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NTIN 'DON JOI
netiottti to General *ittelltgrucc, abiwirtNifita, 7ifttraturr, I.lsloratitv, arto, afiriculture, ali7itc:Cll4 t, ttif., SZC.
THEODORE H. CREMER.
The ' , Joon:TAO will be published every Wed-
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and if not paid within six months, $2 50.
No subscription received for a shorter period than
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Advertisements not exceeding one square, will be
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ed, it will be kept in till ordered out, and charged ac
W. 11. M 014111.. R. M. KIIIKBRIDE
WILLIAM H, MORRIS& CO,
HAVRE DE GRACE. MARYLAND
itvr , A.VING taken the large and commodi
4AL ous Wharf and Warehouse situated di
rectly on the Canal Basin, are now prepared
to receive consignments of goods to tran
shipment or sale.
A general assortment of Groceries, &c., consisting of Loaf and Brown Sugars, Coff e e,
Molasaes, Sp lin Oil and Candles. White,
Yellow and Brown Soaps, Fish, Salt, Plaster,
&c., together with all kinds of Spices and
Paints—and also ready made Clothing will
be kept constantly on hand nod disposed of
on city terms or exchanged for country pro
duce, Coal, &c.
April 19 1843.-3 m.
THE GIRARD LIFE INSURANCE,
tat. 0 0 42
05ee No. 159 Chesnut Street.
Make insurances of lives, grant anninuities
and Endowments, and receive and execute
Rates for insuring SICO, on a single life.
Age. For 1 year. Fur 7 years. For life.
$0 95 $1 77
1 36 2 36
1 83 3 20
2 09 4 60
20 $0 91
50 1 96
60 4 35
EXAMPLE :—A perfinn aged 30 years, by
paying the companysl 31 would necuta,
lus family ur no, ,sepaV, akjir,gl .11..N.AC tliIU
vear—or for *l3 10 he secures to them $:000
Or for $l3 60 annually for 7 years, he se
cures to them $lOOO should he die during
the 7 years—or tar $23 60 paid annually du
ring life he provides for them 1000 dollars
whenever he dies— for 665 50 they would re
ceive 5000 dollars, should he die in one year.
Further particuiars respecting Life Insur
ance, 'l'rnsts, or management of Estates and
property confided to them, may be had at
B W. RICHARDS. President.
INC. F. JAMES, Actuary.
PhWa. April 19, 1843. —6m.
DAY, GERRISH CO,
Commission and Forwardin g
tflere4 an ts.
Granite Stores,l , iwer side of Race sired,
on the Delaware, Philadelphia.
TF4ESPECTFULLY inform their friends
.1.114 and the merchants generally, that they
have taken the large Wharf and Granite
Front Stores, kn , ,wn as Ridgeway's Stores,
immediately below Race street, to addition
to their old wharf, where they will con
tinue the prodnce commission business, as
also to receive and forward goods mall points
on the Juniata, and North and West branches
of the Susgetehanna Rivers. via. the Tide
Water, rind Pennsylvania, and Schuylkill and
This establishment has many advantages
over any other in the city in point of room
and convenience for the accommodation of
boats and produce. Being one of the largest
wharves on the Dciffivare, and the stores
extending from Water street to Delaware
Front. Five or six boats may at the same
tim; be loading and discharging. The usual
facilities will be given on all consignments
entrusted to their charge, which will be thank
fully received and meet with prompt atten
tion. Salt, Fish and Plaster, constantly on
hand and for sale at the lowest market price.
J. Ridgway,Esq. J Brock, son &Co
Jacob Lex & Son Waterman &Osbourn
Mulford & Alter Scull & Thompson
Wilson. Seiger & Bro E J Elting & Bre
Bray, Barcroft & C n Morris, Patterson & co
Lower & Barrow.
& I Milliken A & G Blimyer
Patterson & Horner J McCoy, Et.q.
Stewart & Harrell E\V Wike, Esq.
February 8,1843.-6 m.
BOOTS AND SHOES.
Leghorn and Straw Bonnets
PALMLEAF AND LEGUORN HATS.
Merchants and others from Huntingdon
and adjacent places, are respectfully reques
ted to call and examine the stock of the above
kinds of g , aids, which is full and extensive.
and which will •be sold at prices that will
give satisfaction to purchasers, at No. 168
Market, street southeast corner of sth street,
GEO. W. & LF.W IS B. TAYLOR.
Pila. Feb. 6, 1843.-6mn.
RUNK DEEDS, of an improved
form, for sale at this office.
.91to BLANK PETITIONS FOR
LALIW'VcCPUS;3%2I3.Y2DCIDW D .4Q-UtCDS.WEZ3-0. 511813 9 41E1340023.
From the Philadelphia Saturday Courier.
TO A COQUETTE.
Ay ! thou art false!—as false as fair,
As yonder charming April sky;
Alas! that ono with charms so rare,
Should seek alone to please the eye;
Like the deceitful fruits that grow
Around the Dead Sea's arid waste;
Which to the sight are fair as thou,
But dust and ashes to the taste!
I deemed thee once all love and truth—
I thought thee good beyond compare ;
Alas ! 'twas but a dream of youth,
As fleeting as 'twas bright and fair.
Fool that I was !—I might have known
That truth is not in woman kind;
Nor had I looked for it alone
From thee, had love not made me blind!
I loved thee as but few have loved—
Thy truth how fondly I believed ;
Thy guile how bitterly have proved—
I trusted, loved, and am deceived.
But go! I seek not to upbraid,
I would not have thee love me now;
For surely never yet was maid
So fair—so loved—so false as thou!
Then go! and spread out all thy wiles,
And other captives seek to snare ;
Go lavish those deceitful smiles,
Fair as thyself, and false as fair!
Ay, go ! and to another breathe,
The vows once fondly breathed to me;
And bid him o'er thy forehead wreathe
The chaplet I had twined for thee !
And, if thou mayst, be happy still,
And, if thou caner, my love forget?
Yet every pulse of mine shall thrill
With untold blessings on thee yet;
And still, whate'er may be my fate,
And whatsoe'r thy lot may be,
I'll pray thou nc'er may'st need regret
His loss, who would have died for thee !
Each leaflet is a tiny scroll
Inscribed with holy truth,
A lesson that around the heart
Should keep the dew of youth ;
Bright missals from angelic throngs
In every by-way left,
How were the earth of glory shorn
Were it of flowers bereft.
1 11C) .ALL ntpuit,
The fissured rock they press,
The desert wild, with heat and sand,
Shares too their blessedness;
And wheresoe'er the weary heart
Turns in its dim despair,
Tho meek eyed blossom upward looks,
Inviting it to prayer!
Foreign Correspondence of the N. Y. Tribune.
The Beauty of Naples---Visit to
NAPLES, MAr, 1843.
The Neapolitan maxim " See Naples and then
die," is not so egotistical. The man who dies with
out seeing it, that is in one of its most favorable as
pects loses no ordinary pleasure. Thero is a com
bination of scenery here to ho found no where else
—particular portions of it may be seen in every
country. But here is a beautiful hay, islands, ci
ties, villages, palaces, vineyards, plants, mountains
and volcanoes gathered into ono "coup d'reil."—
There is the grandeur of the past and the beauty of
the present; ruined temples, and perfect ones; liv.
ing cities and buried ones, and over them all a sky
' that would make any country lovely, however rugged.
Day before yesterday I rode out to Pompeii. At 8
o'clock I landed from the steamboat--at 10 I was
on my way from the city of the dead. It lies Id
miles distant, and in the clear air and new objects
that surrounded me, I forgot the object that had
hurried me away. Now an old looking vehicle
would pass us; whose shape we could hardly make
out, from the number of ragged, dirty beings that
covered it—standing, sitting, lying, and indeed piled
up in every direction, so as to occupy the least pos
sible space. I counted on several of these two
wheeled one horsed vehicles, ten persons. There
would sit a row of miserable looking women outside
their houses all engaged in the same occupation.—
Often a little urchin would be sitting on the ground
with his head between the knees of a woman, who
was busy with his head, while behind her stood a
third performing the same kind of service and all
forming a group both ludicrous and revolting. In
another direction would stand a man in the streets
with a plate in one hand while from the other lifted
over his head, which was thrown back to a horizon
tal position, hung in tempting profusion longstrings
of maccarroni, which disappeared around his neck
like young snakes in the throat of their mother. A
little girl would pass along leading a pig by a taring
which gamboled around her like a playful dog.—
Thus we passed along through poetic Torre del Gre
co and the ancient Oplonti, and then emerged into
the open country, where the piled up lava and tho
barren hill sides reminded us that we were approach
ing a scene of volcanic fury. Yet here and there
were green patches from which the bean sent forth
its fragrance, contrasting strangely with the lava '
walls that enclosed them.
We at length reached the gate of Vie ancient city,
whore we left our carriages, and commenced the
strangest city promenade I ever made. We first
entered the house of Diomed, one of the aristocrats
of the city. We descended into the damp, dark
wino cellar, where the bones of his family were
found, whither they fled for safety from the storm of
ashes and fire that overwhelmed them. There,
against the side of the wall, amid the earthen wine
jars that still stood as they did on the last day of
that wild tempest, was the outstretched arms and
the breast and the head of her who had fallen against
it in her death-agony. Nothing remained but the
bone and jewels to tell the sad story of her torture
and suffocation in that thread hour. But I cannot
go into details. They have been written over a
hundred times. There were baths, and dressing
and dining rooms, and work-shops, and wheel-worn
streets, where the living multitude had moved, and
luxuriated and toiled. We saw tombs that were
themselves entotned. We saw the room for wash
ing the dead, where the living were suddenly buried
unwashed and uncoffined ; the-shops, with the marks
of the tumblers still fresh in the smooth marble ; the
millstones that still turned to the hand in the self
same way they turned nearly two thousand years
ago. There too was the brothel and theatre and
dancing hall. The secret orifice through which the
priest sent his voice to the statue, to delude the
people into the belief that God had spoken, was now
disclosed. I walked through the house of a poet,
into his garnished sleeping apartments, forming, in
their silence, a part in a greater drains than he ever
conceived. I stood before the tavern with the rings
yet entire to which the horses were fastened, and
where the bones of a mother and her three children
were found locked in each other's arms. Temples
were overthown with their altars. The niches in I
which stood the gods were left empty, and the al
tars before them, on which smoked the sacrifice,
were silent and lonely. Columns fallen across each
other in the Courts just as that wild hurricane had
left them, pieces of the architrave blocking up the
entrances they had surmounted, told how fierce the
overthrow and shock had been. One house was
evidently that of a rich man. Mosaic floors repre
scnting battle scenes, precious stones, still imbedded
in the pavements of his corridors, long colonnades,
and all the appurtenances of luxury, attested the
unbounded wealth of the owner. But no bodies
were found in it. The rich man had fled with his
portable wealth before the storm came. We passed
through the temple of Jupiter, the court of justice,
the forum, the market-place, and emerged into the
looked back on the disentombed city, beyond on
Vesuvious. There it stood, solemn, grand and lone-
ly, sending up its steady column of smoke, a per
petual and living tombstone over the dead at its feet.
I could see the track of the lava on its wild and
fiery march for the sea, and could imagine just now
the cloud of ashes and cinders rose from the summit
and came flying toward the deserted city. Foot
after foot it piled itself in the streets, over the thresh
holds, over the windows,and so on till it reached 20
or 30 feet above the tops of the houses. I could
behold the sea where the younger Pliny came, and,
impelled by a fatal curiosity, would land, till, blinded
and suffocated, he too fell with the victims that per
From thi, we went to the amphitheatre, where
the gladiatorial shows were held. It is a magnifi
cent area of an oval form, and sufficiently capacious
to hold 15 or 20,000 spectators. There were the
dens where the lions were kept, and there the very
area in which men fought and fell. I stood at one
end and shouted, and the answering echo came
back clear and distinct as a second voice. It mhos
, 'advice every one who wishes to enjoy Italy to
cod the solitude. Some have imagined that specta- I in talk of travelling when the mind is matured,
tothersowwoefreth7enitlyb,kaandheasretlaitetyhefelttimthee o fi f rs t t lit ste o P ofer •a
It before he has ever thought of the irregulari
the mighty earthquake that heralded its doom, they Lad miseries of the world. Let him come into
clued in dismay from their seats. But this could lSeautiful clime while the imagination holds so
not be, for Pompeii did not fall by an earthquake, ae sway and life is a golden dream. He then
and the mountain, long before the eruption, gave are but its temples and arts, hear but the voice
ominous sound of the coming blow. Die relates - to past, and grow enthusiastic on a soil where
that spectres lined the summit of the mountainsty stone is a monument and every hill a history.
and unearthly shapes flitted around its tremblinatild weep when I see the havoc tyranny and ova.
sides. This was doubtless the mist boiling up fro rl make of the happiness of man. Why is it that
upper tshconfinenatier. I die, that one lazy Prince may gorgeously fur-
Pliny himself says in his epistle that we saw (nit fine palaces he enters but five times a year ?.
Misenue, 15 or 20 miles distant from Naples on thy should Lazzaroni multiply to be cursed by
other side, a cloud rising from the mountain in 4ry stranger, merely that a few lazy nobles may
shape of a pine tree, and shortly after embarkedike a whole country a beautiful villa to gallop
but he moat be a stupid
the city. The groaning mountain was reeling ! Italy abounds in lovely scenery, and is
the for f s r e c a eil o o f in n . "3 It th w at as W n il e e t a a un ti d m er e f h o e r r i:m n u d ssetrmuegitertr classicnra a Ze o Lt ia le ti s o s n o s n ' ewlio can see and feel
Terrified men, end women ran for the sea; thatithing else. As I wander through the grounds of
but was (ground me, until flaunting some point of view I
fl p e l d iny ba c c o lt ul aff d
n ri o g t h i ted and fr b o e m foro its th s c ho c r it e y s :
so th a t princely noble, enjoy the beauty and taste that
to proceed to Stabire. The bellowing mountaink down upon a lovely country filled with half
sulphureous air, the quivering earth, would nod men, and then I could hang him on one of his
city even so dissolute as Pompeii
gather to pliwn oaks. There stands a glorious statue, but un
public amusement. Consternation reign,lintr it lies a living sufferer. There is a magnificent
street, and drove the (righted inhabitant. awaeurch, but on its ample steps are heaps of rags that
their dwellings. This is doubtless the reasofth envelope a living, suffering man. But I will
so few bodies were found. Those that prose by quoting the language of an Italian, who
were slaves or those who tarried till some lee conversing, with me a longtime on this subject.
column or wall blocked up their path, and few a long sigh and said we must wait ear time,
scending cinders blinded their sight as they la pazienza e la confienza sons armpit el ritornello
about for a way of egress. Fear and &duel Troubabour," patience and trust are ever the
a day was turned into night,) might have .tandem of the Troubadour. Yes—patience and
others beyond the power of moving. Anonfidence; for the ridiculous farce of Kings will
standing on the pavement those terror strieave an end and humanity yet shake off its rags
tens stood on 2000 years ago and was loud lay aside its shame, and assert and take its long
the same mountain they gazed on with suioithheld rights.
inquiry and fearful forebodings. Then
and swayed and thundered before the pent
that threatened to send it in fragments th George Coleman being once asked if he knew
heavens. Now silent and quiet it stood ,Theodore Hook—" 0 yes ;" was his reply ; "Hook
base. Yet to me it had a morose and and I (eye) are aid asseeieteo
look, as if it were conscious of the ruin at its feet.
The excavations are more extensive than I sup
posed, and the effect of the clear light of the sun and
the open sky on the deserted pavements is peculiar
and solemn. A visit to it is an episode in a man's
life he can never forget. An old column or a broken
wall left of a once populous city interests us. We
stand and muse over the ruined pile till it becomes
eloquent with the history of the past. If one single
complete temple be found, how it increases the inter
est. But to wander through a whole city standing
us its inhabitants left it in their sudden fear, in
creases tenford the vividness of the picture. The
little household things meeting you at every turn,
give speciality to the whole, As I strolled from
npartment to apartment, I almost expected to meet
some ono within the door. I felt like an intruder as
I passed into the sleeping rooms of others—as if I'
were entering the private apartments of those who
were merely absent on a ride or a visit. The scenes
were familiar, and it appeared but a short time since
the eyes of those who occupied the dwelling rested
on the same objects. In taming the corners of the
streets it would hardly have surprised me to have
met the inhabitants just returning and looking on.
me as a stranger and an intruder. It required an
effort to convince myself that these streets and these
dwellings were thronged and occupied for the last
time nearly 2,000 years ago. I assure you the strug
gle was not to call up the past, but to shake it off—
and when I finally stood at the gate snd gave a fare
well look to the lonely city that faintly shone in the
light of the setting sun, a feeling of indescribable
sadness stole over me, and I rode away without the
wish ever to see it again.
But the view of the bay, and the careless laugh
ing groups we met at every step, soon restored our
spirits. The streets were filled with loungers, all
expressing in their manners and looks the Neapoli
tan maxim, "doles far niente," (it is sweet to do
nothing. You have heard of the bright eyes and
raven-tresses and music-like language of the Nea
politans, but I can assure you these is none of it
here, i. e. among the lower classes. The only dif
ference I can detect between them and our Indians
is that our wild bloods arc the more beautiful of the
two. The color is the same, and the hair very like
indeed, and as to the "soft, bastard Latin." they
speak, it is one of the most abominable dialects I
• , - • ._ --s l ope shocking to one's
to view them in a favorable, na y ,
light ; but amid all the charms and excitements of
this romantic 1.:1, I could not see otherwise. The
oldwomen arc hags, and the young women dirty,
sib-shod slanterns. Talk about "bright-eyed Ital
ia. maids!" Among our lower classes there are
fit beauties to one good-looking woman here. It
is •onsense to expect beauty among a population
th:live in filth and eat the vilest substances to es
cal the horrors of starvation. Wholesome. food,
cokirtable apartments, and cleanly clothing, are
impencable to physical beauty; and these the
lows, except the upper classes, do not have.—
Tlfilthy dens in which they arc crammed, the tat
teigannents in which they are but half hid, and
tivggard faces of hundreds of unfed women and
Oren that meet use at every step, as I enter the
cat night, overthrow all the pleasures of the day,
retire to my room angry with that political and
sl system that requires two-thirds to die of stor
m, that the other may die of surfeit. The
lief Naples has fine palaces, while thousands ofl
Itbjects have not ono blanket.
Prom the United Stake Gazette
Whenever a Russian meets a funeral preces
sion. he takes oil' his hat, and stands uncovered
until it passes—a mark of respect for the dyad, which
is becoming, and worthy of imitation."
It is a custom worthy of commendation. If the
heart is ever softened to delicate impressions, it is
when wrung by the loss of some delicate one.—
The most trilling kindness, having the deprivation
as a motive, is dearly felt and lastingly cherished.—
And he who, in the hour of agony for the death of
a relative, comes to us with sympathy, or only at a
distance denies himself an ordinary indulgence, that
Ile may show respect to our grief, may ever after
claim our kindest consideration.
More than forty years ago, there was seen in tl,e
county of Plymouth, a funeral train moving solemn
ly along the highway, towards the common burying
ground of the town. They were carrying to the
last earthly abode one who, in the fullness of years,
had sunk away to rest after a life of constant excel- ,
lence, of much active benevolence, of more passive
virtue. The neighborhood had shared in her bounty
and devotion, but her family had witneseed her pa
tient resignation, her pious hope. When such a
one is buried in the primitive society that then di.
tinguished that portion of the State, a solemnity
pervades the vicinity, and neeordingly, the cortege
was long; and it passed upwards towards the burial
o p n la e ce h , a i d t s lo c s e t m a e ni trm
a i nd si , l v e n n s ce around, as if
ci.rishin,the e rec vez
lection of her eminent virtues.
In the train was a boy, then about ten years of
age. fie was pale with much grief and long anx
iety, and nervously sensitive to all that was around.
He bad lived in the measured kindness of the decea
sed, and had thought then, as he thinks now, that
her virtues had been equalled by few on this earth ;
and the respectful quiet that marked the solemnities
of the afternoon, was soothing to his boyish feelings,
and Ile hoped that nothing would disturb the deep,
tomb-like silence that pervaded the scene. Not a
sentence he knew would be spoken at the grave,
save the few words of the sexton, who, lifting his
hat when the coffin had been lowered into the nar
row house, would say, tiff he always had said, in a
low murmuring voice, <, I will see that the rest be
done in decency and order." The solemn bow of
the chief mourner would be the only response, and
his feelings would not be disturbed, nor his grief ren
dered clamorous by pointed allusions to the virtues
of the dead, and his own irreparable loss.
But as the procession gained the brow of a gentle
rising in the road, there was discovered approaching
a large team of oxen, dragging timber to the ship
yard, and driven by a young man who, to ignorance,
added drunkenness, and its consequent manners.—
Hie passage through the village was invariably mar
ked by the loud utterance of every kind of indecen
cy, vulgarity and profanity; and the threats to
make him amenable to the law had only been an
swered by oaths to take private vengeance on the i
it The ei P od i
R a :t hat n
child, l: a who knew this, trembled et the done
ywan outraged likely to
blackguard,y Clie ha
head," which in that country was a crown
of glory," insulted by his indelicate jeering; and
the funeral train of one so much respected—the wife,
too of the very man who had threatened to punish
his impunities—would be an opportunity to display
his contempt for the decency of society, and hie re
venge for wholesome commotion, too good, too rare, ,
to be neglected. Ills voice was beard at a distance I
shouting to his cattle, and the wind bore towards
the mourners several of the wretch's favoritebl
phenties, and gave a sickening forestaste of what was
to shock their feelings,
At length the head of the funeral was opposite
the team, and the mourning lad trembled at the
thought of the outrage to which his feelings were to
be subjected. He would have stepped forward and
besought the teamster to spare him; but if age and
station had been powerless, what could a child do ?
and he turned his tearful eye upon the offensive
man, and moved on with his fellow mourners.
The noisy driver stepped rapidly forward and
stopped his cattle, without uttering a word. Then
moving slowly backwards towards the wagon, he
turned himself towards the funeral train, shifted his
whip to his left hand, bared head, and etood half
bowed in respectful silence until the whole proces
sion had moved past, then slowly covering himself,
he silently goaded his team into motion, and went
forward on his businers.
The feelings of the boy, at that moment, cannot
be described; hut he made, as an offering to the re
mains of the beloved dead, a solemn vow that he
would, should circumstances ever warrant the act,
repay the man for his timely remembrance of the
virtues of the departed, and grief of the mourner.
But the boy was not likely to find the opportu
nity of repaying that debt which he never forgot.—
He found a residence hundreds of miles from the
fixed home of the man.
Thirty years after that event, ho who in boyhood
had registered the vow under such cir:uru lane' s
wee in the city of Boston on a visit; and willing to
compare the appliances of the government of that
city with those of a southern metropolis, with which
he was connected, he took his seat ono morning in
the Police Court. Ono person about fitly years of
age, had, at hie own request, his case postponed
until all his fellow offenders abonld be dealt with.
What fs your name?" said the =gist's!,
.P:9 4 lXLar)l.3) SZ3sca). Eit3(3Dc23
"Johnson, sir; James Jo!maim is the name by
which I shall go to-day."
" You are charged,' continued the magistrate,
"with very• riotous conduct, resulting in destruction
of property to the amount of five dollars. What
have you to say for yourself, Jamesl"
"Nothing—nothing at ail; but having lived a
life of wretched dissipation, making miserable my
relatives, and especially my immediate family, two
years ago I set manfully to work, and reformed my
habits end my manners, and grew into the confi
dence of a few of my neighbors. I came into the
city yesterday, and an old rum acquaintance led
" You will be fined," said the magistmte ' only two
dollars, and stand committed until (Ad and five
dollars injure ore paid.'
Johnson had not seven dollars—and he took his
handkerchief from his hat at his side, and wiped the
thick perspiration from his forehead.
The stranger from the South looked into the hat
as he leaned over the railing, and saw written,
Homer —.' The first was an unusual name,
and the whole was that of the noisy wagoner.—
Leaning forward, he whispered into the ear of the
prisoner the inquiry whether he was from 13—!
The man sticted, but seeing only a stranger said
the had lived there once.'
Then,' said the other, there is seven dollars to
pay the magistrate.'
The man paid the Clerk, and met his friend at
You were trusted with money when you came
to the city.'
Yes, but I have lost it, and with it lost all
out of ten sneered at my profession of reform ;
and the tenth, who trusted me, and has been de
ceived will now be my enemy.'
How much is the deficiency 1'
'l t ie— dollars, a sum wholly beyond my
means, and as effectual to destroy/me, as if it were
thousands. My wife and my children, too, who
had begun to rise in the community, by my proprie
ties—they must fall, and I sin doubly lost.'
'There are dollars,' said the stranger.—
, Your name is not James Johnson, though there
scarcely needs an apology for concealing your real
But who are you that thus rescues a stranger
from distress, and permits him to continue to hope
for resne.ct 1'
• s.t you rememver the tonere! of Mrs. ---, in
K---, thirty years ago, when you paused to let
the train of mourners pass, with unwonted evidence
I 4 I scarcely remember that, but never did my folly
betray me into disrespect in the presence of a funer
al. That was the last spark in the ashes of my
homely virtues. It was never quenched; and it was
at the grave of a friend that that spark kindled
anew the flame of popriety in my, and led to those
good resolves which I last night broke.'
It is that particular act, my friend,' said the
stranger, which, after thirty years lam enabled to
T--- returned to his family, and tire years
afterwards died a decent man, in the midst of the
respect of the nine that had distrusted hie re
THE Ss o n smit.—a I have found," says the great
Lord Chief Justice nide, "by a strict and diligent
observation, that a due observance of the duty of
Sunday has ever had joined to it a blessing open
the rest of my time; and the week that has been ro
begun has been blessed and prosperous to met And,
on the other side, when I hove been negligent of the
duties of this day, the rest of the week has been
unhappy to my own secular employments. So that
I could easily make an estimate of my suceesß the
week (Wowing, by the manner of my paving this
day. And I do not write this lightly, but by long
and sound experience."
TRTALIL—A Chtistian without trials would be
like a mill without wind or water; the contrivance,
and design of the wheel -work inside would be un
noticed and unknown, without eomething to not it
in motion without. Nor would our graces grow,
unless they were called into exercise; the trials and
difficulties we meet with not only prove, but sled
strengthen the graces of the Spirit. If a person
were to sit still, without making use of his legs or
his arms, he would probably soon lose the power of
moving at all; but by walking and working, lie be
comes strong and active.—lfer. J. Ncueon.
AMUSE:KV, cf. DRINXINO,—A singing and
dancing people is certainly higher in the scale of
morality than a setting people. The natioral bal
lad and the national dance open the way to every
department of poetry and music; when people hoe n
reached this point, it is easy to awaken the feeliit
for every kind and degree of art. The hundreds
who resort to a museum cannot at the same time be
setting at an ale-house or a gin•shop. Nor is this
all; they will soon come to feel the boundless din..
that exists between men whom art raises into
3 Is, and animolsin human shape dei:raded by
.enness below the level of brutes: It in an cr•
rcr to suppose that Christianity forbids the educe
tion of man by the forms, the influences, the eon.
captions of art: it forbids only thole perviona
and m ; eapplications of art, which the noble and 'he
uncorrupted among the Greeks equelly :tectcd.