BY WM. BREWSTER.
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En2VM2I , ,
DREAMS.
Oh! there is a dream dearly youth,
And it never comes again;
'Tis a vision of light. and life, and truth,
That flits across the brain:
And love is the theme of that early dream,
So wild, so warm, so new,
That in all after years .1 deem
That early dream we sue.
And there is a dream of maturer years,
More turbulent by far;
'Tis a vision of blood and woman's tears,
For the theme of that dream is War.
And we toil in the field of danger and death,
Anil shout in the battle array,
Till we find that throe Wyk,. breath,
That vanisheth away.
And there is a dream of henry age,
'Tis a vision of God in store;
Of sums noted down, on the figured page,
To be counted o'er and o'er.
And we fondly trust in our glittering dust,
As a refuge from grief' and pain,
'Till our limbs arc laid on that last dark bed,
Where the wealth of the world is vain.
And is it thus, from 1131111'3 birth to his grave,
In the path which all are treading,
Is there naught in that long career to save
From remorse or self upbraiding?
Oh, yes, there's a dream so pure, so bright,
That the being to whom it is given
Bath bathed in a sea of living light,
And the theme of that dream is lIEAvEN.
THINGS THAT ARE NEEDED.
A brush, a broom, a dusting pan,
(loud elbow grease, and soap and sand,
And then sonic one who lniows their use,
Are needed much in every house.
You may dock your house with costly things,
And have your fingers hid in rings,
Unless you use a brush and broom,
Nothing looks pleasant in thc room.
Sometimes you chance to make a slop,
And then you know you need a mop;
Unless you know the use of such,
I'm surO you can% 100 good fur Much,
Perhaps you'll get a city geld,
Beside his clothes, net worth a cent,
Then learn you must, for by-and-by
Ton II h: re to go to work or die.
1112,2• Ii
. .
From the Weekly Sun.
Resurrection of Christ.
"He preaches' unto them Jesus, and the resur
rection."
Although every point of the Christian doe
trines, ono excepted, have beets, from time to
/ time, subjected to the most severe, if not the
most just, "investigations" (and what word has
been more grossly perverted ?) of infidels, and
sceptics, few, if any, of her blessed truths, es
pecially if taken separately, have been the sub
jects of more ridicule and indecent epithets
than those two points found in the words above
quoted, viss first, JESUS: Ills birth, His at
taimnents, His powers, His deeds, and in one
word, His character; and second, and especial
ly, His resurrection, and by consequence, His
immortality. "Few articles are more impor
tant than this" says Mr. Buck; "it deserves our
particular attention because it is the grand
hinge on. which Christianity turns." Hence,
says the Apostle, he was delivered for our of
and raised again tbr oar justification.—
Jesus' resurrection would fulfill both Isis own
prophecies and those of them "who foresaw
Him" as risen from the dead. Thus David held
precisely the same view of Jesus' resurrection
as did the Apostles. "Therefore did my heart
rejoice and my tongue was glad, moreover al
so, my floats shall rest in hope." Here David
viewed Isis own resurrection, or non-resurrec
tion as indissolubly connected with the rem
reetion or non-resurrection of Christ. "Now,
if Christ be preached that he rose from the
dead, how say some ansoug you that there is
no resurrection of the dead?"
"But if there be no resurrection of else dead,
then is Christ not risen. And if Christ be not
risen, then is our preaching vain, and your
faith is also vain. For if so be that the dead
rise'not, then is not Christ raised, and it . Christ
be nut raised, your teals is vain, ye are yet in
your situ." Here we see that Paul holds to
the God of Abrahams, bane and Jacob; he
holds Jesus is the Gott of the Jew and of the
Gentile, notwithstanding infidels speak of the
God of the Sew and the God of the Gentile as
two gods. If Icsus be risen, shot he is become
the first fruits of tlitut a.?;h-pt. and then its...,
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" I SEE NO STAR ABOVE THE HORIZON, PROMISING LIMIT TO GUIDE CS, RUT THE INTELLEUENT, PATRIOTIC, UNITED W DIU \j or TIER UNItEII STATES."
that sleep in Christ will God bring with him.
Not only so, but all that are in their graves
shall hear the voice of the Son of God, and
shall come forth.
The doctrine of Christ's resurrection seems
the more important to infidels, because, wheth
er he was divine or human matters but little,
if they admit. his rising again. If Jesus did
rise, being only a "mere man," as infidels and
some others say he was, the dilemma becomes
unavoidable that all mere men will rise also,
as the time of their rising cannot affect the ,-
gument. Why will not all mere men rise, if
one mere man did rise ? As a specimen of
the spirit in which some infidels have investi
gated thi•k matter, we have Paine calling it "the
tale of the resurrection." Mr. Paine seldom
used a higher appellation than that "story," in
speaking of the Bible events, but be contradis
tinguishes this one with the appellation of
"tale." Some infidels less venomous, but more
thoughtful thou Paine, seeing the clear absur
dities into which their reasonings upon this
important point led them, have assumed a more
ridiculous, but more ingenious plan of getting
rid of this"tale of the resurrection," viz : of ar
guing that such an one as Jesus never did ex-
Others make much of some terms, and say
that Jesus only rose from the dead, and not
from a dead state. If Jesus did not exist,
where is our pattern for good? "Several vol
umes," says Watson, "might be filled with the
errors of world-wise philosophers on this one
question of man's immortality." I apprehend
that this remark applies equally to Christian as
to heathen philosophers, fortruly, Jesusbrought
life and immortality to light in the Gospel.—
Paine calls the "tale•' of stealing away Christ's
body, a brawling story. To this Bishop Wat
son says, "this I readily admit, but the chief
priests are answerable for it; it is not worthy
either your notice or mine, except as it is a
strong instance to you, to me, and to every bo
dy here, for prejudices may mislead the under.
standing."
I have often thought that if those who have
attempted to enter into judgment with God;
that have attempted to instruct and to reprove
he permitted to answer Biel a word,
when He enters into judgment, with them, they
would say, like Job, "Behold, I am vile; what
shall I answer Thee? I will lay my hand up.
on my mouth. Once ltave I spoken, but I will
not answer; yea, twice, but I will proceed no
further." St. Augustine, speaking of the Ro
man guard that were set to watch the tomb of
Jesus, says, "Either they were asleep or awake.
If they were awake, why should they suffer the
body to be taken away? If asleep, how could
they know that the disciples tools it away?—
How dare they then depose that it was stolen?'
It is little wonder that Strouee and some oth
ers should explain away the very existence of
the Son of God.
If in this life only we have hope in Christ,
we are of all men most miserable. But be
cause Christ liveth, we shall live also. I can
not conclude these few remarks without refer
ring to a discourse I heard preached on Christ's
resurrection on Easter day, in the "Western
M. E. Church," by Rev. 'J. W. Mecaskey, pas.
tor. He presented, in a masterly and eloquent
manner, the unanswerable arguments tbr
Christ's resurrection. He reviewed the cavils
of infidels against this event, in a most familiar
and convincing way. I never heard in 0110
sermon a greater embodiment of argument for
and against any gospel doctrine, but especially
on the resurrection of Christ. "I shall die,"
said he, "but because Jesus lives, because Je
sus has risen, I shall rise a 1.." The dead in
Christ shall rise first. Blessed and holy is be
that bath part in the first resurrection, on such
the second deaths bath no power, but they shall
be priests of God and of Christ.
"0 may we all he found
Obedient to Thy word,
Attentive to the trumpet's sound,
And looking for our Lord.
"0 may we thus ensure
A lot among the blest,
And watch a moment to secure
An everlasting rest." M,
Sam Slick on Lawieis.
Few things resemble each other more in na
ture, than an old ounnin' lawyer and a spider.
He weaves his web in a corner with no light
behind to show the thread of his net, but in a
shade like, there he waits in his dark office to
receive his visitor. A buzzin', burrin' thought
less fly, thinkin' of nothin' but his beautiful
wings and well made legs, and rather near
sighted withal, comes stumbling head over
heels into the net.
"I beg your pardon," says the fly, "I really
didn't see this net-work of yours; the weather
is so foggy, and the streets so confounded dark,
I'm afraid I've done mischief."
"Not at all," says the spider, bowin', "I
gums it's my fault. I reckon I ought to have
hung a lamp out; but pray don't move, or you
may do Cmino. Allow me to assist you."—
And then lie ties up one leg, and has him as
fast as Gibraltar.
"Now," says the spider, "my good friend,
(a phrase a feller alters uses when he's agoin'
to he tricky,) I'm afraid you've hurt yourself a
considerable some; I must bleed you."
"Bleed me!" says the fly, "excuse me, I'm
obliged to you; I don't require it."
"Oh, yes, you do, rev dear friend," and he
gets ready fur the operation.
"If you dare to do that," says the fly, "11l
knock you down; and I'm a man that what I
lay down I stand on."
"You had better get up first," says the spi
der, laughini; "you must be bled—you must
pay the damage." And be bleeds him till he
gasps for breath and feels faintini comic' on.
"l.et me go, my good fellow,' says the fly,
"I will pay you liberally."
"Pay!" says the spider, "you miserable un
cireumeized wretch. von have nothing left to
pay with; take that!" awl he gives him his net
dig,. and 11...*: a ges, coon !dud to &Ob.
HUNTINGDON, PA., WEDNESDAY, MAY 17, 1854.
The Honey-Moon
Some pemns pay finr a month ,!,1' honey trifle
utile of sinews,"
Novels and comedies end generally in n mar
tinge; because, after that. event, it is supposed
that nothing remains to be told. This suppo
sition is erroneous, as the history of many a
wedded pair might exemplify: for, how many
hearts have fallen away from their allegiance,
after the hands have been joined by the saffron
robed god, which had remained true, while suf
fering all the pangs that from time immemori
al have attended the progress of the archer
boy!
Passion—possession—what a history is corn
prised in those two words! But how often
might its moral be conveyed into a third—in
difference!
Marriage, we are told, is the portal at which
Love resigns ids votaries to the dominion of
sober reason; but, alas! many have so little
predilection for his empire, that they rather en
deavor to retain the illusions of the past—gone
forever—than to content themselves with the
reality in their power.
During the days of courtship, the objects be
loved are viewed through a magic mirror,
which gives only perfections to the sighs; but,
after marriage, a magnifying glass seems to
supply its place, which draws objects so un
pleasantly near, that even the most trivial de
fects are made prominent. Courtship is a dream;
marriage a time of awaking. Fortunate are
they who can lay aside their visions for the
more common-place happiness of life, without
disappointment and repining.
The hero and heroine of our sketch were not
of these. They had loved passionately—wild
ly. Their parents had, from motives of pru
dence, opposed their union, considering them
us too young to enter a state which requires
more wisdom to render it ono of happiness,
than most of its votaries are disposed to admit.
This opposition produced its natural result—
an increase of violence in the passion of the
lovers. Henri de Bellevadle, our hero, was
ready to commit any action, however rash, to
secure the hand of Hermance de Montesquiue,
and she did all that a well brought up French
young lady could be expected to do—she fell
dangerously ill. Her illness and danger drove
her lover to desperation; while it worked so of
fectually on the fears of her parents, that they
yielded a reluctant consent to the marriage,
which was to be solemnized the moment she
was restored to health. The first interview be
tween the lovers was truly touching; both de
clared they must have died, had their marriage
not been agreed to; and both firmly believed
what they asserted
Henri do Bellevalle, being now received as
the future husband of Hermance, passed near
ly the whole of his time with her, seated by
the chaise longue of the convalescent—mark
ing with joyful heart the return of health's ro
ses to her delicate cheek, and promising her
unchanging, devoted, eternal love.
"Yes, dearest Hermance," he would say,
"when once you are mine, wholly mine, I shall
have no will but yours; never shall I quit your
presence. Oh! how tormenting it is to be for
ced to leave you—to be told by your mother,
that I fatigue you by the lenght of my visits,
and to be absent from you so many long and
weary hours! And you, Hermance, do you
feel as I do—do you mourn my absence, and
count with impatience the hour for our meet
ing?" •
The answer may be guessed; yet, though
tender as youthful and loving lips could utter,
It scarcely satisfied the jealous and exiyeant
lover.
"But you will always love me as at present?"
asked the timid girl. "I have hean•d such
strange tales of the difference between the lov
er and the husband; nay, indeed I have seen:
for the Vicomte do Belmonte, note leaves my
poor friend, Elise, for whole hours; yet you may
remember that before they were married, be,
too, could hardly bear to be absent from her
side? Alt! were you to change like him, I
should be wretched!"
"You wrong yourself and me, my adored
Hermance, by supposing me capable of act
ing like de Belmonte; and besides, your poor
friend, though a very charming person, does
not resemble you. Ah! what woman ever did?
If she only possessed one half your charms, he
could not tear himself away from her. No!
dearest; years shall only prove that my passion
for you can know no decrease, and never, nev
er shall the husband be less ardent than the lo
ver! I have planned all my future life; it shall
pass as a summer day—bright and genial. We
will retire from Paris, which I hated ever since
I loved you; its noise, its tumultuous pleasures,
distract me. I could not bear to see you gaz
ed at, followed, and admired. No! I feel, any
Hermance, that it would drive me mad. But
you, my beloved, will you not sigh to leave the
pleasures of the metropolis, and to exchange a
crowd of admirers for one devoted heart?"
"How can you ask such a question?" repli
ed Hermance, pouting her pretty lip, and pia
cMg her little white hand within his. "I shall
be delighted to leave Paris; for /could not bear
to see you talking to the Dutchess do Mont
forte, and us dozen other women, as you used
to do, when I first knew you; and when all my
young friends used to remark, how strange it
was that the married women occupied the at
tention of the young men so much, that they
scarcely took any notice of us spinsters. I
should be very jealous, Henri, I can tell your,
were you to show more than distant politeness
to any woman but me."
And her smooth brow because for a moment
contracted, at the recollection o f his former
publicly marked attentions to certain ladies of
fashion.
The little white hand was respectfully press
ed to his lips, as he assured her, again, that it
would be even irksome to Inns to be compelled
to converse with any woman but herself; and
her brow resumed its former unruffled calmness.
"I have taken the most beautiful cottage
carne, at Bellevue; it is now fitting up by Le
Sags•, us if to receive a fairy queen. Such a
boudoir! How you will like it! We will walk,
ride, drive, read, draw, and sing together; in
short, we shall never be a moment asunder;
but perhaps, Hermance, you will get tired of
me ?"
"How cruel, how unjust, to suppose it possi•
ble l" was the answer.
In such day dreams did the hours . .;)f conval
escence of the fair invalid pass nervy; interrup
ted only by the pleasant task of examining and
selecting the various articles for her trousseau;
rendered all the pleasanter by the impassioned
compliments of the lover, who declared that,
while each and ail were most becoming, they
still borrowed their last grace from her whom
they were permitted to adorn.
He taught her to look forward to wedlock
as a state of uninterrupted happiness, where
love was forever to bestow his sunny smiles,
and never to spread his wings. They were to
he free from all the ills to which poor human
nature is subject. Sorrow, or sickness, they
dreamt not of; and even "ennui," that most
alarming of all the evils in a French man or
woman's catalogue, they - feared not; for how
could it reach two people who had such a de
lightful and inexhaustible subject of conversa
tion as was offered by themselves?
At length tins happy morn arrived; tug af
ter the celebration of the marriage, the wedded
pair, contrary to all established usage in France
on similar occasions, lett Paris, and retired to
the cottage orne, at Bellevue.
The first days of bridal felicity, marked by
delicate and engrossing attentions, and deli
cious flatteries, flew quickly by; reiterated dec
larations of perfect happiness were daily, hour
ly, exchanged; and the occasional interruption
to their tete-a-tete, offered by the visits of friends,
was found to be the only drawback to their en
joyment.
A fter the lapse of a week, however, nor wed
ded lovers became a little more sensible to the
claims of friendship. Fewer confidential glan
ces were now exchanged between them, ex
pressive of their impatience at the lengthened
visits o their acquaintances; they began to list
ten with something like interest to the gossip
of Paris, and not unfrequently extended their
hospitality to those who were inclined to accept
it. In short, they evinced slight symptoms of
a desire to enter again into society, though
they declared to each other that this change
arose merely from their wish of not appearing
ill bred, or unkind to their acquaintances. Yet,
each remarked in secret, that "a change bad
come over the spirit of their dream;' and that,
when no visitors dropped in, the days seemed
unusually long and monotonous. They were
ashamed to acknowledge this alteration, nod
endeavored to conceal their feelings by increas
ed demonstrations of affection; but the forced
smiles of both insensibly extended to yawns;
and they began to discover that there must be
something peculiarly heavy in the atmosphere
to produce such effects.
When they drove, or rode out, they ho lon
ger sought the secluded wooded lanes in the
romantic neighborhood, as they had invaria
bly done during the first ten days of their mar
riage; but kept on the high road, or the fre
quented one in the Bois de Boulogne. Her
mance observed with a sigh, that Henri not
'infrequently turned his head to observe some
fair equestrian who galloped by them; and
Henri discovered, with some feeling allied to
pique, that Hermance had eyes for every dis
tinguished looking cavalier whom they encoun
tered; though, to be sure, it was but a transient
glance that she bestowed on them. Each was
aware that the change equally operated on both;
but neitherfelt disposed to pardon it in theother.
Hermance most felt it; fur, though conscious of
her own desire to see, and be seen again, she
was deeply offended that her husband betrayed
the same predilection for society. They be
came silent and abstracted.
•`I am sure," would Hermance say to herself,
"he is now regretting the gaieties of Paris; and
this fickleness after only two weeks of mar
riage! It is too bad; but men are shocking
creatures. Yet I most own Paris is much
more agreeable than Bellevue; heigh ho ! I
wish we were back there. How I lung to show
my beautiful dresses, and my pearls, at the
soirees ! and when Henri sees me admired, as
I am sure I shall be, he will become as atten
tive, and us amusing as he used to lie. Yes !
Paris is the only place, where lovers are kept
on the gui vice by a constant round of gaieties,
instead of sinking into a state of apathy, by, be
ing left continually dependent of each other."
While these reflection were passing in the
mind of Hermance, Henri was thinking that it
was very strange that she no longer amused or
interested him so much as a few weeks before.
"Hero sun I," he would say to himself, "shut
up in this retirement, away from all my oars.
potions and amusements, leading nearly as ef
feminate a life as Achilles at Syros, devoting
all my time to Hermance; and yet she does not
seem sensible of the sacrifice I am snaking--
Women are very selfish creatures; there is she,
as abstracted as if two years bad elapsed since
our marriage, instead of two weeks; and, I dare
be sworn, wishing herself back at Paris, to dis
play her trousseau, and be admired. This
fickleness is too bad ! but women are all the
same : I wish we were back at Paris. I won
der whether they miss me much at the club I"
Henri no longer flatteringly applauded the
toilette of Hermance—a want of attention
whirls no woman, and, least of all, a French
woman, is disposed to pardon. Ile could now
(and the collection wounded her selflove) doze
comfortably, while sho sung ono of his favorite
sougs—songs which, only a few weeks before,
had called forth his passionate plaudits. He
no longer dwelt in rapturous terms on her beau.
ty; and slie consequently, could not utter the
blushing, yet gratified, disclaimers to such
compliments, or return them by similar ones.
No wonder, then, their conversation, having
lost its chief charm, was no longer kept up
with spirit, but sank into commonplace obser
vations,
"Yes !" Hermance would mentally own; "he
is changed—cruelly changed."
She was forced to admit that lie was still
kind,gpntle and affectionate; but was kindness,
gentleness and affection, sufficient to supply
the place of the rapturous, romantic felicity she
had anticipated? No! Hermance felt they
were not; and pique mingled in her disappoint
ment. These reflections would fill her eyes
with tears; and a certain degree of reserve was
assumed towards Henri that tended not to im
part animation to his languid, yet invariably
affectionate, attentions.
Each day made Henri feel still more forci
bly the *ant of occupation. He longed for a
gallop, a day's hunting, shooting; in short, for
any manly amusement to be partaken of with
some of his former companions.
Hercules plying the distaff could not be
more out diets natural element than was our
new married Benedict, shut up for whole hours
in the luxurious boudoir of his. wife; or saun
tering round : and round again, through the
pretty, but confined pleasure ground which en
circled his cottage. It is true he could ride out
with Hermance; but then she was so timid an
equestrian, that a gallop was a feat of horse
manship she dare not essay; and to leave her
with his groom while lie galloped, would be un
civil. After they had taken their accustomed
ride, they invariably strolled, arm in arm, the
usual number of turns in the pleasure grouted;
repeated nearly the same observations, that
the flowers, weather; and points of view, had
so frequently elicited; looked at their watches,
and were surprised to find that it was not yet
time to dress for dinner. At length that hour
arrived, regarded by some as the happiest in
the twenty-four, and our wedded pair tbund
themselves at table, with better appetites and
less sentiment than lovers are supposed to pos
sess. In short, the stomach seemed more
alive than the hearts—a fact which rather
shocked the delicacy of the gentle Hermance.
During the first few bridal days, their see
vents had been dismissed front attendance in
the calla a niany..r, because their presence was
deemed a restraint. Besides, Henri liked to
help Hermance bitnself, without the interven
tion of a servant; and with the assistance of
dumb waiters, their fete-a-lete dinners had
passed off, as they said, deliciously.
In the course of a fortnight, however, they
required so many little attendance, that it was
deemed exipdient to dismiss the dumb waiters,
and call in the aid of their living substitutes.
"How tiresome it is of our cook," said Henri,
"lo give us the same :Wage continually."
"Did you not examine the mewl?" replied
Hermance.
"I scarcely locked at it," was the answer;
"for I hate ordering dinners; or, in truth,
knowing what I am to have at that repast, un
til I see it; and here, I vow, (as the servant
uncovered the cnirees4are the eternal cotelettes
d agneau, and fiellets de volatile, which we
have had so often, that I am fatigued with see
ing them." . „
7 ‘1)o you not remember, cher anti," said Her
mance, "that yon told me you liked coupe on
riz, better than any other, and that the entrees
now before on are precisely those which you
said you preferred ?"
"Did I, love?" replied Henri with an air of
nonchalance; "well, then, the fact is, we have
had them so frequently, of late, that I am tired
of them. One tires of everything, after a
time."
A deeper tint on the cheek of Hermance,
and a tear which trembled in her eye, might
have told Henri that his last observation had
given rise to some painful reflections in her
mind. But, alas l both blush and tear were
unnoticed by him, as he was busily engaged in
discussing, the filkts do rotaille.
"You do not eat, dear Hermance," said Hen
ri et length, having done ample justice to the
decried entrees—"let me give you a little of
this roll, it is very tender."
"It is only more unfortunate for that," re
plied Hermance, with a deep sigh; "but I can
not eat;" and with difficulty she suppressed the
tears that filled her eyes, while a smile stole
over the lips of her husband at her sentimen
tal reproach.
Hermance felt hurt at the smile, and offen
ded at observing that Henri continued to par
take as copiously of the rotl as ho had previ
ously done of the entrees. How unfeeling, how
indelicate, to continue to devour, when she had
refused to eat!
As soon as dinner was concluded, and the
servants had withdrawn, Henri remarked, for
the first time, that the eyes of his wife were
dimmed with tears.
"How is this, dearest !" exclaimed he—"you
have been weeping—aro you ill?" and he at
tempted to take her hand; but it was with
drawn, and her taco averted, while she applied
her handkerchief to her gushing eyes as she
wept with uncontrolled emotion. "Speak to
me, I beseech you, Hermance !" continued
Henri, endeavoring again to take her hand;
"how have 1 offended you ?"
"I sec, I see it all, but too plainly;' sobbed
the weeping Hermance; "you no longer love
me ! I have observed your growing indifference
day atter day, and tried not to believe the cruel
change; but now," and here her tears streamed
afresh, I can no longer doubt your fickle na
ture, when I bear you avow that you get tired
of every thing—which means every person; and
this to me—to me, who, only a few weeks ago,
you professed to adore. Oh! it is too cruel I
why did I marry?" and hero sobs interrupted
her words.
"You wrong me ! indeed you do, dear Her
mance; I said one tires of things, but I never
said, or meant, that one gets tired of persons,
Come, this is childish; let me wipe these poor
eyes;" and he kissed her brow, while gently
performing the operation.
"Thou why have you seemed so different of
lute ?" sobbed Hermance, letting him now re•
tain the hand he pressed to his lips.
"In what has the difference consisted, dear
love ?" asked Henri.
"You no lon;:crscom delighted wlnu 1 enter
'-IWEBnTrat,
the room, or join you in the garden, after be
ing absent half an hour."
"M‘O' an hour!" reiterated Henri, with a
faint smile.
"Yes! a whole half' hour." replied Her
mance, placing an emphasis on the word
"whole." "You used to appear enchanted
when I came into the saloon, at Paris, and al
ways flew to meet me. You never admire my
dress now, thought you were wont to examine
and commend all that I wore; and you doze
while I am singing the songs which, a few
weeks ago, threw you into ecstacies." Poor
Hermance wept afresh at the recapitulation of
the symptoms of her husband's growing indif
ference, while he soothed her with loving
Words and tender epithets.
Having in some measure re-assured her, by
his affectionate manner, harmony was again es.
tablished ; but the veil Won removed from the
eyes of both, never again to be resumed.—
They perceived that the love, oncoming and
ecstatic, of which they had dreamt before their
union, was a chimera existing only in imagina
tion; and they awoke with sobered feelings, to
seek content in rational affection, instead of in
dulging in romantic expectations of a happi
ness that never falls to the lot of human beings;
each acknowledging, with a sigh, that even in
a marriage of love, the brilliant anticipations
of imagination are never realized, that disap
pointment awaits poor mortals even in that
brightest portion of existence—The Honey
moon.
Love and Heroism. Romance in Real
It is not often an event such as the one we
are going to relate, happens in the country.—
We publish it at the urgent request of a friend,
suppressing the names of the parties.
A few days ago, there was great excitement
in the streets of Yazoo City, on the report that
a woman had just arrived in town on horseback,
dressed in male attire. How it was found out
that the person who attracted a great crowd
around her was a woman, we do not know.—
Either her long hair which escaped front be
neath her fur cap, or her awkward walk did it,
but she was betrayed. She inquired for one of
our most respectable citizens, and he entering
into conversation with her, told her that she
was found out, and if she would state to him
the motive which had prompted her to assume
the disguise she wore, he would assist in her
enterprise if it was a commendable one.
She acknowledged herself to Mr. -, telling
hint her history, which is a singularly interest-
ing one,
, She is young, beautiful and accomplished.—
Her father lives in a not distant county, where
she was married a year or two ago, much
against his will, and also in opposition to that
of her brothers.
Some weeks ago, the husband came to Yn•
zno to seek employment, leaving his wife nt
home until he settled. He was absent some
time, and the heart of the trusting wife, though
not changed by his absence, suffered pain and
disquiet from it. An old neighbor one day met
him in Yazoo city, and asked hint if his wife
was with him. Ho replied in a jocular manner
that he had no wife, lint was going to be mar
ried to a young widow of this place. The man
to whom the remuk was made, reported it to
the brothers of the wife, and they armed them
selves to come to Yazoo to seek summary ven
geance upon the destroyer of their sister's
peace. She, womanlike, did not believe rt word
of the report, and declared her determination
to come in search of her husband. Her broth.
ers refused to let her come, and on her persist
ing, locked her in an upper room at night, in
tending to start themselves, in the morning, on
their expedition of revenge. When all was
still, she bribed a negro woman to bring her a
snit of her brother's clothes, in which she dress
ed herself, and descending through the window,
got a borne from the stable, and started on her
mission of love. Before her stern brothers
awoke, their sister was for 011 the way to Yazoo
city. Sho arrived here at noon, almost worn
out with fear and fatigue, but firm and fixed in
her resolution to find her husband and save his
life. The gentleman to whom she told her
story is a man of the kindest impulses, and just
the one to assist a woman in such a predica
ment. He assisted her in every way she desi
red, and never left her till he delivered her safe
and sound to her truant but repentant lover
that night.
For the Journal.
Acrostical Enigma.
I am composed of 16 letters.
My Ili 2 is what we are all liable to do.
" 2 10 3 13 is what we Should always abhor
to possess.
" 3 15 10 8 7 13 is not in accordance with
wisdom.
" 4 5 8 3 2is a tree, also an article of com
merce.
" 5 9 3 2 is a most powerful incentive.
" 6 10 8 4 10 is often a beautiful, lovely and
virtuous scene.
" 7 13 5 2 16 is a man despised by ninny.
8 12 2 is a fruit produced front motive.
" 9 10 2it the first of an almost imminent-
Me multitude.
10 113 11 so arm of power.
I 1: 12, high, elevated in station.
" 12 r 1 2 !,; many of which are very sub
lime, tit of vast importance.
" 13 2 1:i t 2 is the measure of a revolution.
" 14 11 10 7 is what both sexes are much
subject to.
" 15 12 7 has astonished the world.
" lei ti 52 we can always find in ruler,.
My whole is a notable event which eventuated
on the American Continent.
Answer to last Enigina:,—" General George
Washington, Commander-in.Cliief of the Amer
ican Army.'
DR' The Life Insurance Companies of Eng
land have calculated did chances of being kill
ed or wounded in battle and fixed thu rates of
insurance. A party may be insured against
death by accident or violence fruw any cause,
including death in action, for .1:3 ds on the
.ClOO per annum: and if to include a payment
in case of loss of limb of half the sum insured,
and payable on death, £3 3s per cent. extra.—
It would seem from these , term, that a man is
twice as likely to less lcz 114 he a. to lee
hi, head.
VOL. 19. NO. 20.
1~ ~l _i<~~f✓' ~~~~~n ~U3~S Lto
From the Valley Farmer.
How Much Pork will a Bushel of Corn
Make i
This 1 consider an important question, and
one that all farmers ought to be able to answer.
I will answer the question by giving tho result,
of an actual experinient, which is the only way
of obtaining correct infortnation. Some years
ago I was desirous of obtaining information as
to the best mode and most profitable way of
fintening bogs. I inquired of my neighbors,
and found some in favor of close floored pens,
and others large dry lots; and as to the amount
of pork a bushel of corn would make, their
opinions were as various as their countenances.
I was just beginning to farm, and as I was de
sirous of knowing the best way of fattening
hogs, I determined to try the diflbrent plans,
and also how much pork a barrel of corn would
make. I made a floored pen and covered it
in. Weighed three hogs and pat them in the
pen. I also weighed three of the seine size
and put them is a dry lot—average weight 175
lbs. I fed six barrels of corn to the six hogs.
They were forty days eating the corn—with a
plenty of salt and water. Their average gain
was 75 lbs. The hogs in the lot gained the
most. Otto that was fattened its the lot gained
88 lbs. One is the pen gained 84 lbs.; the
other four were not so thrifty; these hogs wens
about fourteen months old when slaughtered.
I put theist up the 25th of October. There was
a good deal of sleet and snow during the month
of November, which gave the hogs in the pen
an advantage they would not have had if the
weather was favorable; they eat the same quan
tity of grain in the same time. It also shows
that one bushel of corn will make 15 lbs. of
pork; and that the six barrels of corn made
$11,25 worth of pork, at 21 cts. per lb.; and
that the farmer gets 121 cis. for his labor of
feeding por bushel, over selling at 25 els. pee
bushel.
Hogs will fatten faster in September and
October than they will in colder weather. A
few years ago I fed one barrel of corn to a Very
fine Berkshire hog that was about 30 months
old, (shortly after being castrated) in the months
of August and September, and he gained 97
lbs., in 35 days, which was the length of time
he was eating the barrel of corn. He ran on a
clover lot, which was of great advantage. This
last experiment is considerably over an average,
and would not hold good with common hogs.
Front the above experiment it will be seen that
311bs. of corn, supposing the corn to weigh 59
lbs. to the bushel will make 1 lb. of pork. Mr.
Arnett, as quoted from the Genessee Farmer,
"thinks 5 lbs. of corn will produce 1 lb. of
park • This "think" of Mr. Arnott's will not
hold good with an experiment. Subsequent
observation has satisfied me that the foregoing
experiment, as detailed, will do to practice up•
on.
Another very important question, or inquiry
suggests itself from the foregoing: and that is
what it is worth to raise hogs to the average
weight of lis lbs. A correct answer to this
question, based on actual experiment, would
be of great importance to farmers. To value
the grass, clover and grain fields that the hog
feeds on while growing to a gross weight of
ISO lbs. or 200 lbs., is scarcely susceptible of
being s arrivm: at by experiment; yet with these
assistants I can raise a hog to weigh 175 lbs.
and over, with one barrel of corn. It will be
seen from these estimates, that two barrels of
corn. with the advantage of grass, clover and
grain fields, will produce about 200 lbs. of nett
porle, or 250 gross. Estimating the corn at
25e a bushel this would give the farmer $1,50
for his grass, clover, grain fields, capital stock,
and lila labor. To sell corn at 25 cents a bush
el is very unprofitable business, when we take
into consideration the wear of the land; and
pork at $2,50 per 100 lbs. is a very slow busi•
ness. If we take into account the absolute ne
cessity of clovering our land and improve it,
have no hesitation in saying that it is better
fur the fiirmer to raise pork at $2,50, than to
sell corn at 25 cents per bushel.
Hogs do best in large fields with plenty of
water, and the farmer who cuts tip Isis corn in
the months of September and October, and
hauls it out on his fields, will be amply paid for
his labor in the improvement of his land from
the stalks, and manure of the hag. It is a
great rntving of labor to torn the hogs in the
field, when the quantity of the hogs aud size of
the field snit. W. 31. JACKSON,
blakLng the Wool on Sheep to Grow,
Stowe(lt. Thinick, of Ypsilanti, Mich., has
discovered a new compound for coating sheep.
It is well known to all wool growers, that du
ring the first eight weeks after sheep shearing,
the wool will be very thick near the skin of a
sheep, if it is in a healthy state. Ilut the great
transition which a sheep undergoes from being
deprived of a heavy coat of wool, especially if
damp and chilly weather comes on afterwards,
has the ellbet of closing up the pores of tho
skin, thereby preventing the peeper animal se
cretions, and causing the skin to become parch.
ed and dry, and thus frequently injure the
health of the animal. In a large flock of sheep
this entails a severe loss, especially to the
grower, in the growth of wool after shearing,
unless the weather is peculiarly favorable,
which is seldom the case. The composition
mentioned, fur which Mr. Dimick has taken
measures to secure is patent, is to be applied
to sheep immediately alter they are shorn, to
prevent the evils moth:wed, and at the same
time protect the animal from both the scorch
ing ntys of the sun, and the injurious effects of
' storms. At present. we do not deem it prudent
to tell what the compound is; we can only say
that it is compounded of quite a number of
substances, and the discoverer states that it is
the result of a great number of experiments.
Cure forEtoratchea
Mix one ounce of chloride of liras and one
quart Of \vete.; wash thaparts well, after which
;91 t whitelead a ground in oil. This has nevei