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T , a_Pilra(gaL,
Answer to "A Health to my Brother."
BT WM. A. SMITH, OF WISCONSIN.
Tea, brother, quaff the gen'rons bowl,
Though tears have mingled with the wine;
Our pledge—let each congenial soul
Respond—" Thy joys, thy griefs, are mine l"
Our sun of youth rose brightly gleaming,
And promised flowers in every path ;
How soon, aroused fiom blissful dreaming,
We struggled with the whirlwind's wrath?
Now, in the world alone, my brother,
Two scions of one parent tree,
Soon shall the earth, our common mother,
Reclaim hor own, and set us frcel
Religion teaches souls immortal
To bear submisaive worldly pain;
For, soaring up to heaven's portal,
The pure in bliss shall live again.
Then let us bear our griefs awhile—
No cause exists to shed a tear,
When we look backward with a smile,
And forward gaze without a fear.
The Pauper-Dead of Naples.
A writer in the Cincinnati Gazette gives the
following account of a visit to the place where
the pauper-dead of Naples are buried
About two miles from the eity, in a large
square place, enclosed by a high wall, there
are 365 cistern-shaped vaults, or pits, with an
aperture on top, about three feet square. These
cisterns are twenty or twenty-five feet deep by
twelve or fifteen in diameter, with the opening
covered by a heavy stone, and tightly cement.
ed. Ono of these are removed by a portable
lever every day in the year, to receive the dead
of that day, and then closed again for a year.
They begin to deposit the bodies about six
o'clock in the evening, and end at ten. When
I got there about ten or twelve people had al
ready been thrown in; they were lying promis
cuously as they chanced to fall, with head, bo
dy and limbs in every possible attitude, across,
over, and under each other. An old priest, two
or three attendants, and a few idle spectators
of the common sort, were loitering about.
Shortly after my arrival a box was brought
in, containing the body of a child, four or five
years old; its hand held a hunch of flowers, and
a rose was in its mouth. The priest mumbled
a short prayer, sprinkled it with holy water, and
turned away; a man then took the little fellow
by the neck and heels, and pitched him in ns
be would a stick of wood. Seeing the flowers
that fell from its little hand, he picked them up
and threw them after him. His head struck
the curb as it went in, and it fell whirling to
the bottom. In a few minutes more a man was
brought to the mouth of the pit, the priest again
prayed and sprinkled, the attendants took him
np by the head and logs, and down be wont
Then followed another child like the first,
and I was about leaving the ground, when a
fourth subject entered. The lid was thrown
back, and in it was the body of a young and
rather handsome female. She was apparently
about twenty, and had evidently died of some
short illness. Her arms and face were round
and full, and she appeared more asleep than
dead. The prayers and holy water were again
in requisition. The attendants took her rough
ly up, and tossed her in. I immediately step
ped to the mouth of the vault and looked down;
her limbs, and those of the dead below she had
disturbed by her fall, were still in motion. Her
head was slowly turning, and her hair, which
was long, black and luxuriant, was settling in
thick clusters across a very white and naked
body lying near her. For a moment the whole
horrid mass seemed instinct with life, and
crawling on the bottom of its loathsome char
nel•house. I had seen enough; sick and din.
gusted,l turned away, and moralizing on the
difference between such an interment and a
peaceful ono in our own beautiful cemetery at
Spring Grove, I mounted my velante and re-
turned to Naples, meeting on my road some
half a dozen boxes, great and small, containing
more victims for that insatiable maw that opens
its mouth.but once a year to be gorged with its
dreadful banquet. •
The bodies thus interred aro generally from
tha hospital, and the sight can be witnessed by
any one three hundred and sixtrfive times a
year. Before the pit is closed, quicklime is
thrown in, and nothing but bones aro left when
it is again opened.
gar As there are some faults that have been
termed faults on the right side, so there aro
some errors on the safe aide. Thus we seldom
Yegret having been too mild, too cautious, and
too humble; but we often repent of being too
i lend , too rreedpitate, or too proud.
.t , It . :t4viig•Oovi. 7ourntih
I BEE NO STAR ABOVE THE LIORIZON, PROMISING LIGHT TO OWES US, BUT THE INTELLIGENT, PATRIOTIC, UNITED WHIG PARTE' OP THE UNITED STATES..-IWEBSTER.
The New York Sunday Atlas tells the fol•
lowing somewhat amusing story of the new
field to which female labor is now being direc•
Miss Caroline B. Putnam, of the city of Sa
lem, Massachusetts, has anounced to the pub
lic, that she has adopted the profession of a
barber, and will take the beard off of gentle
men's chins, at the rate of six cents the mug.
Miss Julia Beverly, advertises in the Provi
dence Journal, that she will practice as a me
dicine man and surgeon; and, cure the cholera,
or chop off a leg at rates the most accommoda
We never could preceive, why it was, that
women should not practice the arts incident to
the leaders of the pill box fraternity. Cobbett,
many years ago, wrote a very able chapter on
the expediency of introducing the female world
to the practice of obstetrics and Contended that,
that part of the profession should be confined
exclusively to the fair sex. We agreed with
him, and therefore hope that Miss Beverly will
obtain a large practice. If woman is capable
of the duties of a nurse—and who is so able
and interesting as she is in that capacity?—
why should she not launch out, and become a
Miss Caroline E. Putnam, of Salem, is not
the first female in the world who has taken up
the trade of a barber. Some ten years ago
Madame Josephine d'Courcey, the pretty, aye,
beautiful wife of a French barber, who had a
shop in Chambers street, then called the Gran
ite buildings, and now known as the Irving
House, found herself a widow, with three or
four children to support. The husband had
omitted to leave her any money or rather
means, when he died. The children wore to be
taken care of; and Madame d'Courcey was not
disposed to neglect them. She at once resol
ved to keep up the shop, and enact the part of
barber. Her determination was made known
and applauded. Every man of gallantry said
she was right; and every man who was dispos
ed to indulge in the luxury of a shave, called at
her establishment. In less than a month, she
had four times as many customers as she could
attend to. She therefore called in the aid of
Josef du Boys, an aged knight of the razor.—
Josef was a good shaver, but, nobody wanted
him about their chins, whilst there was the
least possible chance of calling the skill of Ma.
damn d'Courcey into action. And, often
would they wait for hours, for an opportunity
to place their faces under the presses of her
fair hands. _ _
One bright and beautiful day in the month of
June an aged citizen of the West End, a man
of some five or six hundred thousand dollars,
and a widower at that, was seen toddling down
Broadway. On reaching the corner of Broad
way and Chambers street, a placard arrested
his attention. Though the letters were large,
they were badly printed, and the old gentle
man found it difficult to read them. "Hey deyl
what does all this mean ?" he said as ho vainly
attempted to decipher the placard—"what does
all this amount to ?" And then he took out
his specs, carefully wiped them, and was ena
bled to ascertain, that Madame Josephine
d'Qourcoy would shave gentlemen!
"Upon my word!" ejaculated the old fellow,
"I believe I did not shave to-day. I ought to
be shaved—l always shave daily," and ho pass
ed his hand across his chin, and was satisfied
that he did require shaving. Into the shop he
poped; and found it empty.
"Young woman," said he, as ho entered, "do
you shave gentlemen ?"
"We monsieur!" was the modest reply, and
the old chap was welcomed to the chair. He
took it; threw his head hack—was lathered in
a twinkling—shaved in no time
After the opperation was concluded, the ven
erable citizen was champooned, and powdered
and looked for all the world like a regenerated
"My dear child," said he, to Madame Jose.
phine, "it appears to mo this business is not
the one that you ought to follow. It exposes
you, my child, to danger and temptation.—
Would you like to marry?" Madame Jose
phine blushed, as none but a French woman
can and nodded an affirmative. The next day
the shop was closed—two weeks afterwards,
the papers announced the marriage of the Hon.
James H—d to Madame Josephine d'Cour.
cey. The happy pair made a tour to Niagara
and Saratoga—the next winter went to Italy
and South France; returned happy and mitten.
ted; and are now living in splendor, in one of
the fashionable avenues up tows. We hope
Miss Caroline E. Putnam, may be equally for.
Improvement in Lime Burning.
There is a line kiln in operation in Lehigh
county of novel construction, which possesses
such decided advantages over every other kind
of a kiln, as to promise an entire revolution in
the limo burning business. It is thus descri-
bed: The kild is lined with fire brick and is 31
feet high with a hopper on the top capable of
holding a large quantity of stone, which keeps
fulling down into the kilts as fast as lime is
drawn out below. It will burn on an average,
300 bushels of lime per day. Wood is used its
buring, and three or four pieces of ordinary
hickory or oak wood will last half an hour. Two
cords of wood will burn between 200 and 300
bushels of the best lime. The lime is drawn
off every twelve hours.
War Miss Lucy Stone, one of the 'strong
minded,' made a speech in New York the oth
er day about the sexes, and said :
'Poor, weak woman. She has always been
weak—has it not been so from the beginning?
Did ehe not first yield to temptation?
‘Ahl yes; Eve could conquer Adam—poor elf!
But to conquer woman—it took Satan himself.'
[Laughter and applause.]
That woman ought to hare a husband who
could sing to her--
"Oh, rock the cradle Lury
Shed soon ret hotter then! ThaV3 all that
HUNTINGDON, PA., WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 10, 1853.
Playing the Piano, and how it is Done.
The other evening, we were at a party of a
friend of ours, and among the lot was a gay
Miss who had just returned from boarding
school, when, after many solicitations and apol
ogies, she seated herself at the piano, rocked
to the right, then to the left, leaned forward,
then backward, and began. She placed her
right hand about midway the keys, and her left
about two octaves below them. She now put
off the right to a brisk canter upon the treble
notes, and her left after it, The left then led
the way back, and the right pursued in a like
manner. The right turned and repeated its
movement; but the loft out run it this time,
hopped over it, and flung it entirely off thetrack.
It came in again, however, behind the left, on
its return, and passed it in the same style. They
now became highly incensed at each other,
and met furiously on the middle ground. Here
a most awful conflict ensued for a short space,
when the right whipped off all of a sudden, as
we thought fairly vanquished, but we were in
error in that, Jack Randolph cautions us, it
had only "fallen back to a stronger position."
It had mounted up two back keys, and corn.
menced the note of a rattlesnake. This had a
wonderful effect upon the left, and placed the
doctrine of snake-charming beyond dispute.—
The left rushed toward it repeatedly, but seem
ed invariably panic 'struck when it came with
in six keys of it, and as invariably retired with
a tremendous roar down the bass keys; confin
ed its assaults, sometimes by a zigzag move
ment, but all its attempts to dislodge the right
from its strong hold, proved ineffectual; it canoe
up close to its adversary and expired. Any
one, or rather no one, can imagine what kind
of noises the piano made during the conflict,—
Certain it is that no one can describe them, and
therefore we shall not attempt it. The battle
ended ; Miss Jano moved as though she would
have risen, but this was protested against by
a number of voices at once.
"One song, my dear Jane," said Mrs. Smith,
"you must sing that sweet little French air you
used to sing, and which Madame Piggisqunski
is so fond of." Miss Jane looked pitiful at her
mamma, and her mamma looked "sing" at
Miss Jane; accordingly she squared herself for
a song. She brought her hands into a capes
this time in fine style, and they seemed to be
perfectly reconciled to each other; then com
menced a kind of colloquy; the right whispering
treble very softly, and left responding bass very
The conference had been kept up until we
began to desire a change upon the subject,
when our oars caught, indistinctly, some very
curious sounds,which appeared to proceed from
the lips of Miss Jane; they seemed to be a
compound of a dry cough, a grunt, a hiccough,
and it appeared to ns as interpreters between
the right and left. Things had progressed in
this way for about fifteen seconds, when we
happened to direct our attention to Mr. Ross.
His eyes were closed, his head swung graceful.
ly from side to side, a beam of heavenly com
placency rested on his countenance, and his
whole man gave irresistable demonstrations
that Jane's music had made him feel good all
over. We resolved from this contemplation of
Mr. Ross' transport,to see whether we could ex
tract from the performance anything intelligi
ble, when Miss Jane made a fly-catching grab
at half a dozen keys in a row, at the same in
stunt she, fetched a long dunghill-cock crow, at
the conclusion of which she grappled at as ma
ny keys with the left. This came over Ross
like a warm bath, and over us like a rack of
bamboo briers. Our nerves had not recovered
until Miss Jane repeated the movement, ac
companying it with the squeal of a pinched cat.
This threw us into an ague fit; but from re
spect to the performer, we maintained our po
sition. She now made a third grasp with her
right, and at the same time raised one of the
most unearthly howls that ever issued from the
throat of any human being. This seemed the
signal for universal uproar and destruction.—
She now threw away all reserve, and charged
the piano with her whole force. She boxed it,
she clawed it, she scraped it. Her neck veins
swellid , her chin flew up, her face flushed,her
eyes glared, her bosom heaved she screamed,
she howled, she yelled, she cackled, and was
in the act of dwelling upon the note of a
screech-owl, when we took the St, Vitus' dance
and rushed out of the room. "Goodness!" said
a bystander, "if this be her singing, what must
be her crying."
A very natural division of mankind is that
which contemplates them in twoclasses—those
who think for themselves, and those who have
their thinking done by others; dead or living.
With the former class the paramount consid
eration is,—"What is right?" With the latter,
the first inquiry, 'What do the majority, or the
great, or the pious, or the fashionable think
about it? How did our fathers regard it ?
What will Mrs. Grundy say?' This latter, and
the most numerous class can hardly be mid to
think at all. They adopt the opinion of their
neighbors or titular superiors and the prejudi
ces of their forefathers, and to go through life
With very little mind of their own, and very lit
tle consciousness of the need of any. Think
ing at second hand, and in the wake of the ma
jority, is respectable, politic, and safe ; while
the independent, original thinker is sure to pro
voke hostility and encounter obloquy. It is
easier running in the established ruts than
across them, even though the road is worn
worse and worse by the former course; it is
easier to assent and acquiesce than to demur
and differ. Many a man has gone through
life respected, popular and well fed, on the
strength of his faculty of agreeing with every
body, and never avowing an unpopular opinion.
And truly, if the life were not more than meat
—if its chief ends were wealth, station, and lux
ury—then.the smooth and plausible gentlemen
who assent to whatever is popular, without in
quiring or caring whether it is essentially true
fulee, are the Col,n3m? ,f their cenoration.
Story of a Humorist.
Wail have seen your friend, and-find him
to be exactly what you described him as being
—a humorist. He seems to have imparted
much of character to everything around him.
His servants are all admirably disciplined to
second his whims and his very furniture is, for
the most part adapted to the same ' purpose.-
This put me upon my guard, and there was
hardly any thing in the room that I did not
touch with apprehension. No trick, however,
was practised upon me; and as I found subse
quently, that I was indebted for such indul
gence to one which was reserved for me at
night, and which was such as perhaps all my
English phegm would not have enabled me to
bear with patience. I escaped, however, being
put to the proof, by the merest accident—the
arrival of a poor Irish surveyor, who was
thought a fitter subject for the often repeated
The Irishman was treated with extreme hos
pitality; he was helped to every thing to excess;
his glass was never allowed to stand full or
empty for one minute. The potations ware
suspended not until, and only while, the cloth
way laying for supper, during and after which
they were resumed with renovated energy.—
Our entertainer was like the landlord descri
bed by Addison; the liquor seemed to have no
other effect upon him than upon any other ves
sel in the house.
It was not so with this Irish guest, who was
by this time much further advanced upon tho
cruise of intoxication than half seas over.
In this state he was conducted to his cham
ber—a flue, lofty Gothic apartment, with a
bedstead that seemed coeval with the building.
I say seemed; for that was by no means the
case, it being in reality a modern piece of
structure. It was of dark mahogany with its
four posts extending completely to the ceiling
of the chamber. The bed, however, was not
more than about two feet from the floor, the
better to enable the party to got into it. The
Irishmen, with a good deal of assistance, was
soon undressed, and his body deposited in this
place of repose. All the party then retired,
wishing him good night, and removing the can
dle for fear of accidents.
When the door was closed. !was for the first
time made acquainted with the structure of the
bedstead, which our host considered as his
masterpiece. Upon the touching of a spring,
outside the door, the bed was so acted upon by
a pulley, that it ascended slowly through the
four posts, until it came within two or three
feet of the ceiling. The snoring of the Irish
men was the signal for touching the spring,
and he was now et the proper attitude.
The servants required no instructions how
to act. In one moment the house was in an
uproar, cries of •Mire I Fire I" were heard in
different directions. A pile of shavings was
set in a blaze opposite the window where the
poor Irishman slept. The landlord's voice was
continually heard, exclaiming, "(load heavens I
save the poor Irish gentleman, if possible; the
flames have got into the room just under himl"
At this moment we heard him fall and bel•
low out. A sudden silence took place—every
light was extinguished, and the whole house
seemed to be buried in the most profound re•
pose. The Irishman's voice could be heard
ronrir.g out, in the highest dialect of his coon•
try, for assistance.
At length, two of the men servants, in their
shirts, entered the room, with a candle just lit,
and yawning, as if just aroused from their first
sleep. The found him sprawling on the floor.
Three-fourths of the bed covering door peo
ple consists of what arc miscalled comfortables,
viz: two calico cloths, with glazed cotton wad
ding laid between and quilted in.
The perfection of dress, for day' or night,
where warntth is the purpose, is that which
confines around the body sufficient of its own
warmth while it allows escape to the rest.--
Where the body is allowed to bathe protracted
ly in its own vapors, we must expect an un
licalthpeffect:upon the skin. Where there is
too little ventilating escape, what is called in
sensible perspiration is checked, and something
analogous to fever supervenes. Foul tongue,
ill taste, and lack of morning appetite, betray
the error. In all cases the temper suffers, and,
"my dear, this is execrable coffee," is proba
bly the table greeting.
How much of the rosy health of poor children
is clue to the air-leaking rooms of their parents;
and what a generator of pale faces in a close
To be healthy and happy, provide your bed
with the lightest and most porous blankets.—
The finer the better. The cheapest in price
are the dearest, in health. "Comfortables" are
unhealthy and uncomfortable. Cotton, if it
could be made equally porous and kept so, we
should prefer it to wool. The sumo for daily
underclothes. But more than all else, let your
chamber beventilated. Knock in a hole some•
where to give your escaping breath exit, and
another to give fresh air to your lungs in the
place of what they have expired. So shall
you have pleasant dreams at night, and in the
morning, cheerful rising, sweet breath and good
appetite. These blessings combined, will se•
cure to healthful parents a house full of bright
rosy checked memorials of rich and fruitful
THE HIBERNIAN A n EAD.—Mr. Jones.—
That's a fine horse you're leading Patrick. Ho
carries his head well.
Pat.—That's thrue. An' its agrand thail lie
carries behind him. .
Junes.—Behiud hint 1 Don't everything that
carries a tail, carry it behind?
Pat—No, your honor.
foam—No? what don't?
Pat.—A del, sure, carries its thail on one
side, and its head on '(other.
1/S.. The man who attempted to whistle a
bar of soap, has injured his voice iryin7
Don't Speak to Her.
"Don't speak to her I" There was a bitter
sneer upon the girl's face as she and her cont.
panion turned away from the poorer dressed
No little Miss, don't speak to the poor girl.
Your father swindled poor people, and made a
large property out of their hard earnings. He
way a low bred vagabond when a young man,
and universally despised, hut 19 now one of the
"upper ten." At heart he is as base and lowas
he ever was. But he deals in stocks, and robs
by shaving bonds and mortgages. He is a mon
ied man. He is rich. Ile is your father, Miss,
and would not like it were you to place yourself
on a level with honorable poor people. Don't
speak to her.
The -girl is plainly clad and has no tippet
around her neck or costly playthings. She has
a humblo home, and a poor mother. Fier father
was ruined by one who now rolls in wealth, and
died a stricken man. His fine house—the early
home of the poor man—was sold at a sacrifice,
and purchased by the man who ruined him.—
Her mother, the once beautiful and accomplish.
ml belle and noble woman takes in washing.
What a vulgar woman? How low it is to work
for a living! Who couldassociate or have any
thing to do with them?
Don't speak to her. Her sweet face is pale
and sad, and her dress is coarse and plainly
made. Just look at her pantalettes even—no
thing but common needle-work 1 Not as fine
as yours by a good deal. Her shoes, too, are
common calf-skin, while yours aro beautiful
gaiters. Why can't the vulgar thing dress as
well as you do, and why can't her sad-hearted
mother have a fine house and ride to church
in a carriage? What business have folks to
he poor? How exceedingly vulgar it is to
work for a living.
Don't speak to her! She ain't fit for your
company—she don't dress well enough. No
matter if she does hear cutting words. Poor
children have no . feeling. It's your privilege
to say what you are pleased to about such kind
of folks. There is a tear in her mild blue eye
and a quick flush on her pale cheek, and as she
passes the group with their hoops, she draws
her checkered bonnet tightly around her face,
and steals away with many a bitter sob. Her
young heart is learning its first sorrow. She
will know that heart or conduct have no claim
upon the respect of the fashionable world. Her
mother washes for bread; and she is a poor
girl. There aro many sobs and clouds for her
in the future—many a cutting word and sting
ing sneer, Her woman's heart will need.all
its bravery. She may triumph In the stern and
trying struggle, or she may give way and go
down to worse than a gravo. Her soul was
full of the pure and the noble ie all that is wo
manly, but they crushed her with an iron heel,
and she was lost.
Don't speak to poor girls—they have no bu.
sinesa to he poor—it is so vulgar.
SwEAtt Out upon such common attain
ment. So do the lowest and meanest that swim
in the sinks of drunkenness and vice. There
is not a ruffian who cannot boast of the same
accomplishment. Every reeking den of devilry
has its proficients. The most.degraded of hu
manity can swear as coundly as you. 'lark
you hear it on the highway. In every spot
where tipplers congregate, the oath is part of
every. breath. At night it comes with fearful
distinctness from the dram-shop. And yet you
are as proud of your foul mouthed weakness, as
though the vilest of earth could not boast of tho
Crikw TOBACCO! A loathsome spitting ma
chine, eh? Beautiful and interesting appara
tus. truly. A self-spitting squirtlnn, to eject
the filthiest compound in existence! A lama
on two legs, bespattering all within your reach,
without provocation even. And because you
eat tobacco and sip out the juice with mock
dignity, you are a gbutleman. Rol ho! the
race of fools is not yet extinct. Why, you sla
vering beast, it is no rare accomplishment to
oat tobacco. You can't make your mouth foul
er than the old vagabond who spends a shilling
he has begged fur runs, or a pound of plug.—
He can act as filthy as you can. Can't you
believe it? See him spit once. Mark the
dark lines from each corner of his mouth, and
the noisome stains on Isis shirt bosom. Rare
accomplishment, indeed, for a gentleman.
DRINK CIIAMPAIGNE Ha! ha! Dear sir!
the whole land is filled with such suckers. The
raggedest, wiry -headed, red-nosed, bleared-eyed
old bloat in Christendom can got as rich, and
as foolish, and as drunk, as you can. And
what's the difference? From the actions, a look
er on could not determine what liquor the two
had got drunk on. Tho one sleeps in the gut
ter, the other in his room. There is a ditlbr
once in the quality of coats, but none in the
drunkenness. The common sorts can get as
"owly" on common whiskey, as you can on
pure champaigne. You drink with respectable
tipplers and drunkards—he with those who
have graduated in the common whiskey cellar.
You arc a gentleman, are you? Why are
you? And so that makes a gentleman. Your
whole aim in life is to adorn your person in a
fashionable suit of clothes, and practice a most
unnatural gait and whirl before the glass. A
fine suit of clothes, sir, cannot give a man a
heart. You wear a moustache or imperial !
so does a goat. A face may he covered with
hair, and no brains in the bead. Bear's grease
and a fashionable twirl, are all your depen
The Farmer's Bank.
Exchanges—the transplanting of the nursery
Deposits—Happiness, sobriety and manly
Assets—Shining fields, waving with a golden
Liabilitios—lndebted to God alone, who
bends tho s unshine and the ruin.
wealth, and honest pa•
Bread and Butter.
Broad and butter is a theme, however home•
ly, on which a a volume might be written. Al
though the appetite may tire of other things, on
this substantial ground it makes a stand. It
must be trained to the liking of far-fetched
cookery, while the taste acquired at so much
pains, departs suddenly. Civilized men enjoy
one kind of food, and cannibals another.—
Some aro very Simple in their habits, and like
the boy Cyrus, at the courtly table of his
grand-father, wonder at the multitude of dishes.
But no man, Christian or heathen, ever quar
rels with his bread and butter. It is accepta
ble the year round, and the taste for it is uni
versal, and never palls. You cannot eat it to
surfeit or ever return to it with disgust. If it
is of a bad quality, that does not destroy your
affection. You blame the baker but. stick to
the bread. Good bread and butter in the
summer time are peculiarly delicious, the very
staff of life. When the flour is of the finest
wheat, when the yeast is of a buoyant nature,'
and the loaf, with its crust properly baked,
has the whiteness of snow and lightness of a
sponge; when the butter has the flavor of
fresh grass and the color of new minted gold.
eat to your heart's content, and desire noth
ing else. When you have come in at the
noontide hour, wearied with your expedition
to the mountain top, your walk in the woods,
your sail on the lake, or your botanizing in
the meadois; when you have labored faithfully
in the garden, rooting out the weeds from the
cucumbers and green peas, the sweet corn and
cauliflowers, which are to grace your table,
contracting a sharp appetite from the smell of
the mould; when you have returned with wood
cock from the swamp, or have been “ailihing;"
and then the golden butter and fresh bread aro
set before you, garnished perhaps with a well
dressed lettuce, or a few short-top scarlet rad
ishes, even crackling and brittle as glass, well
may you disdain the aid of cooks; for it is a
feast which an anchorite might not refuse, and
which an epicure might envy.—rniekerboeker.
Rest for the Righteous.
This is after death. "They do rest from
their labors." Their heaven is to be preceded
by labor hero below—labor in the service and
cause of Christ. There the weary are at rest.
The faithful enter into the joy of their Lord.
But we see large numbers of of whom it could
be said with no sort of propriety, that death
would cause them to rest from their labors.—
They aro in the vine-yard but they do not work.
Death would not bring them to the novelty of
rest, for they have that now. They fetch up in
reference to anything they were doing before
for Christ when they entered the church, or
soon after. And if Heaven is rest from labor,
verily they have a good deal of Heaven this
side of the pearly gates. They could not well
have more of rest from painful toil and effort
beyond these gates.
Paul rested; labor made him weary. He had
not a moment's rest on earth, after he espoused
the cause of Christ. lie did not want any rest
till his work was done. Then the intensity of
his debtion to labor, would make the rest of
heaven more precious.
But some want rest hero as well as there.—
They can rest where the work is to be done,
and in the place of it. And they have it—and
will have it. But how to get it in both worlds,
it seems somewhat difficult to see. The people
of God will have their rest when their work is
done, when wearied with their work they drop
into the grave. Rest belongs to them, because
they have labored. And all the sweeter it will
be for the ardor and earnestness of their labors.
How they who have their rest here—and who
cannot rest front rest—can find it there, we
wait to learn.—.Y. Evangelist
Two in Heaven.
"You have two children," said I.
"I have four," was the reply; "two on earth,
two in heaven."
There spoke the mother! Still hers, only
"gone before!" Still remembered, loved and
cherished, by the hearth and at the hoard—
their places not yet filled; even though their
successors draw life from the same faithful
breast where their dying heads were pillowed.
"Two in heaven!"
Safely housed front storm and tempest, no
sickness there, nor drooping head, nor fading
eye, nor weary feet. By the green pastures,
tended by the good Shepherd, linger the little
lambs of the heavenly fold.
"Two in heaven l" Earth less attractive.—
Eternity nearer. Invisible cords drawing the
maternal soul upwards. “Still, small" voices,
ever whispering, Come 1 to the world-weary
"Two in heaven!'
11Mher of angels! Walk softly I—holy eyes
watch thy footstepsl—cherub forms bend to
listen I Keep thy spirit free from earth-taint;
so shalt thou "go to them," though "they may
not return to thee I"—Fern Leaves.
WREN DOES EDECVION COMMENCE.-Edn
cation does not commence with the alphabet.
It begins with a mother's look; with a father's
nod of approbation, or his sign of reproof; with
a sister's gentle pressure of the hand, or a broth
er's noble forbeareuce; with handsful of flowers
in green and daisy meadows; with bird's nests
admired, but not touched; with humming bees
and glass bee-hives with pleasant walks in sha
dy lanes and with thoughts directed, in sweet
and kindly tones and words, to nature, to beau
ty, to acts of benevolence, to deeds of virtue,
and to the Source of all good—to God himself.
The Past—where is it? It has fled.
The Future ? It may never come.
Our friends departed ? With the dead.
Ourselves? Fast hastening to the tomb.
What earth's joys? Thu dews of morn.
Its honors? Ocean's wreathing foam.
Where's peace? Is trials meekly borne,
And joy? In heaven, the Christian's home.
se. , Vat you make h,re?" hastily inquired
a dutchman of bis daughter, who was being kiss
ed very clamorously.
_ . 4 9h, not much, just courting n littlo —dat's
'olln, !lat . ? all, hn p. tarn I thought rnn
To Make Pure White Soap.
Take soda in crystals, and put it into a bar.
rel with a layer above of quicklime, and pour
warm water upon it, suffering the liquor to
leach out in the same manner that ashes are
leached out in the woods for making crude
potash. This liquor should be filtered thiiiugh
straw, so as to have it pure and clear. Its
specific gravity should ho 1,040 in the hydrom
eter. To every gallon of this lye, 11 lbs. of
melted suet or white tallow should be added,
and it should be kept boiling gently, in a clean
kettle, for four hours. It should then be com
pletely saponified, which can easily be tested
by immersing a fiat knife in it. When com•
pletely saponified, it will shake on the spatula.
The fire should then be drawn from the fur
nace, and a handful of salt dissolved in cold
water thrown in. This is to cool the soap and
to separate it from the water. It can then be
run off into frames, and when cool cut it into
proper cakes. This is good soap, and is well
adapted for making into toilet and other soaps.
We find the following translation of an arti
cle in a German paper, in the Agrimltor,
which contains an account of the preservation
of grapes in Russia: A traveller who lived at
St. Petersburg during the winter season states
that he ate there the freshest and most beauti
ful grapes he had ever seen. To preserve them
they should le 'cut before being enferely ripe.
Do not handle the berries; reject aIL damaged
ones, then lay the graprs in a large atone .jar
holding about thirty gallons. The month
should be narrow so that the grapes will not
touch each other. Yin the spaces between
them with millet. Cover closely with a stone
cover well fitted and cemented. Over thiS
paste a thick paper. and let it he hermetically
sealed so on entirely to exclude the air. In
this airtight jar the grapes ripen fully, and ac
quire Is flavor seldom attained by any °thee
method, and aro preserved for two years in the
beat condition. _ _
The Massachusetts Agricultural Society's
Report gives the following statement from a
farmer of Hampshire County, of that State
Immediately after planting in the spring, and
after I have used what manure I want, I corn.
menco my compost heap for the next season.—
Into a convenient place, which with me is a hol
low in the angle of a bank-wall on the south
end of. my buildings, I deposit. first a load of
horse manure. Over this I usually spread the
scrapings of my wood yard, especially in May,
and all other substances that will make manure
that I find about my buildings; such as the ra
kings bf the yard, old leaves, making in
all another small load. Over this I add a load
of loam.; then over the whole I spread about a
bushels of ashes. For the next three or four
weeks this heap recieves from the wash-room
all the soap-suds and washing-water, and from
the house all the slops and washings of the hitch
en, sweepings, &e., being kept continually
moist. In about four weeks after the first de
posit, I add another load of horse manure,
more loam, and sand from the washing of road
drains, spread over all a layer of wood ashes,
occasionally adding more during the next four
weeks.. This heap, for the succeeding four
weeks, recieves as before, all the fertilizing sub
stances that accumulate in the wash-room and
kitchen. This process is continued during the
summer and fall until snow covers the ground;
then I call my heap finished, only as it contin
ues to reciovo during the winter, washings,
i claim for this minim the following advan•
tages:—First, it is cheap. Horse manors
alone, is a miserable fertilizer: and this excep
ting the wood ashes, is the only substance of
any value that enters into the composition.—
Combined in the way stated, it helps to form a
valuable manure. Again, as n matter of clean
liness and convenience, this compost heap is of
great advantage.—How often do we see about
farm houses and farm yards, accumulations of
substances, rendering' he premises filthy and
unsightly. The compost heap receives all these
otherwise useless accumulations.
Good nature is a gem which shines brightly
where ever it is found. It cheers the darkness
of misfortune, and warms the heart that is cal
lous and cold. In social life who has not seen
and felt its influence? Don't let matters ruffle
you. Nobody gains anything by being cross
and crabbed. If a 'friend has injured you, if
you want employment and can't get it, or can't
get your honest dues, or the fire has consumed.
or water swallowed up the fruits of many years'
hard toil, or your faults magnified, or enimies
have traduced, or friends decieved, never mind;
don't get mad with anybody; don't abuse the
world or any of its creatures; keep good aster•
eel and our word lbr it, all things will come right.
The soft south wind and the genial sun are not
more effectual in clothing the earth with ver•
'dare and sweet flowers of spring, than is good
nature in adorning the hearts of men and wo-
men with blossoms of kindness, happiness and
affection—those flowers the fragrance of which
ascends to Heaven. The industrious bee does
not stop to complain that there are so many poi
sonous flowers and thorny branches itt its wav,
but buzzes on, selecting the sweets where ho
can find them: and quietly.passing where they
are not. We have said considerable of late up-
on this subject in the columns of the Flag, but
we can do our readers no greater service than
to inculcate such a spirit. Cheerfulness is the
amulet we would have you wear, it keeps up
daylight in the mind, filling it with steady and
perpetual serenity.—Flag of our Union.
A LOVER . S
was the sonnet sky. The last notes of the sum
mer birds fell upon the ear as they retired to
their resting place in the great forest, and ev
erything whispered of love as I stood with my
love in a beautiful garden regaled by the odor
of a thousand flowers. Gently I drew my arms
amend her delicate waist, and was about to im
press a kiss upon her lips, when she looked mo
saucily in the oyes, and with a smile upon her
countenance, she said, 'Don't,' and I dont'ed.
DEATH OF A D/FTINGUISHED PUBLIC MAN.-
Hon. Arthur Livermore, formerly CheifJustico
of New Hampshire, died at Campton, on Fri.
day last, aged 87. The deceased, the third son
of lion. Samuel Livermore, was born at Lon-
donderry, July 26, 1776 ; was upon the bench
of the Supreme Court from 1799 to 1816; a rep
resentative in Congress the first four and the
last two years of Monroe's administration, and
from that time till 1833 upon the bench of the
Common Plenn.—Carlisle Volunlem
Stir The man who put a sixpence in the con
tribution plate when be lad a three cent piece
in his pocket, left in the, sow% western train on