VoL. VII, No. 46.]
TUBLISPIED BY
THEODORE 11, CREMER,
TaM,DIEL
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POMTP.T.
Sabbath Evening.
11 010. D. PRINTICL
How calmly sinks the parting sun!
Yet twilight lingers still,
And beautiful as dreams of heaven,
It slumbers on the hill.
Barth sleeps with all her glorious things,
Beneath the Holy Spirit's wings,
And rendering back the hues above,
Seems resting in a trance of love.
Round yonder rock the forest trees,
In shadowy groups recline,
Like nuns at evening bowed in prayer,
Around the holy shrine.
And through their leaves the night winds
blow,
So calm and still—their music low.
Seems the mysterious voice of prayer,
butt echoed on the cvening.air.
And yonder western throng °Calends,
Retiiiiiir the sky,
So cal ye, as softly glow,
They seem to fancy's eye,
Bright creatures of a better sphere
Come down at noon to worship here,
And from their sacrifice of love,
Returning to their homes above.
The blue isles of the golden sea,
The night arch floating high,
The flowees that gaze upon the heavens,
The bi ight streams leaping by,
Are living with religion—deep
On earth and sea its glut ies sleep,
And mingle with the star-light rays,
Like the soft light of parted days.
The spirit of the holy eve
- - .
Comes through the silent air.
To feeling's hidden spring, and rashes
A. gush of music there.
And the fair depths of ether beam
So passing fair, we almost dream
That we can rise and wander through
The open'paths of trackless blue.
Each soul is filed with gloriousdteams,
Each pulse is beating wild.
And thought is soaring to the shrins
Of glory undeftletl•
And holy aspirations start
Like blessed angels front the heart,
And bind—for earth's dark ties are riven.—
Our spirits to the gates of Heaven.
The Farmer 74 Song.
I envy not the mighty king
Upon his splendid throne,
Nor claim his glittering diadem,'
Nor wish his power my own—
For though his wealth and power be great,
Aud around him thousands bow
With reverence in in low estate,
More solid pea
I envy not the mis
May 01 his treasures o'er,
May limps•kßaps around him set,
And t(4l' h for more—
I'd scorn life ow, sordid soul,
Rapacious and unjust—
Nor bow beneath the base control
Of empty, &elided dust.•
Let warriors mount Lime's giddy neigh t
Gain glory's gallant meed-.-
Be calm, collected in the fight,
While thousands round them bleed—
I envy not their victor wreath,
1 heir prowess or their fame;
Their glory is an empty breath,
Their triumph but a name.
My wants arc few and well supplied
Brmy productive fields ;
"'court no luxury beside,
Save what contentment yields.
'More real pleasure labor gives,
Than wealth or fame can being—
And he is happier far who lives
A farmer, than a k:sig.
T 1
111EJ0MLL.6.17110170.
The Judge and the Criminal.
During the period when Henry Black
mitre was a briefless barrister, he became
acquainted with Emily Benson : her fa
ther had been an opulent city merchant,
but in one of the vicissitudes of fortune,
to which persons of that profession are
lamentably subject, he sustained so severe
a loss as to compel him to retire, and live
upon the interest of the small sum of
money he had been provident enough to
accumulate during the days of his pros
perity. With this reduced income he
quitted London, and the circle of which
he had formed a part, and retired to Clems
ford in Essex, with his wife and only
child, a daughter now seventeen years of
age. In the eitication of Emily Benson
neither pains or expense had been spared.
Gifted with the great beauty and natural
talents, discrimination and judgment, as
far as the latter qualities are compatible
with "sweet seventeen," she had grown
up lovely in mind and person, and the
darling of her parents, she amply repaid
them for their anxious and well-directed
efforts for her improvement. But there
was one species of knowledge •vhich End
ly lacked, namely, the knowledge of man
kind. Her father had been snatchM a
way ere she had completed her sixteenth
year, who would have been the guide of
her intercourse with the world, who would
have taught her that trite but veracious
adage, .. truth lies in a Tell," who would
have warned her of the little faith we
must permit ourselves to put in appear.
once ; of how often we are deceived
where we have most confided—that friend
land natural adviser was departed, and
Emily left to the sole guardianship of her
(loafing mother, one little more versed
than herself in the science that was' want
ing to her accomplishment. Henry Black
inure possessed the talent to render him
self a favorite with all clases ; with the
melancholy, he was quite calm and kind ;
the gay immediately ihoeulated him with
vivacity; he had acquirements and in
formation sufficient for the society of phil
osphers and blues, and with the moral and
religious he could show a grave face and
i patient bearing . It is not then to be won-
Here(' at, that, with all these agreeable
qualities, and the reputation of being the
most honorable and high minded or men,
he should have been welcome to every
society and in every sphere ; nor was it
other than the most natural thine. * in the
world, that Emily, the simple, the gay,
the unsuspicious, should be forcibly at
tracted by one so superior to all those with
whom she had hitherto been intimate; ex
cellent city gentlemen, full of worth and
honesty, but whose sterling qualities were
not set off by the charms of refinement,
or by that polish, which is not always to
be found even in the highest class of so
ciety, rarely if ever, falls to the share of
any other. The youiwand simple Emily,
won by the arts of Blirckmore, in an evil
hour gave hint her hand and heart, and
little didshe dream then that the husband
it
•t her choice, whose co versafton had
such charms for her, wit opinions on all
essential subjects app dto coincide
with her own, to whose infinitely superior
judgment she looked up to with awe, and
reverence, was, nevertheless, a consutn
mate despiser of that sex, for which in his
manners he showed so much respect, and
in whose society he appeared to find so
much enjoyment, a gambler, a spendthrift,
I and a libertine.
A few short months sufficed to dissipate
her illusions, and all hopes of happiness;
and in a few short weeks, after giving
birth to a lively little boy, she expired—
a victim to brutality and ill-usage. For
a short period Blaekmore appeared to
regret his wife's death, and became a moo
dy and altered roan; his sole delight see
med to be in the society of a child on
whom he dilated, and every moment that
he could spare from the occupations of his
fast increastok profession was devoted to
his boy.
• It was evening, and Henry Blackmore
had but just concluded, his dinner and was
seated in the dining-room, with his dar
ling son upon his knee, now aboneli?our
years old, when a servant announced a
stranger.
him up," said Blackmore, and a
man of peculiar appearance entered the
room—he was enveloped in a short thread-
bare cloak, trimmed with tarnished point
lace, his closer garments were thus con•
cealed, but from underneath ;Ip/ware,' the I
end of his long sheathed rapier. II was
a man above the middle height, strong
built, and powerfully muscular, as far as
his outward habiliments enabled one to
judge, for his person was much hid by the
cloak he wore ; his skin was fair, his eyes
grey and prominent, in which any one
could plainly detect roguery and mischief.
arid these were set off by a profusion of
long, lank, sandy hair ; for the rest
he was squalid and dirty, and one would
have supposed from the lest:toms of his
"ONE COUNTRY,
HUNTINGDON, PENNSY
cheek, that a series of good meals had
long been foreign to his lips,
The servant lingered in the room as the
stranger was ushered in, perhaps from cu
riosity.
" 1 have some communications to
make," said the latter, " which do not ad
mit of witnesses."
The servant was ordered to withdraw
and take the child with hire, which he (lid,
and the boy screamed as the rough intru
der eyed him steadfastly.
" 1 perceive," said he, " that you have
forgotten me, Henry Blackmore."
filackmore started back, tin• he how re
cognized a companion of his earlier years
a sharer in adventures which the am
bitious lawyer would have wished con
cealed fur ever.
" What Villiers ?" exclaimed he, I
thought you died in Cuba."
" You see that lam alive and kick
ing,' as we used to say : but to the point,"
resumed Villiers, 1 am a desperate man,
and must have money."
" You get none from me, my friend,"
replied Blackmore.
" Yes I shall," calmly continued
tiers.
" Explain how then, for 1 must find it,"
said Blacktnore.
" The Bull-dogs of the law are after
tne," rejoined Villiers and 1 must have
the means to escape them, or some little
circumstance may be revealed on my ex
amination which may nut be pleasant to
my old friend 13Iackmore, who is now 1
understand, a t INing man."
Now Henry Blackmore was a man of
undoubted couruge, and he ut once took
his course, determined that he would risk
the malice of his old companion, rather
than become his slave. He calmly arose
from his chair, rung the bell, and his
servant entered.
"Show this man the door," said he
"and never again admit him: away, fel•
low, I do not know you," cried he, turn
ing fiercely to Villiers: " dare again to
darken my doors,and you visit another
residence from which your escape may
not be so easy —begone." Villiers stood
for a moment irresolute, placed his hand
to his sword, appeared suddenly to recol
lect himself; and walked to the tloor ; he
turned on going the threshold, and shook
his clenched hand at B ackmore :
Look out for my revengi.," he said,
for by the sky above us, you shall not es•
cape it ;" and he rushed hastily into the
street ?
Blackmore, although not exactly disre
garding his threat, paid but little atten
tion to it, but prepared himself to frustrate
any attempt at annoyance. On his re
turn home to dinner on the following day
he found, however, he had tearful cause
to remember the threat of Villiers, for his
child had beer. snatched from its nurse's
arms at his very dour, and the rubber, al
though pursued - by the, servants, had es•
caped by the assistance of two accompli
ces, who had offered a desperate resist
ance to their eahrts. Large rewards were
offered, every search and enquiry made;
4t
bu Jays, weeks, and months passed sway,
uni et came no tidings of the lost one.
Villiers had fulfilled his thrett no
d remained, and Henry Blackm re at
length abandoned all hope of recoming
his child. i
i k
Twenty years from the period in !rich
the child of Blackmore had been c vied
off, the bereaved father—not the tern
and implacable judge, whom all cri fi nals
feared, and the terror of whose dar eye
had made the most hardened quail fore
him, was seated on the judgment se I
the Old Bally. The criminal was a y
man of interesting appearance, the et
against him was u — ne . tif rubbery but
tended, with any circumstance of atr
or cruelty, the evidence was clear
decisive, and the jury without witted
ing pronounced their teat ful ver
"guilty" A slight tremor passed
the lips of the criminal as the deep
of Blu . ckmore pronounced his domil,
no hope of mercy. The ermined
retired to his dinner and the criminti
his dungeon.
It was past ten o'clock at night, s
time after the session had terminated,l
judge Blackinore sat alone in his gori
room—age had but marked his lei
with the deep lines of thought —his
was still coal black, and his eye brig
in boyhood—but yet his heart was
erect, and honors failed to give corn
Ile had none to I
its tlesulatittii.
his vsst wealth, his child, the bright
whom he had so loudly cherished,
lost to him forever, andambition, h'
ling passion, shed no solace upon his
with no one to leave with his name u
stood high in the praise of all, his de,
he feared, as unpropitious as in
youth, and the sins of his boyhood se
to rise up in judgment upon his age.
" A stranger, my lord," said an
domestic, who entered hastily," wlt
he entreats a moment's inte r view
Let him enter," said Blackmore
of late, although stern to all appan
his heart had softened, and his hear]
~.- . - 77 ' 17--;7•''
, , • i" ~
• l'' i .
og.
..,...,
ONE CONSTITUTION, ONE DESTINY." '
.. .
VANIA, WEDNESDAY,•AVE3I.4 ' 0,
open to all supplication of mercy. The
door opened, and the dark outline of a
man muffled in a cloak, might be discern
ed at the entrance. Come in," said Black.
more," and what would you with me at
this hour?" The stranger advanced, re
moved his hat, and his long grey locks
fell to the ground, and revealed the form
of the long lost and dreaded Villiers.
"Villiers 7" excliamed Sir Henry Black
more," where is my sun—my child you
stole from me 7"
" I bring you tidings of him," said Vil
liers, "he has run hi 6 course, and one as
that of his father; he has roamed the
wide sea, and gained a name upon land ;
he thanks you by me for the boon you be
stowed upon him."
What mean you, man or fiend 7" cried
Blackinure. " and what boon could I
bestow upon one I have nut seen these
twenty years."
You have seen him at last," rejoined
Villiers, " he stoma before you in the dock
of Newgate, the last of your victims—
your returned son—and the boon of his
father was death 1"
Blackinot e s!ac•_t.ered back, and for an
instant appeared fainting. " Hear me,"
continued Villiers, " for he must yet be
saved—you have interest--I stole him fir•
revenge, but I would save him with my
best blood—l knew not of his fate until
this moment—he dies at eight to-morrow
—fly to the king, he is at Windsor; fleet
horses with bear you there, and you have
power to procure his pardon. Igo to him,
you will hind me at his side at the last
hour,"—so saying, he left the apartment,
and in a few minutes, J udge Blackmore
was on the road to NVindsor.
It was night, and the criminal sat alone
in his dungeon; a faint and dim light
stole through the high.grated window.—
It was the last night he was to pass on
earth, to-morrow was to sever him forever
1 from its ties—the bright sun was to shine
ion him no more—the green earth no more
Ito bless him with its beauty. His life had
been wild and stormy, but still it had its
joys; and the hour of parting was bitter—
all too had left him to its loneliness, and
no one came to cheer the condemned and
lost one. At this instant the bolts of the
door wet th,!ran Viniers enter
ed the cell accompanied by the jailer.—
My father!" exclaimed the criminal,
"you are come at last."
I am Come, I trust, to save you, my
boy," replied Villiers, "arid to restore
yob to one who has a better claim to that
title. Twenty years ago, in his pride and
power he wronged me-1 swore to have
revenge—l kept my word—but he has
power and may yet save you•—should rl
not be so, have you the courage to ineet
your late with fortitude!"
" I have," replied the young man, " for
life has now no charm for me, yet tell me,
who, and what my lather is." • With a'
calm tone, Villiers now recapitulated
some passages of his early Re, he spoke
of Blackmore as the companion of scenesi
of violence and guilt, and recapitulated
the particulars of the interview which had
led to the abduction of his son; and with
horror the young criminal discovered that
in the stern judge he had heard for the
first time, to his knowledge, the deep
voice of his father.
Will he succeed," said he, in ob
taining my pardon? oh! I feel life is
sweet."
4. Fear not his power and interest,"
replied Villiers, " I will be by your side
in the morning, and may yet hope to re
'deem my errors by being at least the
means of restoring a child to its father;
now sleep, for you will need rest, and
sleep in full confidence of a reprieve and
pardon ; for the king is at this moment
interested by your parent in your bilhall;
he shook the shackled hand of the criminal
and left the dungeon; in a few moments,
despite all the uncertainty and horror of
his fate, the wretched young man was in a
deep and heavy slumber:
A loud call, and the unlocking of the
iron door, awoke the criminal from his
troubled rest.
" It is the time," said the voice of the
ordinary, thatyou must prepare for death."
1i; there no hope 1" said he. " None
that 1 ant aware of," replied the clergy
man, and he endeavored to prepare him
for the worst. At this moment the prop
er officer arrived, and the sad procession
passed through the long gloomy passage
into the press yard ; here his irons were
knocked off, and placed in the fatal cart,
guarded on all sides; the dismal array
moved towards Tyburn. On arriving at
the place of doom, the wretched prisoner
caught the eye of Villiers--" fear noth
ing," said he, " it will yet arrive in time."
The clergyman now unclosed his book,
and engaged the criminal in prayer.
" On, for your life," cried the deep
voico of Blackmore, thrusting his head
from the window of a carriage, now rapid
ly approaching London, and as fast as
tour prancing horses could gallop. They
are now mingled with the crowd which
told of some excitement in the vicinity,--
a dense mass now impede their progress—
lung
rge
int
ily
nd
, r „, : .
. at
.;,,,,:
1842.
" make way," cried the furious and mad
dened father —" I bring life to the crimi
nal:" All made a passage for the car
riage, which now dashed up to the very
scaltold, whilst the cry of a " reprieve—a
reprieve," rent the air. At that moment,
a loud shout, mingled with the cry of
pardon, which had arrived too late. for as
Judge Blackmore leaped limn the carriage,
he perceived the dark form of his son
swinging in the morning breeze above him.
The body was instantly cut down, but
life was extinct.
" My son!" cried the hapless father,
losing all consideration for tame, as he
fell upon the pale corps of his long lost
child--the blood gushed from his nostrils
and his mouth—he had burst a blood ves
sel, and thus . met and parted, the lather
and son---ThE JUDGE AND THE CRIMINAL.
The Hole in nay rocket.
AY JAMES H. PERKINS
It is now about a year since my wile
said to inc one day, " pray Mr. Slackwa
ter, have you that half dollar about you
that I gave you this morning ?" I felt in
my waistcoat pocket, and turned my purse
inside out, but all was space—which is
very diffirent from specie; so I said to
Mrs. Slackwater, " I've lost it my dear ;
positively there must be a hole in my pock
et!" " 11l sew it up," said she.
An hour or two after, I met Two Steb
bins. " How did that ice-cream set?" said
Toni. "It set," said I, " like the sun--
gloriously." And just as he spoke, it
flashed upon me that my missing half dol
lar had paid for the ice-creams; however
I held my peace, for Mrs. Slackwater
sometimes makes retnat ks; and even when
she assured me at breakfast next morning
that there was no hole in my pocket, what
could I do but lift up my brow and say,
"Alt isn't there, really ?"
Before a week had gone by, my wife,
who like a dutiful helpmate as she is, als
ways gave me her loose change to keep,
called for a twenty-five cent piece that had
been deposited in my sub-treasury fur safe
keeping; " there was a poor woman at the
door," she said, " that she had promised
it for certain." " Well wait a moment,"
I cried; so I pushed inquiries first in this
direction, then in that, and then in the oth
er—but vacancy returned a horrid groan.
" On my soul," said I, thinking it best to
show a bold front, "you must keep my
pockets in better repair, Mrs. Slackwater;
this piece, with I know not how many
more, is lust, because some corner or seam
in my plaguy pocket is left open."
" A reyou sure?" said Mrs. Slackwater.
" Sure I aye, that I am; it's gone, total
ly pile!"
- My wile dismissed her promise, and
then in her quiet way, asked melt) change
my pantaloons belore I went out; and to
bar all argument, laid another pair on my
knees.
That evening, allow me to remark, gen
tleman of the species husband,' I was
I very loth to go home to tea ; I had half a
mind to bore some bachelor friend ; and
when hunger and habit, in their unassum
ing manner, on each side, walked up to
my own door, the touch of the brass knob
made my blood run cold. But do not
think that Mrs. Slackwater is a tartar, my
good friends, because I thus shrink from
home. The fact was that I had, while
abroad, called to mind the fate of her
twenty-live cent piece, which I had inves
ted in smoke—that is to say cigars; and I
feared to think on her comments on my
pantaloons pocket.
Thus things went on for some months;
we were poor to begin with, and grew
poorer, or at any rate no richer fast.—
Times grew •woise and worse ; my pock
ets looked worse; even my pocket book
was no longer to be trusted—the rug,
slipped front it in a manner almost incred
ible to relate. As an Irish sung says :
And such was the fate of poor Paddy
O'Moore.
As his purse had the more rents he had the
fewer."
At length, one day my wife carne in
with u subscription paper for the Orphan
Asylum. I looked at It and sighed, and
picked my teeth, and shook my head, and
handed it back to her.
" Ned Bowen," she said " has pot
down ten dollars."
The more shame to him," I replied
" he can't aft'ord it; he can just scrape
along any how, and in these times it aint
right for him to do it."
711 y wife smiled in her sad way, and
took the paper to him that brought it.
The next evening she asked me if 1
could go with her to see the Howells, and
as I had no objection, we started.
I knew that Ned Bowen did a small
business that would give him about $6OO a
year, and I thought it would be worth
while to see what that sum would do in
the way of house-keep;ne. We were ad
mitted by Ned, and welcomed by Ned's
wife, a very neat little body, of whom
Mrs. Slack water had told me a great deal,
[VVItor.E No. 358.
as they had been school-mates. All was
as nice as wax, and yet as substantial as
iron; comfort was written all over the
room. The evening passed somehow or
other, though we had no refreshments—
an article which we never have at home,
but always want when elsewhere—and I
returned to our own establishment with
mingled pleasure and chagrin.
" What a pity," said I to my wife,
" that Bowen don't keep within his in,
come."
" Ile does," she replied.
" But how can he, on six hundred dol
lars?" WB3 my answer, " if he gives ten
dollars to the charity and five dollars to
that, and lives so snug and comfortable
too?"
Shall I tell you T" asked Mrs. Slack
water.
" Certainly it you can."
"His wife," said my wife, " finds it
just as easy toga without twenty or thirty
dollars worth of ribbonds and laces as to
buy them. They have no fruit but what
they raise and have given them by court . •
try friends, whom they repay by a thou
sand little acts of kindness, They use
no beer, which is not essential to health,
as is not to yours ; and then heihuys no ci
gars, or ice cream. or apples at one hun
dred per cent on market price, or oran
ges at twelve cents a piece, or candy, or
new novels, or rare works that are still
inure rarely used; in short, my dear Mr.
Slackwa ter, he has no hole in his pocket.
It was the first word of suspicion my
wife had uttered on the subject ; and it
cut me to the quick. Cut me ? 1 should
rather say it sewed me up--me and my
'pockets too; they have never been in
holes since that evening!
POLLY P/LABLOSSOX'S EDDINC—UII
- this title the Georgia " Family Com
panion" relates a story which has by this
time caused the loss of several " buttons,"
It is too long for our paper, but we give
the closing scene. The Justice of the
Peace called to marry the parties, was
long on his way- —got lost—stalled, and
what not, and was so taken up after he
arrived. in relating his impediments, that
he forgot the marriage ceremony as pre
scribed by the church.
Be thought over every thing he had
ever learned by heart, even
Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November,"
but all in vain—he could recollect not
ing that suited such an occasion. A s:;•.-
pressed titter all Over the room admorik:
ed him that he must proceed with aam,
thing, and in au agony of desperation h..
began ;
" Known all men by these presents,
that I' here he paused and looked up to
the ceiling, while an audible voice in a
corner of the room was heard to say,
"He's drawinot a deed fora tract °Liam',"
and they all laughed.
' "In the name of God, Amen;"—he be
gan a second time, only to hear a vice in
a toed whisper say, " He's making his
will now ; I thought he couldn't live long,
he looks so powerful bad."
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lorct"--.
was the next essay, when some erudiate
gentleman remarked, " He's not dead but
sleepeth."
0 yes! 0 yes!'continued the squire.
But the squire was an indelatigiihle
man, and kept trying. His next effort
WAS--
To all nod singular the slier"-
Let'd run ! lie's going to levy on us,"
said two or three at once.
Here a gleam cl light flashed across
the face of squire Tompkins. That dig
nity looked around at once, with self sat
isfaction, and in a grave and dignified
manner said, "Mr. Hodgkins, hold up
your right hand. George Washington
obeyed, and held up hi; hand. " Miss
Polly, hold up yours." Polly, in her can•
fusion, held up her left hand. " The o
ther hand Miss Peablossom." And the
squire proceeded in a loud and composed
limner, to qualify them.
You, and each of you, da solemnly
swear, in the presence of Almighty God.
and the present company, that you will
perform all and singular the functioal- of
a husLand or wife, as the case may be, to
the best of your knowledge and ability,
so help your God!"
doo'd as wheat„' said Capt. Peablos
sum. " Polly, my gal, come kiss your fa
ther, I never felt so happy since the day I
was discharged from the army, and set
out fur home to see your mother."
SIIOILT.—A lady ni .ile a complaint
Erederick the Great, King of Prussia.
" Your maje•ity." said she, " my h.s.
band treats me badly."
"That is none of my business."
" But he speaks very ill of p.u."
" That is none of your busin 'as."
Six Ghosts and four Devils are adverti
sed for sale in a German paper. Thayer*
part of the properties of a Theatre.