Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, November 23, 1853, Image 1

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    VOL. 18.
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, 14)F,VaCt2i , ,
A Pungent Consideration.
Of all the trades that men can call
Unpleasant and offensive,
The Editor's is worst of all,
For he is ever penaire;
Ills leaders lead to nothing high— .
His "columns" are unstable,
And though the Printers make him "pie,'
It does not suit his table.
The Carpenter,—leis course is "plane,"
His "bit" is always near hint—
Ho "augurs" every hour of gain--
He "chisels" and none jeer him.
tic "shaves"—yet is not close," they say,
The public pay his "board," sir,
Full of wise "saws," he "bores" away,
And so he swells his hoard, sir.
St. Crispin's son—thc man of shoes,
Has "awl" things at control, sir,
He "waxes" wealthy in his views,
But ne'er neglects his "sole," sir,
His is indeed a "healing" trade,
And when we come to casting
The "Weird" profits he has made,
We find his "ends" are "lasting."
The Tailor, too, gives "fits" to all,
Yet never gets a "basting,"
Ms "cabbages," however small,
Are most delicious tasting.
His "goose,' is hented,—(happy prig I).
Unstinted in his "measure;'
He always plays at "thimblerig,"
And 'seems" a man of pleasure.
The Farmer "reaps" a fortune plump,—
Though "harrowed," far from woe. sir,
His spade forever proves a "tromp,"—
His book is " I've-att./toe," sir,
However "corned," he does not slip,—
Though "huskey," never "horse," sir,
And in a plow•share partnership,
He gets his "share," of course, sir.
The Sailor on the giddy mast—
(Comparatively "master,")
Has many a "bulwork" round him east
To "waive" away disaster;
Even "shrouds" to him are full of life,
His "main•stay" still is o'er him,
A gallant and "top•gallant" crew
Of "beaux esprit.," before him.
The sturdy Irish laborer "picks"
And "climbs" to fame;—'tis funny,
• He deals with none but "reglar bricks"
And so he pockets money,
One friend "sticks" to him, (mortar 'tis,)
lig• In "hodden gray," unbaffled,
He leaves below an honest name
When he ascends the "seallbld."
The Printer though his "euse be hard,
Yet "sticks" not at his hap, sir,
'Tis his tel "canonize" the bard,
And trim a "Roman cap," sir,
Some go 2.4o,—what of that?
He goes it by the thousand I"
A man of "form,' and found of "fat,"
He loves the song I now send.
The Engine driver, if we "track,"
His outward semblance deeper.
Has got some very "tender" traits—
He ne'er disturbs the "sleeper,"
And when you "switch" him as he goes,
He "whistles" all the louder:
And should you break him on . the wheel,
It only makes him prouder.
I launched this akiff of rhyme upon
The "Trade winds" of the muses,
Though pungent seas they've borne it on,
The boat no rudder uses;
So "masticate" her meaning once,
And judge not "sternly" of it—
You'll find a freight of little puns,
And very little profit.
6f2D13G1n7 11122DLItilt.
Holy Life.
The beauty of a holy life constitutes the
most eloquent and effective persuasive to
religion which one human being can address
to another. We have many ways of doing
good to our fellow-creatures, but none so efli•
cations as lending a virtuous, upright, and
and well ordered life, There is an energy of
moral suasion in a good man's life, passing the
highest efforts of the orator's genius. The
seen, but silent beauty of holiness speaks more
eloquently of God, and duty, than the tongues
of men and angels. Let parents remember
this. The beat inheritance a parent can be
queath a child is a virtuous example, a legacy
of hallowed remembrances and associations:,
The beauty of holiness, beaming through the
life of a hived relative or friend, is more effec•
turd to strengthen such as do stand in virtue's
ways, and raise up those that are bowed
down, than precept, command, entreaty, or
warning. Christianity itself, f believe, owes
by fur the greater part of its moral power, not
to theprecepts or parables of Christ, but to his
own character. The beauty of that holiness
which is enshrined in the four brief biographies
of the Man of Nazareth has done more, and
will do more, to regenerate the world, and
hring it to an everlasting - righteousness, than
al! other agencies put together. It has done
more to spread his religion in the world, than
all that has ever been readied or written on
the evidences of Christianity.
le• Silence may be the sullen mood of an
evil temper, or the lofty endurance of n
iC linvitingbon 7 io/ rant,
Drawing near to God.
Prayer is the very life breath of true relig
ion. It is one of the first evidences that a
man is born again. "Behold," said the Lord
of Saul ; in the day he sent Annanias to him,
`Behold he prayed': He had begun to pray,
and that was proof enough.
Prayer was the distißguishing mark of the
Lord's people in the day that there begun to
be a seperation between them and the world.
`Then began men to call upon the name of the
Prayer is the peculiarity of all real Christi
ans now. They pray; for they all tell God
their wants, their feelings, their desires, their
fears, and mean what they any. The nominal
Christian may repeat prayers, and goad pray
ers, too, but he goes no farther.
Prayer is the turning point in man's soul.—
Our ministry is unprofitable, and our labor is
in vain, till you are brought to your knees.—
Till then we have no hope about you.
Prayer is one great secret of spiritual pros
perity. When there is much private commu-
Mon with God, your soul will grow like grass
after rain; when there is n little, all at a stand
still, you will barely keep your soul alive.—
Show tee a growing Christian, a going for
ward Christian, a strong Christian, a flourish
ing Christian, and sure I am he is one that
speaks often of the Lord. He asks much, and
he has much. He tells Jesus everything, and
so he always knows how to act.
Prayer is the mightiest engine that God has
placed in our hands. It is the best weapon to
use in every difficulty, and the surest remedy
in every trouble. It is the key that unlocks
the treasury of promises, and the hand that
draws forth grace and help in time of need.—
It is the silver trumpet God commands us to
sound in all our necessity, and it is the cry be
has promised always to attend to, even as a
loving mother to the voice of her child.
Prayer is the simplest means that a man
can use in coming to God. It is within reach
of all—the sick, tho aged, the infirm, the par
alytic, the blind, the poor, the unlearned—all
can pray. It avails you nothing to plead want
of memory, and want of scholarship in this
matter. So long as you have a tongue to tell
your sours state, you may and ought to pray:
These words, "Ye have not because you ask
not," will, be a fearful condemnation to many
in the day of judgement.
Christian Intercourse.
When Christians make their own progress
in the divine life, the spread of Christ a King
dom, and the glories to be revealed in eterni
ty, the subject of frequent conversation with
one another, we may expect a higher state of
piety in the church and more signal displays
of divine grace.
When they do this, they will be looking
more to things eternal, than things temporal;'.
their thoughts will have more of the Saviour
in them than now. From the general conver
nation of many Christians, we cannot refrain
from the inference, that God is not in their
thoughts continually, or much, while on their
business or mingling with their fellow-men.—
They talk about their farms and their merehan
dise—the weather and the news—while the
great theme remains untouched. And when
Christians are among themselves their dis
course too often savors almost altogether of
the earthly. How rarely do they open their
hearts to one another, and unfold the experi
ence of the inner life! They inquire kindly
about the health of each—how rarefy do they
ask of the sours health I In affliction, how
rarely do they seek to pour out their griefs in
the ear of the sympathizing Brother! True
consolation can come only from Jesus; but the
word from the mouth of a fellow Christiiin,
pointing us unto the balm of our sorrow, is
sweet and comforting to the soul. How cheer
ily the little caravan goes on over the desert!
They unite together to defend themselves
against enemies; and when accident happens
to one, all readily give aid to the sufferer.—
How they beguile the tediousness of the jour
ney, by narration of the dangers through which
they have escaped and by anticipation of their
enjoyments in the city which eloseth their jou' ,
ney I When they pass through the village of
the stranger, what is then there that could in
duce theni to remain? Are they not pilgrims?
Are not pilgrims fellow Christians? Should we
not keep in mind 'our pilgrimage,' and act as
though we were sojourners ? And should not
our converse be upon the city toward which we
are hastening? And should we not, by our
frequent conversations upon our journey siren..
then the heart of all our fellow travellers, and
strive to enlarge our own caravan, and rejoice
to hear that other companions are travelling,
like us, for a city which bath foundation, whose
builder and maker is God.
0.13.'iC3 - 211aBt.tInt?Jo
From the Carlisle "Herald."
A Day at Laurel Hill.
Oct. 23, 1853.
Den• R.—Having procured a ticket that
would admit me to Laurel Hill Cemetery, I
started, about 8 o'clock in the morning, to visit
that interesting spot. The walk (about four
miles,) was delightful. It was refreshing to
get into the country once more, especially at
this season of the year, when the trees are put
ting on the rich livery of Autumn. It is, at
the same time, the most appropriate season in
which to visit the resting place of the dead.—
Thoughtful Autumn ! The fields are shorn of
their vendure—the feathered songsters no more
delight the ear; nor the bright flowers, the eye
--the sighing wind, as it strips the trees of
their foliage, wails a sad requiem for the fall of
the leaf, and the withered leaf itself speaks vol
umes to the reflective mind. A little while
ago, it was attached to the parent stem, full of
life, and vibrating with every zephyr that play
ed around it, now—dead, discolored, mid trod.
den under foot; a fit memento of life.
Laurel Hill, is north of Philadelphia, be
tween the Ridge Road and the Schuylkill river.
The entrance to the Cemetery is by a gateway
in the Doric style, with Lodges on each side.
Ascending the first flight of steps, immediately
opposite the entrance, you find Thorn's statues
of Sir Walter Scott, Old Mortality and his Po
ney grouped togetlitrk under an ernemental
. Temple. Old Mortality is seated on a tomb
stone, looking up from his work, conversing
with Sir Walter, who is seated on an upright
r head-stone; the patient looking Poney is lean
ing, as it were, against another tombstone, on
which is inscribed—John King, 1662. The
monument of the slaughtered Presbyterians,
on which old Mortality is at work, has on it
several names, one of which is, "Richard Ca
meron, minister of the Gospel." The artist,
has successfully embodied in stone, a descrip
tion of the group which you will find in Scott's
novel of "Old Mortality,' which, by the by, I
advise you to read,and his triumph it still mere
• , - .en,ph:t., when , we knee• the fe,e',thet Ilk a well,
for he was self-taught. After contemplating
Old Mortality, I turned to the right, and came
to the Godfrey monument. It is an obelisk, or
namented by a ship and a quadrant,and marks
the grave of' Thomas Godfrey, the inventor of
the mariner's
,quadrant. He was born 1704-
and died 174 r: Near the chapel, is the mon
ument of Gen. Hugh Mercer, who was killed
in the battle of Princeton. He was buried in
Christ Church graveyard, in Second street,
from whence his remains were removed in 1,340,
to their present resting place. The monument
tells the story of the deceased:—"Dedicated to
the memory of Gen. Hugh Mercer, who fell
for the sacred cause of human liberty and
American Independence, in the battle of
Princeton. He potqed out his blood for a gen
erous principle." Gen. Mercer was a native
of Scotland, and an assistant Surgeon in the
battle of Culloden where the Pretender, Prince
Charles Edward, made his last effort to wrest
the crown of Great Britain from the house of
Hanover On the cornice of this monument,
is sculptured a sword and scabbard, the most
perfect piece of work I have ever seen in :mar
ble. I next visited the Gothic Chapel; it is
small, but very neat, and bas a large decora
tive window of stained glass. Near the chap
el, is the monument of Maj. Twiggs, of the ma
rine corps, and his son, both of whom were kill
ed in the Mexican war. The shaft is surround
ed by boarding spikes, and the base is orna
mented by an anchor, shield, and coil of rope.
On tie brow of the hill, is a large granite mon
ument,erected to the memory of Caries Thomp
son. He was long the confidential Secretary
of the Continental Congress. He was born in
Ireland, in 1729, and diid in 1824, full of hon
ors and of years. The monument of Como
dore Hull, it is said,is meddled after that in the
the Scipios, at Rome, with the addition of the
American eagle, perched on the centre. The
inscription reads:—"Beneath this stone are de
-1 posited the remains of Isaac Hull, Captain in
the Navy of the Unite,: States." His monument
should have been made of the good old ship,
Constitution, familiarly known as lronsides,
for she carried the first Anierican flag that was
run up to the masthead, above the Union,.Jack
of old England. Near this is the tomb of a
lady who died in Egypt, which has on it a
view of the Pyramids, with Palm trees.
Footways run through the ground, in every
direction, and the spaces are surveyed off in
small plots, taking a variety of shapes, squares,
half circles, oblong and oval, and all are en
closed with chains or railing, fastened to mar
ble posts at the corners: one lot is enclosed en
tirely wills marble, having dials cut on the four
sides of the massive posts.. The lots are kept
refreshingly green, nearly all having iron set
tees inside, and the graces are beautified with
flowers and evergreens. As I approached the
river, the rural character of the scene was still
more striking; fine old trees cast a solemn
shade around the grave of those who
"Calmly rest, their hallowed place of sleeping,
Bears on its bosom, no impress of dread,
Life's haunts still echo to the sump of wserdpg,
But peace her wings, bath folded o'er the deed.
Nark ! through the branches, o'er us' darkly
Now the winds in whispered music flow,
Like spirit-voices, tremulously breathing
A ceaseless dirge, for those who sleep below."
Next to the river, the hill is a natural am
phitheatre; where the descent is gradual, ter
races have been cut, forming additional walks
and new burial lots. Part of the hill, however,
is a bold rocky bluff, some sixty feet above the
water. On part of this bluff, a small observa
tory is erected, from which I had a delightful
view of the Schuylkill, and its beautiful and
characteristic scenery; on the south, is the
bridge formerly used by the Columbia railroad;
on the northwest is a viaduct of the Rending
railroad, and the bridge across the Wissaltic
con creek; then in the background, the old for
est trees, the beautiful flowers, the fresh ever
greens, and the white tombs half hidden by the
creeping ivy, formed such a scene of pictures
que beauty, that it seemed as if nature and art
were vioing with each other, in giving a until
ling countenance, even to Death. Below the
observatory, several vaults have beeu built, its
the Egyptian style of architecture, with heavy
columns and granite walls, as if the &tiers in
tended that their remains should keep up
an aristocracy even in the grave, and not min
gle with the common herd; but strong as their
walls may be, the tooth of Time can eat
through them, and the bones of those so care
fully put away, may yet blench on the hill-side.
Down a steep declivity, a tomb has been cut
out of the solid rock,with a heavy iron door,but
no name left to tell who is the occupant. On
the highest point of the rocks, a stone cross
has been erected, from which thorn is an ab
rupt precipice to the river, resembling, some
what, the rocks at the cave near Carlisle. The
bate of the cross contains the following inscrip
"Stranger; whose steps have reached this soli
"Know, that this lovely spot, was dear to one,
"Here has heard delighted, the rustling of the
"Melodious to the gales of summer move,
'Till all around
"Ilad filled his senses with tranquility,
"And ever soothed in spirit, he returned,
"A happier, better into.
Stronger I
Perchance, the stream more lovely to thine eye,
"Will glide along, oral to the summer gale
"The woods move more melodioust
Cleanse thou then,
"The woods end mosses front this lettered stone."
From this I turned to contemplate the last
resting place of JosOph C. Neal, the celebrated
author of the "Charcoal Sh.elches." Ile Was
"a fellow of infinite jest, and most excellent
fancy ;" but his heart was strung too high fur
this world; the slightest blast of adversity cans•
ed the striags to vibrate, until at length they
snapped asunder, and the sound ceased fore,
cr. ills monument is a marble sock ins its us
ual state; on the top zero placed an Urn and
Lyre, beautifully and richly chased ; on amar
ble tablet fastened to the rock is the following
inscription :--,Tosepk C.. Neal; born 1807, died
1811; "A tribute of affectionate regret, from
lh elan keel him , as A. turn, and admirnd
him as an author." In a quiet shady nook,
nearly concealed by creeping vines, in the tomb
of Maj. Adam Hoopes, Ist Reg't. U. S. Artil.
lery, a gallant, accomplished, and patriotic so 1•
dier of the Revolution ; born at Carlisle, Pa.,
1760, and died 1846. 110 died after a long
and eventful life of 86 years.
As a contrast, close by was the grave of an
infant, inscribed:—"Not here, but risen and
gone." Taking a path to the right, I found a
broken column, erected to'the memory of one
"So late in bridal robes arrayed :
So soon apparded for the bier !"
On the side is sculptured • basket of flowers,
inscribed Our Kate. "Is it well with thee?
and she answered, it is well." On the south
side of the Cemetery, I found a noble monu
ment, raised to the memory of three sisters,
who had died in the bloom of early life :
"Gone, ere one soil was on their hearts—
"White Heaven wee round them like a dream;
"Ere they had felt the spell depart,
"That brenthed on flower, and sky, and stream'
It is an exquisite specimen of the Gothic style
of architecture—a minature representation of
a chapel ; the ground is tastefully laid out, and
the tomb is shaded by Cedars of Lebanon. In
the same portion of the Cemetry, a granite ob
elisk has been erected to the memory of Fri
edlander, the founder of the institution of the
blind. He was born in Upper Silesia, in 1803,
and died in 1839, at the early age of 3G. In
the same enclosure, a richly carved monument
is erected to the memory of the chief of the
benefactor of the institution, William Young
Birch, who bequeathed a large estate for the
benefit of the blind. He was born in Man
chester, England, in 1764, and died in 1837.
Here, side by side, lie two voluntary exiles,
from their "father-land," who united together
to carry out the noblest enterprise that ever
pure philanthropy suggested, and one such ex
ample is enough to refute all the slanders that
were ever put forth by all the Native Ameri
can demagogues of the country.
From a beautifully ornamented enclosure,
rises a graceful shaft of marble, from which I
copied the following :—lgi repose: Emelie Ste
vens, 'Epouse de James Stevens, et mere des
chers enfa ns, nee le 5 mare, 1816, Decede le
Janvier 1845
"There's not an hour of dav, or dream by night,
"But I am with thee.
"There's not a wind, but whispers of thy name,
"There's not a flower that sleeps beneath the
But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale of thee."
One of the most striking monuments is erec
ted to the memory of an infant. It is a tem
ple, supported by four columns, within which
is the figure of a lovely child, of life size, said
to have been done by the celebrated Italian
Sculptor, Pettrich, and is a portrait taken af•
ter death. The little innocent face looks so
simple and confiding amidst the terrors of
death. Fearless the little mortal has passed
alone, under the shadow, into the presence of
his Heavenly Father ; "for such is the king
dom of Heaven." The inscription reads :—ln
memory of Alfred Theodore Miller, son of Ma
thew T. and Caroline Miller—born February
1, 1840; died Sept. 8, 1840 :"
"A bud of beauty, nipped by Death
"Oh, no! up•bome to milder skies,
"Where no rude triad with icy breath
"May blight a flower of Paradise."
- -
Five little graves are now grouped together
in the enclosure, and five chaplets are suspen
ded within the temple, each bearing the name
of one of the children. A little further on, was
a tomb, with the "pitcher broken at the faun.
lain," and close by was a pedestal erected to
several children of one family, having a repre
sentation of a large Bible on the top, opened
at the "Family Register," with a record of the
births and deaths. But time and ability would
both fail me, iu attempting to give you even a
foist outline of the beauties of this, to me, de
lightful spot, though to many, calling up sad
rem inisences of those once fondly loved. There
are so many beautiful and appropriate ideas
embodied in atone, that it would require a vol.
nme to describe them. I have only given a
few of the most prominent. I could have lin
gered for hours around the place, and mused
on the many weary ones, who have at length
found that rest which the world denied them.
Like children tired at play, they have sunk to
their dreamless sleep. "They chnunt no more
to the melody of the viol, nor revel any longer
at the bouquet of wine." How many bright
hopes have been quenched in this "field of
God!" How many airy castles have fallen to
ruins in the grave! How many warm hearts
have been chilled by the cold marble! Awe
may overcast uswhen we lonic on Peath,but we
have this consolation—we are born for a high
er destiny than that of earth. We may mourn
for those who havegone before us, yet "Earth
has no sorrows that Heaves cannot heal ;" and
that rainbow of promise will never fade away.
Sadly, I took one last look, over the wide
expanse of graves—bat not sorrowfully; for
I stood, a stranger, in that "city of the dead,"
yet, an humble, quiet, graveyard, soon rose up
before me, in which I had friends and.kiudred
to claim all my sympathies. No costly ceno
taph or carved mausoleum marks the spot
which covers their remains—but there are
"tombstones in the Cemetery of the heart, sa
cred to their memory, until some friendly hand
shall write me meuto mon, over me. W. Al. r.
?Caine Oxen.
A correspondent of the Germantown Tele
graph thus compliments the Maine Oxen. He
calls them "'mitre oxen." In one sense they
aro natives, because they are " born and
brought" in Maine; but they are, generally
speaking' grade animals, of Durham or Here
ford or Devon Blood.
The native oxen of the North,--especially
those of Maine,—are spoken of by travellers,
who have seen them on the farms, and in the
vast leather forests of that State, as a superb
nee. They often measure seven and a half
feet, and teams of three and four yokes each,
are frequently met with, sod an ox in which
gives less the seven. The nmount of labor
%shish these noble animals perkwm, is to be
accounted for only by the very kind and almost
paternal attention they habitually receive from
their drivers. in the 'ember swamps, this at
tention is perhaps greater than on the farms;
but in all cases they receive unalloyed kindness
and whey once qttematicsily brolie to dm
draurzht,' nrc rMrer severely A-hipped.
Letter from an 08foe•8eeeker.
To the Editors of the National Intelligeneer.
WASHINGTON, October, 1853.
• As you have admitted into your columns a
letter from a Beggar, and as many people have
undoubtedly imagined that be was the most
miserable man in this community, I ask per.
mission to correct this erroneous impression.—
We have, indeed, followed the same trade, and
"been friends together;" but while he has, after
an independent manner, begged for bread, I
have been a servile beggar for office. He wrote
you because he thought it probable that he
could not long survive, but I do the same be.
cause I have actually numbered my own days.
The coroner must not fail in his duty. I have
dispatched a messenger, with my last shilling,
after a bit of that famous opiate which I have
appointed to be the bane to all better feelings
of my nature, and at the same time the antidote
which shall release me from my present suffer
ings, and the intervening time I will devote to
the revelation or confession following.
Seven years ago I was in the prime and vig
or of my life, and the most successful lawyer in
one of the pleasantest and most thriving villa.
gee in the Western Reserve of Ohio. I had a
wife, devoted and accomplished, and two sweet
children, a boy and a girl. Though by no
means rich, I was surrounded by comfort, and
had every reason to be a happy man. The war
with Mexico was then progressing, and I be
came fired with a martial spirit. The tears of
my wife availed nothing, and I departed at the
head of a company of volunteers. I acquitted
myself respectably, and the war ending I re
turned to Ohio. As a matter of course I found
that my place in the courts had been filled, and
my successor a formidable Aral. The glories
of Buena Vista had facinated me, and with the
multitude I thought that Gen. TAYLOR ought
to be the next President. I bought out, with
the help of friends, the village newspaper, and
became its editor. I wrote myself almost to
death in Isis behalf, and was every where tip
' pleaded for the good service I had rendered.
He was elected, and in duo time I was number
ed with the countless throng who visited the
political Mecca for a smile from Mahomet. A
printing office and three hundred doubtful sub
scribers now constituted my chief dependance,
and, deeming myself a fit subject for a little
Government patronage, I left my paper in
charge of a friend, and my family to the care
of Providence, and here I am a citizen of Wash.
Yes, gentlemen, for nearly seven long years
have I been hoping against hope, and experi
enced vicissitudes which have well-nigh broken
my heart, and made me, as I believe, the most
miserable man upon earth. For a few weeks
after my arrival here my prospects were bright,
while matters at home were as well as could be
expected. All my ready money I had been
obliged to bring with me to defray my expen
ses, so that the support of my family was ob
tained upon credit, and the tradesmen in our
village were very liberal and very kind. Con
fident of success, I lived at one of the bid ho
tels, and was as intimate with members of
Congress, letter-writers, and kindred office-seek
ers, as if I had been a relative of one of the
new Cabinet. They enjoyed my dinners, and
as a matter of course their beautifully-written
names figured extensively among my creden
tials and recommendations. Two months elap
sed, and I could count up almost half a hundred
Promises which I had received from the De
partments, but still no appointment came.—
The first position that I had fixed my mind
upon was given to a judge in my county, and
ns he was a highly respectable mart I could
not complain; any second selection amounted to
nothing, because the fortunate incumbent was
not to be removed; and thus, one after the
other, did the places I sought elude my grasp.
Three months were now flown, and my purse
was getting light, and trouble was staring me
steadily in the face. I thought of my family,
rend over the affectionate and hopeful letters
from my wife, and determined to be an inde
pendent man, and return immediately to Ohio;
but then a foolish pride interposed; I smother
ed my feelings, and resolved to continue my
efforts. Promises from the Departments were
now few and far between, and there was a kind
of horror in the tones of the post office clerk
who daily said to me, when I called upon him.
in the mad belief that
,I would receive an offi
cial communication, unothing for you to-day,
sir." Whenever these repented disappointments
were accompanied with a letter from my wife,
the sword that pierced my spirit seemed to have
two edges. 'And, oh, tho agony that I nightly
endured as Ilay upon my bed, and thought of
the past and the future—of the here and there!
During this period my dress was genteel,
and, as I had resolved to 'hope on, hope ever,'
I tried to find peace of mind by going into so
ciety. I did so, through the instrumentality of
the Representatives of my own and neighboring
States—for they, you know, aro always honor
able men, by virtue of their position—and be
came well acquainted with the fashionable cir
cles of the metropolis. Night after night I at
tended large parties, and, though surprised to
find myself in such splendid company, I was
more surprised to see the strange conglomera
tion of characters with which I came in con
tact. High and low, Whigs and Democrats,
Senators and letter-writers, clergymen and
gamblers, men of intelligence and simpletons,
(myself included among the latter,) were al
ways assembled upon the same platform, and
I could only account for the strange mixture
by remembering that every man hailed from
some particular "district," and that every dis
trict had a Representative. And yet, good sirs,
I would nothave you understand me as doubt
hog the existence of any high.toned society in
Washington. Better and snore genteel society,
I verily believe, does not exist in any land, but
it is not that addicted to large parties, and es
pecially large dinners, where are everlastingly
endured the same Preach dishes, cooked by the
same man. (who lives in a large brick house
and^pr•r , l 1 . 7 th,
set of polite waiters that have for many years
past done so much to give eharacteeto fashion
able life at the seat of Government. If, there.
fore, you should imagine that I found consola
tion by going into society, r can only say that
to my taste its manifold attractions were as in
sipid as dust and ashes.
Time flew on, and I was compelled to change
my lodgings from the first-rate hotel to an ob
scure boarding-house. To my pride this was a
severe blow, but another and a far more terri
ble one came suddenly upon me, bringing mil
dew and blight and despair over my spirit, and
adding to the desolations of my home—it was
the death of my forsaken• wife. The letters
which communicated this sorrowful news were
friendly and minute. They told me that she
hnd long been drooping like ono under a heavy
cloud; that her thoughts clung ever to the ab
sent and loved with the devotion of woman's
holy nature and the strong desires of a saint;
and that, with her children almost in her arms,
she died perfectly resigned and happy in the
prospect of a life where want is never known,
and the good can never die. What were my
feelings you can better imagine than I can de.
scribe. I would have attended her burial, but
it was too late, and besides I had not the mon
ey to bear my expenses home. Strange an it
may seem in one so foolish and unworthy, I
did my best to provide for my children; but
when informed that my house hnd been closed,
and those dear little ones taken into the kindly
keeping of charitable friends, I became in feel.
ing more nn exile from home than ever; and,
as I sometimes profanely fancied that the curse
of Heaven was resting upon me, I desperately
and sullenly resolved to continue in the very
city where so many of my hopes had been
wrecked or blasted.
Instead of months, years bad now elapsed,
and I was still in pursuit of the poor phantom,
office. As my clothes became thread-bare, I
was excluded from the society in which I had
temporily moved; and as I picked up an occa
sional dollar by performing unworthy employ
ments for the keepers of the common eating
houses, I formed an extensive acquaintance
with the profligate and the dissipated. A malt
—a kind of fashionable Mephistopheles—to
whom I had been introduced in my BETTEIi
days (Heaven save the mark !) by a member
of Congress, now crossed my path; told me he
was following his old vocation, that of inviting
strangers into the gaming saloons, and intima
ted that there was good luck in store for me in
that direction. I yielded to the temptations,
pledged my last few dollars, and for six conse
cutive nights was fortunate. I paid my little
debts, clothed myself anew, and returned to the
gaming table. Fortune for three months smi
led upon me, just enough to lure me onward to
my ruin. I became intimate with gamblers
and accomplished in the secrets of the "dread
ful trade." The brilliant lights, the rich wines,
and sumptuous tables, added to my new-born
passion, absorbed my entire mind, and my
character and my children were alike forgotten.
At the time, I could not realize that I was on
the road to ruin. I drank to excess, and sel
dom made my appearance in the light of day.
I was possessed with frenzy, andcould not rea
son; and when in my lucid intervals I did rea
son, it was only to say, "if I am in the 'bonds
of iniquity,' then are there many, well known
to fame, in the same condition." Now and
then I remember one who had recommended
me for appointment to office, and in ono in
stance a person at whose feet I had been a
beggar for a place. As a matter of course the
lower deep of my downward career was soon
attained, and for more than a year past I have
led the life, not of a respectable and independ
ent beggar, but of an outcast, gathering my
sustenance from the back doors and kitchens
of the hotels, sleeping no two nights in the
same place, and wandering about, with my all
of wealth nod comfort tied up in a cotton pock
et handkerchief, which, with my staff, I carry
with me in my hands wherever I go. The man
who, not long since, threw himself from the
Washington Monument, and he who hanged
himself on the Virginia side of the Potomac,
have both set me an example which despair
has compelled me to follow. Their histories
are unknown, but the lesson of my life is now
presented to the world. Idnre not think of my
own fate hereafter, but, if God will forgive me,
I pray that He will protect my children from
evil ways and evil men, and teach them not
only to believe, bat to act upon these precepts
of the Bible which I have neglected from my
youth, viz: " Put not your trust in ;
trust in God, his wisdom, promises, and pow
er; as for the way o f the ratgodly he turneth it
upside down." Truer words than these never
fell from the lips of inspiration. And here
endetb the record of my bitter experience. I
commend my body to the coroner and my soul
to its Creator.
Wonderful Mechanism is the Eyes of
A singular provision is made for keeping
the surface of the bird's eve dean--for wiping
the glass of the instrument; as it were, and also
for protecting it while rapidly flying through
the air and through the thickets, without hin
dering the sight. Birds are for these purposes
furnished with a bird eye-lid—membrane or
skin, which is constantly moved very rapidly
over the eye ball, by two muscles placed in the
back of the eyes. One of the muscles ends in
a loop, and is fixed in the corner of the mem
brane, to pull it backward and forward. If
you wish to draw a thing towards any place
with the least force, you must pull directly, in
the line between the thing and the phi* hut
if you wish to draw it as quickly as possible,
and with the most convenience, and do not re
gard the loss of force, you mast putt it obfiqte
ly, by drawing it in two dittetions at ones.—
Tie A string to a stone, and draw it towards
you with one hand; then make a loop on ano
ther string, and, running the first through it,
draw one string in one hand not towards you,
but sideways, till both strings are in a straight
line: you will see how much more easily the
atone moves quickly than it did before, when
pulled ttraight fbrvard.- • /fr,'sy .Vitert
lanfm •
NO. 48.
Hints to Farmers.
HORACIGREELT, Esq., delivered the Annual
Address at the Agricultural Fair in Indiana,
which occupies seven columns of the Tribune.
Speaking of the Farmers, he says:
But let us pause at that word Industry. "By
Industry we thrive," is an old saw, which is
very well in its place, but the truth contained
in proverbs is so curtly expressed that it often
misleads more than it directs. Industry is in •
deed essential to thrift, and farmers, like other
men, often need to be reminded slit. When I
note and o'erwhelmed with "business which,
calls him away from home two or three days in
each week, and keeps him hanging about the
tavern or store while his boys are at play and
his potatoes crying for the hoe, I know whither
that fanner is tending, and can guess about how
long he will have any land to mismanage. And
I think that, in the average, farmers waste more
hours than mechanics. They have more idle
time—not necessarily; but quite commonly so
regarded—through bad weather, severe cold,
too much wet Ste. than falls to the lot of almost
any other class, and it is very easy to allure
many of them away to shoot at other mans ter
kies when they should be growing food for their
own. But while many waste precious hours,
quite as much through heedlessness and want
of system, and indolence, I know another class
who slave themselves out of comfort and out of
thought by incessant, excessive drudgery—who
are so absorbed in obtaining the means of living
that they never hind time to live—who drive
through the day so that their bones ache and
their minds are foggy at night, and are so over
worked through the week that they can neither
worship God nor enjoy the society of their fami
lies on the Sabbath. These men will often tell
you they have no time to read, which is just as
rational for the captain of a steamboat to plead
a want of time to consult his compass and chart
or keep a reckoning of his ship's progress. No
time to read? Do they not find time to plant
and sow, to reap and mow, and even to eat and
sleep? IT they do, then they may find time, if
they will, to learn how to apply their labor to
the best advantage as well as to qualify them
selves by rest and refreshment for working at
all. I venture the assertion that there are teen•
ty thousand farmers in Indiana who would have
been wealthier as well as more useful, more res
pected and happier men this day, if they had
abstracted ten hours per week from labor during
all their adult life, and devoted those hours to
rending and thought, in part with a view to im
provement in their On•n mention, but in part
also looking to higher and nobler ends than
even this. Some men waste the better part of
their lives in dissipation and idleness; but this
does rot excuse io others the waste of time
equally precious in mere animal effort to heap
up goods and comforts which we must leave be
hind so soon and forever.
—I read very few old books—l can hardly
find time to master the best new ones; but t
have no doubt that those who do read the very
oldest treatises on Agriculture which have sur
vived the ravages of time, will find Cato, or
Seneca, or Columella, and whoever may be the
author in hand, talking to the farmers of his
day very much as our farmers are now general
ly talked to, and inculcating substantially the
same truths. "Plow deeper, fertilize more tho
roughly, cultivate less land, and "cultivate it
better "—such, I have no doubt has been the
burden of Agricultural admonition and exhorta
tion from the days of Homer and Moses. It
seems incredible to modern skepticism that mil
lions of Hebrews could have for ages inhabited
the narrow and rocky land of Judea; and it
would be hard to believe, if we were ignorant of
the Agrarian law of Moses, under which, as
population increased, the inalienable patrimony
of each family became smaller and smaller, and
the cultivation of course better and better--
Very few of us are nt all aware of the aterago
capacity of an amble acre, if subjected to the
rough scientific culture. Many a family of four
of five persons has derived n generous subsis
tence for year after year from a single acre.—
The story ofa farmer who was compelled Lose!!
off half his little estate of eight or ten acres ;
and was Most agreeably mu-prised by finding
the reward of his Tabor quite as large as when
it was restricted to the remaining half as when
it was bestowed on the whole, was very current
in Homan literature two thousand years ago:
Why it is that men persist in running over
much land, instead of thoroughly cultivating a
little defying not only Science, but EXperiencci
the wisdom of the fireside as well as that of the
laboratoxy, can be accounted for by supposing
that men havc a natural passion for annexation of
pride in extended dominion, or else a natural
repugnance to following good advice. Surely,
if Wisdom ever cried in the streets, she has
been bawling herself hoarse these twenty-five
centuries against the folly. of maintaining fences
and paying taxes on a hundred acres of land
in order to grows crop that might have bees
produced from ten:
Hollow Horn Disease'.
Seeing in your paper of the 3d ill:, an enqui
ry respecting a disease called holloW horn, tho
cause and cure; perhaps, as no description of
the disease is R isen, it may be something I am
not acquainted with, yet we have a disease
called the horn nil; the symptoms are, shop
ping of the head and ears, lying down, turniug
the head over the back, towards the shoulders,
as if in pain in the head. This I think is a
spinal disease effecting the brains and horns.
Cure—Take a large table spoonful of sulpher,
and lard sufficient when warm to make it soft
like paste, pour it on top of the head at dm
root of the horns; taken shovel or flat piece
of iron, heat. it, and hold it over the head so as
to teat the paste and warm the top of the bead
as much as the best will bear; repeat once in
or three days, And bore th horns on. the
under side, two or three inches front the head.
so as to lot in fresh air—and let the putrid
matter out if any is collected. I have never
known this fail, if taken before too far gone. --
I base cured one cow when the top of the
head was so full of matter that I opened a
place above the ear which discharged more
than a half pint. This was in the summer:
the cow was fattened in the fall and killed; the
bead was all right, excepting a place at the
roots of the horns about as large at a mall
speen C0w1..--Baton Cuttirater.