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ILLMEgI, Proprietor. t
Prig:LIAM K. PORTER, Editor. f
VOL.. LX.
TERMS OF PUBLICATION.
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=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.