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LIST` OF JUROItS
FOR APRIL TERM, 1845
GRAND JURORS.
-Allison John, Farmer, Henderson Township.
Bouelough John, Merchant, Blair.
Bridenbaugh Philip, Farmer, Tyrone
Bingham Emanuel, Carpenter, Blair
Campbell Robert, Merchant, Antes
Cummins William, Farmer, Barren
Caldwell William, Tanner, Tyrone
Galbraith Ephraim, Justice of the Peace, Blair
Gwin James, Surveyor, Antes
Hi!omen -Philip, Farmer, Frankstown
Hewit Peter, Gentleman, Blair
Irvin Joseph, Fanner, Frankstown
,rames John, Gentleman, Blair
kelly George, Farmer, Dublin
Lowe John, Innkeeper, Blair
Miller Henry, Farmer, Henderson
McCune Seth R. do. Frankstown
McCracken James do. West
McNamara Thomas, Manager, Allegheny
McCoy Samuel, Sawyer, Henderson
Renner Jacob, Carpenter, West
Robeson David, Farmer, Allegheny
Stains Aaron, do. Cromwell
Taylor Matthew, do. Dublin
TRAVERSE JURORS..--.-FIIIST WEIK.
Anspaugh Jacob, Farmer. Barree Township.
Bother Conrad, Gentleman, Porter
Boggs Samuel, Farmer, Henderson
Beck Christian, do. Snyder
Conrad James, do. Blair
Clayton William, do. Tell
Cowen George, do. Allegheny
Caldwell Samuel, Ironmaster, Franklin
Cheny Gelbert, Fanner, Barree.
Condron James, Merchant, Frankstown
Dean Samuel, Farmer, Woodberry
Dean William do. Hopewell
Donelly Thomas, do. Morris
Flenner Daniel, do. Walker
rouse Frederick, do. Huston
Gurley John, Grocer, Blair.
Green Charles, Farmer, est.
Geltrett Jacob, Constable, Springfield
Hays William, Tanner, Barren
Hay John. Y. Blacksmith, Fianklin.
Hoover David, Farmer, Huston.
Hamiltor. Paren, T., Carpenter
Hite James. Farmer, Henderson.
Harnish John, do Frankstown.
Kratzer John, Ironmaster, Snyder.
Lowry Lazarus, Farmer, Allegheny
Lane James, Jr. do Henderson,
Love James, Merchant, Barr.
Moore William, do Porter
Moore Perry, Farmer, Morris
Miller Charles, H., fanner, Henderson
McWilliams Jonathan, Farmer, Franklin
Neff Isaac, Miller, West
Robeson Moses, Tanner, Snyder
Rees Thomas, Chairmaker, Woodberry
Reed William, Esq. Farmer, Morris.
Smith Joseph, Esq. do Franksto wn
Stroup John, do Union.
Snyder Joseph, do Tod.
-Simpson Alexander, do Henderson.
Shaver Henry, do Shirley.
Templeton William, do Tyrone.
'fate David, Justice of the Peace, Blair.
Travis James, Esq. Farmer, Franklin.
Wike Henry, do Huston.
t. , Williamson Joshua, Wazonmaker, Blair.
Young John, Farmer, Allegheny.
Young George, 8., Silversmith, Porter.
TRAVERSE JURORS.—SECOND wer.x.
Bock illiam. H. Farmer, Frankstown Tp.
Bender Thomas, Carpenter, Woodherry.
Chipper Henry, (of D.) Farmer, Frankstown,
Davis George, do. Morris.
Dell Levi, do. Union.
Etnire David, Innkeeper, Cromwell.
Fackler Jacob, Farmer, Henderson.
ktreenland Hiram, Saddler, Cass.
Gibboney Daniel, C., Fuller, Allegheny.
Holtman George, Blacksmith, West.
Hamer Collins, Farmer, Porter.
Ifelfner Peter, do. Walker.
Hc rton George, W., I.lackeinith, Frankstown,
Harman William, Farmer, Morris.
Joluoton .1 ohs, do. Harrah
Kelly Michael. Machinist, Blair.
Kennedy Alexander, Farmer, Dublin.
Lightner Henry, do. West.
Less, George, Merchant, Shirley.
Moore David, H., Gentleman, Blair.
Miller George, Farmer, Antes.
Martin John, li. Cordwaiher, Blair.
NeliDaniel, Farmer, Porter.
Peightal Emanuel, do. Hopewell.
Price Asa, do. Cromwell.
Patterson Thomas, Tinnier, Blair.
Smith John, (of Hugh) Farmer, Barree.
Smith Thomas, do. Frankstown.
Simpson John, do. enderson.
Stewart Daniel, Jr. do. Frankstown.
Smelker Thomas, A, do. Shirley.
Snare Conrad, do. 1 I opewcll.
titonebaker John. H. do. Franklin
Swoope Caleb, Constable, Cuss.
Wilson George, Carpenter, Barree.
Weaver George, Carpenter Blair.
I'. Hearsley Henderson,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
Olitigdon ra.
Office on Mein street, one door West of 11 Whim
Dorris' Store.
Huntingdon, Jose 12, 1844.
NNK BONDS to Constables for Stav
4 of Execution, under the new law, just
intest, and Pm rate, at tht, dire.
r m r.":
To charm tho languid hours of solitude,
He oft invites her to the Muses lore."
An raquisito Poem.
Cr The following Poem was written by a pu
pil of the Utica Female Academy—a girl of sixteen !
It is justly characterized by N. P. Willis, as won
derfully original and beautiful.'
WATER.
Where does the water spring, gladsome and bright,
Here in the leafy grove,
BuLliling in life and love;
Born of the sunshine, up leaping to light,
Waked in its pebbly bed,
When the still shadows fled,
Gushing, o'erflowing, down tumbling, for flight.
Where does the water flow 9 where glides the till I
Now 'neath the forestshade,
Then in the grassy glade,
Dancing as freely as child of the hill:
Bright cascades leaping,
Silver brooks creeping,
Wearing the mountains and turning the mill.
Where does the water dwell, powerful and grand I
Here where the ocean foam,
Breaks in its rock-ribbed home,
Dashing, land-lashing,up-bounding,wrath-spanned
Anon sweetly sleeping,
Soft dimples o'erereeping, •
Like a babe on its mother's breast, soothed by her
hand.
Where smiles the dew-drop the night shadows wool
Where the young llow'rets dip,
Leaving each perfumed lip,
Close in the rose's heart, loving rind true,
POiKPII on an emerald shaft.
Where never sunbeam laughed,
Deep in the dingle, the beautiful dew.
Where glows the water pledge, given of old I
"I'is dropped down from God's throne
Where the shower is gone,
A chain of pure gems, linked with purple and gold;
In Eden hues blushing,
With infinity gushing,
A line from the Book of Life, its lore half untold.
The bright how of promise, the signet of power,
The crown of the sky,
The pathway on high,
Whence angels bond to us when darksome clouds
lower,
Breathing so silently,
Truthfully and kindly—
Oh ! their wings fur a shield, in tho wreathhearing
hour !
Then we'll love the threads lacing our beautiful
world,
Tangling the sun•beains,
Laughing in glorious gleams;
The wavelets all dimpled, and spray-tresses curled ;
The tear on the flower's breast;
The gem on the ocean's crest,
And the ladder ofanaels, by rain-drops impearled !
BLANota.
.
OR, THE VEILED STRAW COTTAGE
BY MARY SPENSER PEASE
CHAPTER 1.-THE WILL.
Exactly seventy-seven years ago, Justice Gor
man, Mr. Wilcox, the village attorney, and Mr.
Niles, the village schoolmaster, besides many more
of the village worthies, met in the large old fashion
ed hall of the ancient mansion house that stood half
a mile from the village, for the purpose of reading
the lust will and testament of the deceased owner of
the said mansion house.
He had bequeathed hie entire property consist
ing of a large amount of gold and plate,the spacious
mansion and an extensive plantation attached to it,
to Harry Lincoln, his nephew and namesake—with
the proviso that he, Harry the younger, must make
his home three months of each year, longer if he
chose, in the mansion house, for the purpose of
overseeing the plantation, or not fulfilling the in
junctions, he would forfeit the aforesaid minium
house and the board acres thereunto attached.
At the time the will was opened, the heir was on
his way from Cambridge, having been hastily sum
moned thence to attend his uncle in his sudden and
last illness. Seventy-seven years ago, the most
rapid mode of travelling was but a snail's pace com
pared to the wings of steam that hurry se through
the air at this present day. So that, when Harry
Lincoln arrived it Virginia, at the mansion house,
he found his good old uncle had departed from this
world, leaving his nephew heir to his vast wealth.
Behold him then, at the age of twenty-one, his
collegiate studies completed, a hair-brained, thought
less, good-hearted fellow, fatherless, motherless, sis
terless, brotherless, wifeless, with a fine person and
a fine estate, and with no trouble to disturb his
mind save the death of his good, old, indulgent un
cle, who had brought him up froma boy.
He dearly loved his Uncle, the elder Harry Lin
coln ; or, the old Harry,' as the village blacksmith's
envious sister often called him and a kinder hear
ted old gentleman, a more benevolent, or one more
worthy to be loved, never existed. Peace to his ashes!
The young master of the mansion house had note
been three weeks within its dreary and deslolata
walls—dreary and desolate, because he missed the
hearty tones of his kind old uncle; because he had
just left a set of merry fellows at college, and he•
cause it was in that season,.of the year when mist
above, and mud below, and cold between, existed
to almost any extent.
Harry Lincoln's time began to hang heavily ; each
day seemed to grow longer and more dull. He
11z 4 m.c. 9 zaEo4lo.€:).
read, and walked and rode, but all would not keep
off the blue imps that hovered around him whisper-
ing their doleful words in his ear. ,
Harry had seen pass by the mansion house, in
the morning, going towards the village, and in the
evening corning front the village, a figure that into•
rested him in no small degree.
For the last few days he hat regularly stationed
himself. just after breakfast and before tea, at the
great hall window, to watch the coming and going
of the fair inconnu.
Who could she be? She had the prettiest foot
and ankle he ever saw. The must fashionable ball
room belle might have envied her walk, so grace
fully and with such an air distingue did she carry
herself. • A dark-green travelling dress, that fitted
without compressing her lithe waist, showed a form
wavy and well-rounded. Who could she be? Her
whole appearance indicated that she was no com
mon girl. Who could she be! Harry had never
been able to catch even one glimpse' of her pretty
face—pretty he felt it must he, Vol. a close straw
cottage and a thick green veil served effectually to
conceal it. Who she was, was a mytery he could
not solve.
Harry was in his usual seat by the window,
watching for the return of the mysterious lady of
the veil. A book was in his hand, but he was in
deep thought, gazing from out the window upon
the varied and many formed mud puddles that be
decked the way-side.
By Jupiter!' exclaimed he, there she comes. I
wish she would look this way. Out upon the man
that first invented close bonnets and green veils!—
How perfectly graceful all her movements are.
Who can she be? There is an indescribale some.
thing about her, that excites my interest in spite of
myself. There, the turn in the road has hid her
from my eyes. I will find out her name and abode
—by Jove, I will ! and, if ilia is worth the trouble,
I'll fall desperately in love with her. I /rove noth
ing else under the sun to do.'
Harry threw the book from him to the other side
of the room, and springing to the hell, rase it such
a pull as caused the appearance almost instantly of
an ehoi:y phiz through the open door.
l'se hes, massa.'
Send some one to mend the bell-rope, Sarjo.'
Ees maim; grinned the black. Any ting moa,
massy
Sarjo, there is a young—a lady goes past here
every day. you have seen her 1'
Ees massa,' again grinned the woolly pate,
'Do you know her name?'
• Ees, massa.'
Massa?'
'Her name, Cyclops—what is her name ?,
Ile name Misso Panny, mesa.'
MIAs Fanny what
He Misse Fanny Stubbs, I beliebe, mosso.
Horrid! You may go, Sarjo. Stay. Where
does Miss Fanny Stu—, the young lady—
where does she live?'
Long wid de 010 woman in de cottage. He
no berry far. manna—long aide de road. He go
ebry day to do village for teach do achool—larm em
a, h, c, mosso.
Bring me my cap and overcoat,' said the young
man, after a moment's musing.
Ees, mason,' and the negro displayed his double
row of pearls by a very significant grin and vanished.
He was Harry's favorite servant; a right worthy
fellow was the husband of Harry's nurse; had play
ed with his young mason' when he was but a baby.
CRAPTRII 111.-THE INTIMVIEW,
A short distance from the turn in the road before
alluded to, stood the old woman's cottage. It Was
built upon Harry Lincoln's plantation. 'rho old
woman had rented it of his uncle many years before,
hod duly paid the rent for the few first years ; after
that she remained in it by right of possession, no
rent collector ever coming to dispute her right.
Harry soon reached the cottage; a girl was sit
ting in one of the windows, reading.
That must be Fanny !' exclaimed }tarry. She
re beautiful by Jove, she is just the style of beauty
I always admired. She does not see me. I can al
most ( read what she is reading, in her expressive
face. Faint heart never won a fair lady,' so I'll in
and introduce myself to the pretty Fanny.'
Harry's rap at the door was answered by the girl
he had seen at the window. Ho took a hasty sur
vey of the apartment. No one else was in the room
with her; his eye fell upon a table where lay the
little straw bonnet and veil. He felt assured.
,My name is Lincoln—Harry Lincoln,' said he.
Yours, I believe, is Miss Fanny Stubbs. Am I
right l'
The young lady smiled, bit her lips to prevent a
laugh outright.
.That is the name I answer to,' replied ehe.
They then fell into an easy, merry uttering of
each other's thoughts. Their conversation ran upon
the:Stamp Act Parliament had just passed ; how the
colonies would probably receive it. They talked of
George the Third, anti of the Georges that had pre
ceded him; of the great earthquake that had taken
place ten years beibre; of the French war, the repub
lic of Venice, and of republice in general. Fanny
proved herself a staunch anti-royalist, and, by her
playful eloquence, more than converted Harry over
to her own way of thinking, he inly vowing never
to kneel to a shrine more despotic than bright wo
man's, with beauty such as Fanny's for a crown.
Meanwhile time glided by unnoticed. Fanny
WIIe eensible and entertaining, and entirely free from
all affectation: Lincoln we, surprised to find so
much retinerned(so much ease and grace of man
ner in a country school-nOtress.
She is a gay, witty little piece of mechanism,'
thought ho; a little too much for me, and I wee al
ways considered an exceedingly clever fellow.'
• May I see what you were reading Miss Stubbe
amid he, after they had exhausted an animated dis
cussion upon ths manifold delights of a country lite
particularly in the winter season.
Certainly; but do not call me Fanny,' replied
she, laughing. Fanny had a speculiar laugh. Her
head tossed itself back with its myriad of sunny
brown curls, and from out her rosy, dimpled mouth,
proceeded the merriest, prettiest, ha! ha's in the
world.
What! the Divina Commedia ! and in the ori
ginal I' said Harry, as he opened the book she han
ded him. Are you an admirer of Dante, Fanny!'
'To distraelicin! replied the girl.
Harry hardly knew whether she was in earttiest
or not.
Which part do you like best?'
Tho Paradiao.'
Dante, shone a brilliant meteor in the dark ages.
He was a most fervent, passionate writer. The Di
vine Comedy is a most noble poem, intense and
earnest. Do you read him much, Fanny v
Yes, when I have nothing better to entertain
me.'
• What better would you have 1' said Harry,
looking surprised.
That which I now have,' responded she, with
an arch glance.
Pray, what is that ?' asked the young man,
looking still more surprised.
Your agreeable conversation.'
How shall I understand you, Miss Stubbs l'
There was some pique in Harry's tone, sod an ac
cent not slight on the euphonious name Stubbs.
'Just as you please, Mr. Lincoln,' replied the
girl, coldly.
Good evening, Miss Stubbs.'
What. not going—so soon ?' asked Ali, affect
ing indilTetence.
Going 7 Certainly,'
Good evening, sir.'
As soon as he was gone, Fanny burst into a
merry laugh. How ridiculous,' said she, and she
lauged When I said just what I thought,
too,' and she laughed on. Yes, I really did like
"his conversation. He puts me so much in mind of
-.' The girl fell into a lit of inuring.
At home, and in the room he had left three hours
before, Harry gave himself a sullen throw in the
old arm chair,' that had stood in that Name corner
as long ago as the elder Harry could remember—
how much longer no one knew.
4 What a deuce of a girl it la,' and that was all Ito
said; how much more he thought his biographer
does not tell. He ;oust have thought, for, it is cer
tain lie did not sleep—at leant, not until his usual
time for retiring into the land of dreams
The next day came—as next days are in the
habit of doing.
Harry rose, thought of Fanny--after dreaming
about her all night—breakfasted, took his Station in
ono of the deep windows of the drawing room to
watch for Fanny. Fanny did not come. Au hour
passed, still no Fanny.
Harry concluded she hod gone by while he was
at breakfast. He began to feel sail and low-spirit-
ed : he left the window—paced up and down the
room with rapid anrides.
How tiresome it is,' exclaimed he, to have
nothing to do—to be forever alone. I'll shoot my
self—l will, by Juno; it will bo variety. No I
won't ; I'll wait until afternoon, and go and lee
Penny. But will she receive me? I'll make the
trial at all events.'
Harry again gazed earnestly out the window, then
set down to the piano. He played frogmen's of
fifty different airs; all sounded discordant to hie
cars. He left the piano in disgust, end threw him
sslf into the open arias of the great chair, to dream
of Fanny.
A low, soft rap at the door aroused him from hie
meditations.
Come in,' Paid Harry, in a Bulky voice.
The low, coil rap was repeated.
Harry opened the door, but started back hair way
neriiss the room as the little veiled cottage present
ed itself, with Fanny's sweet face peeping out from
under it—like love in a mist. He sprang RS in-
Aantly forward, and catching both of Fanny'alittle
soft hands, he kissed first one and then the other
then both together, until Fanny thought it prudent
to withdraw them—doubtless, for fear of having
them devoured.
Fanny spoke fire'. Fanny had a verj sweet
voice; it did not break a silence; it glided in as
though the etilluess waited for the smooth tones and
yielded them room.
Your man Sarjo told me in what room I should
find his 'young mama, and so -'
I inn very glad you came, Fanny ; I truly am,
for I was just going into a fit of the source.'
That is a disease l'ne,er have been troubled
with, to any extent,' said Fanny. with a laugh.—
'lf I can do you any good in the way of a cure, I
am at your service. I have a holliday to-day, and
can afford to spend it as I like best.
'Delightful task; to rear the tender thought; to
teach, and all that. Is it not, Fanny l'
Most delightful,' said she; laughing with him.
'An open piano, I see. Do you play, Mr. Lincoln?'
Harry replied by sitting down to the instrument.
He was a lover of music; his soul seemed to
guide the movement of his fingers.
Fanny listened eagerly, and now and then, as he
went on, a silent tear trickled down her cheek.—
When Harry arose and looked around, Funny's
eyes were still moist; but the same bright, careless
snails was dimpling her Pretty mouth that had so
charmed him from the that.
Thank you,' said else it puts me in mind of
—' Fanny hesitated and blushed; she turned
to the piano to hide her blushes. What a delight
ful toned instrument this is,' exclaimed ehe ; run
ning her little dimpled hands over its chords.
recalls old memories, when —. Shall I try if
I can remember any thing I used to know It has
been some time since I have touched a piano.
Harry replied that nothing could afford him more
pleasure than to hear her.
She commenced with a wild, plaintive prelude,
and as else proceeded, recollections of the past come
to her; she seemed to play her heart out, as though
it felt the poetry of music. She played as capri
ciously as a butterfly roves from flower to flower—
by turns lively and sad.
Lincoln stood entraced ; he forgot she was a vil
lage school mistrese, and that her name was Stubbe.
He only UPI jn the bright creature before him the
first being he hadiever loved.
She sung at his request. Ons with so much
heart could not help singing well. Her voice was
full of tenderness; she sang as feelingly as she
played.
You are a wonderful creature, Fanny,' said Lin
coin, when her song was ended. Funny, give up
your school and come and teach me. Teach me
how to love you 340 u deserve to be loved. Fanny,
I lore you. Will , you he mine I What! silent and
smiling? You may laugh but, Fanny, believe me,
I sin in earnest. .1 do low.; you, sincerely. Still
silent? You are a strange girl, Fanny. Shall I
get down upon my knemand offer you my heart
and hand. as they did in times of old I If this is
but the second time I have recta you, and if my love
seem sudden, believe me it is nowt the less sincere.
I Speak, Fanny—dearest Fanny.'
CHAPTER THE LAST-THE muff CLEARER AWAY.
Just as Fanny opened her pretty little mouth,
full of smiles, to speak, Sarjo opened the drawing.
room door to announce to his 'manna Harry' theta
young prumtw' wished to see him.
Sarjo threw the great drior wide open, and, at the
same instant entered Mr. Richard Sinclair, one of
Harry's college friends.
Harry welcomed his friend warmly, but he could
not help wishing he had delayed his arrival for an
hour or so.
As soon as I had received your last doleful let
ter,' said the new corner, returning Harry's shake
with compound interest, I resolved to come here in
stead of going hone, although I have not been there
for two years. and have not heard a word from there
for at least half that time. Your letter was of so deep
a blue, that it mode me melancholy for full five
minutes. I left Cambridge im,nediately, and star
ted off post haste to see you for fearyou would shoot
or drown yourself in your solitary prison. So here
I anr. What! Fanny !' exclaimed he, for the first
time perceiving Harry's companion.
None other, my dear Richard; returned Fanny.
A mutual and warm embrace followed. Harry's
eyes began to grow green, he heartily winked his
friend back at Cambridge, or any where but where
he was; and was on the point of inviting him to
mortal combat, when Sinclair turned from POW) ,
to him.
Why have you never told me you were acquain
ted with my sister? And Fanny,' continued Sin
clair, how came you here ? Why did you leave
home—and when ? I am in a maze ? Pray explain.'
Your sister!' uttered Harry considerably relieved.
Why I am here is a long story—but I may as
well tell it now.'
The trio seated themselves on the great velvet
cushioned sots, and Fanny thus commenced, Harry
meantime gazing into her bright eyee.
, You know, Mr. Lincoln, that your chum, Dick
Sinclair, had an only sister in Charleston. South
Carolina, and that lie and this eieter were orphan.;
but you did not know, until a few moments ego
that I, Alin Stubbs, Fanny gave a droll expressive
glance—' was his sister. I used to hear my brother
speak of you, and all hie letters were full of your
praises; that will account, in part, to you why I
treated you eo like an old friend. Papa died when
we were young children, appointing Mr. Lacellas,
en old friend of his, our guardian. The property
was divided equally betweeir tie, but in such a way
that neither of us could commend a pin** of it
until we arrived at the age of twenty-one. So was
it nominated in the will.
Who came with you, Fanny, from Charleetonl
—and when and why r
Have patience my brother, you shall know all in
good time. I metely wish to say a few words ex
planatory to Mr. Lincoln. My brother having ar
rived at the desirable age of freedom, has come in
full posseseton of hie share. Is to not so, Dick t I
am still at the merry of Mr. Lacellas, to receive as
many or as few pounds as he chosen to give me.—
My brother, being a great favorite with him, always
received an ample allowance. So did I, until now
—and now he will not let me' have a whining.
How, happens that. sinter 7'
That is the funny part of it. About a year ago,
Mr. Luella% took it into his head that I would make
him a nice wife. I was then sixteen, he being only
Fanny threw back her head, end laughed for a
long time at the oddity of the thing. Her mirth
being concluded, she wont on with her story.
.1 always had liked my guardian, but could not
\d,.raa cza D. cm) cz).
think df marrying him. I told him so, in a very
respectful manner, but he would But take ' , no" for
an answer. You know Dick; hciw persevering and
immovable he is when his mind is once made. He
kept tearing me, until I avoided his presence in eve
ry possible way I could. At last he bitcaine so im
portunate, I left his house and went to my aunt's.
There I was still tormented hi every way. He sent
me threatening notes, and intruded himself upon me
every opportunity. His presence became so disa
greeable to me, I refrained from going into the street,
and would nut see hint when he called. He then
told me in a note I should not have another sixpenco
until I became his wife. I knew Ito would keep Iris
word, as the event proved. He was determined I
should marry him, but inure from his having said I
should than for any love he bore me. I saw in a
Richmond paper, about that time, an advertisement
stating that Mr. Niles, teacher of a village school
fifteen miles from Richmond, wished an assistant to
superintend the female department of his school.--
A marvellous independent feeling arose within me,
sit I left Charleston without saying a word to any
one, and arrived in Richmond six weeks ago, wrote
from there to Mr. Niles. He called upon me; liked
me well enough to try me. Since then I have been
teaching in his school.'
A strange, wild plan, sister mine. Why did you
not write to me 1'
, I wanted to see how it would seem to earn my
own living. and I did not wish to stay any longer in
Charleston.'
'I am glad it is no worse.' Fanny ; but you mm t
give up your foolish idea of school keeping, and ho
my companion to the old country. lam going its
a few weeks.'
, . .
I object to that plan in toto,' said Harry.
too, am going on a voyage, and wish a companion.
But my voyage is the voyage of life, it will be a very,
very short one, if I do not have Fanny to accompa
ny me. What say you, Fanny 7'
Yes, Fanny, what do you say 7' naked her broth
er, laughing.
I will do as you both think best,' meekly re
sponded Fanny, with a roguish smile in the corner
of her downcast eye.
And so they were married—Fanny Sinclair and
Harry Lincoln.
33i Something.
The following excellent advice, which ibie copy
from the Boston Transcript, is recommended to the
attentive part eat of every young man who desire's
to be something.' We hope all will read it and
profit by it.
It ie the duty of every one to take some part as
an actor on the atage of lite. Sonic seem to think
they can vegetate as it were without being any
thing in particular. Man was nut made to rust
out his life. It is expected he should • act well his
port.' He must rat: SOMETHING. He has a work
to perform which it is his duty to attend to. 11 o
are not placed here to grow up, pass through the
various stages of life, and then to dte, without hay
ing done anything for the benefit of 'he human
race. It is a principle in the creed of the Mahome
tans that every one should have u trade. No chris
tian ducttine could be better than that. le a man
to he brought up in idlenees? Is he to live upon the
wealth which his ancestors have acquired by hard
labor and frugal industry/ Is lie placed here to'
pass through life like an automaton / Has he
nothing to perform as a citizen of the worldl—
Does he owe nothing to his country as an inhabi
tant? A man who does nothing is a mere cipher.
lie does not fulfil the obligations tbi which he was
sent into the world, and whet: he dies, he has not
finished the work which was given him to do. He
is a mere blank in creation. Some are burn
with riches and honor upon their head. But dries
it follow that' they have nothing to do in their ca
reer through lilt ? There are certain duties for
every one to perform. Bs SOMETHING ! Don't
live like a hermit, and die unregretted.
See that young man ; no matter what ore his
circumenances, it' he has no particular business be
will never accomplish much. Perhaps lie has a
father abundantly able to support him. Perhaps!'
that tether has labored hard to obtain a competence
which is sufficient for his son to live in idleness.—
I.:an they go abroad to the world with any degree
of self complacency, squandering away the money
which their fathers have earned by hard labor I
I No! No one who lete the proper feelinge of a cit
zen, who %visitee to be ranked among the useful
member. of society, would live such a life. Be
sou uneven. ! don't be a drone, You may rely up;
on your present possession., or on your future pros;
pects, but, those riches may tly away, or other hopes
may be blighted, and if you have no place of your
own, in such a cue, ten to one you find your path
beset with thorns. Want may come upon you ere
you are aware of it, and having no profession, you
find yourself in any thing but an enViable sit;
notion. It is therefore important that you should
nr SOMIITHINU. Don't depend upon fortune, for
she is a fickle support which often fails when you
lean upon her with the greatest confidence. Trust
to your own exertion..
Ba aomETRINo. Pursue that vocation for which
you are fitted by nature; pursue it faithfully and
diligently. You have a part to act, and the honor
in peitirming that part depends open yourself. It
is sickening to one to see a parcel of idle boys hang
ing round • father spending the money which he
has earned by his industry without attempting to do
anything for themselves. BE somerurvo should
be their motto. Every one is capable of learning
some art, trade or mystery,' and can earn a compe
tence for himself. He should learn to depend up
on himself. Idle boys living upon a parent with
out any profession or without any employment, aro
illy qualified for good members of society. And we
regret to say it is too often the case that it is the
parent's fault that they are thus brought op. They
should be taught to no semyrnixo ; to know how
to provide fur themselves in case of neeewity ; to
act well their part, and they will reap the honor
which therein lice.
(0". They who talk degradingly or women have
not sufficient taste to roliah their excellencies, or
purity enough to court their acquaintance.