Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, June 01, 1853, Image 1

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    tflu u tin g 1( 7011Inal,
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s i VOL. 18.
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Gather Pipe Fruit, ohDeath
Hover not thou, with thy sombre wing,
O'er the beautiful buds of earth ;
Gather not thou what the angels bring,
Blight not the flowers at birth—
Childhood bath roses that fade at thy touch,
Voices that hush at thy breath ;
Linger not then, 'mid the earthly flowers—
Gather Ripe Fruit, oh Death !
Visions are wreathing the brow of the youth
With a deop mysterious spell,
Pulses are throbbing, whose joy and truth
Dare meanings too deep to tell—
'Youth bath fountains that chill at thy touch,
(lashings that freeze at thy breath ;
Linger not, then, 'mid the summer flowers—
'Outlier Ilion. Fruit, oh Death !
Majesty restcth on Manhood's brow,
The fervor of life at his heart,
hope bath enchained him with eagerness now,
Bid not her spirit deport—
Manhood bath missions that lead to thy sway;
Tires that are quenched at thy breath;
Linger not, then, 'mid the bloom of his day—
'Gather Ripe Fruit, oh beta
Sadness hail* crept o'er the dreams of age,
Bitterness lies at his heart,
Tempest and mildew ham blotted life's page,
Bid the worn spirit depart ;
Vim that are fettered will plume at thy call,
Shadows will flee at thy breath ;
'Come, then, in mercy with sceptre and pall—
Gather Alpe rtnit, oh Death!
Peacefully resteth the crown of yearn,
On the Christian's hoary head;
Faith, in its fullness, has silenced his fears,
The tumult of passion has fled,
Doly the visions that o'er him roll,
Prayer is the voice of his breath ;
Rend thou the temple that prison's his soul—
Gather Ripe Fruit, oh Death !
Or, the Forged Check.
The cheek book was in Ids hand; twenty
times had he taken it down during the evening,
and as often restored it-to the case. He knew
his employer's hand perfectly well, yet he hesi•
tated; that silent monitor, which is ever ready
to direct aright, and which has a dwelling in
the hearts of all, had struggled long and pow
erfully with Henry Olingham, and now no he
sat by the desk, the counting-room lighted by
the rays of a single lamp, the blank before him,
his pen in his hand, and the point glittering in
the black fluid in which it had just been immer
sed, he trembled, for the voice of reproof was
insbis ear. His brow was contracted; his chest
heaved, and alpale death-like hue stole over his
features. "This once," he muttered to himself.
"This once, only one hundred dollars, and then
I shall be able to appear in a suit which I
have selected. It will never be known; I will
manage the account;" and in that unguarded
momeut:the blank was filled out. He looked
for a moment with satisfitetion upon the skill
which he had displayed in imitating his employ.
er's hand, and folding the check, placed it in
'lns pocket-book, and retired for the night.
Alas for thee, Henry Olingham I Would that
some guardian spirit had been near, to have
warned thee of thy danger; thy destruction is
sealed. The first step to crime being 'taken,
how mMilv the Victim is lured oni step by step
he proceeds, each success emboldening him and
preparing him for the commission of other acts
'still more heinous. Like the youth in his tiny
boat, amusing himself within his prescribed
limits; a desire seizes him to launch further
swots the stream; for weeks, perhaps, his mind
has been occupied with the undertaking, each
week becoming less capable of resisAng his in
mlinations; at length the boundary is passed;
the law which was given him is broken; uncon
sciously Isis barque fonts till the noise of the
rushing stream tells the startled occupant of
his danger: be tries to regain the shore, buthis
.efforts are feeble, for a siren whispers salay;
the dark waves of ruin close over him, and all
is lost, lost foreveil
With a firm steady step, Olingham proceeded
to the bank; he paused before it; a sudden ir
resolution seized him, and he resolved to walk
a little further on, and then returned. He had
passed and re-passed several times, thinking
thereby to nerve himself for the task; he paused
on the steps; a strange fear crept °reads &tune,
but at length with renewed effort he entered;
the bank officers noticed him not, being enga
ged with others iu their daily routine of busi
ness. (Hingham became snore composed, and
proceeding to the counter, threw down the
, heck; a moment the teller examined it, and
4uring that moment, who can tell in lan-,
snag Alsc,..gonizing suspense of Henry °ling-
Isam . 5 1Vbilds would he have given to have
been a way from spot; huge drops of sweat
Marled:la his forebes4, and had the teller eyed
with the same scrutiNy he did the cheek,
detectic;: Would have been certain. He, how
pver, place. ,
s. is the drawer, 'filinghan receiv
the money, and 7!lleut wailing to count it
in set that 'nil was right," 10 hastened from
the hank, and was once more iu the street.
1% it h q. rapid step ho flew along the pa,eirtent,
t •,,
the look of recognition givenhimbyhis friends,
was by him construed into a piercing look of
inquiry, of suspicion. It seemed to him that
his crime was known to all. He hastened to
the counting-room; the other clerks were gay
anti cheerful, and taunted him on his haggard
looks. The steps of his employer fell like a
death-knell upon his ear; he thought he saw in
his manner that which told that his crime was
not to him unknown.
Time wore on; the secret remained sores-cal
ed ; Henry Olingham sported in his thshiona
hles, and by degrees again became cheerful.
"There will be a deficiency in the account,"
muttered Olingham, "and—and it—it, it must
be supplied; I will try my luck at the gaming
table, and if I fail, a check well executed, would
be cashed without inquiry;"—and he seized his
hat and proceeded to one of the many gambling
establisements which are to be found in all large
cities; he SOOll ti n ed an opponent; he was sue•
maul and at a late hour of the night lie pro
ceeded home, in the possession of twice the
sum required to make up the deficiency, which
had caused him such uneasiness.
Henry Olingbam was the son of highly re
speettible parents, in moderate circumstances,
who, however, had managed to give their son a
finished education. At an early age he was
placed at school,and by his dilligence soon out
stripped his companions, and by his pleasing
manners won the hearts of all around him.—
Through the interest of his friends he obtained
a situation an book-keeper in one of the largest
houses in the city, with a salary sufficient to
defray all his reasonable expenses; but ere
twelve months had elapsed hebegauto murmur
at his hard fate.
"Day after day," he would exclaim to him
self, "I toil here, and still am obliged to con
tinue wearing these unfashionable clothes."—
Once Henry Olingham had deemed them quite
good enough, but now, his companions dressed
much smarter and should he not? His un
fashionable coat, rendered him an object of de
rision. "Well Hank," his companions would
exclaim as he joined them in the toast,—"Here's
long life to the old coat I May it last a thou
sand years, and continue the pride of its wearer,
as it certainly is now three cheers for the old
coat; hip, hip, hurrah"
Pride goaded on the victim till hecommitted
the crime already related. * * *
. .
The fierce howl of the win try wind struck
terror to the hearts of many altouseless wretch;
the streets were deserted, shutters were closed,
and the houses wore an appearance of gloom.
In a large mansion there was the sound of mu
sic and of mirth; the beautiful rooms were
crowded; it was the wedding of Henry Oling
ham. He had met Ellen Morrison at a party,
her beauty, her wit, and manners were suffi
cient to engage the affections of Olingham; he
sought and obtained her hand.
It was late before the party broke up, and
many a glass was quaffed to the long life and
happiness of the happy couple. Alas! little
did they anticipate the fate of those to whom
they pleged so warmly.
The reader will pass with me over the sweets
of a year. In a miserably furnighed room of
en old and dilipidated house in one of our sou
thern cities, sat the wife of Henry Olingham;
the once beautiful Ellen Morrison, her long
dark hair hung in neglected masses over her
pale and care-worn brow, And tears coursed
down those cheeks of marble whiteness, where
the rose once bloomed in all its loveliness; the
sight of a cheerful fire was the only liihtin'the
"Oh, Henry," sobbed the heart broken wife,
"how could you—you have taken me from a
happy home." She started. "He comes," she
whispered, and ere she had time to wipe away
her tears, Olingham entered.
"So, weeping ninny, up at this late hour ?"
he muttered.
"Waiting for you," sobbed Ellen, springing
'forward and clasping her arms around his neck.
"Away, wench 1" - roared Olingham,thrusting
her from him with such violence that she fell
upon the floor; he was in a fit of intoxication; seat
ing himself upon his chair,
he cursed his fate.
"All, all is 'lost:l—and I—and I a beggar,
yes, a beggar! Fortune has turned her back
upon me, yet T will follow her, aye to the bot
tomless pit, if necessary." A groan from his
wife here arrested his attention; he arose; he
called upon her to arise, but she answered not;
he placed his hand upon her brow, it was cold,
her spirit had fledl
Henry Olingliam stood by the grave of his
wife on the following day, but no tear moisten
ed his blood-shot eyes; few were the mourners
there—he gazed for the last time upon hereold
featurebeautiful in death; yet realized not
that qlie Npirit which once inhabited that frail
form was at that moment singing praisesto God
in Heaven. Coldly he turned away to join his
companions at the gaining table.
Olingham, after his marriage, found his sal
ary insuftieient 'to maintain himself and wife,
in the style in which he wished to appear, and
having beenonee successful,had imbibeda pas
sion for gaming—the cue and the ball were his
resort ; his business was neglected, and his
employer, after vainly attempting to dissuade
him from his course, was obliged to direiss him.
Olingham's pride was too great to remain where
he was, and from thence he proceeded to the
South, with his lovely wife, whom we have al.
readyfollowed to an untimely grave. * *
qt is your last chance," said Olingham's op.
ponent. "The ball is spotted, sir."
Olingliam raised his cue and struck the ball
with such force that it bounded from the table
and rolled along the floor to the farthest end of
the room. . .
"Lost, lost I" exclaimed his opponent, in tri
"Not so fast, sir," replied Olingham, "it was
unfair; I lay claim to another strike."
"Liar!" roared his opponent, "you have lost."
"Retract," said Olingham, choking with rage,
"we'll try the virtue of pistols."
"I will not retract,' replied the opponent,
"and as for pistols, I have a genius for such
matters—l am ready."
Seconds Were chosen, and Olingham stood in
the corner of the room, with his antagonist fa
cing him in the other; the pistols were loaded,
and one was handed Wench ; the word was given
to fire; the loud report of the pistols re-echoed
through the halls; Olingham dropped heavily on
the floor, yielded up his his lift, with a curse
upon his lips. His opponent remained unhurt;
the dead body was removed to another room,
and in a few moments no one would have im
;twined, from the rattle of halls and the clash
ing bobs, that a fellow being had. a few mo•
talents before, been there murdered.
The next day Olingham was 'Curried to the
grave; his body enveloped in a course shroud,
and enclosed in a coflin of enplaned boards;
the lust sod was laid upon his lowly bed, moist•
ened by rto tear, and he was forgotten.
Pride, had led him to the corernission of his
first crime; others followed to chem.' the, first.
The gaming table was resorted to; disgrace
was the" result, and he fell by the hand of an
other, nn the evening of the day is \Odell he
followed hlx heart-broken with to it()
leaving behind him, Ito a legacy to the world,
his broken-hearted proms and those of his
luiy- Worldly re.pntation co. al plea.
The Marriage Relation.
The following sound, clear and Christian
views of the marriage relation are taken from
n popular work, entitled 'Martyria, a Legend,'
published in this city a few years ago, from
the pen of a gifted clergyman.—Boslan Jour.
"Of all the relations, those of husband and
wife, parent and children, friend and neighbor,
master and servant; constute much the larger
portion of man's happiness; and are more im•
portant, any of them, than all others together.
It is in the observance, the refinement, these
greatest, the primal relations, that happiness
is increased, and not in the inordinate accumu•
Intim of money, the acquisition of empty fame
or a luxurious indulgence.
Happiness is to be'attained in the accustom
ed chair by the fireside, more than in the hon
orary occupation of civic office; in a wife's love;
infinitely more than in the favor of all human
else; in children's innocent and joyous prattle,
more than in hearing of flattery; in the reci
procation of little and frequent kindnesses be.
tween friend and friend, more than in some oc
casional and dearly bought indulgence; in the
virtue of contentment, mote than m the anx
ious achievements of wealth, distinction, and
grandeur, in change of heart, more than in
change of circumstances; in full, firm trust in
Providence, more than in hoping fortune's fa
vor; in a growing taste for beauties of nature,
more than in the fee-simple inheritance of
whole acres °nand, in the observance of neat
ness and regularity, household virtues, rather
than in the means of ostentatious, and there
fore rare, display; in a h and-maiden's cheer
fulness, more than in the improved tone of
politics; and in the friendship of our next-door
neighbor, more than in the condescending no
tice of my lord duke.
Happiness, then, must be sought for in sim
plicity, and not in costlenoss; in the perpetual
ly recurring, more than in the rare; in abiding
peaceizather than in temporary rapture; and next
after the well of living water which springeth
up into ever lasting life, in no source else so
sedulously, as in those fountains which are fed
by the never-failing love of relatives and
Again, lie says:
"There are some parsons who have their im
agination so excited by the posibility of some
distant good, as to lose all taste for the little
delights which husband and wife, master and
servant, parent and child, may devise and re•
ciprocate hourly almost. Which is the luckier
man, he that can be happy in the smile of his
wife, or he that must wait, wait, wait for the
smile of fortune, and wait in vain perhaps I
In this world, there is nothing of such value
as affection; and the most trifling expression of
it, even though it be but a single word of en
dearment is in the best • ears a pleasanter
sound than that of a gold piece.
The price of a virtuous woman is far above
rubies, Solomon says. Were there allotted
to any one a female figure of solid gold, as a
companion for life, who is there but would beg
that it might be of silver only, that it might
speak? and then of an inferior metal still, if it
might only feel? end then, that it might be,like
himself on earth, might it only accompany him
about? And yet, 0 human inconsistency I
husbands be many of them heedless of home
joys, as not being an increase of wealth.
Man is created to be a living soul, and not
to he an alchemist; and the real want of his
heart is sympathy, affection, love and not the
philosopher's stone. It would not be more un
reasonable to transplant a favorite flower out
of black earth into gold dust, than it is for a
person to let money getting harden his heart
into contempt, or into impatience of the little
attentions, the merriments; and the caresses of
domestic life."
Live not to Yourself.
On the frail little stem in the garden hangs
the opening rose. Ask why it hangs there 7
" I hang here," says the beautiful flower, "to
sweeten the air which man breathes, to open
my beauties, to kindle emotion in his eye, to
show him the hand of his God, who penciled
each leaf and laid them thou on my bosom.—
And whether you find me here to greet him
every morning, or whether you find me on the
lone mountain side, with the bare possibility
that be will throw me one passing glance, my
end is the same—l lice not to myself."
Beside yonder highway stands an aged tree,
solitary and alone. You see no living thing near
it; and you say, surely that must stand for itself
alone. "No," answers the tree, "God never
made me for a purpose so small. For more
than a hundred years I have stood here. In
summer I have spread out my arms and shel
tered the panting flocks Which hastened to my
shade. In my bosom I have concealed and
protected the brood of young birds, as they lay
anti rocked in their nests; in the storm I have
more than once received in my body the light
ning's bolt, which had else destroyed the trav
eller; the acorns which I have matured from
year to year have been carried far and wide,
and groves of forest oaks can claim me as their
parent. I , have lived for the eagle which has
perched on my top, or the humming bird that
has paused and refreshed its giddy wing, ere it
danced away again like a blossom of he air;
for the insect that has found a.home within the
folds of bark; and when I can stapd no longer,
I shall fall by the hand of man, and I shall go
to strengthen the ship which makes him lord of
the ocean; and to his dwelling to warm his
hearth and cheer his home—T live not to my
On yonder mountain side comes down the
silver brook, in the distance resembling the
ribbon of silver, running and leaping as it dash
es joyously and fearlessly down. Ask the lean
er what it is doing. "I was born," sings the
brook, "high up the mountain, but. there I
could do no good; and so I am hurrYing doivn,
running where I can, and leaping where T mast;
but hastening down to water the sweet valley;
where the thirsty cattle may drink, where the
lark may sing on my margin; where I may
drive the mill for the accommodation of man,
and then widen into the great river, and beer
up his steamboats and shipping, and finally
plunge into the occur., to rise again in vapor,
and perhaps come hack again in the dotal to
my own native mountains, and live my short
life over again. Not a drop of water comes
down my channel, in whose bright face you
may not read, 'None of us liveth to himself!' "
And thus God has written upon the newer
that sweetens the air, upon the breeze that
rocks that flower ou its stem,, upon the rain
drops that swell the mighty river, upon the
dewdrop that refreshes the smallest sprig of
moss that rears its head in the desert, upon the
ocean that tosses its spray in useful industry,
not in idle sport, upon every pencilled shell
that sleeps in the caverns of the deep, as well
as upon the mighty sun which warms and
cheers the millinns of creatures that live in his
light—upon AU has he written, "None of us
livetlt to himself!"
Sap It is a fact that girls don't know that
kisses are sweet. Kissing n pretty one the
other day, she very innocently asked— .
"What was the use of it, and what good it
did ?"
MiF,," ,11,1 we, •' chat is the lIFC of
The Infant in Heaven.
Dr. Chalmers furnishes the following touch
ing expressions of his opinion on the subject of
infant salvation. It is expressed in strong and
beautiful language :
This affords, we think, something more than
a dubious glimpse into the question that is oft
en put by a distracted mother, when her babe
is taken away from her, when all the converse
it ever had with the world amounted to the
gaze upon it a few months, or a few opening
smiles, which marked the dawn of self-enjoy
ment; and ere it had reached, perhaps, the lisp
of infancy, it, all unconscious of death, had to
wrestle through a period of sickness, with its
power, and at length he overcome by it.
011, it little knew what an interest it had cre
ated in that home where it was so passing a
visitant, nor when carried to its early grave
what a tide of emotions it would raise among
the few acquaintances it left behind I There
was no positive unbelief in its bosom; no love
at all for the darkness rather than light, nor
had it yet fallen into that great condemnation
which will attach itself to all that perish, be
cause of unbelief, that their deeds are evil.
When we couple with this the known dispo
sition of our great Forerunner—the love that
he manifested for children on earth, how he
suffered them to approach his person, and lav
ished endearments and kindness upon them in
Jerusalem told the disCiples that the presence
and company of such as these in heaven form
ed one ingredient of the joy that was set before
him—tell no if Christianity does not throw a
pleasing radiance around an infant's tomb?—
And should any parent who hears us, feel
softened by the touching remembrance of a
light that twinkled a few short Months under
his roof, think not we venture too far when we
say, that he is only to persevere in the faith and
in the following of the gospel, and that very
light will again shine upon him in heaven.
The blossom whirls withered here upon it.
stalk has been transplanted there to a place of
endurance; and it will there gladden the eye
which now weeps out the agony of affection,
that has been sorely wounded. And in the
name of Him, who, if on earth, would have
wept with them, do we bid all believers pre
sent to sorrow not even as others which have
no hope, but to take comfort in the thought of
that country, where there is no sorrow and no
And when a mother meets , on high
The babo she lost in infancy,
Has she not then, for pains and fence,
The days of woo, the watchful night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An overjoyment of delight?
llyaterions Disappearance.—A Romance
in Real Life.
The circumstances attending the sudden din.
appearance of giss Emily Teal, from her fath
er's house, at Bergen Five Corners, as reported
in the Times of Saturday, have been rendered
even more mysterious by the return of that lady
to her home.
As we stated on Saturday, the young lady,
having occasion to leave the house for a few
minutes, on Thursday night, being dressed on
ly in her night clothes, was missed by her
friends, and on search being made, her shawl
was found in the arbor, but no trace of the
young lady herself could be arrived at, though
the investigation was pushed into every possi
ble channel throughout the whole, of Friday.—
Early on Saturday morning she was found in
an insensible condition on the steps of her fath
er's- house, wearing only her night clothes, ex
actly as She had disappeared about thirty hours
before. But, the mystery of her return is equ
ally as great as that of her singular abduction.
It appears from her statement, that when she
was returning, to the house on Thursday night,
she was suddenly seized when passing through
the arbor, and instantly blindfolded and gagged.
Her captors—and how many there were of
them she does not know—conveyed her in an
almost frantic state to a carriage which was in
waiting not far from the house, in which she
was placed and driven rapidly away. She im
agines that the distance she was taken was
considerable, lint how far she went, or how
long she was kept in the carriage she cannot
state, as she almost lost her senses through
fright, and was kept blindfolded and gagged
during the journey. Of only one thing she is
certain, viz: that the carriage crossed no ferry. li
- - ,
On the carriage coming to a halt, she was
borne into a small and poorly furnished apart
ment, which was lighted by a wretched lamp,
and was kept darkened, through the whole of
• Friday. She was left nearly all the time alone
in this room, locked in, and her escape prevent
:ed. She recollects seeing an ordinary looking
woman, and a well dressed man in this room,
but would not be able to recognise them. After
' dark, on Friday night, she was again blinded
and gagged. Then she was taken from the
house, and led on foot, as it seemed to her,
through woods and fields, but never along
In this way she was made to walk a very
long distance, till she was ready to sink with
exhaustion and fatigue, for, overcome by her
terror, she had refused the food which had been
offered her by the woman of the house to which
she was taken. At length her captors left her
at a point about half a mile from bin nahees
house, in the road running from I3ergen Cor
ners to Hoboken Ferry. With extreme diffi
culty, she managed to walk home, but only to
sink upon the door-step, where she was fbund
at daylight. She had not strength, while lying
on the step, to alarm 'her faintly, di• make her
return known to them. .
Beyond the fact of the abduc(ion, no violence
was offered to her, and the motives of her cap
tors can only be conjectured. But even con
jecture is at fault. The friends of the young
lady think it not impossible that a mistake was
made in her person; and that it was the inlets
tilm of the rations to have seized Suneholy
else. Tt is believed 'thtit she 'was not taken oat
of Hudson county. No little excitement and
alarm have been created in Bergen, and its vi
cinity through this hi 41-handed outrage.
The yontz lady 18, as rai.sht he expeeted,
very ill, excited and reveri4h. Her physicians
have recommended thlit she be not further
rMestioned entil she somewhat recovers.—New
York Times.
To CLEAN Cenrot:s.-- - -Your carpet being
first well beaten and freed from dust, tacit it
down to the floor; then mix half a pint of bul
lock's gall with two gallons of soft water; scrub
it Wen with soap and with this gall mixture;
let it remain till quite dry, and it will be per
fectly cleansed and look like new, as the colors
will lie restored to their original brightness.—
The brush you use must not be too hard, but
rather long in the hair, or you will rub up the
nap and damage the article.
fie.. A newsboy rushed into a retail shirt
store in Chatham street recently, and accosted
the proprietoi:
"Say, mister, do you retail shirts here ?"
"Yes, my son, we sell, to you at five shillings
a piece—very nice ones."'
"Oh, blitzes, hut I don't want n whole one;
but I seed your sign, 'shirts re-tailed,' and I
thought you might retail mine, fur it wants it
bad! it dog got hold of it, and ho wouldn't let
it go until I - had killed him."
"Well, sonny, you had better go over the
cannot re tail ear nil thin here."
From the Olive Branch,
The Stray Sheep.
"He's going the wrong way—straying
from the true fold; going off the track,"
said old Deacon Green, shaking his head
ominously, as he saw young Neff enter a
church, to hear an infidel preacher.—
"Can't understand it; he was taught his
catechism and ten commandments as soon
as he could speak; he knows the right
way as well as our parson; I can't under
stand it."
Harry Neff had never seen a day pass
since his earliest childhood, that was not
ushered in and closed with a family pray
er. He had never taken of a repast upon
which the Divine blessing was not invoked.
The whole atmosphere of the old home
stead was decidedly orthodox. Novels;
plays, and Byronic poetry were all vetoed,
Operas, theatres, and the like, most deci
dedly frowned upon: and no lighter litera
ture was allowed upon the table, than
Missionary Reports and Theological trea
Most of his father's guests being clergy
men, Harry was early made acquainted
with every crook and turn of orthodoxy.
He had laid up many a clerical conversa
tion, and pondered it in his heart, when
they imagined his thoughts on anything but
the subject in debate. At his father's re
quest,they had each and all taken him to he
the button, for the purpose of long privaty
conversations,—the old gentleman gener
ally prefacing his request with the remark
that "his heart was as hard as a flint."
Harry listened with respectful attention,
manifesting no sign of impatience, no ner
vous shrinking from the probing process,
and they left him, impressed with a sense
of his decided mental superiority but to
tally unable to affect his feelings the re
motest degree.
Such a pity'. they all said,that he sho'd
be so impenetrable; such wonderful argu
mentative powers as ho had; such felicity
of expression, such an engaging exterior.
Such a pity ! that on all these brilliant
natural gifts should not have been written,
"Holiness to the Lord."
Yes, dear reader, it was a pity. Pity,
when our pulpits are so often filled with
those, whose only recommendation for
their office is a good heart and black coat.
It was a pity that that grateful gesticula
tion, that rare felicity of expression, that
keen perception of the beautiful, that rea
dy tact and adaptation to circumstances
and individuals, should not have been ef
fective weapons in the gospel armory ?
a pity, that that voice of mush) should not
have been employed, to chain the world
ling's fastidious ear to listen to Calvary's
story. Yes, it was a pity that that glori
ous intellect had been laid at an unholy
shrine;-1 pity, that "he had strayed from
the true fold." How was it
Ah ! the solution is simple. "Line upon
lino, precept upon precept," is well--but
practice is better! Religion must not be
all lip service; the "fruits of love, meek
ness, gentleness, forbearance, long suffer
ing" must follow. Harry was a keen oh
server. He had often heard the harsh
and angry word from lips upon which
the Saviour's name had just lingered. Ho
had felt the unjust, quick, passionate blow
from the hand which a moment before had
been raised in supplication to Heaven.—
He had seen the purse-strings relax at the
bidding of worldliness, and tighten at the
call of charity. Ho had seen principle
sacrificed to policy, and duty to interest.
Ho had himself been misappreciated. The
shrinking sensitiveness which drew a veil
over his most sacred feelings, had boon
harshly construed into hard-heartedness
and indifference. Every duty to which
his attention was called, was prefaced with
the supposition that he was averse to its
performance. He was cut off from the
gay pleasures which buoyant spirits and
freat young life so eloquently plead for;
and in their stead no innocent enjoyment
was substituted. He saw Heaven's gate
OW, most unceremoniously, upon all who
did not subscribe to the parental creed,
outraging both his own good sense and the
teachings of the Bible; and so religion
(which should have been rendered so love ,
ly) put on to hint an ascetic form. `Oh,
what marvel that the flowers in the broad
road were so passing ftiir to see ? that the
forbidden fruit of the "tree of knowledge"
whit so tempting to the youthful touch ?
Oh, Christian parent! bo consistent, be
judicious, be Cheerful. If, as historians
inform us, "no smile ever played on the
Tips of Jesus of Nazareth, surely no frown
marred the beauty of that holy brow.
Dear reader, true religion is not gloomy.
"Her ways are ways of pleasantness, her
paths are petite." No Man, no woman,
has chart or compass, or guiding star,
Without it.
Religion is not a fable, Else why,
ivhen 'our household gods aro shivered, do
our tearful eyes seek only Heaven
Why, when disease lays its iron grasp
on bounding life, does the startled soul so
earnestly, so tearfully, so imploringly call
on its forgotten Saviour 1
Ah ! the house "built upon the sand"
may do for sunny weather; but when bil
lows roll, and tempests blow, and light
nings flash, and thunders roar, we need the
"Rook of Ages." FANNY FERN.
The Death of Jostphine.
Darkness and clouds surrounded the path
way of Napoleon. In vain he struggled to re
trieve his fortune. Thu lust engagement at
Leipsie decided his fortunes for the timeand
consigned him to Elba.
- -
Napoleon was an exile., but in his retirement
he did not forget the only being he ever really
loved, his Josephine. He immediately ad
dressed a letter to her, breathing the Sallie
spirit towards her that he had always manifes
ted rather congratulating . himself that his head
and spirit. Wove freer trom the enormous,,
weight of care, and intimating that hereafter
his pen should be a substitute tor sword.
".the world" said he, "has as yet, onW seen
me in profile. I shall now show myself to full.
How many things have I to disclose! how
mrinv are the men upon whom a &Ise e;tiwate
1 -
en play 4 ! 1 havg• lwapol I , .•relit, iil
on millions of wretches I What have they done
in the end for me? They have all betrayed
me I Yes, all. I except front this number the
good Eugene and yourself. Adieu! my dear
Josephine, Be resigned, as I ant, nud never
forget him who never forgot, and never will
forget you. Farewell, Josephine.
Upon reading these tidings so terrible, Jose
phine woo overwhelmed with grief, and imme
diately answered his letter, breathing the same
spirit of devotion to him, who was once her
husband, that had always characterized her no
ble heart, and entreated him to say hot the
word, and she would fly to him. The remain.
ing circumstances connected with her illness
and death we give in the language of Ur. Ab
A few days after this letter was written, the.
Emperor Alexander, with a number of illustri
ous guests, dined with Josephine, at Malmai
son. In the evening twilight, the party went
out upon the beautiful lawn in front of the house
for recreation. Josephine, whose health had
become exceedingly precarious through care
and sorrow, being regardless of herself In devo
tion to her friends, took a violent cold. The
next day she was worse. Without any definite
form ordisease, she day after day grew more
faint and feeble, until it was evident that her
change was near at hand. Eugene and Hor
tense, her most affectionate children, were
with her by day and by night. They commu
nicated to her physician, that death was near.
She heard the tidings with perfect composure,
and called for a clergyman to administer to
her the last rites of religion. .
Just after his solemnity the Emperor Alex
ander entered the room. Eugene and Horten
se, bathed in tears, were kneeling at their
mother's side. Josephine beckoned to the
Emperor to approach her, and said to him and
her children, "I have always desired the hap
piness of France. i did all in my power to
contribute to it; and r can say with truth, to
all of you now present, and my last moments,
that the first wife of Napoleon never caused a
tear to flow."
She called for the portrait of the Emperor;
she gazed upon it long and tenderly; and then,
fervently pres Sing it in her clasped hands to her
bosom; faintly articulated the following prayer:
•`0 God 1 watch over Napoleon while he re•
mains in the desert of this world. Alas
though he bath committed great faults; bath
ho not expiated them by great sufferings?—
Just God, thou hast looked into his heart, and
bast seen by how ardent a desire for useful and
durable improvements he was animated. De
ign to approve my last petition. And may
this image of my husband hear me witness
that my latest wish and my latest prayer were
for him and my children!'
It was the 28th of May 1814. A tranquil
summer's days was fading away into the cloud
less, serene and beautiful evening. The rave
of the setting sun struggling through the foli
age of the open window, shone cheerfully upon
the bed where the empress was dying. The
vesper songs of the birds which filled the grove
of Maintuition floated sweetly upon the ear, and
the gentle spirit of Josehine, lulled to repose
by these sweet anthems, sunk into its last
sleep. Gazed upon the portrait of the eloper
or, she exclaimed, ‘L'isled' Elba—Napoleon!'
and .died.
Alexander, as he gazed upon her lifeless en
mains, burst into tears, and tittered the follow
ing affecting yetiust tribute of respect to her
memory: She is no more; that woman whom
France named the beneficent, that angel of
goodness is no more. Those who have known
Josephine can never forget her. She dies re•
gretted by her offspring, her friends, and her
For four days her body remained shrouded
in state for its burial. During this time more
than twenty thousand of the people of France
visited her beloved remains. On the 2nd of
June. at midday, thefuneral procession moved
from Malmaison to Rnel,where the body was de.
posited in a tomb of the village church. The
timeral services were conducted with the great
est magnificence, as the sovereigns of the alli
ed armies united with the French in doing hon
or to her memory. When all had left the
church but Eugene and Morten., they knelt
beside their mother's grave, and fora long
time mingled their prayers and their tears. A
beautiful monument of white marble represen
ting the empress kneeling in her coronatical
robes, is erected over her burial-place, with this
simple but effecting inscription:
Death Place of Pontius Pilate,
A legend is popular among the pupil of
Vienna, says the "Journal of an antiquary,"
concerning the death of Pontius Pilate. The
story is of n strange character, and throws a
wild and pleasing interest over the locality
which commemorates the event. Not tier from
Vienna is situated a small Roman tower; its
walls are built square and rise to an unusual
height. Its lattice works overlook the waters
of the river; and the lofty shadows of its exteri
or envelope the shining floor winding at its
base with perpetual gloom, and seem to form
an additional feature of melancholy from the
character of the deed which is presumed to
have been enacted there' The place is called
the "Tour de kaconseul." After the crucifix
ion of Jesus Christ; Pilate, broken in spirit, re
tired to the tower to indulge in his grief, and
AO conceal his lamentations from his unbeliev
ing people. Here, violently susceptible of the
great wrong he felt himself to have participa
ted in, in a paroxism of despair, he threw
self from the lofty windows of the tower, and
perished in the waters of the Rhine. The
Swiss have likewise the traditionary account of
the death of Pilate. At the foot of one
of the Alpine Mountains, called by the name
of Pilate; stands a small lake, its waters are
always in a disturbed condition, and often the
scene of violent storms. Gloom and solitude
are the leading characteristics of this unfre
(wonted place, which presents but a wild and
ill.boding appearance to the eve of the travel
cr. Enfeebled in body, and his mind a prey
to ceaseless remorse, Pilate is said to have
reached the margin of the lake, and there to
have seated himself and drank of its waters.
An alien from his country and race, without
friends and solace, he resigned himself to the
bitterness of his reflections, and filially threw
himself into the waters at is feet. The tran
quility of the scenwis said to have been chang
ed from that time. The waters are often vial
ted by severe and unaccountable agitations,
which the legends say are the writhings of the
troubled spirit of Pilate. _
Thentijneent . mountains are shadowed all
the year thron:th, and the superstitions
tants of the district affirm that aparitinni are
frequently to be seen in the neighborhood, and
lamentations are heard upon the winds, Irak.
lug the echoes of fastnesses. The subject has
been before referred to by English travelers,
and particular allusion is make to it in Hughes'
aar Chinese ingenuity is said to have suc
ceeded in teaching monkeys tn gather tea on
those spots which arc not accessible to man
but at the honard of
re- 1, .11
NO. 22.
Sowing Corn for Fodder.
In answer to aninquiry, the Country
Gentleman says:
We have cultivated corn for fodder for
many years, and find it, all things consid
ered, the most profitable crop we can
raise. It may be sown during the com
parative season of leisure just after corn
planting, and secured at the next season
of leisure just after hay-making and har
vesting. After repeatedly cropping the
same ground, we are satisfied that it ra
ther enriches than impoverishes the land,
uo grain being formed, and a vast bed of
roots remaining. Nothing is equal to it
for reducing rcugh, turfy, weedy land, to
a state of cleanliness and good tilth. We
believe it the best fallow crop in the world
to precede wheat.
it should never he sown Broadcast.—
The imperfections of this mode are the
chief reasons that the crop has not become
more generally introduced. It requires
more seed, and leaves the ground in a foul
er condition than when sown in plowed
drills. We have tried both ways to our
entire satisfaction as to the comparative
value of each. The following is the best
mode for sowing, cultivating and securing
the crop :
Plow awl harrow the ground as for any
other orop; furrow it with a ono-horse
plow, three feet apart; let a man pass
along one of the drills with a half-bushel
basket on his left arm containing shelled
corn, and strew the seed in the furrow at
the rate of about 40 or 50 grains to a foot,
which will be about 2i or 3 bushels per
acre. He will do this evenly, with a lit
tle practice as fast as he can walk. If
sowed thinner the crop will be smaller.—
We have found by accurately weighing
and measuring, that 20 grains to the foot
yielded only / the crop afforded by 40
grains to the foot. Immediately after the
sower, follows a man with a one-horse
harrow or cultivator, or with a two-horse
harrow lengthwise with the furrow, and
covers the seed. Two men will thus plant
six or seven acres in a day.
When the corn is six inches to a foot
high run a one-horse cultivator between
the rows. This is all the dressing the
crop needs. No hoeing is necessary, for
the dense growth soon smothers down all
else, and in the autumn, when the crop is
cut off, the earth is left as clean as a
newly plowed field. . . . .
It'is - to ho harvested about tho first of
autumn. If the crop is very heavy or
much 'lodged,' it is cut by reaping. If
straight and even, a common scythe will
answer the purpose, a little practice en
abling the operator to throw it smoothly
with the heads in one direction. After
partly drying for a day or two, the best
way is to tie it in bundles and put it up
.in large shooks, although raking by a horse
into wiurows for 000 ks, might answer well
fur large fields. It must be dry some
weeks. It can never be safely put into
large stacks. The most perfect way would
bo to place it in small stacks, or long up
right rows, under a large shod. Even if
the stooks appear perfectly cured after
several weeks exposure, they will certainly
heat and spoil if stacked in the ordinary
way. Hence, the staoks must be quite
small, freely salted, and well ventilated
by means of three or four poles placed up
right in the centre. We have found the
stalk to retain a good condition when left
in large well made shocks on the field in
winter. Curing is the only difficulty with
this crop, and this ceases when understood.
Land that will yield thitlty bushels of
corn to the acre, will afford about fi ve
tons of dried fodder. Moist land is bet
tor than very dry, as it is more effected by
drou'-h than ordinary corn crops. Wo
have not found the cost, including interest
on the land, to exceed $1,50 per ton for
dried fodder,
ror soiling, or feeding green, corn fod
der often proves of the highest value,when
pastures aro burnt by drouth. For this
purpose at differrent periods till midsum
Green Crops for Barn rise in Summer.
It is the great number of cattle that a
British farmer keeps on his farm which by
furnishing so much good manure enables
him to raise such good crops. The turnip
crop occupying one-fourth his farm, fur
nishes him the grand moans of keeping so
large a stock during the winter months,
and the practice of soiling his horses and
cattle, enables him to keep more animals
than he otherwise could during the sum
By soiling is meant the system of feeding
cattle iu sheds and stables on green food
grown for the purpose, instead of allowing
them to graze the fields at pleasure. That
we can adopt soiling, except in some few
cases near largo cities, admits of some
coubt. One of the great objections to the
practice is the greater amount of labor re
quired in mowing and carrying to the barn
the green food, than in letting the cattle
cut it themselves. Another objection is
that our climate is not so well adapted for
the production of succulent summer food
as the warm moist climate of the British
isles. Yet as we have often said, we ob
tain heavier crops of red clover than do
British farmers, and red clover is there
considered one of the best crops for soil
ing purposes; and could it be grown with
as much certainty and in such quantity as
in Western Now York, it would be much
more extensively used.
We believe it would pay every farmer
to take an acre or two of clover, as con
tiguous to the barn as possible, and man
ure it highly in the fall or spring. It will
be found of great advantage to cut and
feed to the horses in the stable at noon,
and for au hour or so before turning them
iutu the field in the evening. A few acres
so immured and cut curly would afterwards
yield a splendid crop of clover seed; or it,
might he mown twice, nq green fond for
the 1,1 and cattle.