Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, October 12, 1853, Image 1

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    VOL. 18.
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From filo Louisville Journal,
Hopes and Fears.
Our hopes arc like the wreaths of foam
That glitter on each shining ware,
WVn with a gushing sound they come
The white and thirsty beach to lave,
The waters part—the ripples gleam
A moment on the silent shore,
Aud vanish ns the hopes that seem
A moment bright, and are no more,
Seeking for love, for fame, fir power,
To the fair threads ante we cling - ,
For hope we cull n withered flower
And tune a harp with broken string.
And hope will shed a glimmering ray
°flight on pleasure's ruined shrine,
For mouldering columns still look gay
When summer sunbeams o'er them sh in e
Though revered be love's magic chain,
Still to its broken charms we trust,
And hope to mend the links again,
When grief has oaten them like rust.
Frail as the bubbles on the beach
That hope may be—a transient beam,
But nett ofjoy,'sis sweet to tench
The heart to hush its grief and dream.
Our hopes aro like the flowers that bloom
Upon the mountain's verdant side,
That mountain's heart a burning tomb,
Cleft by the lava's scorching. tide.
They spring and flourish, fade and die,
Like human hopes—as frail and fitir,
While quenchless fire beneath them lie,
Like human passions hidden there.
Our fears aro like the clouds that shed.
Their gloom across n summer sky,
When life is fairest, some wild dread
Of grief is ever hovering night.
The gloom may pass—the shadows fitdo,
And sunlight only seem to reign,
But still there is a lingering shade,
A fear that clouds will come again.
Where the bright wells of gladness spring,
Hope will the youthful heart decoy,
But fear is hovering there to fling
A shadow on the path of joy.
A canker-worm within the fruit,
A serpent in the linnet's nest,
A sentry ever grim end mute,
Is fear within the human breast.
A rainbow never spans the sky,
But somo dark spirit of the storm,
With sable plume, is hovering nigh,
To watch its soft and fairy form.
Hope never chants her fitiry song,
Or bids us rest beneath her wing,
But fear, with all his phantom throng,
Is in the distance hovering.
We seek the laurel wreath of fame,
And all her tickle favors trust,
To live—perchance without a name,
And find the chaplet turned to dust.
Life wears away, 'mid smiles and tears—
The wedding peal, the funeral toll;
But though o'ershadowed still by fears,
Hope is the sunlight of the soul.
TDM2II-ariliEDl TO.
Going Down Hill.
"That looks bad," exclaimed farmer White,
with an expressive shake of the head, as ho
passed a neglected garden and broken down
fence, in one of his daily walks.
"Bad enough," was the reply of the compan
ion to whom. the remark was addressed.
. "Neighbor Thompson appears to be running
down hill pretty fast. I can remember when
everything around his little place was trim and
4 110 always appeared to boa steady, hulas.
trious rejoined the second speaker. "I
have a paw of boots on my foot at this mo
ment of his make, and they have done me good
"I have generally employed him for myself
and family," was the reply, "and must confess
that he is a good workman; but, nevertheless, I
believe I shall step into Jack Smith's this
Morning, and order a pair of boots, of which I
stand in need. I always make it a rule never
to patronize those who appear to be running
behind hand. There is generally some risk in
helping those who won't help thenselves."
"Very true; and as my wife desires mo to see
about a pair of shoes for her this morning, I
will follow your example and call upon Smith.
He is no great favorite of mine, however—an
idle, quarrelsome fellow."
"And yet he seems to be getting ahead in the
- world," answered the farmer, "and I nm willing
to give him a lift. But I have an errand at
'the butcher's. I will not detain you."
At the butcher's they met the neighbor who
was the subject of their previous conversation.
He certainly presented rather a shabby appear
ance, and in his choice of meat there was a re
gard to economy whirls did not escape the ob
servation of farmer White. After passing re
marks, the poor shoemaker took his departure,
and the butcher opened his account book with
a somewhat anxious air, saying, as he charged
the bit of meat—
"I believe it is time that neighbor Thomp
son and I come to a settlement. Short oc
counts make long friends."
"No time to lose, I should say," remarked
the farmer.
"Indeed I Have you heard of nny trouble,
neighbor White 7"
"No; I have heard nothing; but a man has
the use of his own eyes, you know; and I never
trust any one with my money who is evidently
going clown
'.Quite right; and I will send in my bill this
evening. I have only delayed on account of
the sickness the poor man has had in his &mi.
ly all winter. I suppose he must have run be
hind a little, but still I must take cure of num
ber one.'
"Speaking of Thompson, are you ?" ol.Aerved
a bystander, who appeared to take an interest
in the conversation. "Cluing down hill, is he?
I must look out for myself, thou. lie owes tue
illt ituntittikon
.;J.O ,TriaL
_ _
quite a snug sum for leather. I did intend to
give him another month's credit, but on the
whole I guess money would be safer in my own
. _
Here the four worthies separated, each with
his mind filled with the affairs of neighbor
Thompson, the probability that he was going
down hill, and the best way of giving him a
- .
In another part of the little village similar
scenes were passing.
"I declare," exclaimed Mrs. Bennett, the
dressmaker, to a favorite assistant, as she has
tily withdrew her head from the window,
whence she had been gazing on the passers-by;
"if there is not Mrs. Thompson, the shoema
ker's wife, coming up the steps with n parcel in
her hand. She wants me to do her work, I
suppose, but I think it would be a venture.—
Every one says they are running down hill, and
it is a chance if I ever get my pay."
"She always has paid us promptly," was the
"True; but that was in the days of her pros.
perky. I cannot afford to run any risk."
The entrance of Mrs. Thompson prevented
further conversation.
She was evidently surprised nt the refusal of
Mrs. Bennett to do any work for her; but as
great pressure of business was pleaded as an
excuse, there was nothing to be said, and she
anon took her leave. Another application pro
ved equally unsuccessful. It was strange how
busy the village dressmakers had suddenly be
On the way home, the poor shoemaker's wife
met the teacher of a small school in the neigh
borhood, where two of her children attended.
"Alt, Mrs. Thompson, I am glad to see you,"
was the salutation. "I was about calling at
your house. Would it be convenient to settle
our little account this afternoon?"
"Our account I" was the surprised
"Surely the term has not yet expired!"
"Only half of it; but my present rule is to
collect my money at that time. It is a plan
which many teachers have adopted of late.'
"I was not aware that there had been any
change in your rules, and I have made arrange
ments to meet your bill at the usual time. I
fear that it will not be in my power to do so
The countenance of the teacher allowed
great disappointment, and as she passed on in
a different direction she muttered to herself—
"Just as I expected. I never ;flail see a
cent. Everybody says they are going down
bill. I must get rid of the children in some
way. Perhaps I may get a pair of oboes or
two for payment for the half quarter, if I man
age right; but it will never do to go on in this
A little discomposed by her interview with
the , teacher, Mrs. Thompson stepped into a
neighboring grocery to purchase some trifling
article of family stores.
"I have a little account against you. Will
it he convenient for Mr. Thompson to settle it
this evening?" asked the polite shopkeeper as
ho produced the desired article.
"Is it his usual time for settling?" was
again the surprised inquiry.
"Well, not exactly; but money is very tight
just now, and lam anxious to get all that is
due me. In future I intent to keep short ac
counts. There is a little bill, if you would like
to look at it. I will call around this evening.
It is but a small affair."
"Thirty dollars is no small sum to us just
now," thought Mrs. Thompson, as she thought
fully pursued her way toward home.
"It seems strange that these payments must
be met just now, while we are struggling to re
cover from the heavy expenses of the winter.
I cannot understand it."
Her perplexity was increased by finding her
husband with two bills in his hand and a coun
tenance expressive of anxity and concern.
"Look, Mary," ho said, as she entered.—
"Hero are two unexpected calls for money; one
from the doctor, and the other from the dealer
in leather from whom I purchased my last
stock. They aro both very urgent for immedi
ate payment, although they have always been
willing to wait a few months until I could
make arrangements to meet their claims. But
misfortunes never come single, and if a man
gets a little behindhand, trouble seems to pour
in upon him."
"Just so," replied the wife. "The neighbors
think we are going down hill, and every ono is
ready to give us a usb. Here are two more
bills for you—one from the grocer, and the oth
er from the teacher."
Reply was prevented by a knock at the door,
and the appearance of a lad, who presented a
neatly folded paper, and dissappeared.
"The butcher's account, as I live I" exclaim
ed the astonished shoemaker. "What is to be
done, Mary? So much money to be paid out
and very little coming in; for some of my best
customers have left me, although my work has
always given satisfaction. If I could only
have as much employment as usual, and the
usual credit allowed me, I could soon satisfy
all these claims; but to meet them now is ins
possible, and the acknowledgment of my ina
bility would send us still on the downward
"We must do our best and trust in Provi
dence," was the consoling remark of his wife,
as a second knock at the door aroused the fear
that another claimant was about to appear.
But the benevolent countenace of Undo
Joshua, a rare, but ever welcome visitor, pre
sented itself. Seating himself in the comfort.
aisle chair that Mary hastened to hand him, he
said, in his eccentric, but friendly manlier:
"Well, good folks, I understand the world
does not go as well with you as formerly.—
What is the trouble ?"
"There need be no trouble," was the reply,
"if men would not try to add to the afflictions
which the Almighty sees to be necessary for
us. The winter was a trying one. We met
with sickness and misfortunes, which we en
deavored to bear with patience. All would
now go well if those around me were not de
termined to push me in the downward path.
"But there lies the difficulty, friend Thong,.
son. This is a selfish world. Everybody, or
at least, a great majority, care only for number
one. If they see a poor neighbor going down
hill, their first thought is whether it will affect
their own interests, and provided they can se
cure themselves, they care not how soon he
goes to the bottom. The only way is to keep
up appearances. Show no signs of going be
lundhand, and all will go well with you."
"Very true, Uncle Joshua, but how is this to
be done ? Bills which I did not expect to be
called upon to meet for the next three months
are pouring in upon me. My best customers
are leaving me for a more fortunate rival. In
short, I ant on the brink of ruin, and nought
but a miracle can save me."
"A miracle which is very easily wrought
then, I imagine, my good friend. What is the
amount of your debts which press so heavily
upon you, and how soon in the common course
of events, could you discharge them!"
"They'do not exceed ono hundred dollars,"
replied the shoemaker; "and with my usual run
of work, I could make all right in three or four
"We will say six," was the answer. " I will
advance you one hundred and filly dollars tier
six months. Pay every cent you owe, soul with
the remainder d the money mho Mlle slight
additiun ur impruvetnent in your shop oilmen'.
and put everything about the grounds in its
usual neat order. Try this plan for a few weeks,
and we will see what effect it has upon our
worthy neighbors. No, no, never mind thank
ing me. I'm only trying a little experiment
on human nature. I know you of old, and have
no doubt that my moneyis safe in your hands."
Weeks passed by. Tho advice of Uncle
Joshua had been strictly followed, and the
change in tho shoemaker's prospects was in
deed wonderful. He was now spoken of as
one of the most thriving men in the village,
and many marvellous stories were told to ac
count for the sudden alteration in Isis affairs.
It was generally agreed that a distant rela
tive had bequeathed to him a legacy, which
had entirely relieved him of his pecuniary dif
ficulties. They had never before realized the
beauty and durability of his work. The polite
butcher selected the best pieces of meat for his
inspection, as he entered, and was totally in
different as tothe time of payment. The teach
er accompanied the children home to tea, and
spoke in high terms of their improvement, pro.
nouncing them among her best scholars. The
dress-maker suddenly foundherself free from
the great press of work, and in a friendly note
expressed her desire to oblige Mrs. Thompson
in any way in her power.
"Just as I expected," exclaimed Uncle Josh
rubbing his hands exultingly, as the grate
ful shoemaker called upon him at the expira
tion of six months, with the money which had
been loaned in the hour of need. "Just as I
expected. A strange world I They are ready
to push a man up hill if he seems to be ascen
and just as ready to push him down, if ,1
they find his face is turned that way. In future, I
neighbor Thompson, let everything around you!
wear an air of prosperity, and you will be sure
to prosper." And with a satisfied air, Uncle
Joshua placed the money in his pocket book,
ready to meet somo other claim upon his be
nevolence, whilst he, whom he had thus be.
friended, with cheerful countenance, returned
to his happy home.
Ellen Dane, or the Daughter's Vow.
The following touching and effecting, in.
stance of a sister's devotion, occurred in a
manufacturing town in New Hampshire, not
many years ago. It was related to the author
by the brother of the girl alluded to, now a min
ister in an adjoining State, and is as true as
effecting e _ _ _
Ellen Dane was the only daughter of a once
flourishing merchant; the idol of a large cir
cle of friends, and the pride of a fond father,
who suffered not even the winds of heaven to
visit the cheek of his darling roughly.
While be lived, his strong arm protected her
from all sorrow, his kind hand surrounded her
with every blessing that paternal love could
devise or money procure. But she had the
misfortune to lose him at the early age of thir
teen years.
Cul. Dane was supposed at the time of his
death to be in affluent circumstances. But his
estate was found to be heavily mortgaged, and
after paying the debts incurred by his long and
expensive sickness, there was nothing but a
bare pittance left for the widow and her chil
Alas, for human nature! There were fow of
the many friends who fluttered around them in
their prosperity, willing now to step forward to
their assistance, and, after struggling, three
years under the pressure of cares and burdens
she was ill fitted to sustain, Mrs. Dane sank
into the grave, leaving her two fatherless chil
dren to the cold mercy of strangers.
A short time before her death, she called her
children to her, and placing the tiny fingers of
her son in the hand of her daughter, she sol
emnly committed him to her care. "Be a mu.
they to him, Ellen," she said, laying her trem
bling hand upon the bowed head of the weep
ing girl; "be a mother to him ; he will have no
one to love him but you. Promise me that you
will never forsake him." By the bedside of
her dying mother, amid tears and sobs, Ellen
gave the required promise. "You will not for
get, Ellen," repeated Mrs. Dane earnestly;
"you will not forget." .
"If I do so, may God forget me in my last
hour, mother," returned Ellen solemnly.
"God bless you! my daughter," was the faint
response of Mrs. Dane; "you have made my
last hour happy; the Almighty bless you l"
That blessing sank deep into the heart of
Pale and tearful, Ellen Dane turned ;mar
from her mother's grave—no longer a child,
but a woman's duties and responsibilities rest•
ing upon her. Her young heart was strong
within her; but, unaccustomed to struggle with
the world, what could she do? Whither could
she direct her steps? Her father's brother of
fered her a home in his family, but he didn't
want the boy, he had quite enough of his own.
Another relative in a different State proposed
adopting her brother, but Ellen declined, know
ing but too well, lie would be to him not a kind
protector, but a harsh and cruel master.
Ellen had heard of a far-off place, where
many of her own sex gained an humble but
honest livelihood, by the labor of their hands,
and she resolved to seek it. She therefore,
sold the wreck of their property, and taking
her brother with her, then but nine years
old, she bent her way to the "Granite State,"
entering the noted tnauufactoring, town of—.
There, with a strong, hopeful heart though
feeble hands, she toiled day after day, week af
ter week, feeling well repaid for every pain, ev
ery privation, by the increasing strength and
healthful bloom of her youthful charge, who
early evinced unusual intelligence, and a thirst
for knowledge, which she was resolved should
be gratified.
A. year passed by and still found her toiling
on. Not even the voice of love, so dear to her
woman's heart, could lure her from that lowly
path. A manly form sought her side, a manly
voice wooed her;yet though a loving heart plead
strongly in her favor, she swerved not.
"I cannot leave my brother," was her firm
reply, as he warmly urged his suit. "Nor can
I consent to bring to my husband a double
Vainly he argued that she had done her du
ty to him; that it was not right fur her to sac
rifice her health and emery hope of his happi
ness to his nerancement, Vainly did he por
tray in glowing colors, the light of a happy
home, the comforts with which ho would sur
round her; she was firm.
"But your health is failing, Ellen," he said
earnestly. "Your feeble frame will sink under
such unremitting toil. You will die, and then
what will become of him?"
A slight flush passed over her pale cheek,
and her eves beamed with a pure holy light, as
she raised them to Heaven and murmured—
" God will temper the wind to the shorn
lamb. The Father dam Fatherless will be
with him. I will not forsake him as long as I
In the selfishness of his soul, he spoke of his
own blighted hopes, reproaching her for giving
pain to a heart so evoted to her.
Ellen was strongly moved—the tears sprang
to her eyes. But firmly repressing her emo.
tion, she calmly said—
"You have n'strung arm, a pleasant home,
and many friends. Ile has only me—l will not
leave him."
And so they parted.
"She is incapable of loving, ho exclaimed
bitterly to himself, as he turned away, "utterly
Heartless I Had he seen that pale brow,
heard that low wail of anguish—the touching
prayer that ascended from her lips to the Great
Father, during the still watches of that night,
would he have deemed her heartless?
At last, by the most rigid economy, Ellen
gained the summit of her ambition, which was
to place her brother at school in the neighbor
ing State. Allowing herself no rest, no relax
ation, she surrounded him with every comfort
her slender means would allow. Denying her
self every mental advantage, she afforded him
every facility for study, carefully - concealing
from him the toil and privations they cost her.
Tho departure of her brother left Ellen as it
were alone; yet she was not alone. He was
still with her, upon whose arm she had ever
leaned with the confiding trust of childhood.
Three, four, five years passed slowly round,
yet still she pursued her quiet way. The re
port of her brother's rapid progress in his stu
dies, the early talent he exhibited, filled her
heart with pride and joy, and cheered her path
of toil. And though her pale brow grew still
paler, and her slight form more shadowy in its
proportions, the same clear hopeful light beam
ed in her eve, the same holy smile played round
her lips. Though her woman's hand sometime
failed her, her purpose never wavered, her
strong heart never faltered.
At the close of a long sultry day in August,
wearied by the day's toil, she seated herself by
the open window, and resting her head upon
her hand seemed to slumber. The cool sum
mer breeze came softly in, kissing the pale
cheek, and gently lifting the soft dark hair
from the wan brow. The drums turned in
their ceaseless motions, and the clash of iron
wheels sounding like the far-olf murmur of the
sea, arose up on every side—yet still she slum
bered on. Kind hearted maidens glided
around her heavy looms, guiding or checking
their rapid motion. The form of him from
whose quick eye noticing escaped, passed
through her narrow alley but else heeded them
not. Repassing, struck by her strange posi
tion, and thinking she still slumbered, he ap
proached her; but the eye so quick to perceive
Isis coming, and the hand so ready to obey his
bidding moved not.
Bending Isis head, he spoke to her—lint she
answered not. He laid his hand gently upon
the bowed head, but it only drooped yet lower.
Surprised, he unclasped the slender fingers
from the cold brow—that lie might arouse her.
—She slept quietly and sweetly, "that sleep
that knows no waking!"
Amid the noisy sounds of labor, the wild eta
mor of that dusty room, her spirit had broken
its earthly fetters, and soared up through the
dark wall and rolling drum, out into God's
pure air and bright sunshine—uppl up I oh, child
of earth 1 up farther still, through the dark eth.
er blue—the regions of infinite space, to the
throne of the Eternal!
Well and nobly she had performed her vow!!
Grave and learned doctors met in solemn
conclave around her lifeless firm, giving it as
their deliberate opinion, that she died of disease
of the heart, of many years standing.
Sleek, portal citizens gave forth their solemn
verdict, that she "died by the visitation of God!"
Strange words! vain mockery!—This was all
they knew of the young loving heart that had
been slowly breaking in their midst five weary
years I
• It was not till the heavy clods lay thick up
on her gentle breast, that the brother knew he
was sisterless. And, though ho sorrowed for
her in bitterness of heart, it was not till ho at ,
rived at manhood that he fully realized the loss
he had sustained ; that ho fully appreciated
the depth of that sisterly devotion that led her
to sacrifice for him not only the spring-time of
her youth acid the chosen of her affections, but
her very existence.
He became a minister of the church of God,
and was instrumental in winning many souls
to Christ. His was the restless power of learn.
in„ the wondrous gift of eloquence. Many
lips praised, many hearts blessed him. But
who thought of whose toils and privations laid
the foundation of his usefulness? Who re
membered the lowly maiden who watered with
her tears the seed that brought forth such a
glorious harvest?
But what ncedest Owe of the praise of man,
oh glorious seraph! standing among the white
robed martyrs that surround the throne of the
"Crucified?" What rarest thou for the voice
of earthly adulation? He who sees not as
man sees, 71110 rewards, whose strong arm sup
ported thee in thy weary pilgrimage below, has
given thee "that peace that passeth all knowl
edge," that "crown that fadeth not away,"—
Arthur's Home Gazette.
The First Voice for Liberty.
A man stands upon the floor of the House
of Delegates of Virginia. He turns an eye of
fire round him—he trembles with some mighty
emotion. That emotion reader was the breath
of Liberty. She started into life at his inspira.
tion and the days of Tyranny were numbered.
The grandeur of the scene cannot be com
passedin one glance. He stood amid a grave
and prudent body of men, conscious indeed of
the wrongs of their country, but relying upon
modest redress. They had ever let their Mtn
ginations ramble into visions of upright and
chainless Independence. A thousand things
forbade the Idea. Their habits of thought awl
action, their pitiable weakness as a country,
their disgust . for war on account of recent and
exhaustmg conflicts, all tended to dispose them
to freedom. They were, besides, legislating be
neath the jealous eye of royal deputies, who
would not fail to call treason by its right name.
They sat as it were under the glimmerings of
a diadem.
Who would dare if so inclined, to stalk forth
from their midst and throw down the gauntlet
to the mightiest empire of the world—the prin.
ciples no old as the great globe itself, interwo
ven with every page of history, sanctioned by
venerable sages, and as proud and awful as the
heavens. Who would dare to leap moss-grow.
ing and frowning ramparts of monarchy and
pluck its blood red flag? Who would rush out
from the security of submission, and Sampson
like, grasp the lion by his mane? It was the
grandest moment of tune—but God has reared
up one to fill it. That man was Patrick Henry.
He opened his lips. His heart big with the
destinies of the world, struggled for a moment
with doubt—but no longer. The electric ap
peal shot forth, darting on, flashing fiercer and
brighter, and growing n overwhelming majes•
ty, until the last words 'Give me Liberty or give
me Death!" filled up its measures of terrible
might, and the last huk of the chain that eter
nally bound the form of freedom was riven. He
hadfinished his sublime task. The Revolution
was afoot.
118—The darkey that greased his feet so that
he would make no noise when he went to steal
chickens, slipped from the hen roost into the
custody of the owner. Ho gave a reason for
being there, "llat he only cum dart° see of do
chickens slceped wid dere eyes open." Ho was
Cr Tito young man who ran away from homo
became his mother would not let him wear side
boards to his shirt, is now acting so mail guard to
a charcoal wagon.
The Old Sycamores.
The following beautiful paragraphs are from
the New York Tribune, and willattract the ad
miration of our readers without exception :
Two blackened trunks with naked arms, ex
tended supplicatingly to Heaven, stand, one in
either corner—of the yard of the old brick
Church. Like grim sentinels in rusty armor,
they stand, stripped of their leafy glory, dumb
and bannerless, but silently challenging Mem
ory and the past.
Those old sycamores, that for more than
half a century have flung their summer honors
to the blast, as it swept down Beckman street,
—that have saluted the morning with nodding
coronals, since the palmydays of the old Knick
erbockers, were ignobly bound the other day
with ropes and axe-men lopped their their fair
proportions and left them as you see.
Bound them ropes, they did I As if they
fancied the old Sycamores would rebel as well
they might. • Twisted hemp for them! Why
they were swinging in the winter's blast and
summer's breeze, timing like pendulums,
the high moon of the Empire city when you
were in your swadling bands and you were
nameless. The axe for them ! Why their
very shadows have fallen on hallowed ground
there fifty years; ground richer than the Sacra
mento, in dust—aye, dust once rounded and
warmed with life—dust they call Ellen, or—
Mary, or Genevieve, father, or mother or wife
—dust how loved, how wept! And the old
Sycamores used to fling a shadowy pall over it,
and let in now and then, an emblem sunbeam,
bright as the smile of Hope. Winters and
summers the trees and the winds sigh together,
wills the mourners that came there, and some
"Dewy with Nature's tear-drops
Grieving, if alight inanimate o'er grieves,
Over the sleepers blow."
Song, too, had built nests in their branches
and in the good old times, children—men now,
women now, dead now—used to pause in their
little sports, and listen to the birdnotcs that
came from the billows of green, the "Singing
Trees," of their childish fancy.
Who set them there iu tho twig, whether
God or Tlis creatures, is no matter now. They
triumphed over the pavement and wall; they
made their way up bravely ; they relieved and
eaddened the eye; "they had nothing to do
but to grow," and be green, and bo beautiful ;
they acted well their part, and so they were
honorable trees. Who doubts it?
They withstood the storm—they bore up no.
blybeneath white'winter; but what could thevdo
against rope and steel ? The great tide of life
had risen, and flung its spray over the iron
barriers around the church, and was washing
out the dead that lay there. So, strange soy.
tons bore the dead away, further from the
trampled and resonnding beach of life, and
what had the trees to stay for? So they flung
their last shadows the other clay; a great au.
Wren came upon them and leaf and branch to•
gether went rvstling down to earth.
The blue air, one would almost think, would
retainthe form of those that had occupied it so
beautifully and long; but the blue air closes up
behind the wing that wounds and the foliage
that fills it; as heals the spirit cleft by Death's
pale wing, or subsides the sigh in the soul,—
with the subsiding billow of green turf.
Evil Companions.
Parents cannot be too careful in selecting
society for their children, and young men can
not be too choice in their associates. The
adage has lost nothing by age which says, "A
man is known by the company ho keeps." To
young men especially it is of infinite importance
that they be furnished with companions pos.
sassing generous hearts and lionorable,virtuous
sentiments. Says the distinguished Robert
Hall, in his "Works," recently purilished by
Harper & Brothers:
"Society is the atmosphere of souls; and we
necessarily imbibe from it something which is
either infectious or salubrious. The society of
virtuous persons is enjoyed beyond their com
pany, while vice carries a sting in solitude.—
The society of the company you keep is both
the indication of your character and the for
mer of it. In company, when the pores of the
mind are opened, there requires more guard
than usual, because the mind ispassive. Eith
er vicious company will please you or it will
not.; if it does not please you, the end of going
will be defeated. In such society you will feel
your reverence for the dictates of conscience
wear ofF, and that name at which angels bow
end devils?, tremble, you will hear condemed
and abused. The Bible will supply materials
for unmeaning jests and impious buffoonery ;
the consequence of this will be a practical de
viation from virtue; the principles will be
come sapped, and the fences of conscience bro
ken down ; and when debaucheryhas corrupted
the character, a total inversion will take place;
they will glory in their shame."
There is a beauty in the helplessness of wo
man. The clinging trust which searches for
extraneous support is graceful and touching—
timidity is the attribute of her sex; but to her
self it is not without its dangers, its inconveni
ences, and its sufferings. Her first effort at
comparative freedom is bitter enough; for the
delicate mind shrinks from every unaccustomed
contact, and the warm and gushing heart closes
itself, like the blossom of the sensitive plant,
at every approach. Man may at once deter
mine his position, and assert his place—woman
has hers to seek—and alas t I fear me, that
however she may appear to turn a calm brow
awl quiet lip to the crowd through which she
makes her way, that brow throbs, and that lip
quivers to the last; until like a wounded bird,
she can once more wing her way to the tranquil
home where the drooping head will be fondly
raised, and the fluttering heart laid to rest.—
The dependence of woman in the common af
fairs of life, is, nevertheless, rather the effect of,
custom than necessity; we have many brilliant
proofs that, where need is, she can be sufficient
to herself, to play her part in the great drama
of existence with credit, if not with comfort.—
The yearnings of her solitary spirit, the out.
gushings of her shrinking sensibility, the era.
vings of her alienated heart, aro indulged only
in the quiet loneliness of her solitude. Tho
world sees not, guesses not, the conflict, and in
the ignorance of others lies her strength. The
secret of her weakness is hidden in the depths
of her own bosom, and she moves on, amid the
heat and hurry of existence, and with a seal set
upon her nature, to be broken only by fond and
loving hands, or dissolved in the tears of recov
ered home affection.
The Delicacy of the Eye.
- . -
A distinguished German physician was cel
led to see a gentleman who had always enjoy
ed the excellent sight until it was lost in a mo
ment. Tho patient had been at a party of
friends, when a person stepped suddenly be
hind him and covering both eyes with his hands,
wished him to guess who it was. The former,
without speaking a word endeavored to escape
from the pressure, and when the eyelids were
opened he was entirely bereft of sight. Al
though there was not the least appearance of
injury the sufferer remains hopelessly blind.
$ Nothing is impossible to him I , la° wills.
The Wife's Nightcap.
Mr. -, who does'nt live more than a mile
from the post office in this city, met some
"northern men with southern principles," the
other evening, and in extending to them the
hospitalities of the Crescent City, visited so
many of our principal saloons and "marble
halls," imbibing spiritual consolation as they
journeyed, that when he left them at their ho
tel at the midnight hour, he felt. decidedly felt,
that he had "a brick in his hat."
Now, he has a wife, an amiable, accomplish
ed, and beautiful lady, who loves him devoted
ly, but she finds one fault with him, and that is,
his too frequent visits to the place where these
"bricks" are obtained.
After leaving his friends, Mr. paused a
moment, took his bearings, and having strap.
pcd a course on the principle that continual
angels meet, made sail for home. In duo
course of time he arrived there, and was not
very much astonished, but rather frightened, to
find his worthy lady sitting up for him. She
always does. She smiled when he came in.—
That also she always does.
"How are you, dear E?" she said. "You
stayed out so late that I feared you had been
taken sick."
"Hic—nin't sick, wife; h•but don't you think
I'm a little Wight."
"A very little, perhaps my dear, but that is
nothing you have so many friends, as you
say, you must join them in a glass once in a
"wife, you're too good—the truth is, I am
"0, no, indeed, my dear,—l'm sure that even
another glass wouldn't hurt you. Now, sup
pose you take a glass of Scotch ale with me,
lust as a night-cap, my dear ?''
"You are too kind, my dear, by half; I icnow
I'm d-drunk."
"0 no, only . a julep too much, love that's alll"
"Yes, ju-juleps I Melfasters makes such stiff
'uns I"
"Well, take a glass of ale at any rate; it can
not hurt you, dear; I want ono myself, before I
The lady hastened to open a bottle, and as
she placed two tumblers before her on the side
board, she put in one a very powerful emetic.
Filling the glasses with the foaming ale, she
handed THAT one with a bewitching smile to
her husband.
Suspicion came cloudily upon his mind. She
had never before been so kind when he was
drunk. He then looked at the glassy raised it
to his lips—then hesitated.
"Dear, won't you just taste mine, to make it
sweeter ?" said lie.
"Certainly, love," replied the lady, taking a
mouthful, which she was very careful not to
Suspicion vanished, and so did the ale, emet
ic, and all, down the throat of the satisfied hus
band. After spitting out the taste, the lady
finished her glass, bet seemed in no hurry to
retire. She fixed a foot-tub of water before an
easy chair, as if she intended to bathe her beau
tiful little feet. But small as were those feet,
there was not water enough in the tub to cover
The husband began to FEET, and ho wanted
to retire.
"Wait only a few moments, dear," mid his
loving spouse, "I want to rend the news in this
afternoon's Delta. I found it in your pocket."
A few minutes more elapsed, and then,-0,
ve gods and Dan o' the Lake—what a time
The husband was placed in the easy chair. Ho
began to understand why the tub was there; he
soon learned what ailed him. Suffice it to say,
that when ho arose from that chair, the brick
had left his hat. It hasn't been there sines.—
He says he'll never drink another julep; ho
can't bear Scotch ale, but is "death on lemon
ade." Ho loves his wife more than ever.—N.
0. Della.
A Dandy in Trouble.
Two or three was since, a dandy, dressed
out in the most exquisite style, was seen walk
ing down Broadway. His hat was of the latest
pattern, his coat of the most fashionable cut,
his vest of the most approved colors, and his
boots of the highest polish. His moustache had
the most delicate curl, and his cravat and dick
ey, and glass, and stick, were all just the thing.
His erect form and mincing step, and the pa
tronizing look he gave m the belles and fine la
dies who passed him, showed very clearly how
well he knew that he was the most killing fel
low in Broadway. But look I stay! what lathe
matter? Our exqnisito is suddenly brought to
a dead halt. His feet are chained to the side
walk; ho cannot move a step. He struggles
and reels, but all in vain; he cannot lift his feet.
A sympathising crowd immediately gathers
around him.
A nearer view, and a peep within the tremen
dous ring of spectators reveals the mystery.—
The heel of his boot had slipped between the
iron bars of the grating over an underground
apartment, and was so firmly wedged in that
with all his exertions he was unable to with
draw it. After repeated fruitless attempts, a
by-stander suggested that ho had better draw
his foot out of his boot and then the hoot could
undoubtedly be extricated. The exquisite col.
cared and hesitated, and looked much perplex.
ed. The suggestion was urged again; and in
deed there seemed to be no other means of es
cape, except to amputate the limb, which would
be a serious injury to the "foinest follalt," in
Broadway. At last ho yielded to his fate with
all the meekness of a martyr. With closed
eyes and a rush of blood to the face, he went it
blind. He drew forth his foot from the impris
oned boot, and disclosed to the eyes of his "nu.
merous audience," a stocking most decidedly
ragged and tattered and sadly unwashed.—
Western Music,
A Western chap went to New York to pur
chase goods, Se., and was invited to one of
those fashionable parties so common in largo
cities. He was clearly a Western original, but
said very little until ho saw that the party was
not to close without an attempt to corner him.
At length a bevy of laughing girls. by the me
rest accident in the world, found themselves
grouped about our Western green one, in a
most animated discourse upon music, and city
When all this had progressed just far enough,
one of the damsels with head more adorned
without than within, and iu that peculiar drawl,
which, fortunately, no typo can represent, ac•
costed the observed of all, with—
"Do the ladies play music at the West, sir?"
Original saw the game, and resolved to win.
"Oh, very universally, Miss," was the cool
"Indeed, I was not aware of that; pray, do
they use the piano, mostly?"
"Never, Miss; the instrument that we have
out our way is the Swindle, and the girls all
play it."
"Oh, denr. I am sure, positively, that I
never heard of that before; do tell what it is,
and how they play."
"Well, the instrument is a small pig, and
each girl takes one of these under her arm,
and chews the aid of his long tail, anti that
brings the music!"
The preconeerted "come." made no farther
progress; and for the balance of the evening,
Weatorn green was the lion of the show.
NO. 42.
What is Life 1
It is even as a vapor, says the good book. The
poet Keats says:
Stop and consider! Life is but a day;
A fragile dew-drop on its portions way
From a tree's summit; A poor Ind inn's sleep
While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep
Of INlontmorenci. Why so sad a moan?
Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;
The reading of an ever-changing tale;
The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;
A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air:
A laughing school-boy without grief or care,
Biding the springy branches of an elm.
But if any reader prefers a plain prose answer
to the question, What is life 7 we answer, It is
man's opportunity on earth for doing good, acqui
ring good, and preparing for an eternal career of
goodness hereafter.
A Chapter for Nice Old Farmers.
Can anybody tell why country people so uni
versaHy and pertinaciously persist in living in
the rear of the hossef Can any body tell why
the front door and windows are never opened
save on the 4th of July and at Thanksgiving
time? Why Zedekiah, and Timothy, and Jona
than, and old farmer himself, most go round
the house, in order to get into it? Why the
whole family (oblivious of six empty rooms)
take their °•vapor bath" and their meals, sim
ultaneously, in the vicinity of a red-hot cooking
range, in the dog days? Why the village artist
need paint the roof, and spout, the window*
frames bright crimson, and the doors the color
of a mermaid's tresses? Why the detestable
sun-flower (which I can never forgive "Tom
Moore" for noticing) must nlways flaunt in the
garden? Why the ungracefull prim poplar, fit
emblem of a stiff old bachelor, is preferred to
the swaying elm, or drooping willow, or majes
tic horse-chestnut?
I should like to pull down the green paper
window-curtains, and hang up some snowy m ns
lin. I should like to throw wide open the hall
door, and let the south wind play through. I
should like to go in the woods, and collect fresh
sweet wild flowers to arrange in a vase, in place
of these defunct dried grasses, and old maid
"everlasting." I should like to show Zedekiah
how to nail together some bits of board, for an
embryo lounge I should like to stuff it with
and cover it with a neat "patch."
should like to cushion all the chairs after the
same fashion. Then should I like when the
white-haired old farmer came panting up the,
road at 12 o'clock, with his scythe hanging
over his arm, to usher him into that cool com
fortable room ; set his bowl of bread and milk
before him, and after he had discussed it, coax
him (instead of tilting back on the hind legs Qt
a hard chair,) to take a ten mintnesnep and "model" sofa while I kept my eye on the
clouds, to see that no thunder shower played
the mischief with his hay.
I should like to place a few common sense,
practicable books on the table, with some of
our fine daily and wool:1y papers. You may
smile, but these inducements, and the comfor
table and pleasant air of the apartment would
bring the familyoftener together after the day's
toil,. by degrees they will lift the covers of the
hooks and turn over the_ newspapers._Lanstant
interchange of thought, feeling and opinion,
with discussions of the important and engross
ing questions of the day, would of course ne
cessarily follow.
Tho village tavern-keeper would probably
frown upon it; but I will venture to predict for
the inmates of the farm house a growing love
for "home," and an added air of intelligence
and refinement of which they themselves might
possibly be unconscious. _
In a small country town located in the vicin:
ity of the junction of the Cbenango with the
Susquehanna river there is a church in which
the singing had, to use their own phrase, run
completely down; it had been led for many
years by ono of the deacons, whose voice and
musical powers had been gradually giving out.
One evening, on an occasion of interest, the
clergyman gave out the hymn, which was sung
even worse than usual—the deacon of course
leading. Upon its conclusion the minister
arose and requested Brother to repeat the
hymn, as he could not conscientiously pray af
ter such singing. The Deacon very composed
ly "pitched" it to another tune, and it was
again performed with manifestly n little im
provement upon the first time. The clergy
man said no more, but proceeded with his pray.
er. He had finished to give out a second
hymn, when he was interrupted by Deacon
bravely getting up, and saying, in a voice,
audible to the whole congregation, "will Mr.
please make another prayer ? It will be
impossible for me to sing after such praying as
The people of Wisconsin are called "Bad
gers." We think here is ono fairly out-badger
ed by a cent-saving Yankee:
A. toper some time since, says an exchange,
went into a bar-room in the western part of
Wisconsin—the Maine Law is in operation
there—and called for "something to drink."
"We don't sell liquor," said the tavern keep
er, "but we wilt give you a glass, and then if
you want a cracker we will sell you one fur
three cents."
"Very well," said the Yankee customer,
"hand down the decanter."
The "good creter," was handed down, and
our hero took a stiff "horn," when turning
round to depart, the unsuspecting landlord han
ded him a dish of crackers, with the remark:
"You'll buy a cracker."
"Well, no," said the Yankee, "I guess not;
you sell 'em rather too dear, and I can get
lot's on 'em five or six for a cent anywhere
else !"
Eneonatei;;ltha Whale.
A boat's crew of five men, prosecuting the
whale fishery at St. Mary's Bay, after a long
pursuit, harpooned a call whale on the morn
ing of Monday the 11th nit. The monster di
rectly upon being wounded, rushed in every
direction with the utmost velocity, giving the
men warning to be cautious and prompt ,• at ono
time the fish darted furiously onward, when
suddenly changing its direction, it returned as
furiously toward, the boat. These exciting and
hazardous mancenvers continued a considera
ble time, when the dam of the young whale,
an immense animal, suddenly rose to the sur
face close to the boot, in an infuriated state,
and elevating his tail to a considerable height,
it struck the boat amidships and cleft her in
two, The men luckily escaped destruction,
but were precipitated in all directions into the
see, where they succeeded in keeping them
selves afloat, by holding on by the oars and
broken boat. For a considerable time they
were thus exposed in this perilous situation until
some persons came in a small boat to their as
sistance. Directly after they got into the small
boat, nothing daunted by the recent hair breadth,
escape, they renewed their chase, and finally
succee:led in capturing their prize. Who will
say they were not brave, manly fellows?
VEIC.DenI gently with those who stray.--
Draw back by love and persuasion. A kiss is
worth a thousand kicks. A kiud word. is WM?
valuable to the lot than a inlet of gold,