Atierted fottrg.
Sweetheart of Long Ago.
I lovo that bady.boy, and why 1
I loved his mother long before
She ceased to sing her lullaby,
g. To china dolls upon the floor.
'Whene'er she throw her playthings by,
I lingered at her side the while;
And walled with a jealous eye,
To catch her that approving smile.
And when she bloomed a maiden fair,
'Cho promise of her budding grace,
I often stroked her golden hair,
And wooed the rose to her face.
And once beneath a maple fair,
When we were dreaming side by side,
sweet girl, I drew her close to me,
And told her sho should be my bride.
No whisper from her lips replied,
but in her eyes the answer shone;
She nestled to my side,
And pressed her heart against my own
'Twas all We Raid, what I have told,
Tho while beneath the maple tree ;
And yet a volume would not hold
The meaning of those words to me.
We parted there at even.thle,
To meet as we had met before ;
Nor heard the breezes when thy sighed
'Their raven cry of "Nevermore!"
Ah I fatal winds tbit'bore away
My bark upon the worldly tidal
/ Boated 'mid the fair and gay,
And she became another's bride
Hut now I hear across the street,
A youthful mother's roundelay;
And echoes in my heart repeat
The ditty of another day.
The shouting of a cherub boy.
Commingled with the mother's glet';
How time has vivified the to}
She rocked upon her mother's kneel
I breathe no Idle well away,
Nor longing sigh for other's joy ;
Bat while I hear that roundelay,
I love, I love another's boy.
The Homestead
BY LADY SPENCER
It Is not an it used to be
When you and I were young ;
When around each elm and maple tree
The- ho eysuckles clung;
But-atilt-I love the cottage-where . _
I passed my early years,
Though not a single face Is there
That memory endears.
It Is not as it used to be;
The moss is on the roof,
And from their nests beneath the eves
The swallows keep aloof.
The-.robins—how they used to sing
When you and I were young ;
And how did lilt tho wild bee's wing
The opening flowers among!
It is not as it used to bel
- " - - -- The - volcegloved.of-yort,
And the forms that we were wont to see,
We see and hear no more.
; No more 1 Alas, we look in vain
For those to whom we clung,
And loved as we can love but once,
When you and I were young.
gp. io4,e lal n
THE LAST FAIRY.
PROM TUE FRENCH, BY M. J. T. BROWNE
I had passed my sixteenth year when
she appeared to me for the first time.—
It was, I well remember, one beautiful
evening in May. 1 had hone alone out
of the city; I went with no purp6se
across the fields, dreamy and restless,
without knowin". why. I had some time
been in this mood, and solitude was de
lightful to me.
I saw the sun sink into an abyss of
purple arnrgold 'Shadows . tlese - entled .
from the hills into the plains ; the stars
were kindled one by one in the deep blue
of heaven. The frogs chirped on the
borders of the ponds; the thrills of the
nightingale burst forth at long intervals.
I heard also the quiver of the agitated
leaves, and the tall shrubs bent under the
breeze, with a murmur sad and soft. The
moon, which had risen deep red in the
horizon, slept, white and radiant, to a
psarl-colored pile orclotzds, , whence its
rays tell in silver waves on the shoulders
of Night The tepid air was laden with
intoxicating odors, and I heard along the
flowery hedges the low cry of birds ca
ressing each other in their nests.
I was going along, opening my soul to
all these perfumes, when I perceived a
troupe of young girls, who with clasped
hands were singing, on their way to flee
city. They sang in chorus, of spring
time and love ; their fresh voices vibra
ted through the silence of the slumbering
fields like the noise of a distant caseiide.
I hid behind a cluster of hawthorn, I saw
them pass, like a swarm Of those white
shadows which assemble in the night
around lakes, to form those light dances,
and vanish at the first break of the dawn.
I distinguished by the light of the stars
their brown or blonde heads—l heard
the rustle of their robes; I inhaled in
long draughts the mysterious emanations
they left behind, and which had an effect
on my senses more intoxicating than the
perfumed breath of the evening.
When they had disappeared, I felt
myself seized with an unknown disquie
tude, and having seated myself on a hil
lock by the side of the meadow which
spread out at my feJt like the ocean of
verdure, I buried my face in my hands,
and remained plunged in a profound rev
erie, listening, seeking to comprehend the
confused and trembling emotions that
arose within Inc. I am unable to say
what I experienced. I felt my heart op
pressed and ready to burst. There was
something within it like a hidden spring
which seeks an outlet—like a captive
wave which seeks to expand itself. I
Fried out; I wept, I found I know not
what pleasure in my tears.
How long did I remain thus ? When
robe I saw at some distance before me
p celestial creature, - who regarded me with
p smile. A. tunic, whiter than the lily,
fell in graceful folds over her person, and
left to be seen on the 'turf, which they,
scarcely grazed, two naked feet, and white
ps Varian warble.
Her light hair fell in freedom around
her neck, her cheeks had the, freshness
ftrid brilliancy, of the flowers which
p rol y 9 eri_lier head ; on the rose-tinted - at..
abastor of her-faciNlier" eyes shown like
two open pert-wrinkles on the snow, -
warmed into life by the first kisses_ of
April. • Her . artns,-were naked; one of
her hands reposed-upon her breast, while
the other seemed td iqvite• nee with a
kindly gesture. ' I retirmineti fqr somo
minutes in silent and motionless contem
plation. No doubt she eame,from Llesy
pa, for her beauty had ne ' semblance 0
VOL. '63.
A. K. BREEN, Editor & Proprietor
earthly loveliness, and I saw shining
around her an atmosphere which envel
oped her like a luminous vestment.
" Who, then, art thou ?" I exclaimed
at last, distractedly stretching cut tow
ards her my arms.
" Friend," she replied, with a voice
sweeter than the night zephyr, " I am the
fairy which the King of the Genii laid
slumbering in thy breast at the hour of
thy birth. This morning I slept there
still ; I have just awoke at the first an
guish of thy heart. My soul is bound
up with my life ; I am thy sister, and
will be thy companion until the day when,-
detached fr:.m thee, like a flower faded on
the stem, I will abandon thee in the midst
of the way, of which the first half we shall
travel together. That day is not far dis
tant young friend. The rose which sees
only one tnoining is the symbol of my
destiny. In order to love me, expect not
that thou mayst lose me; for neither thy
tears nor thy regrets will reanimate me
when I shall be no more. Hasten I my
hand is armed neither with the magic
wand nor the enchanter's rod, and I have
no other adorning than the flowers min
gled with my hair ; but I will heap upon
thee more treasures than ever benevolent
and prodigal fairy lavished upon a royal
cradle. 1 will place on thy forehead a
coronet which many a king would esteem
himself happy to purchase at the price of
his own ; 1 will collect for the a retinue,
such as , is rarely -seen in courts or palaces:
Invisible and present., I will follow thee
everywhere; everywhere thou shalt feel
my fruitful influence ; I will embellish
the places where thou must pass, at night
I will embalm thy couch ; I will give my
soul to all nature to smile each morn at
thy awakening. Ah !we will have beau.'
tiful fetes ! Only these blessings which
I bring thee, child, learn to know them,
seize them before they escape thee ;
know how to grasp them
. withotit with
-e ring Them'; to enjoy lfietri Wit'To ift-e-kl
ha us ting th_m ; make provision fur the
other half of the way which thou must
achieve without me. Friend, I have told
thee I have little time to live, but it de
pends on thee to prolong my frail but
precious existence. lam like those rare
plants which must be tenderly exposed
to sun and rain. My feet are delicate,
fatigue them not in tolliwing thee. The
glow on my cheeks is tenderer than the
creeper on the hedge ; if thou wishes not
to see . it tarnished in a day, expose me
not to too lively,heats, draw me under
only deep and cooling shallows; watch
that no remorse poison the regrets which
my loss will leave thee ; may wy memo
ry be good, may I still enliven thy heart
with sweet reflection, long after I have
ceased to illuminate and warm thy life !"
At these words, like -I guardian mini
that bends over a cradle, she leaned tow
ards ute her light head, and I felt her
ps press my - for - elletiA — ,Tresher, more p`e-r-
fumed than the menthe which grows lon
the border of fountains. I opened toy
arms to enfold her, but the white appa
rition had already vanished like a dream.
Was it not a dream, indeed
I continued to go across the fields,
sometinieA running like a lunatic, some
times throwing myself on the turf, which
I wet with scalding tears ; sometimes I
pressed to my bosom the slender stein of
the birches, which I believed I felt tremb•
ling and palpitating under my wild clasp ;
sometimes 1 extended toy arms towards
the stars, and spoke to them with love.
I talked with the flowers, the trees, the
shrubs; I felt within me a torrent of
vigor which everywhere overflowed and
spreadover all nature. The barrier was
broken ; the stream had pierced the rock.
I laughed, I wept, I swam in an endless
sea of joy unutterable, and happiness
without a name. When the East began
toTrow whice with morning, it seemed
to:tue:that.l asststed for the first time at
the awakening of creation. My heart
swelled; I breathed the air with pride;
I belieted a moment that my soul had
disengaged itself from my body, to fly
away free and light through space min
gled with the soft vapors which the ris
ing sun detached from the hills. Froai
the height of the mountain which I had
ascended I measured the horizon with the
glance of a conqueror ; the earth had just
been created for we, and I was master of
the world !
I was not thirty when my fairy ap
peared to me the second time. It was,
recollect, an "evening in October. 1 had
gone out alone from the city. I went,
without purpose, across the gloomy fields,
depressed in soul, I knew nut why. •
had been a long time thus—and without
any taste for it, I sought again solitude.
The sky was low and overcast ; an . icy
north wind beat with a sinister sound the
last leaves of the trees. The hedges had
only their berries for ornament. Some
-mournful barkings which came from a
distant farM, and a thread of bluish smoke
which rose above the branches, alone re•
vealed that there was life in these desert
ed fields. Still a few wild birds flew hero
and there, from spray to spray; black crows
spotted the plain—battalions of cranes
slowly moved away in the gray evening
air.
I went, mingling my soul with nature,
in mourning. For long time I had tak
en, like her, that cold melancholy which
accompanies-the close of the lovely weath
er. Being seated at the foot of a leafless
shrub, I saw pass me two old women,
who walked slowly, each one bent under
a buudlo of pine fagots, provision fur
winter, which. they were carrying home.
Strauge memory I : whimsical oonjunetion !
Frotn.tha very spoti occupied at this
moment, I had actin go by long ago a
troop of young maidens, their hands
clasped 14114. their voices wilted in song !
1 was six.tecn then, -and the shrub me in
bloom:
hick my imp in my hands, and men-
Fb , K Atli.,:i:fl:t
tally reviewing the days that had rolled
over me, between that evening in
_May
and this evening in October, I was soon
lost in a sad and profound reverie. When
I rose, I saw a few paces off a pale face
which looked at me with a sad express
ion. She was so changed that I scarce
knew whether I recognized her. There
was no more around her that atmosphere
of brightness which enfolded her first ap.
pearance. A woolen tunic exposed her
faded bosotn. Her feet were bleeding;
her arms fell listlessly adown her emaci
ated sides. The azure of her eyes was
marbled with black, tears had worn fur
rows in her withered cheeks. The un
fortunate creature could s, areoly sustain
herself, and like a lily with,:red on a
broken ste:n, seemed to bow towards the
earth.
" What wishest thou of me ?" I de•
manded.
" Friend, the hour is come when we
must separate; belbre leaving thee for
ever, I have desired to hid thee an eter-
nal adieu," murmured she in a plaintive
voice, sadder than the wind of — winter.
" Away! away ! false Fairy ! What
bast thou done for me ? Those blessings
which thou didst promise Toe, where are
they ? I have vainly sought them on my
way. W here are those treasures thou
oulitst to have laid at my feet ? I have
found only poverty. What has become
of the diadem with which thou olteredst
itrerown mytirow: . :My head hio - only
worn the crown of thorns. ‘.'!sere is the
brilliant throng thou promised'st to gather
for me? I have had fur a cm-te . qe only
solitude and despair. Thou speakest of
separation; hut, unless thou art the
nius of sadness, what has there ever been
in common between us ? Ah! if it. may
be true that thou hast, everywhere
fol
lowed me, and everywhere I have submit
ted to thy influence, go away, accursed,
for surely thou art the apiit of evil." •
"I am neither the Spirit of Evi: nor
the Genius of sorrow," replied site sadly,
''.but it is the destiny of man to know me
only after having lost rue ! to know the
value of my blessings only after there is
no more time to enjoy them. Friend,
thou hast been ungrateful like thy breth
ren. Thou accusest me, and I pity thee.
In a moment thou shalt know rue, and
then, alas ! thou wilt wish, at the price
of the years which God still grants thee,
to see me, only one day, such as thou
sawest me first. Thou askest bitterly,
where are the blessings 1 have promised
thee? I have kept all my promises; but
thou, thou hast disdained them, those,
treasures which I have lavished upon thee
with an unsparing hand. For a diadem,
I placed on that forehead the freshness,
the light, the peacefulness of a spring
morning ; for a retinue, I gave thee Love,
and Faith, Elope and Illusion. Thy
poverty! I have made it so
- _smiling and
so beautiful that many of the rich and
powerful would have exchanged it fur
their palaces and their opulence. Thy
solitude ! I have peopled it with enchant
ing dreams. Thy despair ! I have made
thee love it, and there has been such un
intoxicating pleasure in thy tears, that
thy greatest misery henceforth will be,
not to be able to shed thew. When thou
walkest abroad, I awoke around thee sym
pathy and kindness; thou didst meet only
friendly eyes and f raternal hands. Heav
en smiled upon t,: - .ee —earth grew flowery
beneath thy feet. In thy turn, answer
—what hast thou dune with the gifts of
my munificence? II ow bast thou reward.
ed my largcsses ? What remains to thee
of all the felicity I have scattered along
thy way? if thou bast preserved noth
ing of it, is it I who has taken it away
from thee? If thou hast enjoyed noth
ing, must I be accused ?".
At these words a tardy light illumined
my being. I felt a veil fall from my
eyes, and I remained struck with terror
in seeing clearly down into my own heart.
" Stop ! stop I go not away !” I cried
with a supplicating, voice ; "restore to me
those blessings I have contemned ; my
eyes open upon the true light. Restore
to me love and illusion, restore to me faith
and hope. Let me love only one day.—
Let inc believe only one hour, and who
ever thou art, 1 will bless thee with my
dying breath."
" Alas !" she replied, "it is 1 who am
about to die, and dust thou not see it ? Look
at me I have deeply autfered—l ant but
the Worn shadow of myself. Lung titne
a sickness has consumed me; a devourii i
breath has dried my bones and drained
in my bosom the springs of life. The
blood no Inure flows throm , h toy Heart;
touch my hands ; thou wilt feel the icy
dampness of death. Still, if thou hadst
wished it, 1 would have before me length
of days! It is thou: cruel one, who host
slain me before my time. 1 have Worn
out my strength, and torn my feet in fol
lowing thee. Vainly I asked for mercy.
Thou criedst 'march on !' and I went for
ward. I went exhausted breathless, rend
ing my, hopes on the brambles by the ,
wayside, burning my brow in the noon
day. heats, Thou wouldst not grant me
thud to renew my girdle, and to bind a
new my crown of flowers, already with
ering. Vainly, if we met some sylvan
asylum, some mysterious basis, I said,
'Here is happiness ! Friend, here must
we pitch our tent Thou continuedst
thy mad career, dragging me without pity
over arid sands is there an
. outrage
from which thou didst preserve me ?
storm from which thou didst protect my
head How many times have I not sat
down, weary, discimrtiged, determined to
abandon thee. But ingrate, 1 loved thee;
and when, astonished to feel me no more
near thee, thou returnedst to call me with
voice or gesture, I rose .and flew to thy
side. New it is done I . Friend, I can do
no more. My blood stops, my eyes grow
dim, my limbs falter beneath we. Open
thy arms, press me to thy bosom; it is
CARLISLE, PA., FRIDAY, OCTOBER 30, 1863.
from thy heart I drew my life, it is on
thy heart that I. will.die
"Thou shalt not die I" I. cried, open
ing my arms to receive her: "but, strange
creature, speak ! Who, then, art thou ?"
I am no more—l was iky youth!" she
said, and at these words I tried to seize
her; but she had already slipped from my
embrace and disappeared, -and I per
ceived in her place only some withered
flowers, fallen from her hair. I gathered
them all up, but alas I I found not one
had retained its perfume.
Life and Love.
What lessons are embodied in thy
teachings ! stern lessons,. as we in our
days of hope and happiness 'Could never
think of encountering as we-set sail under
sunny skies, and our bark glided pleasant
ly over smooth waters; we did not dream
of the clouds, the storm, the-ftinpest that
came all too soon and awoke us from our
fond security.
Time, the great monitor of all hearts,
teaches us the undeniable and stern truth,
that change is written on all things; but
the saddest is death Oh how terrible is
the wreck of hearts and hdrnes, when the
messenger, resistless and unerring in his
silent march, takes from our homes the
brave and strong ; prayer and tears are of
no avail ; life's lesson we must all learn,
life's burden we must all bear.
Who has nut seen some of their loved
ono4 Wrapped in the eel(' eereinents of
the grave and borne to the innumer
able city of the dead ! When we retnem
that in our wanderings through life's paths
we should meet them no more, see their
kindly beaming smile, heard the loved
no more, have we not, in anguish of soul,
uttered the wail of a bleeding heart, ''let
rue tie, fur atitlijs broad earth, I have
nought to live fur;" but we cannot die
when we wish most ; we may weep at
many_ a....;.:,a_v_e_lefote-eve. veaolr our own
-
Who has not wept over broken hopes
and severed ties ? Who has--not seen.
One by one, life's cherished dreame de
part, its
,_TWen chalice turned to bitter
ness ; or snatched rudely from our grasp
the hope and trust of years ?
CONE ED ERATE SCRlP.—There was a
Pennsylvania Dutchman in camp at Tri
bune, Tennessee, soineWhatnoted for a
dry humor and shrowdile3s. A group of
farmers were, one day, in his presence
discussing the merits of 'the currency so
liberally issued by the lliehmond Govern
ment. Saul, upon being appealed to, ex
pressed the ceeided opinion, that every
dollar of it would be , reileeno'l, accord-,
ing to the obligations assumed I upon the
face of the note. This made most of the
company open their eyes with equal as
tonishment and pleasure, as they gener
ally had their pockets filled with the ar
t cAc:hatige_for
last fill. Sam was about leaving the
crowd under this grand impression, when
one of them called kiln back for further
explanatiol.
" Why arc you sure that these notes
will be redeemed r
Why, sir,'' says Sam, "you see they
prinnise to pay six months after the rati
/creation of a treaty of peace between the
Con k!derate States and t United States"
":_'quire, I'll give you a thousand dol
lars for that gray colt of yours, payable
al the same eilne. The ewent will hap
pen some time after the world's burnt
up,"
PLEASING EVERYBODY.—Do not de
lude yourself with the idea that you can
please everybody. Who ever saw any
body that was worth anything that had
nobody to find fault with him. You
would have to do evil in many cases to
please the evil; submit to the tyrannical ;
be a tool for the ambitious, and be care
ful not to have anything as good as those
who desire to have everything superior
to their neighbor. If you are a public
man, should r;ti be diligent, you must
expect o have"lnany secretly dislike you,
and talk against you for your success ;
and if yo u accomplish little, though many
show themselves friendly, it often leaks
out that some who appear pleasant, do
this because they du not fear your rival
ry ; they may smile upon you outwardly
and yet in wer,dy entertain contempt for
your inefficiency. Always do that whit .
ri.. l ht, be diligent, do the most you cw
plying no reprd to hultfinders, and you
will find as many friends as any sensible
man may desire,
It EA!, GENTi EMAN.-.A. waiter was
examined the other day before one of our
coons. We annex his testimony :
" Yes, sir, Robert Flunkey." " Well,
Mr. Flunkey, you say the defendant is
no gentleman. What, makes you think
so 1" " 'Cause, sir, he always says thank
you, when I hand him a mutton chop,
or even a bit of bread. Now, a real gen
tleman never does this, but hollers out,
' Ilere, Bill, get me a mutton chop, or I
will throw this pepper box at your head.'
You can't deceive me with a gentleman,
your worship. 'Caine why ? I have as
sociated with too many of them at the race
course."
Im„A poor invalid gentleman, very
much reduced, lately rend in a medical
paper something about 'letting blood.'—
The unhappy weakly creature writes to
us to know if we can inform him 'who
lets it." and whether he can on moder
ate.terms-hire some for a few years. We
refer to'the Lancet.
_ m,A. Westarn editor was lately shot
in. an affray. Luckily 'the ball came
against acme unpaid accounts in his pock
ot. Gunpowder couldn't get through
that.
jDid you ever know a man too-poor
to take a paper, that did not spend one
dollar a week upon rum and tobacco ?
TERMS :--$1,50 in Advance, or $2 within the year
NOT NOW
13/33111:5^M
The path of duty I clearly trace,
I stand with conscience face to face,
And all her plans allow I
Calling and crying the while for grace,
"Some other time, and some other place—
% not today—not now I"
I know 'tin a demon boding 111,
I know I have power to do if I will,
And I put my hand to th' plough;
I have ftir, sweet seeds in my barn, and 10l
When all the furrows are ready to sow,
The voice nays, "0, not now!"
My peace I sell at the pr'ce of woe—
In heart and In spirit I suffer so,
The anguish wrings my brow
But still I linger and cry for grace—
Some other Ihne, and some other place
0, not to-day—not now I"
I talk to my stubborn heart and say,
The work I must do I will do to day;
I will make to the Lord a vow :
And I will not root and I will not sleep
Till the vow I have vowed I rise and keep,
And the demon cries, "Not now I"
And ea Om days and the years go by,
• An.d so I registor Ho upon Ile,
And break with Heaven my vow;
For when I would boldly take my staid,
This terrible demon stays my hand—
" U, not to day—not now I":
Worth of Money
We hear a good deal about the worth
of property. A house is worth ten thous
and dollars ; that lot is worth five thous
_and,dollars.; alarm is worth-eight thous
and ; a horse thre't hundred, and so on
endlessly. This is all very well in its way.
But ought not the question, sometimes, to
be put the other way—how much is a
man's mo , try worth : 2 There is a wider
range in the value of money than most
persons think. And, upon a little inquiry,
I suspect that it will be found that all
persons who possess it, have a way of
measuring it, not by dollars., but by its
value in some sort of pleasure or article.
says to himself—there, that puts me one
step out of debt Money to him is a
niean3 of personal liberty. A man in debt
is not a freeman. 'The borrower is a ser
vant to the Ender.'.
Another man sees in a thousand dollars
a sung little homestead, a borne for hie
children, a shelter to his old age, a place
to live in, and a good place to die_in. But
his neighbor only sees one more link in
the golden chain of wealth. It was only
thirty-nine thousand last month, he is
worth forty this. And his joy is in the
growing numerals. tle imagines how it
will sound, full round and hearty, when
men,pay, 'he is worth a hundred thousand
dollars.' Nay, when .it comes to that, ho
thinks five a better sound than one, and
five hundred thousand is a sound most
musical to the ear,—though he loves even
better yet to 'call it half a million ! The
word million cuts a great swath in men's
imagitratttinK—All'OßVeßiliiiite of inori
-
ey is sheer ambition. The man is vain.
lie thinks much of himself on account of
money, not of character. A man who is
openly proud of money is secretly con
temptuous of those who have none.
Another man wishes to see the world.
Every dollar means Europe. Two thou
sand dollars means Egypt, Palestine and
Greece.
Boys dealing in small sums reckon the
same way A penny means a stick of
candy; a sixpence is but another term for
a ball , shilling means kite, and fifty cents
a jack knife.
The young 'Crack' sees in his money a
skeleton wagon and fast nag, a rousing
trot, a jolly drink, and a smashing party.
But many and many a weary soul sees
in every shilling, bread, rent, fuel, cloth
es. There be thousands who hold on to
virtue by hands of dollars ; a few more
save them ; a few less and they are lost
Their gay sisters see feathered hats and
royal silks in their money, or rather in
their fathers' and their husband's.
The poor scholar passes daily by the
stall where books tempt his poverty.—
Poor clothes he is content to wear ; plain
and even meager diet ho is williw , r' to sub
sist upon ; and as for all the gay dissipa
tions and extravagant wastes of fashiona
ble life, ho looks upon them without even
understanding what they mean, as a child
looks upon the milky-way in tt o heavens,
a glowing land of far-away and unexplor
ed wonders. But oh, those books ! lie
'quks longingly at morning ; he peers at
with a gentle, covetousness at night.
'.ies new devices for earning a
few lie ponders whether there
is not as_ .> ..ew economy which can save
a few shillings. And when good luck at
last brings a score of dollars to him, with
a fervor of hate does he get rid of them,
fairly running to the stall, and fearing at
every step, lest some fortunate man should
seize the prize. WAtateful man ! that
night saw too much oil burnt in poring
over the loyal treasure. Books are what
his money is worth. But others see dif
ferent visions., Money means flowers to
them. New roses, the latest dahlia, the
new camelia, or otliers of the great gouri
land of flowers that tilt the florist's para
dise—the garden.
Some men see engraving in money ;
some pictures ; sonic rare copies of old
books ; some curious missals. Others,
when you say money, think of fruit trees,
of shrubbery, of aboretuins, and pluctutus,
and_fraticetutns. And we have reason to
believe that there are some poor wretches
who, not content with one insanity, see
pretty much all things by turn's.
But there are nobler sights than these
to be seen, through the.
, golden lens of
wealth ; father.aud mother placed in
comfort in old age ; a young man helped
through college or established in business;
a friend extricated from ruin a poor wo
man saved from beggary, and made a sup
pliant before God for -mercies on your
head, every day that she lives.; the sick
unfortunate succored, the orphan educat
ed the school founded, the village lined
rx 3 aK
with shade trees, a free library establish
ed, and a thousand such things. A man
is not known by how mush he has, but by
what that money is worth to him. If it
is worth only selfishness, meanness, stingi
ness, vanity, and haughty state, a man is
not rich if he own a million of dollars.
If it means generosity, public spirit, social
comfort and refinement, then he is rich
on a few hundred. You put your hand on
a man's heart to find out how much he is
worth, not into his pocket.
"While there's life there's hope,' is an
old adage ; therefore, never despair.—
The prospect may be gloomy, the sky
clouded, the face of fortune averted, yet
never despair. The worst circumstances
have been surmounted, the greatest per
il passed by enduring energy and faith—
faith in the future, that there must or
might come a brighter turn of destiny's
wheel. It is always darkest just before,
day-dawn; there is never a thunderbolt
or tempost but the atmosphere is made
purer thereby. So with our lives; over
clouded and stormy they may be, but it is
either of our calling and for our dis
persement, or it is the work of a provi-
deuce wiser than we, as we shall see, if'
we sonly buffet the gale out. Despair is
an impulse; it is a token of our superi
ority to the brutes that perish that listen
to rcason, and reason, connects life, in all
its moods, with duty. I)uty calls us to
struggle and to submit—to submit to the
order of Providence, and yet struHe to
achieve the highest thought that is in us.
Life is given us, not to be cut short or
laid down at our pleasures. Virtue is
born of &dug and forbearing, and hero
ism oftenest achieves 'through StlGning
Heroes were cheap if' victory were
foreordained and never failing ; but our
human record marks him the greatest he
-I.o—who—could- t urn—defeat to- v ictory
Fabius conquered by retreating—Wash-
ington was not discontented because he
could nut always "forward march." A
less wise and heroic man would. have
halted where he advanced, flillen back
where he stood arm, and despaired where
he gathered fresh Imp°. In whatever
strait, let us do-whatever manhood and
duty did, and we shall conquer; CV . 'll
though we Lawn - nice felt the true
inspiration when he Sent forth his death.
cry, "Don't give up the day !"
PICTURES.-A room with pictures in
it and a room without pictures, differ a
bout as much as a room with windows and
a room without windows Nothing is
more melancholy, particularly to person
who has to pass much time in his room,
than bleak walls and nothin! -, on thee',
for pictures are loop holes for escape fur
the soul, leading to other scenes and to
other-sphares. ,- such. a inex pre,ssi
ble relief to a person eng.ged in writing
or even reading, on looking up, not to
have his lino of vision chopped off by an
odious white wall, but to find his soul es
caping, as it wore, through the frame of
an exquisite picture, to other beautiful
and perhaps heavenly scenes, when fancy
for a moment may revel, refreshed and de
lighted. Thus pictures are consolers of
loneliness , they are a relief' to a jaded
mind ; they are windows to the imprison
ed thought ; they are books, they are his
tories and sermons, which we can read
without the trouble of turning over the
leaves.
An awkward bashful man who was get
ting into a coach at Norwhich a few days
ary pushed his foot through the hoop
skirt of' a passenger. In the course of
several ingenious expedients to extricate
himself he only succeeded in putting his
other foot through the' locps of another
lady. Sinking ba..:k in seeming despair
he shouted, driver, mild ! I
thought I was getting into a stage, but I
find myself into a cooper's shop!"
KENTUCKY Setwor..—First class in
Geography come up ; Bill Toots, what is
a cape ?
'A thing that mother wears over her
shoulders.
'What's a plain ?
'A tool used by carpenters for the
smoothing of boards
'What's a desert ?
'lts goodies after dinner.
'That'll do, Bill, I'll give you the 'good
ies after school.
'You say Mr. Jay, that you saw the
plaintiff leave the house Was it in
haste ?" " Yes, sir.' Do you know
what caused the baste ?"I'm not sar.
tin, but I think it was the boot of Mr.
Stubbs, the gentlemen ho boards with ?"
"'That will do, Mr. Jay. Clerk, call the
next witness."
Plcase, mister, give nie a btindlo of.
hay ?"
Yes, my. son. Sixpenso or shilling
bundle ?'
Shilling.'
' Is it fur your father ??,,
No, guess 'taint—it's for the hoss, my
father don't eat hay
' I wish you would not smoke cigars !'
said a plump little black eyed girl to her
lover.
' Why not I smoke as well as your chim
ney?'
Because chimneys don't smoke when
hey are in good order.'
-lie has quit smoking.
A gentleman riding through Syden.
ham saw a board with "This Cottage for
Sail" painted on it. As he was akvays
ready for a pleasant joke, and seeing. ti
woman in front of the house, he stopped
and asked her very politely, "when, : hlie
cottage was to sail ?" "Just as se,o'it as
the man comes who can raise the wind,"
was the quiet reply.
NO. 43.
Never Despair
~Nfxts.
It is not half the trouble to learn in
youth that it is to be ignorant In old age.
We , sbould never go in debt for a
purse.
Kindness is a language that even the
dumb brutes can understand.
There is no harm in being wealthy prod
vidod we come by it honestly ?
Hope is a pleasing acquaintance but a
very poor financier.
Printers should have the right to print
a kiss but not to publish it.
When the danger is over we generally
forget both God and the doctor.
The quickest way to make a fortune in
this age is to fail in business.
A change of heart now-a-daygiibrought
about by the change in the pocket.
Lust is a precipice over which thous
ands aro virtually rushing to destruction.
How we printers lie, as our devil said
when he got up too late for breakfast.
Ycu're a queer chicken I as the hen
said when she hatched out a duck.
Where did Noah strike the first nail in
the ark ? On the head.
nr.ll,l)eath and the sun have this in
connaun—few gaze at them steadily.
tr - 7-.Cetistire, is the tax a man pays to
the public for being eminent.
Never marry a woman for her beauty,
as she will be sure to think more of it
than you.
Some professors of religion thirst more
after the spirit of rye than after the spirit
of grace,
The frreateAt number of our most tried
friends are these who haveed and
found guilty.
People should keep their marriage eer
ificates in their casket and not on their
CyCbrOWS
We should never regret being homely,
as beautiful persons are generally the most
worthless.
We should always put the handsomest
face on everything without to the ugliness
of our own.
There is a great ;lea] of dying for love
now-a-days, but it iy generally in the
When the dearth of adversity comes up
on-our-friend6,--our-clurritieszerrerallyllry
up.
We are the only things that can fly
without wings, as the most of us can fly
into a passion.
If we would have glorious dreams when
we are asleep we must act gloriously when
we are awake
The vanity of human life is like a
river, constantly passing away, and yet
,:mnstantly coming on.
excel in anything valuable is
great, but to be above conceit on account
of one's accomplishments is greater.
itt — T•When men are together they
lis
en to one another; but women and girls
ook at one another.
ar4.lroung ladies should certainly by
subject to the conscription—because thee
are accustomed to " bure arms."
--The—proud and - - haughty --- can --- never
have friends. In prosperity they are a
bove everybody; in adversity everybody
is above them.
Fluttery if not cunningly used will,
like the flail, be almost sure to thrash
your own head instead of that of the
MEI
There is always more pleasure in giv
ing than receiving, especially with the
doctors if they should happen to take
their own medicine.
If th(,se persons who are always in
search of news would only read the bible
they would find the very latest new to
them.
SUM FOR TuE Boys.—lf a newspaper
editor " stop the press to announce,"
what would he do to a pound ?
TIM HEIGHT OF YANK.—When the
Germans got scared at Chancellorsville,
they fled and left. their Sliurtz on the
Geld.
Some rascal proposes that' ladies who
clamor for their rights, should be mado
odo military duty. 'They wish to en
ist and become their " companions in
ME
Soldiers must be fearfully dishonest,'
says Mrs. Partingten„ " as it seems to be
an occurrence every night fur a sentry to
be relieved of his watch."
An inscription on a tombstone at the
La Point, Lake superior, read as follows :
"John Phillips accidentally shot as a
mark of affection by his brother."
" Madam, a good many persons Were
disturbed at the concert last night by the
crying of yoir baby. Well, Ido wonder
that such people will go to concerts ?"
iii:,Frenehtnan, wishing to say of a
young lady that she was as gentle as a
iamb, thus expressed himself, " She be
mooch tame, like. the petite mouton."
A chap down in COnnecticut, after the
conscription act, got married to evade the
draft. fie now says, if ho can get a di- -
vorce he will enlist, as,9f he must fight,
ho would rather do so for his country.
Coleridge, the poet and philosopher,
once arrived at an inn, called out, "Wait
er, do you dine here collectively or Indi
vidually ?" "Sir, replied the knight of
the napkin, we dines at six."
A yankee poet describes the excess de
votion to his true !ove :
I sing her Minis° In poetry ;
for her at morn and , eve
I cries whole pints of bitter tears,
And wipes them with my sleeve
Hear the outpourings of an honest
ivart in regret for the dilapidated condi
ion of his unmentionables :
Farewell, farewell old trounaloons,
Long time we've stuck together—
Variety of cranes gone through,
And braved all sorts of weather.
It is very perplexing to a church mem
ber when ho lifts his hat to make a fine
bow to a sister across the street to have a
pack of greasy cards rain down over his
face to th 9 pavement.