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P@Wirtal.
Trne Freedom, and How to Gain It.
BY CHARLES MACKAY.
We wont no flag, or flauntinerag,
For LIBERTY to fight;
We want no blaze of murderous guns,
To struggle for the right.
Our spears and swords are printed words,
'The mind our battle plain;
We've won such victories before,
AND SO WE SHALL AGAIN.
We love no triumphs sprung or force—
They stain her brightest cause;
'Tii not in blood that liberty
Inscribes her civil laws.
She writes them on the people's heart
In language clear and plain;
True thoughts have moved the world before,
AND so TOOT SHALL AGAIN,
We yield to none in earnest love
Of freedom's cause sublime:
We join the cry "FnAntawaryl"
We keep the march of Time.
And yet we grasp, nor pike, nor spear,
Our victories to obtain;
We've won without their aid before,
AND so WO SHALL AGAIN.
We want no aid of barricado
To shown front of wrong;
We havo a citadel in truth,
Moro durable and strong.
Cairn words, great thoughts, unflinching faith,
Have never striv'n in vain:
They've won our I.ttles many n time,
AND SO THEY SHALL
Pence, progress. knowledge. brotherhood—
The ignorant may sneer,
The bad deny, but we rely
To see their triumph near. •
No widow's groans shall load our cause,
No blood of brethern slain:
We've won without such aid before,
AND $O WE nituLL AGAIN.
The Death of Innocence.
She bloomed in beauty like the rose,
The fairest of earth's diadem;
~ ,.?he faded 'mid the winter's snows,
And died upon the parent stem.
As pales the star upon the brow
Of summer's eve she passed away;
nee brilliant eye is sunless now,
Iler roseate check is cold as clay.
No more that voice of melody
Shall echo's.sBetest sounds prolong;
No more that laugh of sinless glee
Shall ring amid that happy throng.
The vacant chair beside the hearth
Proclaims her loss at evening hour;
And they who knew her sterling worth,
In silence mourn the faded flower.
She diet as sinks the weary anti
Upon a mother's breast to sleep,
And in her latest dream she smiled;
Oh ! who o'er such a death could weep 1
As fells the leaf in autumn's glen,
When whisp'ring winds in music play,
She died ! and mortals knew not when
Her joyous spirit passed away.
The Wheel of
DT MRS. Z. D. RAYMOND.
It was a cold, stormy day in the month of
January, that a poor, pale-faced, thinly-clad
boy entered the counting-room of a wealthy
merchant, and handed hind a note.
The boy shivered with the cold, while his
looks plainly told how impatiently ho waited
for an answer. The merchant glanced. at the
nate, and then in an angry tone said to the
hey:
"Too
"Toa may tell your mother that she must
either pay me the money, or. vacate the house
this week, for I will wait no longer:"
"My mother is sick, Mr. Bently, and I wish
von would be kind enough to wait one week
longer."
"I have w lied long enough," said the hard
hearted mer ant, "and it she (Ines not pay the
rent, she will compelled to leave the house."
With tears in his eyes, the little fellow left
the place, and regardless of the storm, he her-
tied on towards a clothing establishment, where
lie was employed as an errand boy; and just as
he was about to setter the shop, a hand was laid
upon his arm, and as he turned roiled he re
cognized a young man whom he had seen sit
ting in Mr. Bentley's counting-house.
"Are you the boy that just left Mr. Bentley's
counting-room P'
"I am, air."
"What. are you doing here?"
"Mr. Martin pays me fire dollars per month
for doing chores about the shop."
"What kind of work does your mother do?"
_"My mother and sister make shirts for a six
pence. n piece. When mother in well, we all
Can earn enough to. purchase fuel and provi
sions sufficient for oar comfort."
"But how did you pay the rent before your
mother was taken siek 9" _
•'My father was a nuthon by trade, and be
done a job of work for Mr. Bentley, and in lien
of money, he took a receipt for ais months'
rent."
7--- "ighere is your father nu r
11,1 }As! ar
at. Huntimbln Tionnall,
" I SEE NO STAR ABOVE TUE lIORIZON, PROMISING LIGHT TO GUIDE US, BUT' VIE INTELLIGENT, PATRIOTIC, UNITED WHIG PARTY OP TIIE UNITED STATES.".
rived in New York; he had been in this country
eighteen months, and last spring he sent home
to London for mother and ns children—having
the rooms we now occupy furnished for our re
ception when we arrived."
"Is five dollars all your mother owes Mr.
Bentley 7"
"It is, sir."
"Here, my boy, take this money, and gn to
the counting-room and pay your rent. Tell
Mr. Bentley it was loaned you by a friend, with.
out saying who I am or where you have seen
me; and if you are as good a boy as I think
you are, you shall know me better hereafter."
Before the boy had time to express hisheart.
felt gratitude,
the stranger was gone; and with
a light heart he retraced his steps to the count.
ing-room, and took a receipt forth° money.—
Then he bounded away towards home to relate
his good fortune to'his mother and sister.
They all thanked God, and blest the stranger
over and over again, before they seated them
selves at the table to partake of the scanty
meal Lucy had prepared for them. Scarcely
had they finished eating when a loud tap was
heard et the door, and in a moment more the
stranger stood before them.
"iiother this is the gentleman who gave me
the money to pay the rent," said Henry, at the
cam,, time handing him a chair.
"Thank you," said the stranger, "I have no
time to sit; I merely called to know if your cis•
ter would hem a half dozen handkerchiefs for
file?"
"Most certainly," said Mrs. Willard, "we will
do everything in our power to recompense you
fur the kindness you have shown us. May I
ask your name—and where shall we send the
work when it is done ?" _ _
"My name is of little consequence, and when
the handkerchiefs are done, I will call here and
get them—good night, my friend. I hope to
find your health much improved when I call
again.
Every day for two weeks, a small basket of
provisions was brought to the door, directed to
Mrs. Willard—and when she questioned the
boy that brought them, his only answer was—
"they're given you by a friend."
Three weeks had passed, and their dream of
wonder was broken by the entrance of the
stranger. When Lucy handed him the band
kerchiefs, he gave her a dollar.
"We cannot take this money," said Mrs.
Willard, "you have been so kind to us."
"Take it, my good woman—it will 'pay your
week's rent; and I have some shirts that I would
like you to make if you are able."
On the following day he brought the shirts,
and from that time forth.be became a frequent
visitor. He would often spend a whole even
ing in teaching Henry and Lucy lessons in ar
ithmetic and grammar, which they had not
previously a chance to learn.
"My dear children," said Mrs. Willard, one
evening after the stranger bad left them, "I
not sorry that so much of your happiness de
pends upon the visits of one we do not know;
it is strange that we cannot learn his name—
and I sometimes fear that his intentions are
not as hottest as we have imagined."
"Do not misjudge him, mother," said Lner,
"for I am pleased with his company, and
be
lieve be is a christioo."
"Mother is afraid he will run off wills our lit
tle hearty." said Henry, laughing.
"No, I do not believe that Lucy would in.
tentionntly do anything weepy, but Satan is
transformed into an angel of light; therefore we
should ever be on our guard lest we are deceiv
ed by shining colors. It is now nearly a year
since our first acquaintance with him, and yet
his name and history is a perfect riddle."
Another evening came, and the young man
was again seated with the little (*.unify engaged
in conversation, when the landlord entered the
house to collect his rent. When ho received
his money he inquired if his son had been there
that evening.
"Ho has•not—l never saw your son to my
lthowledge " said Mrs. Willard.
"A friendl told me not five minutes since that
he was in this house."
"I am here," said the voting man, stepping
to the door, "but Mrs. Willard was not aware
that my name is Bentley.
He wished her good night, saying he would
see her again soo.
"You will not see her again," said the enra
ged father, "and Mrs. Willard can look out for
another house as soon as convenient."
The father and the son left the place, and
walked home in silence; when they were seated
in their own sitting room, the old man, trem
bling with rage, demanded an explanation of
his son's conduct. .
.....
"Charles, I am told that you intend to de
grade yourself and family by marrying that
foreign pauper."
"I do intend to marry Lucy Willard wits her
consent," said Charles.
'You will not marry her unless you forfeit
your claim on my property, for my house shall
no longer afford a home to a disobedient child."
think I am capable of being myown judge
—and while I have my health and my hands to
work, I will never have a heartless woman for
a few paltry dollars."
"If you persist in marrying that girl, you
will leave my house forever."
He did leave the house that night, and went
to a friend, where he engaged a comfortable
tenement for Mrs. Willard, and as everything
else was settled to their satisfaction, Charles
and Lucy were married, and Charles obtained
a situation in a wholesale establishment, where
he spent eighteen months without ever having
passed a word with his father or any of the fil
thily.
One morning, a clerk informed him that - a
gentleman in the counting-room wished to see
him; when ho opened the door he was surprised
to see his father bowed down with grief and
sorrow.
"Charles yon are my only son, and I know
of no one more worthy my confidence. I came
hero to ask your advice; my creditors have
seized everything 1 possess, even the furniture
its toy house, and I know not what to do or
where to go."
"Be composed father, I will do all I can for
your comfort, and the restoration of your pro
perly. Co home with me and get some dinner,
and I will see what I can do for yen."
When they entered the house. Lucy and her
mother cordially welcomed Mr. Bentley to their
home, and Charles amused the baby while the
women prepared dinner. Scarcely were they
seated at the table, when Henry walked into
the coons with a letter in his band.
"Coed news this morning:, Charles I"
"What is it, Henry?"
"Our old Uncle Ford, the miser, has died,
and left a hundred thousand pounds in the
Bank of England, to be diVided between Lucy
and myself."
"Good news, indeed," said Lucy.
She then related Mr. Bentley's misfortunes
to her brother, and Henry assured him that
they would do all in their power towards the
restoration of his property—nnd five months
later, Mr. Bentley willingly gave his (laughter
to him whom ho would have turned into the
street, three years previously, because his
mother was sick, and he could not pay him five
dollars for house rent. The wheel of fortune
had turned. Those thnt were rich became poor,
while those that wore poor wore toads rich.
tl A r k
HUNTINGDON, PA., WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 26, 1853.
THE SEAMSTRESS,
Or, the Value of Labor.
• Mrs. 5- was left a widow with several
small children. She could think of no way of
getting a living for them but by her needle;
and as she was a neat sewer, she hoped to get
work, and earn food and scant clothing at least.
She applied to several, and was still without
means of earning a dollar, when the last one
was spent. Just at this sad moment, the fact
of her destitution becoming known, Mrs. T
sent for her.
After she is seated the following conversa
tion ensues:
"Can you do plain sewing?"
"Yes, ma'am, as well as most persons."
"What is your price for fine shirts?'
"I haven't set any price yet, but I will work
as low as any one."
“But you know that to get work you will
have to do it a little lower than ordinary.”
"Well, ma'am. I am in want, and will work
at almost any price."
"I suppose you will make a fine shirt for a
quarter?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Anil calico dresses for the same?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well that's reasonable."
"Boy's common shirts you will not charge'
over eleven pence for ?"
"No, ma'am."
"That's reasonable, and I'll do all I can for
you. It gives me pleasure to help the poor.—
Come down to-morrow, and I'll have some
work ready for you."
The widow departed.
"Well, wife," said Mr. T—, when he saw
the woman depart, "at what price will mho
work?"
"At just half what Miss It-. charges."
"Well, that's something like. It gives me
pleasure to befriend any one who is willing to
work at a reasonable price. Why this will
save us almost a dollar a week, the whole year
round.
"Yes, if you want it."
"Well, I'll do my best. It is shameful what
some of those seamstresses charge."
Boy's shirts, at 12. cents, were her first pie
ces of work. Two of these by hard work she
managed to get done in a day.
Next morning she was up early, thouodt her
head ached badly, and she was faint and weak
from baying sat so steadily through the whole
preceding day. Her children were taken up,
washed and dressed, her rooms cleaned, and a
scanty meal of mush and milk prepared for the
little ones; and rt cup of ten for herself. Her
own stomach refused the food of which her
children partook with keen appetites, and she
could only swallow a few mouthfuls of dry stale
bread.
It was nearly 10 o'clock when she got fitirly
down to work, her head still aching and almost
blinding her. Some how or other she could
not get on at all first, and it was long past the
usual dinnenhour before she had finished the
first garment.
After dinner Mrs. S- worked hard, and
in touch bodily pain and misery, to finish the
other shirt in which the last stick was taken at
9 o'clock at night.
Soon after breakfast the next day, she took
the shirts home to Mrs. T-, her thoughts
mostly occupied with the comfortable food she
was to buy hor children with the half dollar she
had earned. For it was a sad truth that she
load laid out the last half dollar for the meal
with which she was making mush for her little
ones.
After examining every scam, every hem, and
every line of stitching,' Mrs. T- expressed
approbation of the work, and handed the poor
woman a couple of tine shirts for Mr. T
and a calico dress for herself. She did not of
fer to pay her for the work she had done. At . -
ter lingering a few moments. Mrs. 5- ven
tured to hint that she would like to have a part
of whet she had earned.
"Oh, dear, I never pay my seamstresses un
til their bills amount to five dollars. It is so
troublesome to keep account of small sums.—
When you have made five dollars, I will pay
you.
Mrs. - S— retired, but with a heart that
seemed like lead in her bosom. "When shall
I earn five dollars—not cor a whole month, at
this rate," were the words that formed them
selves in her thought.
From this state n'igloominesJ she was roused
by a knock nt the door, and a pleasant looking
lady, somewhat gaily dressed, came in with a
small bundle in her hand.
She introduced herself by saying that she
had just seen tome pretty shirts at Mr.
and that she was so much pleased with the
work that she hail inquired for the maker.
"And having found you," said she, "I want
you to make and fit this calico dress for me, if
you do such work.
"I shall be glad to do it for von," said Mrs.
5-, encouraged by the kind feeling of the
lady.
dAnd what will you charge?"
Mrs. S- hesitated a moment, and then
said, "Mrs. T- gives me a quarter of a dol
lar.,'
There was a bright spot for a moment, on
the cheek of the lady.
"Then I will give yon three:' said she with
warmth.
Mrs. S- burst into tears, and could not
help it.
"Are you in need?" inquired the strange In.
dy hesitatingly, but with an air that could not
be mistaken.
For a moment the widow paused, but the
sight of her children conquered the rising em
otion of her pride.
"I have nothing but a little corn meal in the
house, and have no money.'!-
A tear glistened in the stranger's eye; her
breast heaved with strong emotion, then again
all was still.
"I will pay you for this dress beforehand,
then, and I want it done very nice, and I will
pay you a dollar for making it. Can I have it
day after to•morrow1"
"Certainly ma'am to-morrow evening, if you
want it."
The dollar was paid down ; and the angel of
mercy departed. More than one heart was
glad that morning.
Cool Operation,
The Boston Herald say.; that last Monday
night two thieves entered the hotel of A. M.
Fuller, No. 36 Portland St., by prying the cel
lar deer from its hinges, 101011 they proceeded
to the har, took the money drawer hdo the
street, sat down on the sidewalk, divided the
changed and pocketed the same. Fuller at
this time awoke and thrust his head out of the
window and asked •
'What are you doing there?'
'None of your business
'Have you been into my bar ?' asked Fuller.
'Yes,' was the reply.
•
'Stole all my change, eh?,
'Yes.'
'iV;il just bring it back, and 11l give you
bills for it.'
'No, we can't stop now, we are in a Larry to
go to bed.'
'Very well,' respondel Fuller, 'l'm rather
sleepy myself.'
About tWF t,w the roxace !cfl n,r....ctialnit
The Twilight of the Heart.
"There is an Evening Twilight of the Soul."
Yes, the heart hath its twilight—a time
when the shadows fall, and the light is dim—a
time when retrospection is nwernfully pleasant,
and tears, like the evening dewdrops, gently
distill. The sunlight may be flashing glorious.
ly, or the quiet stars be twinkling in the mid.
night sky, but the heart can have its twilight
alike in the morning's glow or the midnight
gloom. Let the soul but be hushed to silence,
and Memory and imagination's busy train fixed
on the past, and in its shadowy vistas let terms
onceloved appear, and voices long wake
again echoes in the heart—let the joys of life's
sinless hours. pass before ns, refreshing the
mind, by the remembrance of their purity and
innocence—let all the aspirators of hope and
the bright dreams of youthful ambition be re
called, and softened, and mellowed by distance,
they will seem brighter than aught the future
may promise; and at such moments you will
feel that the shadows .of the heart's twilight
have fallen upon your spirit. At such mo
ments commune with thine own heart and he
still—let meditation ply her holy task, and thy
reveries, in the sombre light in which thou
art shrouded, may waken purer feelings and
nobler resolves than all pens, save that of in.
spiration—than the lyre of the poet, or the
tongue of the eloquent orator.
Art thou a lover of wisdom ? Seek it, at
such moments, in the pages which the past has
written on thy memory. There thou wilt find
records which thine own hearts may know;
there are springs, at which others may strive to
drink, but in vain. Drink, then, copious
draughts, and thou wilt confess, when thou at.
tainest to self-knowledge, that thou hest not
drank in vain.
Welcome then, thrice welcome, thou hallow
ed twilight I dearer thou art than the closing
sluvles of summer's eve to wanderers under
whispering boughs near murmuring streams;
for in thy dim, mysterious light, we behold
forms which meet but the eye of the spirit, and
with our own hearts we become strangely famil
iar. Such seasons come to all, but not to all
do they bring the same blessedness. From the
mists of the solemn twilight angels may beckon
or demoni frown. To some they may he the
harbingers of nights of pence and mornings of
sunlight glory; to others of nights of darkness
and mornings of storm. Art thou of these to
whom such seasons bring no joy ?—a joy in
whirls smiles and tears are strangely blended.
In the sparkle of the wine-cup, and the mazes
of the dance, dost thou flee those hours of
thought which are wont to force themselves up
on thee? Do the phantoms of the past affright
thee Bost thou call oblivion thy friend, and
eagerly seek for forgetfulness? Beware! thou
art fleeing from that which would befriend thee,
and wasting moments infinitely more precious
than the pearls dissolved in the goblet of the
Egyptian queen. True they may tell of way
wardness, nod perchance of rrirne; but like the
whispers of angels, they would call thee back
from thy wanderings, and point to a destiny in
unison with thy noble nature, and the cravings
of that spirit whose very desires prove its im•
mortality.
But thou art of those whom virtue blushes
not to own ? If so. thy heart's twilight is not
a starless one. Thou shalt. be re-united with
the mist•robed forms which seem gliding be
fore thee, and thy . tongue shall join in the same
anthem with the voices which seem falling on
thy spirit's ear. Lo ! even now the stars come
forth to the gaze of thy soul—stars brighter
than those which look down on earth; they are
the stars of hope and promise whirls gem the
heaven of God's revelation—they tell of a land
of light, where the trees of life ever bloom, and
the flowers are unwithcring—where the waters
of life's river, flossing from beneath the throne,
flash brightly its the beams of an unsetting sun,
and twilight gives place to a ceaseless day.
An Autumnal Retrospect.
These autumn days beget in one's mind re
flections. at once sad and attractive. In this
season the emereld of forest and field fades
by imperceptible degrees into russet brown.—
Tluorgh crevice and corner the wind sighs in
modnful cadences, as if singing the solemn
requiem of the departing year. The naked
boughs of trees peep out front their variegated
drapery, and the crisp and fallen leaf toys
gracefully with the zephyrs—the chilly air
creeps stealthily over and among the rustling
foilage, and brook and rivulet dashes joyously
onward, "making music with the enamelled
stones."
We have arrived at the end of a season,
marked in a peculiar manner, by the visita
tions of an angry Providence. Draw-bridges
have yawned in the path of steam engines.—
The monstrous motor of civilization, scorning
the efforts of man to bind it down with steel
and iron, has scattered to the winds great
ships, and marked the scene of its victories
with hecatombs of ghastly corpses. The great
lines of comtnunication and travel are red all
over, with the blond of martyrs. Opposing
trains, in mighty madness, have rushed to each
other's embrace, and scarcely can there be
found a burial place, in all our land, that is
not the resting place of some murdered victim
of "disastrous accident." There are vacant
places at many a board and desolation at many
a hearth-stone, where sorrow was unknown,
when the spring flowers blossomed in our
northern homes.
Yonder in a beautiful Southern city, strong
man and maiden have gone down before the
breath of the pestilence. No sound disturbs
the noiseless monotony of its streets, save the
slow rumbling of a funeral cortege, that winds
towards "the cities of the dead." Plague
stricken and dismayed, tho dying population
have carried with them the mtasma of death
to sister States, and the valley of tho great
"Father of Waters" is a Golgotha, as bane
ful as the Upas tree—death-dealing like the
Sirocco. No sprinkling of the door post or
lintel, stops the entrance of the destroying
Angel. It takes the millionaire from the
palace, and the sot from the hovel. It scorns
the barriers of rank and social position. It
counts among its victims , the beauty of the
hareem and the painted prostitute—the high
and the low—the master and the slave. the
vehicles of trade are freighted with tho
k—thecmain
air comes to us tainted with fever.—
root fear is abroad in the land. At the ex.
lenge board and the council chamber, at the
church door and in the parlor—it drives out
cverp topic. Knots of men standing ut the
street corners
`Whisper with while lips—it comes I it comes
Anxious friends read the daily lists of the
dead, trembling lest the name or the loved one
is there. Charity has flowed into the devoted
city in plenteous streams, Communities robust
with health, have held out their hands to aid
the distresses of brethren, and jealous sections
have forgotten the heats of party strife, in a
generoui rivalry of alms•giving.
Such is the fearful - retrospect. It has been
a year clouded with gloomy memories. Death,
the great reaper, has gone 'into the harvest,
and has,come back loaded with spoils. Front
the Pretldential mansion to the rudest hamlet
on oar western frontier, he has selected, with
unsparing band, his countless victims. We
doubt if another year, so deeply dyed with gore
can I, c,r . !,!4tnr , .. .PiVrt
R.
Decision of Character.
Decision of character is that firmness and
activity of mind by which . we are enabled to
decide and act; and to overcome the diffusulties
and resist the temptations of life. There is no
trait of character more noble or more to be ad.
mired than this: nothing noble or valuable can
lie accomplished without decision of character,
With it the Most ardent aspirant to honor,
wealth, or fame, need not despair. 4111
As an example of decision of character and
its importance, I will take two young men,
similar in all respects, except that the one
possesses decision of character, and the other
does not. The one you see prompt and ready
to act. If obstacles present themselves be at
once sets himself nobly and boldly to work,
nor does ho desist until he has surmounted
them. If temptation is held out to him he
turns from it with disdain. The other you be
hold always undecided and inactive.
"And like a man to double business hound
He stands in pause where he shall first begin;
And both neglects."
Thus ho spends more time in• making up his
mind than it would take to accomplish the ob
ject about which he is cogitating; and he finally
gives up in despair without one noble and man
ly struggle. If temptations assail his erring
feet he cannot resist, but becomes a miserable
victim to its power. When such a person has
entered into temptation, destruction is inevita•
ble. The situation which men occupy in life is
in a great measure owing to their decision of
character.
Decision was one of the distinguishing and
brightest features in the life and character of
the immortal Washington. It was, and is ad
mired and praised by all. In him was display
ed true decision of character which is to decide
and act.
The SUM,. with which lie resisted foreign
oppression and vindicated his country's rights,
may he attributed principally tothat admirable
trait on his character. And the success of
Bonaparte, and all great men, may be attribn•
ted to the same cause. The happiness of
person possessing decision of character is much
greater than the happiness of him who does
not possess it.
The former on reviewing his life, perceives
that time has been improved and that his priv
ileges have not passed unnoticed. The latter
reviews his misspent time and unimproved
opportunities with the keenest remorse. And
the peculiar privileges which presented them
selves to him werelost, because he had not de
cision enough to embrace an opportunity.
The Beautiful.
There is more true poetry in the follttwing,
than some writers get into a hundred stanzas
of faultless rhymes:
Who loves not a little child's appreciation of
the beautiful? Its innocent eyes see what our
long trained, always fail to notice, the loveli
ness and perfectness of humble things. We,
grown, full of learning and tricked out with
fashion. think that to see grand sight we must
go to Europe, gaze on Alps towering over Alps,
ambitions for the nearer smile of Heaven.—
Muse in the midst of sombre splendor that
haunts dim cloisters in old cathedrals. Watch
the sunbeams braiding their light into wreaths
of gorgeous dyes, and hanging, them over the
grand brow of some mountain iceberg.
Pity we could not borrow the spirit of the
little child, and feel that everything made by
the Father, whether it kiss the ground, or gem
the sky, is well worth seeing, and beautiful of
its kind. Pity we had not the faith of "one of
those little ones," to read a miracle in the
changing dew-drop.. .
Go where ye will, the broad earth bears the
beautiful; it springs like hope from sorrow over
the ashes of the dead. It lies nestling upon
the bosom of the mother. It is with no when
we open our eves to the morning, and the cur
tain of the night shuts its visions in our
hearts. It springs like the flower frffin the bud,
not of a happy thought. It fonts down like
Eli mantle, and angels fold it about us
when we kneel nt the shrine of prover,
. _
Oh ! tell us where the brautifel in not ?
Nay l we re-call the aspiration. We should
have the beautiful forever in our sight, as was
the pillar of fire by night and cloud by day, to
the heaven-led lerwlites.
And when we come to the lost• hour; we
would have no gloomy fears about our dying
bed, but beams, many and bright., falling from
Eternity upon us, malting at the last even
death beautiful.—Olire Rranrh:
Horrible Phenomena.
It is not generally known, says the Chocks
ton Courier, that in Barbadoes there is a mys
terious vault, in which so one dares to deposit
the dead. It is in a church-card near the sea
shore. In 1807, the first coffin that was depo
sited in it was that of a Mr. Goddard; in 1808,
a Miss A. M. Chase was placed in it. and in
1812, Miss B. Chase. In the end of 1812, the
vault was opened for the body of lion. T. Chase;
but the three first coffins were found in a con
fused state, hissing been apparently tossed from
their places. Again was the vault opened to
receive the body of an infant, and the four ed.
tins, all of lend, and very heavy, were found
much 'disturbed. In 1810, a Mr. Brewster's
body was placed in the vault, and again great
disorder was apparent among the coffins. In
1819, a Mr. Clarke was placed in the vault, and,
as before, the coffins were in confusion.
Each time that the vault was opened, the
coffins were replaced in their proper situations
—that is, three on the ground, side hs' side, and
the others laid on them. The vault was then
regularly closed; the door (a massive stone,
which required six or seven meta to move) was
cemented by masons, and though the floor was
of sand, there was no marks of footsteps or wat
er. Again the vault was opened in 1819.
Lord Combermere was then present, and the
Coffins were found thrown confusedly about the
vault—some with the heads down. and others
np. "What could have occasioned this pheno
menon? In no other vault in the island, had
this ever occurred. Was it an earthquake that
occasioned it, or the effects of an inundation in
the vault 4' These were the questions asked
by a Barbadocs journal at the time, and no one
could afford a solution.
The matter gradually died sway, until the
presient year, when, on the 16th of February,
the vault was again opened, and all the coffins
were again thrown about ns confusedly as be
fore. A. strict investigation took place, and no
cause could be dise&Fered. Wns it, after all.
that the sudden bursting forth of noxious gas
from one of the coffins could have produced
this phenomena? If so, it is against all former
experience. The vault has been hermetically
sealed again—when to be re-opened we cannot
tell.
In England there was a parallel occurrence
to this, some years ago, at Houton, in Suffolk.
It is stated that on opening a vault there, sev
eral leaden coffins, with wooden cases, which
had been fixed on biers, were found displaced,
to the great consternation of the villagers. The
coffins were agnin placed as before, and the
vault was properly closed, when tignin, another
of the family dying, they were again found dis
placed; and two years after that, they were not
only found all off their biers, hut one coffin (so
heavy as to require eight men to raise it,) was
forma on the fourth step which led &p.m to the
vault; and it seemed perfect; certa!r. that no
had en.
'-[WEBSTER.
Driving off the Fog.
On a late trip of the steamer Express round
from Nashville, she was detained several hours
by fog. Capt. McComas, anxious to get along,
did not stop his boat,hut kept her cautiously mo
ving forward, having both eyes wide open for
any obstacle. Passing to the stern of the boat
to take an observation, he was met by a pas
senger, who said to him—
"Captain, why don't you drive off the fog?"
"Just the thing I should like to have you tell
me how to do."
"Come down into the cabin, and I'll tell yon
how an old German friend of mine once did
In a few minutes afterwards they were com
fortably seated in the cabin, when the passen
ger commenced by saying—
"l shall expect you will believe it, and of
course try the experiment."
In a rich valley of the Mohawk, there is a
quiet little village called Spraker's Basin.—
Not many years ago, and before there was
such a thing as a railroad in the State of New-
York. the veritable Mr. Spraker, the patriarch
and founder of Spraker's Basin. was keeping a
tavern a mile or so from the village, upon the
thoroughfare known as Johnstown road. Spra
ker's, as it is generally called, was in early
times the great rendezvous for the Mohawk far.
mere while journeying to Albany with their
wheat, and of the Jefferson and. Lewis county
drovers. Now and then a New York merchant
on his trip to the northern settlements, was to
he seen before the great wood fire in Spraker's
tavern. This class of travellers were held in
much respect by old Spraker and the honest
Dutch farmers on the river. One of this class
accosted the old man on the porch one foggy
mooning with—
" Mr. Spraker do you have much of this sort
of weather down here in this valley?"
"Olt, yees, put we tout mind it, Mr. Stewart,
I lins n way of triving it off. 'lsh no matter at
all
.nl. .
"How's .- that Mr. Speaker, I should like to
know the proeess of driving off a fog."
"Well, I will tell you. I takes in tram, and
goes out and feeds te pigs, and if to fog ton't
go orr putty soon, I takes anoder train, and den
I goes out and forlders te cattle, and if te fig
aint gone py tis time, I takes anoder tram. and
den I goes out and chops wood like tinier,
and if to fog tont go py tis time, I takes anoder
tram, and so on Mr. Stewart, I keeps a doin'
till to fbg all goes away."
“Well upon my word, Mr. Speaker, this is a
novel mode of getting clear of n fog. How
many drams did you ever take of a morning
before you succeeded in driving off the fog 1"
"Let me see, about two years ago, I tink I
had 'o take about twenty drains, but it was a
tam foggy MO.ling."
The Lady's Man.
Ile is described as follows in the New Or,
leans Delta:
his face is eternally wreathed with un
meaning smiles, and when he addresses a
lady, it is always in such a strain ofabsurd
nonsense that we have often been surprised
that a lady armed with a fan and so address
ed; did not brain the animal on the spot.—
If the lady's man does, by any possibility,
possess the least degree of common sense,
he takes especial pains to conceal it, for
some how or other he has taken it into his
wise head that empty sentimentality and ab
surd nothings are the only offerings fit for
the female mind. In order to be true to
what ho conceives to be the entertainment
and amusement of the ladies, he turns trai
tor to manhood, and so becomes epicene
himself without a just claim to be classed
with the male or female sex. Ilis best
qualities aro those which ho possesses in
common with certain kinds of dogs—to
fetch and carry. Ladies who laugh in
their sleeves at the fool, may not object to 1
the attentions of the servant, and so out of
mere commiseration allow him to carry a fan
or escort them to the opera, when the MEN
of their acquaintance are not accessible.—
The lady's limn is sufficiently rewarded for
attending them through a whole evening's
entertainment, if they will only drop a smile
into the poor fellow's hat at parting With
this substantial blessing he is encourtted to
future exertions in this wide field of mascu
line ambition.
If a man's duty to a lady consisted in pick
ing up dropped pocket handkerchiefs and
fans, or twirling her round to the point of
giddiness and exhaustion in the waltz, we
should, perhaps, not envy the accomplish
ments of the mere lady's mat?.
Beautiful Effect of Pain.
One of the most boautiftl effects of pain
is its tendency to develops kindly feelings
between man and man—to excite a friendly
sympathy on the part of others towards the
person immediately afflicted. No sooner is
a person attacked with illness, than a cor
responding degree of interest is excited in
his behalf. Expressions of solicitude for
his welfare are put forward, offers of assis
tance are made, old friendships are revived,
and new ones developed —all this, it is to
be remembered, is essentially connected
with the sufferings of sickness. Were it
not for this, there would be no occasion for
this sympathy, and there would be nb mani
festation of it. Every man would be left
to battle with the attacks of illness as ho
could, and no voice would be raised to cheer
him in his hours of solitary gloom—no ten
der hands put forth in offices of kindness
—no midnight watchers volunteer to at
tend his bedside. In contemplating the
uses of pain that a gracious God has at
tached to our covitution as a necessary
part of our existenTe, is there any one that
culls lender for admiration than this, which
unites the whole family of Adam into ono
universal brotherhood —which gives exer
cise to the noblest charities of our stature,
and which is the means of securing to us, at
the very moment when we must see their
value, the tenderest assistance of the best
and kindest feelings of our nature.
tiek.. An exchange paper illustrates the ad
vantage of a ‘divison of labor' by the following
anecdote.
A certain preacher was holding forth to a
sontowhat wearied congregation, when he 'lift.
ed up his eyes' to the gallery, and beheld a
youngster pelting the people below with ohm
nuts. Dominic was about to administer ex
cathedra u sharp and Mringent reprimand for
this flagrant net of impiety and disrespect, but
the youth, anticipating him bawlcd out at the
top of his voice—
'nit mini tour y reachin;, sad r:1
NO. 44.
John Pounds.
Probably not one in ten of onr readers evee
before saw this name in print. Yet if the his•
tory of this century shall ever be truly written',
that name will be mentioned in honor. It was
John Pounds, a poor, old, lame shoemaker of
Portsmouth, who first conceived the idea of
Ragged Schools, and who carried it into sue•
cessful practice. A brief account of him is siv
en in a recent English work, entitled "The
Philosophy of Ragged Schools." That account
is 28 follows :
"He worked on at the trade he had taken to,
and not only maintained himself, but was able
to adopt and bring up a nephew. who was, like
himself a cripple. It was thinking over the
best mode of educating this boy, that the
thought struck him that the companionship of
another child would render learning easier and
pleasanter to him than if lie had to study alone;
he accordingly found a companion for his ne
phew, in the son of a poor woman, his neigh
bor. The experiment was so successful, that
in a short time two or three others were added
to the class. After a time, he added to its num
ber till it consisted of forty scholars, including
twelve little girls. The pupils he taught were
the dettitnte and neglected—"the little black
g,tutrds," as he called them—and many a time
he has been known to go out upon the public
quay and tempt such as these by the offer of a
roasted potatoe, or some such simple thing, to
enter his school. There is something in the
voice and manner of nn earnest truthful man,
which is irresistible; it is an appeal made to the
Divine image, of which thereto some trace still
left. even in the most corrupted heart; and it
was reldom,therefore, that the summons of John
Pounds passed unheeded; and, when once at
the school, his scholars seldom needed urging
to come a second time; for their master taught
them not only "book learning," as he called it,
but his trade: if they were hungry, he gave them
food if ragged. he clothed them as well as he
could; and, added to all this he joined in their
sports. What wonder that they loved him, or
that when he died—and his death was sudden,
at the age of 72—the poor children who then
formed his class wept, and some of them fain
ted at hearing the news."
This good old man died in A:19; hut his idea
lives, and will live, as long as there remains on
earth one neglected, untaught child. Thrice
honoured be his memory.
Singular Case.
We remember to have read somewhere an
account of a most exemplary instance of con•
jugnl fidelity and devotion, which if not apoe•
ryphal, is certainly withouta parallel. A young
nobleman of Genoa, who held large estates in
Corsica whither he used to repaii every few
years to regulate his offitirs, had married a
beautiful creature named Monimia. enitalian.
They lived for some years in undtninished feli
city, lill—alas for the mutations of tins, l—the
devoted husband wag compelled to defer no
longer a visit to the land of his possessions.
During Lis absence, the island being at the
time in a state of insurrection, a report reach•
ed the ears of the anxious spouse, that he bad
fallen a victim to the popular furor and revolt.
About the same time as he was passing along
the harbor, he overheard coins sailors, who
had just arrived, talking of the death of a Ge.
noose nobleman's wife, then absent from the
republic. The name of his beloved was at
length mentioned, when all suspicion yielding
to the painful conviction that it was indeed.
her of whom they spoke. he became so over
powered with grief that he swooned away. On
his recovery hb determined to lose no time is
repairing to his home, in order to ascertain the
certainty of the report.
Strange as it may appear, simultaneonslv
with this, the equally distressed wife resolved
upon a similar procedure. They took ship—
one for Corsica, the other for Genoa; a violent
storm overtook both vessels, and each was
shipwrecked on the Mediterranean. Marimi's
ship first mode land, and the disconsolated
widower, wishing to indulge his grief, wan
dered into the embowered recesses of n neigh•
boring womb Soon afterwards the Genoese
ship landed Monimia, with one of her molds;
actuated by similar emotions, she bent her sor •
rowing steps to the same retreat. They each
heard the other complaining of their bitter
fate; when, moved by n mutual curiosity to see
their eompanions in grief—judge of their
amazement and rapturous surprise, they in.
,atantly recognized in each other the dear ob.
,jest of their ardent solicitude and affection.—
One long, straining, and passionate embrace,
and they immediately expired ! Their re•
mains were conveyed to Italy, and repose in
their dreamless sleep under n magnificent
mansoleum.—Salod for the Solitary.
Immortality of Man.
Who in it that the rainbow and the cloud
come over us, with a beauty that is not ofearth,
and then pass away and leave us to muse on
their faded loveliness? Why is it that the stars
which hold their festival around their midnight
throne, are set above the grasp of our limited
faculties, furever mocking us with unapproacba•
ble glory ? And why is it that forms of human
beauty nre presented to our view and taken
front us, leaving the thousand streams of atfec•
tion to flow back in Alpine torrents upon our
heart? We are born for a higherdestiny than
that of earth. There is a realm where the
rainbow never fades, where the stars will set
out before us like Islands that slumber on the
ocean, and, where the beautiful being that now
passes before us like the meteor, will stay in
our, presence forever.
lam` A certain Sunday school teacher was in
the practice of taking up a collection in his ju
venile class for missionary objects every Sun
day; and his box received scores of pennies
which might otherwise have found their war to
the drawers of the confectioner and toy man.—
a° was not a little surprised,howeyer, one Sun
day, to find a bank bill crushed in among the
weight of copper. He was not long in finding
wit to be a broken bank: and on asking the class
who pot it there, the donor was soon pointed
•ut to him by his classmates, who had seen
him deposit it, and thought it a very benevo
tent gilt. "Didn't you know that this bill was
good for nothing?" said the teacher. "Yes,"
answered the boy. "Then what did you put it
in the box?" "I didn't 'spose the litfle hacilten
would now the difference, and so it would be
-just as good fur
110` An Aubutu paper thus describes a trav
eling circus.
The circus was in town lust week. Its grand
entry was a grand fizzle. The gorgeous dra
gon chariot looked like a mud scow with a
zinc tail. The immense procession was a min.
ute and a halt in passing. The elephant
swung his tail delightfully.
A rolling stone gathers no moss," is a
very doubtful adage. We have Just seen, in a
country paper, the marriage of Peleg Bowling•
stone, to Miss Ophelia Morse.
ekr A learned doctor has given it as his opin
ion that tight lacing is a public benefit, as Is kills.
all the foolish 6..15, and leaves the wiser onset°
bo women.
Trust him little who praiaea all; him leas
who censure, all; sui h, n :eau ie indiffae
a:!