh look. .Old, rice sometimes has little black in sects inside the kernels. • The small, white sago, called pearl sago, is . the best. The large grown kind has an earthy taste. These articles.z. and tappioca, ground rice, &0., should beltept covered. Tho cracked 'cocoa is the beer; but that ./ which is put up in pound papers is often very good Keep coffee by itself, as its odor affects oth er articles. Keep tea iu a close chest. •Oranges and lemons kept beet wraped close in soli paper and laid in a drawer of linen. Whoa a cask or molasses is bought, draw off a few quarts, else the fermentation produced by moving it will burst the cask. • .Bread and cake should be kept in a tin box or stone jet.. Salt coil should _be' kept in a dry` place, where the odor of it milt not affeo: the air of the house The best 'kind is that which is Milled Pun, from its peculiar color. Fish. skin — for clearing coffee should •be washed, dried, cut small and kept in a box or. paper bag Soft ieap should be kept in a dry place in the_ collar. and ahould_nor_be used till three months old. Bar soap should be cut into pieces of it con venient size, and!,laid where it will become dry. It is well to keep it *several weeks be ers using it., as it spend:, foot when it is new. Potatoes should be put into 'the cellar.se soon as they ire dug. Lying exposed to the Bun turns them, green, and makes them wa tery. Some good housekeepers have sods laid over barrels of potatoes not in immediata____ use. To prevent them from sprouting - in ihe Spring, turn them out 'upon the cellar bottom. AMERICAN GIRLS AND lIIATRIMIONV. American girls of good education, says Bar per's Weekly, do not know how lucky they are. ~t, Every American girl who is sane •and sound' —and manritho are neither one or the other —has not one, but many °batmen of marrying. In the country. towns in England, marrying men are so rare, that it is quite common to see a dozen charining girls, all well educated, l i pretty; and ladylike, fighting fora half starv ed curate or a wretched attorney. Among English mothers, match-making is curried on to an extent utiknown'here, (save in the very highest circles of our aristocracy;) and this , not-from mean.motives, but from sheer nines. , sity. In France. no father expects his dough- • ter to get a husband unless she buys him.— Every man who has a daughter begins, when she Is eight or ton years old, to save money for her dot—i. e., the purchnee-money of- a husband. Papa and mamma deprive them selves of lUxuries, and even neaerearies, to amass a respectable sum; the boys' education ~. is cut short, and their 'patrimony discounted, in'order' to swell the dot, In proportion to its :.1 amount is: the quality of the husband. A father who can give his daughter half a mil- , . ' lion of francs, will expect a General or a Ben. . ator ; he who has a hundred thousand to be stow, will fix his mark at a rising lawyer, a „- dashing colonel or a prefect :he who, has ' amassed twenty - thousand - francs , - will be ea; „- listed with a young merchant, or it clever . doctor But he who has no:money to give hie ,: .• daughter, will never expect her to marry at ~ • 'all. „ The marriage d'amour is a; taroughly , ~ obsolete Institution In. France. , In Germany, -:.: ,v and indeed throughout 'Europe, the rule ,ip; rapidly becoMing the same. A, father -: wh oo :7,r , . expects his daughter Co marry,•rotitit buy her „ a husband. ' Hearts were once conquered, the' .00ts say; now they are bought, 'Tie situp- • erl, . NO. 'V.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers