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VOLUME XVI.
FVom the Drawing Room Companion.
The Dead Men in the Chapparel.
BY WILLIAM J. MILLER.
They heeded not the harsh command,
But stretched them on the stranger's sand,
And heavenward cast a vacant stare,
In broken fragments breathed a prayer,
Grounding their warring weapons there;
Alas! how many—who can tell—
Sleep their last sleep in the chapparel.
No more the bugle's mellow strain
Shall wake those slumbering dead again;
Their bones bleach in a boundless tomb,
Where prickly pear and cactus bloom;
And oblivion casts her sad, sad spell
O'er nameless dead in the chapparel!
How many hearts yet bleed and yearn
For sons who never will return;
Whose pillow, dewed with tears each night,
With weary watch by taper's light!
But little they know, and who shall toll,
They fill a grave in the chapparel!
No more at morn shall those warriors be
Awaked by the martial reveille;
They've marched their last march, drilled their
last drill,
Taking their rest with their arms at will,
For the freed wur spirit has bid farewell
To their lifeless clay in the chappurel!
There the wild dog prowls on the sea-girt shore,
To mingle his Wail with the breaker's roar;
And the prairie pack, with their yelping cry,
Pursue the young fawn that is doomed to die.
And Ike nightingale, perched on banyan tree,
Pours forth its soul's best melody;
But nothing can break the sad, sad spell
Of their last sleep in the chapparel!
My Boyhood's Home.
BY ERNEBT U.: WALTON,
firing back my boyhood's golden hours
From the treasury of the past;—
Oh linger nigh! life's first Spring flowers,
That faded 'fore the blast;
The rocky cliff, the hill and glen,
The joy and laughtel free;
I would I were a boy again—
Oh bring them back to me. •
Bring back my early childhood's home—
The alter and the hearth,
The song of praise—derotion's tone—
The lov'd that fled from earth;
The day's that flitted by so fast,
—Lite's streamlet to its sea,—
Which
lie deep buried in the Past;--
Oh bring them Lack to me.
In fancy's realms, I wander still
By my boyhood's chcrish'd home,
And gather flow'rs .by brook or rill,
And over wood-lands roam;
Oh linger nigh! though visions dim
And shadows faint ye be;—
Tho' filled life's chalice to the brim,
Yet bring them back to me!
Speak. no 111
Nay speak no ill: a kindly word
Can never leave a sting behiridt
And, oh, to breathe each tale we've heard
Is far beneath a noble mind.
Frill oft a better seed is sown
By choosing thus the kinder plan,
For if but little good be known,
Still let us speak the best we can.
Giro me the heart that fain would hide,
Would fain another's faults efface;
How can it pleasure human pride
To prove humanity but base!
No: let us roach a higher 'node,
A nobler estimate of num;
Be earnest in the search of good,
And speak of ull the best we caii:
Then speak no ill—but lenient be
To other's failings as your own;
If you're the first a flush to see,
Be not the first to snake it known,
For life is but a passing day;
No lip may tell how brief its span;
Then, oh! the little time we stay,
Let's speak of all the best we can.
Good Sensei
Good sense, or what is usually called common
sense, is the basis of good than. It teaches a
Man in the first place that more than two elbows
are highly inconvenient in the world; and, in the
Second, that the fewer people you jostle .on the
toad of life, the greater your chance of success
among men or women. It is not necessary that a
common sense man need be an unimaginative
hue; but it is necessary that his imagination should
to well regulated. Good taste springs from good
Sense, because the latter enables a man to under
stand at all times precisely where he is, and what
ho ought to do under the circumstances of his sit
uation. Good taste is a just appreciation of the
relationship and probable effects of ordinary, as
well as extraordinary things; and no man can
have it unless he is in the habit of considering his
own position, and planning his own actions with
Coolness and accuracy.
DISINTERESTED PATRIOTISM.—Prentice of the
Louisville Journal, acknowledges a complimen
tary notice in an exchange in the following style:
"We scarcely know, dear sir, how to thank
you sufficiently. We wish you wero the son of
the President of the United States, and we wero
your father.
II 3 / 4 PPING TO SOME PURPOSE:
OH,
The Sorrows of a Man who didn't
pay the Printer.
BY A. D. lUCHARDSON,
Ms. Fs/immix BURBANK was a lucky man.—
Everybody said so, and of course what everybody
says must be true. Not that I intend to vouch
for the trolls of any statement because everybody
believes it; in fact, I have a faint recollection of
havinghcard reports at times, which were quite
extensively circulated, on the truth of which I
should not be ready to stake anything I valued
very highly.
Be that as it may, of the truth of the fact re
corded at the commencement of this article no one
ever expressed a doubt; so allow me to repeat
emphatically that Mr. Franklin Burbank was a
lucky man. Some people, indeed, went so far
as to say that he was born with a silver spoon in
his mouth; but in regard to the truth of this state
ment, I do not feel prepared to give any evidence,
for the best of reasons. However, Mr. Burbank
was a man well-to-do in the world. lie had a
pleasant wife, half a dozen interesting children,
and moreover, was the possessor of a block of
buildings up-tows, which were a sore temptation
to certain persons to disregard the first clause of
the testis commandment. And when he rode out
of a pleasant afternoon, behind his elegant silver
grays, there were many who envied his position.
Everybody knew Mr. Burbank. Elderly ladies
always recommended him to their nephews as a
model man; and what was of far more practical
benefit to hint, his name was good on Change for
almost any sum. People said, too, that he was a
happy man, and on the whole, I am inclined to
agree with them in this respect. Mad you mark
ed his rOund, jovial countenance, and portly form,
you would surely have pronounced him a man
who made the most of the good things of this life.
Mr. Burbank was a punctual man. So said
Madame Rumor, and who ever questioned her
veracity? Perhaps, too, his conduct afforded
sufficient ground for such a belief. Regularly, at
the end of every quarter, he settled all his bills
with a promptitude sehlotis witnessed. All, did I
say? No: there was ono bill which had been ac
cumulating for the last dozen years, and that was
the printer's. For all that time, he had enjoyed
the fruits of the printer's unceasing toil.
_ _
He had always breakfasted over the contents of
the morning paper, and as systematically smoked
over the evening edition. And if, through the
negligence of the carrier, he had not received his
paper, or had received it an hour behind the time,
he had always esteemed it his especial privilege to
speak of it in a tone as near grumbling as such an
invariably good-humored matt could approach.—
Why he had never paid for his paper, I do not
profess to know. It was one of those mysteries
which tnortuls are not permitted to look into.—
Certain it is that he had been presented with his
bill times without number; but we will be charita
ble and suppose that the remembrance of it always
slipped from his mind the moment it was fairly de
posited in his pocket-book.
Now, the printer was one of those whole-souled,
generous-hearted beings, who are constantly on
the lookout for the "good time coming," and wait
its approach with a patience highly commendable.
For years lie hail toiled on, curly and Into, in sea
son and out of season, & Mr. Burbank had enjoy
ed the fruits of his unrewarded labors. Foresight
I know, ho would have enjoyed them still, had not
en event occurred which some-what disturbed the
usual equanimity of his feelings. The circum
stances were on this wise :—Otte evening, having
returned to his household gods rather later than he
was wont lie was fairly established in bed and had
fallen into a sound slumber, when suddenly there
came a secession of sounds apparently from the
ceiling beside him.—
Rap, rap, rap.
Mr. Burbank tittered a sound somewhere be
tween a snore and a groan.
Rap, rap, rap, again was heard.
Mr. Burbank rolled over.
Hap, rap, rap.
Mr. Burbank—now fhirly awake—started from
his pillow and listened eagerly.
.- -
Rap, rap, rap.
" Wife !" said he, "what can that he ?"
" What I" inquired his better half, just awa
kening from a pleasant dream.
Rap, rap. rap.
" Thai P' answered Mr. 8., firmly.
" Spiritdal tappings," suggested Mrs. B.
" Do you think so l" gasped Mr. B.
"That is my opinion," replied Mrs. B. with the
voice of a woman who has made up her mind.
At that moment, as if to demonstrate the truth
of licr opinion, again the sounds wore distinctly
heard—
Rap, rap, rap.
Would you speak to it?" inquired Mr. B.
" By all means," replied his help-meet,
Mr. B. attempted to speak, but the words stuck
in his throat. At length, after several unsuccess
ful efforts, he faintly articulated—
"ls it a spirit ?"
Rap, rap, rap.
Does the spirit wish to communicate with me?"
Rap, rap, rap.
"Is it on an errand of peace?"
Mr. 13. emphasized the last word peculiarly;
but he waited in vain for an answer. The spirit
seemed very taciturn and would impart no infor
mation in regard to its message. Of course no
more sleep was to be enjoyed that night. Mr.
and Mrs. Burbank held a long consultation and
finally agreed to say nothing in regard to their
nocturnal visitor ; but await further developments.
HUNTINGDON, PA., THURSDAY, JUNE 26, 1851.
The next night they retired at an early kour, and
had just composed themselves into a quiet slum
ber, when the same scene was re-enacted. For
several weeks their spiritual visitor continued to
disturb them in the same manner, and soon the
loss of so much sleep began to affect seriously the
the health of Mr. Burbank. His round, jolly
countenance grew thin and haggard, and he was
reduced almost to a walking skeleton. Wherever
he went ho was assailed with inquiries in regard
to his health, and sympathizing friends always
concluded by kindly informing him that ho was
certainly ill, and advising him to go home and cull
his physician. Of course suds advice was calcu
lated to calm his nerves, and to produce very un
enviable feelings on his part. The gossips assign
ed different causes for the marked change in his
appearance. Some supposed he bad engaged in
some unfortunate speculation, and others de
clared that his worthy partner was a shrew Both
of these conjectures were about as near the truth
as gossips usually come.
But all this time his spiritual friend continued
its annoyance with a perseverencc which nothing
could daunt. One morning after its demonstra
tions had been unusually noisy, and he had passed
a sleepless night, Mrs. B. suddenly assailed her
" worser half" with the inquiry— .
" Mr. Burbank, do you owe the printer ?”
" Why?" demanded that individual, who, it
must be confessed, experienced some qualms of
conscience on that score.
"I was thinking that if you did, dial might be
the cause of these troublesome tappings."
Mr. B. acknowledged the reason of the sugges
tion, by setting his hat and leaving the house with
an alacrity which astonished even his dutiful part
ner. Ten minutes after found hint at the office
of the printer. Ile found that individual at the
post of his unwearied labors.
"How much do I owe you sir ?" inquired Mr.
Burbank, nervously, the moment he entered the
The printer smiled graciously, as he made out
the bill, and the delinquent subscriber "cashed"
it on the spot. That morning our hero took his
breakfast with an appetite which ho had not known
for months. He soon regained his health, and
since that time has never been annoyed by spirit
ual clippings; but he has never neglected to pay
the printer in advance.
Council to Boys.
Bo brisk, energetic and prompt. The world is
full of boys and men too, who drawl through life,
and decide on nothing for themselves, but just
draggle one leg after the other, and let things
take their own way. Such people are the dull
stuff of the earth. They hardly deserve as much
credit as the wooden trees, for the trees do all
they can in merrily growing and hearing only
leaves and seeds. But these poor, drawling,
draggling boys do not turn their capacities to
profit half as far as they might be turned; they
are unprofitable, like a rainy day in harvest time.
Now the brisk, energetic boy will bo continual
ly awake, not merely with bodily eyes, but with
his mind and attention during the hour of busi
ness. After ho learns what to do, he will take a
pride in doing it perpetually and well, and would
be ashamed not to do what he ought to do with
out telling. The drawling boy loses in five mho-
uses the most important advice; the prompt, wide
awake boy never has to be told twice, but strains
hard to make himself up to the mark, as far as
possible out of his own energies. Third-rate boys
aro always depending on others. but first-rate boys
depend upon themselves, and after a little teach
ing, just enough to know what is to be done, they
ask no farther favor of any body. Besides, it is n
gloriotis thing for a boy to get this noble way of
self-reliance, activity and energy. Such a one
is worth a hundred of the poor, draggling crea
tures who can hardly wash their hands without
being told each time how it was done. Give me
the boy who will do his own work promptly and
well, the boy who has his wits about him, is never
behind hand and don't let the grass grow under
his heels.
Love of Lite.
What a native clinging of mankind to this poor
life there must be, what an inextinguishable sweet
ness in thO mere fact of existence, or at least what
a dread of the hour of dissolution, which millions
of human beings placed in circumstances which
many of their tellow-creatures regard as insuffer
ably wretched, yet pursue their weary journey
faithfully to its natural end, grudging to lose the
smallest inch! Watch a poor old man in rags,
slowly dragging himself along in a mean street as
if every step were a pain. his life has been one
of toil and hardship, and now he may be wifeless,
friendless, and a beggar. What makes that man
hold on any longer to existence at all? Is it any
remnant of positive pleasure he still contrives to
extract from it—the pleasure of talking twaddle
to people who will listen to him, of looking about
him at children playing, of peering into doors and
entries as he passes; is it fear and a calculation of
chance, or is it the mere imbecility of habit? Who
can toll?
dinuplicity.
The more I see of the world, the more I am
satisfied that simplicity is inseparably the com
panion of true greatness. I never yet knew a
truly great man—a man who overtopped his fel
low men—whO did not possess a certain playful,
and almost infantile simplicy. True greatness
never struts on stilts, or plays the king upon his
stage. Conscious of its elevation, and knowing
in what that elevation consists, it is happy to act
its part like other men, in the common amuse
ments of mankind. It is not afraid of being un
dervalued for its humility.—Paulding.
Rome.
"llome, thy joys are passing lovely—
Joys no stranger heart can tell."
What a charm rests upon the endearing name—
my Home! consecrated by domestic love—that,
golden key of earthly happiness. Without this,
home would be like a temple stripped of its gar
lands; there a father welcomes, with fond affec
tion; n brother's kind sympathies comfort in the
hour of distress, and assist its every trial; there
a pious mother first taught the infant lips to lisp
the name of Jesus; and there a loved sister dwells,
the companion of early days.
Truly, if there is aught that is lovely here below
it is home—sweet home ! It is like the oasis of
the desert. The passing of our days may be pain
ful our path may be checkered with sorrow and
care; unkindness and frowns may wither the joy
oneness of the heart, efface the happy smiles from
the brow, and bedew life's way with tears; yet,
when the memory hovers over the past, there is
no place which it so delights to linger at, as the
loved scenes of childhood's home ! It is the po
lar star of existence.—What cheers the mariner,
fur from his native land in a foreign port, or toss
ed upon the bounding billows,us he paces the deck
at midnight alone—what thoughts fill his breast '3
He is thinking of the loved ones far away at his
own happy cottage; in his mind's eye he sees the
smiling group seated around the cheerful fireside.
In imagination he hears them uniting their voices
in singing the sweet songs which he loves.—He
is anticipating the hour when he shall return to
his native land, to greet those absent ones so dear
to his heart.
Why rests that deep shade of sadness upon the
stranger's brow as lie scats hiMself amid the fami
ly circle ? Ile is surrounded by all the luxuries
that wealth can afford; happy faces gather around
him, and strive in vain to win a smile. Ali! he
is thinking of his own sweet home; of the lord
ones assembled within his own cheerful cot.
Why those tears steal down the cheeks of that
young and lovely girl, as she mingles in the social
circle? Alt! she is an orphan ; she, too, had a
happy home; but that house is now forsaken and
desolate; its loved ones are now sleeping in the
cold and silent tomb. The gentle mother who
watched over her infancy, and hushed her to sleep
with a lullaby, which a mother only can sing, who
in girlhood's days taught her of the Saviour, and
tuned her youthful voice to sing praises to His
name, has gone to the mansions of joy above, and
is mingling her songs, and tuning her goldeit harp
with brrght angels in heaven. Poor one! She is
n, , w left to tread the golden path of life, a lonely,
homeless wanderer.
Thus it is in this changing world. The objects
most dear are snatched away. We arc deprived
of the friends whom most we love, and our cher
ished home is rendered desolate. "Passing away,"
is engraved on all things earthly. But there is a
home that knows no changes, where separations
never take place, where. the sorrowing ones of this
world may obtain relief from all their griefs, and
where the sighs and tears of earth are exchanged
for unending songs of joy. This home is found in
coven.
In the shadowy past, there is ono sweet remini
scence which the storms of life can never wither :
it is the* recollection of home. In the visioned fu
ture, there is ono bright star whose lustre never
fades : it is the hope of home—of a heavenly home.
To IlesnAsos.—The influence of a sensible
woman is of no ordinary kind, and happy is the
man who is thus favored; not, indeed, that sensible
women are more rare than sensible men; but be
cause men are too apt to monopolize the entire
sense of the family, (is their own opinion,) to de
sire the woman "to leave the kitchen to them," to
treat the women as automatons, objects. ruttier of
amusement than rational beings, as children or
dolls, to be coaxed and made fools of, rather than
as equals or friends, bound to one eternity; fellow
sufferers who weep in their misfortunes; as parta
kers and heighteners of their joys, and as being
equally accountable to one God. Others, again,
look on women as the mere slaves of their will, a
sort of safety valve for their spleen, by means of
which their ill-tempers find vent. Both the char
acters, I trust will be far from my reader; but, if
he should have entertained such erroneous ideas
of what woman, in her higher moral capacity, is,
and ought to be, let me entreat hint to try, for a
short time, (and ho will then continue to do so,)
by kindness and affection, to draw forth the hidden
treasures from the mind and the heart of his wife;
if be have treated her as a mere cypher in his
family, let him gradually introduce her to trust
and responsibility; ii he have treated her as a
child, incapable of maturity of mind, let him now
make her as his confidant, and in the many oppor
tunities for inference which will then occur, he will
soon be aware hose much he has lost by past neg
lect; and, if he have treated her as a tyrant, if ho
have crushed the but halt-uttered sentiment, if he
have satirized her tastes and opinions; if by cold
ness, he have thrown the oft-springing affections
back upon the heart, there to wither and die, or
with the wound to rankle and to become gall, let
him try, before it lie too late, to restore sufficient
confidence to elicit opinion; let him then, by special
gentleness, awaken the dormant affection, and by
filo warmth of his love, perpetuate its flow. The
unadulterated love of woman is the greatest boon
heaven itself can, in this world, bestow on man."
[Hrs. Oakonith.
ACCENT RIGUT.—"Ah, my good friend, where
have you been for a week back'!"
"For a weak tack! 1 bare not been troubled
with a weak back, I thank you."
"No, where have you been long back?"
"Long back! don't call me long buck, you
scoundrel!"
ournAr.
A Sixpence well Invested.
The other day we saw a bright eyed little girl
tripping along the street with a basket on her arm,
apparently sent on some errand.
All at once she stopped and commenced search
ing for something she had lost amid the snow and
ice.
It was evident that it was something of value,
and that she was in trouble.
Her search was eager and nervous; the bright
smile had vanished from her face, and tears were
rolling down her cheeks.
A gentlemen passing at that moment noticed
the trouble of the little creature and asked her
what was the matter.
"Oh! sir," said she, her little bosom swelling ;
and tears falling fast, "Oh! sir, I've lost my six
pence!"
The gentleman took a piece of money from his
pocket, and called her to him saying, "Here, sis,
don't cry for the lost sixpence, here is another,"
and placed it in her hand.
"Oh, dear sir:" said she, as she bounded for
ward, "how I thank you."
tier grief was removed; the bright smile was
restored; the fear of a mother's frown for her care
lessness was gone, and her little heart beat lightly
again.
Think you that man, as he remembers that
pretty thee, beaming with gratitude and joy, will
ever regret that well invested sixpence?
A whole world of happiness bought fur a six
pence! How easy is it to shed sunshine on the
hearts of those about us!
A Revolutionary Matron
Perhaps no saying of Washington, sayi the
Richmond Republican, is more frequently quoted
upon patriotic occasions in Virginia, than this:
"Leave me but a banner to plant upon the moun
tains of Agusta, and I will tally around ten the
men who will lift our bleeding country from the
dust and set her free."
The incident, however, which led to this re
mark, is not so generally known; but it is one
which does immortal honor to the women of Vir
ginia, and lessens our wonder at the deeds of the
Virginia heroes who sprung from such a stock.
It is thus related in Howe's Historical Coll.-
tion.—"When the British force, under Tarleton,
drove the Legislature from Charlottsville to Stan
ton, the stillness of the Sabbath eve was broken
in the latter town by the beat of the drum, and
Volunteers were called for, to prevent the passage
of the British through the mountains at Rockfish
Gap. The elder sons of Mr. Lewis, who then re
sided at the old fort, were absent with the north
ern army. Three sons, however, were at home,
whose ages were seventeen, fifteen, and thirteen
years. Mr. Lewis was confined to his room by
sickness, but his wife, with the firmness of a Ro
man matron, called them to her, and bade them
fly to the defence of their native land. "Gu, my
children," said she, "I spare not my youngest,
my fair haired boy, the comfort of my declining
years. I devote you all to my country.—Keep
back the foot of the invader from the soil of Agus
ta, or see my face no more." It was the narra
tion of this incident to Washington, which caused
the enthusiastic exclamation so often quoted.
BEA Tir. cr. PRATE Lord bless and preserve
my husband ; lot his life be long and blessed, com
fortable and holy; and let me also become a great
blessing and comfort untc him, a sharer in all his
joys, a refreshment in all his sorrows, a meet
helper for him in all the accidents and chances
of the world ; make me amiable forever in his
eyes, and very dear to him. Unite his heart to
me in the dearest union of love and holiness, and
mine to him in all the sweetness of charity nod
compliance. Keep me frotn all tingentleness,
all discontentedness and unreasonableness and un
seasonableness of passion and humor, and make
me humble and obedient, charitable and loving;
patient and contented, useful and observant, that
we may delight in each other according to thy
blessed word and ordienance, and both of us may
rejoice in thee, having our portion in the loveand
service of Cad forever.
Tin: ancient palace of the Popes, and the
most magnificent in the world, stands on the right
bank of the Tiber, at Rome. The palace takes
its name from the hill on which it stands, derived
from one of those ancient impositions, known as
oracular deities, called by the Romans "Jupiter
Vaticanus." Who began the building is not
known, but it was occupied by Charlemagne.
more than a thousand years ago, atul has been in
creased by successive Popes, until it has reached"
its present immense extent. The number of
rooms in the Vantican exceed 4420, and its treas
ures in marbles, bronzes, frescoes, statues, paint
ings and gems, aro unequaled in the world, and
its library is the richest in Europe. The length
of the museum of statues alone is computed to be
a mile.
A Yankee Trick.
A crowd collected around a dilapitated speci
men of humanity yesterday evening, near the cor
ner of Fifth and Sicamore streets, to ascertain
what he was in search of, and -his object in feeling
in the gutter, without a candle to guide his course.
"0, darn it, I've lost some money," was the
Ono of the party, who is ever ready to assist his
fellow-beings when in distress, lost no time in pro
curing a light. After searching for a long time
in tho water and filth that accumulates in the
gutters, the "Green Mountain boy" turned to his
numerous lookers on and aissistatits, and remarked:
"I don't care a darn for the cent; I just wanted
to see whae the thing would roll to."
The Yankee escaped a severe thrashing only
by the use of his legs.
NUMBER 25.
The Two Roads.
IT was New Year's night. An aged man was
standing at a window. Ito raised his mournful
eyes toward the deep-blue sky, where the stars
were floating, like white lilies, on the surface of a
clear, calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth,
where few More hopeless beings than himself pow
snored towards their certain goal—the tomb:—
Already he had passed sixty of the stages which
lend to it, and he had brought from his journey
nothing but errors and remorse. His health was
destroyed, his . mind vacant, his heart sorrowful,
and his old age devoid of comfoit. The days of
Isis youth rose up in a vision before him, and he
recalled the solemn moment when his father had
placed him at the entrance of two roads, one lead
ing into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a
fertile harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet
songs; while the other conducted the wanderer
into a deep, thirk cave, whence there was no issue,
where poison flowed instead of water, and serpents
hissed and crawled.
He looked toward the sky, and cried out in his
agony, "0 youth, return ! omy father, place mo
once more at the entrance to life, that I may
choose the better way!"
But the days of his youth and his father had
both passed away. lie saw wandering lights float
ing fur away over dark marshes, and then disap
pear—these were the days of his wasted lite. Ile
saw a star fall from heaven, and vanish in dark
ness. This was an emblem of himself; and the
sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck home
to his heart. Then he remembered his early coin
minions, who entered on life with him, but wits,
having trod the paths of virtue and of labour,
were now happy and hohoured on this New-Year's
night. The chick in the high church-tower struck,
and the sound, filling on his ear, recalled his par
ents' early love for him; the prayers they had of
fered up on his behalt:. Overwhohned with shame
and grief, he dared no longer look toward that
heaven where his fidher dwelt; his darkened eyes
dropped tears, and, with one despairing effort, be
cried aloud, "Come back, my curly days ! come
back!"
And his youth did retueb; for all this was but a
dream Well visited his slumbers on New-Year'i
night. Ile was still young; his faults alone were
real. Be thanked God, fervently, that time was
still his own, that he had not yet enteted the deep,
dark cavern but that he was free to tread the road
leading to the peaceful land, whore sunny har
vests wave.
Ye who still linger on the threshold of life,
doubting which path to choose, remember that,
when yews are passed, and your feet stumble on
the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry
in vain: "0 youth, return ! 0 give me back
my early days !"
The Miidel Daughter.
Constantly she comes down to breakfast before
the tea things are taken away. She is always
ready for dinner. She curls her own hair, and
can undress herself without a servant. She is
happy at home, without going to a ball evey night.
She has not a headache when her papa asks her
to sing. She practices only when lie is out. She
dresses plainly for church, and returns to luncheon
without her head being crammed chock full of
bonnets. She is not perpetually embroidering
mysterious braces or knitting secret purses. Her
fingers are not too proud to mend stockings or
make a pudding. She looks most attentively
after the holes in her father's gloves. She is a
clever adept in preparing gruel, white wine whey,
tapioca, chicken broth, beef tea, and the thousand
little household delicacies of a sick room. She is
a tender nurse, moving noiselessly about, whisper
ing words of comfort and administering medicine
with an affection that robs it of half its bitterness.
She dos not scream at a leech, or faint at the sight
of a black beetle. She does not spin poetry, or
devour it in any quantity. She does not invent
excuses fur not reading the debates to her father
in the evening, nor does she skip any of the
speeches. She always has the pillow ready to
put under his head whets ho falls asleep. She
can behold an officer with womanly fortitude with
out falling in love. She never contracts a milli
ner's bill unkown to her parents—"she would die
sooner." Site never ititehed a red ttirk in her
life.—She soars above Berlin wool, and crying,
one-two-three, one-two.:ffiree, continually. She
studies houskeeping, is perfect in the common
rules of arithmetic, and can tell pretty nearly how
many long sixes are in the pound. She checks the
weekly bills, and does not blush if seen in a
butcher's shop on Saturday. She is not continu
ally fretting to go to Paris, or dying to see Jenny
Lind, nor does slap care nitwit about that love,
Mario. She does not take long walks by herself
and come home saying she lost her way. She
treats her father's guests with civility. She nev
er dresses in silks or satins the first thing iu the
morning, nor is she looking out of the window Or
1 admiring herself in the looking-glass all day long.
She makes the children frocks and plays a little
at chess and backgammon—anything to please
her dear father. Sho does not send home lovely
jewelry fur her dear father to look at. She has a
terrible horror of coquetting. She is kind to the
servents, and conceals their little faults. She
never pouts when scolded, nor shuts herself up in
a room to cultivate the sulks. She is the pet of
her darling papa, and warms his slippers ou a
winter's night, and lights the candle before going
to bed. She is her mamma's dear, good girl, as
is sufficiently proved by her being entrusted with
all the keys of the housekeepiug. There is a ter
rible crying when she is married, and fur days af
ter her absence nothing is heard in the house but
regrets, and loud praises and prayers for the hap-:
piness of the c• Model Daughter."