Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, June 26, 1851, Image 1
or , .‘ 4 , 0 ,,,,;„ " , , _Od 4. °. 44,,*fIngbiki 4•9 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."