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:t, JOlil N - i-,.
BY JAMES CLARK :]
VOL. XI, NO. 85.
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Oh! could we read the human heart,
Its strange, mysterious depths explore,
'What tongue could tell or pen impart
The riches of its hidden lore !
Safe from the world's distrustful eye,
What deep and burning feelings play,
Which e'en stern reason's power defy,
And wear the sands of life away.
Think not beneath a smiling brow,
To alwaoa find a joyous heart;
For Wit's bright glow, and Reason's flow,
Too often hide a cankering dart.
The bird with bruised and broken wing,
Oft tries to mount the air again,
Among Its mates to gaily sing
Its last melodious dying strain.
The fire that lights a flashing eye,
May by a burning heart be fed,
Which in its anguish yearns to die,
While yet it seems to pleasure wed.
Oh, do not harshly judge the heart,
Though cold and vain it seems to be,
Nor rudely seek the veil to part,
That hides its deep, deep mystery.
WASHINGTON'S PAREWELL TO HIS ATtili.
December 4, 1783.
The Revolution was over. The eight
years' conflict had ceased, and warriors
were now to separate forever, turning
their weapons into plough-shares and
their camps into workshops. The spec
tacle, though a sublime and glorious
one, was yet attended with sorrowful
feelings—for alas! in the remains of
that gallant army of patriot soldiers,
now about to disband without pay, with
out support, stalked poverty, want and
disease—the country had not the means
to be grateful.
The details of the condition of many
of the officers and soldiers at that pe
riod, according to history and oral tra
dition, were melancholy in the extreme.
Possessing no means of patrimonial in
heritance to fall back upon--thrown out
of even the perilous support of the sol
dier, at the commencement of winter,
and hardly fit for any other duty than
that of the camp—their situation can be
as well imagined as described.
A single instance of the situation of
many of our officers, as related of the
conduct of Baron Steuben, may not be
amiss. When the main body of the ar
my was disbanded at Newburg, and the
veteran soldiers were bidding a parting
farewell to each other, Lieut. Col. Coch
ran, an aged soldier of the New Hump
-1 shire line, remarked with tears in his
eyes, as he shook hands with the Ba
" For myself I could stand it ; but my
wife and daughters are in the garret of
that wretched tavern, and I have no
means of removing them."
" Come, come," said the Baron, "don't
give way thus. I will pay my respects
to Mrs. Cochran and her daughters."
When the good old soldier left them,
their Countenances were warm with gra
titude, for he had left them all he had.
In One of the Rhode Island regiments
were several companies of black troops,
who had served throughout the whole
war, and their bravery and discipline
were unsurpassed. The Baron observed
one of these wounded negroes on the
wharf, at Newburgh, apparently in great
" What's the matter, brother soldier V'
" Why, Master Baron, I want a dollar
to get home with; nowthe Congress has
no further use for me."
The Baron was absent a few moments,
and returned with a silver dollar which
he had borrowed.
" There, it is all I could get--take it."
The negro received it with joy, hailed
a sloop which was passing down the river,
to New York, and, as he reached the
deck, took off his hat, and said—
" God bless Master Baron."
These are only single illustrations of
the condition of the army ► at the close
of the war. Indeed Washington had
this in view at the close of his farewell
address to the army at Rock Hill in No-
"And being now to conclude these,
his last public orders, to take his ulti
mate leave in a short time of the mili
tary character, and to bid a final adieu
to the armies he has so long had the
honor to command, he can only again
offer, in their behalf, hi 6 commendations
to their chuntry, and his prdyer to the
God of armies."
"May ample justice be done them
here, and may the choicest of Heaten / s
favors both here and hereafter attend
those who, under divine auspices, have
secured innumerable blessings for others.
" With these Wishes ) and this bene
diction, the commander-it-chief is about
to retire from service. The curtain of
separation will soon be drawn, and the
military scenes to him Will be closed
The closing of this "military scene,"
I am about to relate. •
The morning of the 4th of December,
1783, was a sad and heavy one to the
remnant of the American army in the
city of New York. The noon of that
day was to witness the farewell of Wash
ington—he was to bid adieu to his mili
tary comrades forever. The officers who
had been with him in the solemn coun
cil, the privates who had fought and
charged in the " heavy fight" under his
orders, were to hear his commands no
longer—the manly form and dignified
countenance of the "great captain,"
were henceforth only to live in their me
As the hour of noon approached, the
whole garrison, at the request of Wash
ington himself, was put in motion and
marched dOwn Broad street to Francis'
tavern, his head quarters. He wished
to take leave of private soldiers alike
with the officers, and bid then alladieu.
His favorite light infantry were drawn
up in the line facing inwardS through
Pearl street, to the foot of White Hall,
where a barge was in readiness to con
vey him to Paulus Hook.
Within the dieing room of the tav
ern were assembled the general and field
officers to take their farewell.
Assembled there, were Knox, Greene,
Steuben, Gates, Clinton and others, who
had served with him, faithfully and truly,
in the "tented field ;" but alas ! where
were others who had entered the war
with him seven years before 1 Their
bones crumbled in the soil from Cana
da to Georgia. Montgomery had yield
ed up his life at Quebec, Wooster at
Danbury, Woodhull was barbarously
murdered whilst a prisoner .at the bat
tle of Long Island, Mercer fell mortally
wounded at Princeton, the brave and
chivalric Laurens, after displaying the
most heroic courage in the trenches at
Yorktown, died in a trifling skirmish in
South Carolina, and the brave but ec
centric Lee was no longer living, and
Putnam, like a helpless child, was
stretched upon time bed of sickness. In
deed, the battle field and time bad thin
ned the ranks which had entered with
him into the conflict.
Washington entered the room—the
hour of separation had come. As he
raised his eye, and glanced on the faces
assembled, a tear coursed down his
cheek and his voice was tremulous as
he saluted them. Nor was he alone—
Albeit unused to the melting mood,"
stood around him, whose uplifted hands
to cover their brows told that the tear
which they in vain attempted to conceal,
bespoke the anguish they could not
After a moment's conversation, Wash
ington called for a glass of wine. It
was brought him—turning to his offi
cers, he thus addressed them : " With
a heart full of love and gratitude, I now
take my final leave of you. I most de
votedly wish your latter days may be
as happy and prosperous as your former
ones have been glorious and honorable."
He then raised the glass to his lips,
drank, and added : "I cannot come to
each of you to take my leave, but shall
be obliged to you, if each of you take
me by the hand."
Gen. Knox, who stood nearest, burst
into tears, and advanced—incapable of
utterance. Washington grasped him
by the hand and embraced him. The
officers came up successively and took
an affectionate leave. No wurds were
spoken, but all was the "silent eloquence
of tears." What were mere words at
such a scene"! Nothing. It was the feeling
of the heart—thrilling, though unspo
When the last of the officers had em
braced him, Washington left the room
followed by his comrades, and passed
through the lines of infantry. His step
was slow and measured—his head un
covered, and tears flowing thick and
fast as he looked from side to side at
the veterans to whom he now bid adieu
forever. Shortly an event occurred
more touching than all the rest. A gi
gantic soldier, who had stood by his
side at Trenton, stepped forth from the
ranks, and extended his hand:
Farewell, my beloved General, fare•
Washington grasped his hand in con•
vulsive emotion in both his. All dis•
cipline was now at an end, the officers
could not restrain the men, as they rush-
CORRECT PRINCIPLES-SUPPORTED lIV TRUTH,
HUNTINGDON, PA., SEPTEMBER 16, 1846.
ed forward to take Washington by the
hand, and the sobs and tears of the
soldiers told how deeply engraven upon
their affections was the love of their
At length,Washington rdadhOd the
barge at White Hall, and entered it.—
At the first stroke of the oar, he rose,
and turning to the companions of his
glory, by waving
,his hat, bade them a
silent adieu ; their answer was only in
tears; officers and men, with glistening
eyes, watched the receding boat till the
forin of their noble commander was lost
in the distance,
Contrast the farewell of Washington
to Isis army at White Hall, in 1783,
and the adieu of Napoleon to his army
at Fontainbleau, in 1814! The one
had accomplished every, wish of his
heart ; his noble exertions had achieved
the independence of his country, and
he longed to retire to the bosom of hiS
home—his ambition was satisfied. He
fought for no crown or sceptre, but for
equality and the mutual happiness, of
his fellow beings. No taint of tyranny,
no breath of slander, no whisper of dis.
plicity, marred the fair proportions of
his public or private life—but
Ho was a man, take him for all in all—
ne'er shall look upon hia like again."
The other great soldier was the dis
ciple of selfish ambition. He raised the
iron weapon of war to crush only that
he might rule. What to him were the
cries of widows and orphans 'l He pass
ed to a throne by making the dead bo
dies of their protectors his stepping.
stones. Ambition, self, were the gods
of his 'idolatry, and to them he sacrifi
ced hecatombs of his fellow-men for
personal glory. Enthusiasm points with
fearful.wonder to the name of Napoleon,
whilst justice, benevolence, freedom,
and al =the concomitants which consti
tute the true happiness of man, shed
almost a divine halo round the name
and character of WASHINGTON.
Consistency hi Public Men.
We are great admirers of consistency
in public men. The unity of a life be
gun, continued and ended in the resolute
assertion of a great and true principle,
is a noble and moral spectacle. We
like to know where to find a man, and
what to expect of him. We love to
feel assured that what he means he will
say, and what he says he will do, that
his principles of action are stable and
rooted in his convictions, and that his
past gives a reliable pledge of his future.
But this has nothing to do with the per
tinacious dullness that never changes
an opinion. If frequent and suddeti
changes of opinion are a presumptive
indication of intellectual infirmity, an
obstinate resistance to the adoption of
new opinions, as new
.factse,ame to light,
is downright stupidity ; and the attempt
to hide orgloss over one's mental chan
ges is a despicable moral poltroonery-.
We know not a meaner cowardice.than
that which makes a man ashamed of
seeming wiser at fifty than he was at
forty. The true consistency for a
statesman is the consistency, not of this
.words, but of this year's acts
with this year's convictions. In fact,
an honest man need never trouble him
self about consistency at all. His hon
esty will insure his consistency, so far
as consistency is a lit virtue for fallible
beings. Let any man keep a clear, open
mind, and habits of frank speech—seek
ing the truth, and speaking the truth,
from day to day, and from year to year
—and although he live to the age of
Methuselah, without once thinking
about his consistency, his life will look
consistent enough at last.
AN EXTINGUISHER.-" If people were
not hanged for murder," said a young
lady some time ago, "we should not be
safe in our beds." A member of the
Society of Friends who happened to be
present, and heard this argument for
capital punishment, drew his chair up
to the lady, and said, " I want to ask
thee a question or two. Dost thou think
a man ought to be hung before he has
repentedi" " Oh, no ; certainly not !
No one ought to be sent into eternity
until he is prepared for the kingdom of
Heaven !" " Good," said the Friend;
"but now I have another question to
ask thee. Dost thou think any man
ought to be hung after he has repented,
and is fitted for the kingdom of Heav
en V' We need not, say tho lady was
131)0D MOTlVES.—lnfluenced by good
motives, and urged on by a generous
impulse, while virtue beams conspicu
ously on your brow, you cannot but do
good wherever you direct your steps.—
There will be no selfish propensities to
gratify; no depraved inclinations to
draw away the heart ; no base passion
to eat up the tender sensibilities. Your
motto must be onward to Truth and V ir•
HOW HE LOST Ills TAIL,
This droll' sketch we take from a let
ter in the N. Y. Mirror.
"Gentlemen," said the tall Kdntuakz
ian, hauling up, and leisurely taking his
Seat in a vacant chair, " don't make fun
of that thiar dog, if you please," and
With a face of profound melancholy and
touching pathos. he added, " unless you
want. to hurt, his fcelins."
"Oh, of course not, sir, if you dislike
it. But pray 'how did he come to be
curtailed of his fair proportions."
" Well, gentlemen, I'll tell you," said
the Kentuckian, replenishing the capa
cious hollow of his cheek with a quid
6f tobaccO, "That thar dog was the
greatest b'ar hunter in Kaiiiiitek a feW
years ago. timed to. take my rifle and
old Riptearer, of an afternoon ; and think
3 - Jolting o' ten bars. One cold
day in the middle .0' winter, bein'
troubled a good Acct.! with an old he-bar
that used to carry off our pigs by, the
dozen, I started out' with Riptearer, de
termined to kill the old rascal or die in
the attempt. Well, atter we'd gone
about two miles through the woods, we
all of a sodding come right smack on
the old bar, with his wife and .three
cubs. I know'd I couldn't shoot "em all
at once, and I know'd if I killed either
of the old miS tether would make at
me, for I could see they war mortal
hungry. So sez I, " Rip what'll - we
do 1" Rip know'd what I was say in'
H ind without waitin' to hold any conflab
about it, he guy a growl 'and pitched
right in among 'em. With that I let
fiy at the she-bar, cos I know'd she was
the mist when thei cubs was about.—
Over she rolled as dead as a mackerel.
Rip he hitched on the he-bar; and they
had a most almighty tussel for about
five minutes, when the bar begun to roar
, enough like blue murder. I run up then
! And knocked his brains out with the butt
cent' of my. rifle. The cpbs,was so
skeered and cold that I killed 'em all in
two minutes with my knife. But' Rip
took on terrible about my knockin off
the old bar on the head.. At fast I
thought he was going to tackle on to
me, and says I—" Rip, that's downright
Ongratefol. s With that he sneaked off
in a huff; but I could easily see he was
terrible mad yet. Well, I left the bars
01l on the ground, concluding to call
back with the neighbors for 'em as soon
as I could let 'cm know. On the way
home Rip kep ahead of mu. Every
time he thought about how I killed the
old bar his lail would stand right up on
ecnd, lie was so powerful mad. It was
gettin' on to night, and began to grow
freczin' cold. About half a mile from
the house, Rip he come to a halt, think
in' he'd have another look back in the
direction of the bars. The scent of 'em
raised' his dander wuss than ever. His
tail stood right squar up, as stiff as a
hoe-handle. .Just then it come on cold
er than ever, and poor Rip's tail friz ex
actly as it stood. I was in a bad fix.—
had no fire to thaw it. While I was
thinking. what I'd do to get it down
again, a big buck deer sprung Up and
darted right over a fence about fifty
yards ahead. Rip didn't wait to be told
whar to go, butt pitched hell-bent finer
the deer. I cracked away with my rifle,
and just raised the fuzz between his
horns. As soon as Rip got to the fence
he thought he'd make a short cut, so he
dashed right through, but his tail was so
brittle it brolee off between the rails !
Poor old Rip was done for good. He
never had a tail to show after that ; it
broke his spirit as well as histail; that's
how he come to loose it. And now,
gentlemen, I am getting a little dry,
and if You have no objection we'll take
LOVE.—There is such a thing as love
nt first sight, deny it who may; and it
is not necessarily a light or transitory
feeling because it is sudden. Impress
sions are often made as indelibly by a
glance, ns some that grow from imper
ceptible beginning, still they become in
corporated with our nature. Is it not
the fixed law of the universe, the needle
to the pole, n sufficient guarantee for the
existence of attraction) And who will
say it is not of divine origin 1 The pas
sion of love is so, too, when of the gen.
nine kind. Reason and appreciation of
character, may, on longer acquaintance,
deepen the impression, as streams their
channels deeper wear; but the seal is
set by a higher power than human will,
and gives the stamp of happiness or
misery to a whole life.
A well regulated mind does not
regard the abusive language of a low fel
low in the light of an insult, and deems
it beneath revenge. All the abomina
tions to which the lat l / 4 pr may give utter
ance will not raise hin; one Jot above his
proper level, or depress the former, in
the slightest degree, below his sphere.
.1 moral, ouniablo, niul terll•brcd man
%Will not ilLult me—mud uu utltcr can.
Nothing upon a farm is so valuable as
a good cow, says the Springfield (Mass.)
Republican, and it should be a constant
effort with every true farmer to seek the
best breeds, an tl feed hi the best man
ner, for herein lies the soundest econo
my. Very much has already been RC'
complished for this important interest,
but much remains to be done. While
we are strongly inclined to believe that
no better cows can be found—we mean
for milk—than selections from the na
tives, we fed.quite sure that great ad
vantage is also to be derived from the
best importations, provided the mode of
keeping be imported and understood
also. For here is the' real secret—the
feeding and keeping of the animal. And
strange as it any seem, nothing is more
difficult than to ascertain this. Of the
haported breeds, We have the opinionl
that the Ayrshires are to he preferred.:
They are the best stork in Scotland, and
are generally regarded in the same light
in England. They aro not so large. or
handsome as the Durhams, but they are'
a hardier race, keep themselv'cs hi good
condition, are easily fattened. Mr.
Phinney declares them to be, from his
experience, greatly superior to the.Durr!
hams, for dairy properties. There have
been numerous importations of the Ayr
shire breed into our State, and, the last
year, a large_ importation was made by
the State Society.
To show what can be accomplished,
and the manner of doing it, we refer to
the famous Cramp row in England, of
the Sussex breed. During her first year
for milking, she produced 510 lbs. of
butter; the largest amount in a week
was 15 lbs. In 47 weeks her milk
amounted to 4,921 quarts. In her third
year she produced 5,782 quarts of milk,
and 675 lbs. of butter; the. largest
amount of butter in a week was 18 lbs.
In her fifth year, her milk was 5,369
qts., and her butter, 591 lbs. Largest
quantity of butter in a week, 17 lbs.
' The feeding of this cow was, in sum
mer, clover, lucerne, rye, grass and ear•
ilAs- T -at noon, four gallons of grains and
two of bran, mixed. In winter, hay,
grains and bran, five or six time§ a day.
The famous Oakes cow, owned in Dan
vers, in this State, may be mentioned
also as very remarkable ; she produced
19 14 lbs. of butter in a week. In 1816
her butter was 484 1-4 lbs. She was
l' alloWed 30 to 55 bushels of Indian meal
in a year; she had also potatoes and
J carrots at times.
A cow owned in Andover, in 1836,
yielded $67 38 from the market, besides
the supply of the family. The keeping
was good pasture, the swill of the house,
and three pints of meal a day.
A cow owned by Thomas Hodges, in
North Adams, produced, in 1840, 425
lbs. of butter. Her feed was one quart
of rye meal, and half a peck of potatoes
daily, besides very good pasturing.
Putnam cow, at Salem, averaged for a
year, 12 quarts daily.- In 1841, with
two quarts of meal daily, she averaged,
in one month, 18 quarts daily.
A cow, owned by S. Renshaw, for
merly of Chicopee Falls, gave 17 3-4 lbs.
of butter a week, and in one case 21 lbs.
This was n native without any mixture.
A cow in West Springfield, is record
ed as having given, in 60 days, 2,692 1.2
lbs. of milk, which is equal to 22 1-2
A cow, owned by 0. B. Morris, of
Springfield, some weeks afforded 14 lbs.
of butter, besides milk and cream for
the family. Her feed in Winter was
good hay, and from 2 to 4 quarts of rye
bran at noon ; in Summer, besides pas
ture, 4 quarts of rye bran at night.
Judge remarks, in the account of his
cow, " that many cows which have been
considered as quite ordinary, might, by
kind and regular treatment, good and
regular feeding, and proper care in'milk
ing, rank among the first rate."
J. P. Cushing, of Watertown, has se
veral native cows which give 20 quarts
Dr. Shurtleff; of Chelsea, owned a
small cow which gave 21 quarts daily.
The Hobart Clark cow at Andover
gave 14 lbs. of butter a week.
A cow of W. Chase, Somerset. R. T.,
in 1831, gave most of the season 20
quarts of milk daily; averaged nearly
14 lbs. of butter during the season.
'rho Homer cow at Bedford, Mass.,
gave 14 lbs. of butter a week.
The foregoing list consists of natives.
We may also add, that there is now in
West Springfield, a cow, owned by an
excellent farmer, which has afforded 19
1-'_' lbs. of butter a week. But we are
not informed whether this is an unmixed
native or not. In the account which is
on record of the famous Cramp cow in
England, a remark is made deserving
the notice of all milkers and farmers—
Milch cows are often spoiled for want
of ttatieuer at the latter end of milking
The question has often b e ,
ot-lottl--what is lite itvert !T e of
I EDITOR Al\ 1 ) PROPb i E'D )1,
WHOLE NO, 555
a cow in milk 1 An eXperieneed
man in Essex county, says it is five beer
quarts daily, when well fed; others say
one gallon. It is said a cow requires
two tons of hay in a season—and should
have froth one t o tw o (parts of meal a
day, and about it peck of vegetables.
Soiling is well adapted for the cow;
grass, oats and corn, cut green, furnish
excellent food for this purpose. Carrots
are invaluable through the . winter. Our
farmers would render a great service by
furnishing, at our annual fairs, written
statements of their own' experience iit
the management and produce of their
cows. May they not be fairly called
upon to do sol
SUBLIMITY AND TENDERNESS•—TiIe 801 d
goes out with the tears. Sublimity may
fill the eye with fire, thrill through the
f'raine, and give new intensity to the con
ionsness of existence; tenderness.car
ri, a man from himself, and gives trp
his poured out affections in. anothers
Losom. The one enlarges ; the other
'I;GS - es' and distributes through the
wige range of humanity its own forgot
ten being. The one may he excited by
the voice of the thunder speaking solemn
ly to the dark clouds; by the beetling
brow of the mountain, by the sound of
many waters; the other claims no affin
ities to inanimate bulk or brutal force—
its gushing affections flow only at the
touch of „soul, or when the spirit of God
,breathes on the heart, disposing it to int.
mense goodness and the overflowing of
HOW TO GET Then.—Almost everybody
wants this information. It is comprised
in this advice:
"Be economical, be industrious, attend
to your own business, never take great.
hazards, don't be in a hurry for wealth,
never do business for the sake of doing,
and do not love money extravagantly."
By following out the above to the let
ter, you Cannot fail of becoming im
mensely rich at some future period ; but
neglect one single iota of the advice and
ten chances to one you will fail in the at
Here is one beautiful little para
graph which We find in one of our ex
"If there is a man who can eat hi s
bread in peace with God and man, it i s
the man who has brought that bread
out of the earth. It is cankered by no
fraud: it is Wet by no tears; it is stain;
ed by no blood."
A Goon RULE.—Lord Erskine was dis ,
tinguished through life for independence
of principle, for his scrupulous adhe
rence to truth. He once explained the
rules of his conduct, which ought to be
deeply engraved on every heart. Ho
"It was a first command and council
of my early youth always to do what my
conscience told one to be my duty, and
leave the consequence with God.
shall carry with me the memory, and I
trust the practice, of this paternal les
son to the grave. I have hitherto fold
lowed it, and have no reason to complain
that my obedience to it has been a tem
poral sacrifice. 1 have found it, on the
contrary, the road to prosperity and
wealth, and shall point the same path to
my children for their support."
A SORRY MAN.—The tell a story
about a Yankee tailor dunning a man
for the amount of his bill. The man
said he "was sorry, very sorry, indeed,
that he could'ut pay it." .
"Well," said the tailor, "I took yon
for a man that would be sorry, but if you
are sorrier than I am, I'll quit."
THE SNUFF Box.--The following dih.•
logue took place between an old lady, a
disciple of Miller, and n friend who call- ,
ed upon her, the morning after the world
did not come to an end. " Well, marm,
I am surprised to see you. How imp.
pens it you didn't go up last night 1' ;
" Well, I did start—but marcy on us, I
forgot my snuff box! "
1 CCP- - An attorney, about to finish a bill
of eases, was requested by his client,
lbaker, "to make it as light aspossible,"
" Ah," replied the attorney, "that's
what you may say to your foreman ; but
it's not the way 1 make my breath"
V- A young man stepped into a hook
store and asked for "A Venn , Man's
Companion." " Well, sir," replied the
bookseller, "here's my daughter."
[r) , - A country editor thus nudges his
"We don't want money desperately
bad, but our creditors do. And no
doubt they owe you. And if you'll pay
us, we'll pay them, and they'll pay you!' '
117 e I'm n vietim nrtificial
state of society," ;Is the monkey said