Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, June 28, 1854, Image 1

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Duetsche Advertisement.
Mine horse he sloped. and I'm avraid,
He hash peen daken, orstolen, or strayed,
Mine big pluck, dat looks so sphry,
'Pout fourteen oder twelve hands high.
He hash peen cot shoot four feets pluck,
Two legs pefore and two pehind—
Pe sure you keeps all dis in mind.
Ile's pluck all der slat isb drue,
All but his face, slat's pluck too;
He drots and ganters, vauks and pares;
And out•vauka Pelsebub in drams.
And ven he callops in de street,
He yanks upon his legs and feet,
Von leg goes down and den de oder,
And always follows von onoder;
He has dwo ears smite 'pen his head,
Bote ob derv's ceder white or red,
But bet' alike—shuts von you see;
Mt plucker den de oder pe;
He's cot dwo eyes dat looks von vay,
Only lie loose von toiler day;
And ven you cant to duke a ride.
Shump on his pack on totter side;
And it is shut[ goupel drue,
be eve vats plied vill not see you.
His tail's pehind him. long and shleck,
Only I cut him off last veek,
And derefore 'as not any more
As half so long as von pefore.
He cocks his ear and looks so gay,
And vill not start or run nosy,
But ven he starts and makes von spring,
And shuinps about like every sling;
He rides about mit sham. and cart,
I never see such a horse for shmart;
And sometimes he goes on de road,
Mit out nopody for his load,
But pug of corn, and take de track,
Mit little poy upon his pack.
Mine horse is not so werry old,
Not half so young as ven he's foaled;
And ven be callop, rear, or Amain,
His head cum all pefore him plump;
And den his tail goes all pehind,
Put sometimes veil he takes a mind,
Gets mad and turns all round, pe sum,
Vy, den his tail goes all pefore.
Whoever viii mine plank horse got,
Shall pay ten toilers on de shpot,
And if lie pring de tief alive,
Vy, den he pays one twentyfive.
,1§1DE32711 ar_t2MT.B.
Appeal from Jerusalem to the Congrega•
tions of Great Britain and America.
Dated Jerusalem, Sebat, 5611, addressed to
Sir Moses Montefiore, London :
ken gates of Zion be exalted, and receive with.
in the portals thereof your elders and your war
dens, who, trumpet-tongued, shall proclaim that
the staff of bread is broken and the stay of wa
ter is wasted.
Assemble, ye scribes, and publish the histo
ry of famine and pestilence, that it may swiftly
be borne to the remotest communities of Israel,
and become the written messenger of the die.
tress of the in•dwellers of Zion; that it may
thereby awaken a nation's sympathies; and of
misery has dried up the sources of eloquence
wherewith to sustain your appeal, supplicate
the Almighty that He in Ills mercy may in
cline the hearts of your brethern of the house
of Jacob to hasten to relieve .the anguish of
your drooping spirits.
Brethern of the house of Israel, who sojourn
in happy England or America; ye wardens of
their synagogues anti ministers in their courts;
ye worshippers, who rehearse the past glories
of your nationality and hope, in the fullness of
time, for the effulgence of its future; ye children
of mercy and of love, whose shield is the shield
of the patriarchs; ye people peculiar to God,
sons of Judah and Benjamin, on you we call
by the ties of religion and brothdrhood to arouse
yourselves and save from annihilation the rem
nant of the faithful watchers of Zion and Jeru•
Suffering—true source of eloquence—be
thine the pen to trace the scenes that haunt
the streets and homesteads of Jerusalem, so
that the torpor of our brethern may be shaken
off, and their earnest sympathies awakened.
We lack the power to give even a faint idea
of the misery we are enduring; every heart has
become sick, every tongue stricken dumb; the
words "What shall we say, what shall we do?"
cling to the roof of our mouth from their oft re
Behold we are utterly prostrated—both in
mind and body, incompetent to proclaim the
severity of the visitation that is consuming us.
W know not whether the contemplation of
the morrow is not more fearful than the reality
of to•day and the retrospection of yesterday;
whether to weep for present troubles, or mourn
the past sufferings. Starvation and pestilence
walk hand in hand, and the wail of the poor,
the widow and the orphan is borne on the air.
It is difficult to say whose sufferings are the
greater, the miseries of those born under the
sun of Judea, or of the holy pilgrims front dis
tant lands. All classes of society, all grades
and conditions, have become united in the
brotherhood of woe; heads of synagogues and
their pious servitors, learned rabbis and their
scholates mix in the crowd to supplicate and
beg a mouldy crust. Even that assistance
which has hitherto reached us from our broth
ern in the Russian and Turkish dominions, is
now, in consequence of the war cut off.
The dearth has raised the price of food to an
enormous height, and its results are a state of
anarchy and confusion, in which every man's
hand is raised against his brother, and violence
is becoming rife in the land. For who can en•
duce with uncomplaining fortitude that horrible
death, death by famine; and see day by day the
wife of his youth and the children of Isis love
sink into the grave without ass effort to relieve
Brethern! if you could but witness the misery
we are enduring, the widow running to and fro,
asking the refuse of food for her starving or•
phans: and men profoundly learned in the law,
formerly through their abundant charity the
stay of the commuLity, now wandering up and
down the streets of Jerusalem, seeking alms,
ay, seeking bread, your hearts would melt in
Brethern! believe that our tale is free from
exaggeration. We have not, we cannot fully
impress you with the frightful reality of our
condition. Our miserable circumstances can
be corroborated by every dweller in, or pilgrim
to, the Holy Land.
The misery we endure is augmented by the
worst anticipation, for the circumstances under
which we now suffer may be seized by our Ira•
(lacers as being most opportune for the dowel.
opulent of their plans, and what may not ensue
when furnished multitudes are tempted by the
bribe of food? For already, dreadful to relate,
the father tramcs for the sale of his child to the
stranger, so that his offspring may be spared
death from starvation. For be it known that
the sufferrings of our nation here, in all the
frightful horrors which at present exist, have
never been surpassed.
S 1 25
1 50
To you, men of Israel, dwellers among all
nations and in every clime, we supplicate to
hasten relief to famishing multitudes. Let our
cry reach all, be sacred to all, receive attention
from all.
You, Prince of the Holy Land, great in Isra
el and noble among the nations; you, Sir Mo
ses Monte!lore, be the beacon of our hopes, as
in days of old. Let your hand be again sup
ported by the pious Judith, and from your con
joint example may the men and women of the
house of Israel be cheered and strengthened.
Brethern 1 remember we are the children of
one God. The tree of our genealogy spreads
its roots to the turthe.,t East, and the uttermost
West, and bears the fruit of brotherhood. By
the love we bear to the God of Israel, by the
associations dour common nationality, turn
towards the land of the rising sun, towards Je
rusalem and Zion, and remember whence the
law emanateth and the word goeth forth.
"Pray for the peace of Jerusalem, for they
that love her shall prosper." More favored ones,
your brethern turn to you to ask a brother's
aid, and may your response bring peace to Is
rael and to Zion. Amen.
Jerusalem, Sebat, 5614.
The Troubles of a Moustache.
Who do you think has come back to our nil.
loge? said Fanny Alleyne to a party of young
friends, who had assembled at her house to talk
over to-morrow's contemplated pie nie. And
as no ono answered, but a dozen of voices sim
ultaneously cried, do tell, she added, who but
Charlie Weaver, and with such a moustache,
she exclaimed; clapping her hands as the idea
was full of glee;—and it looks for all the world
as if Charlie had a little stiff brush pasted un•
der his nose. For my part I can't comprehend
what he wears it for unless he thinks himself
handsome and adopts it as a protection to keep
the girls kora kissing him. And again she
clapped her hands, her eyes fairly flushing with
I haven't seen him yet, said Emily Rogers;
but does he look queer? '?•hey say moustaches
are all the fashion among young men who
move in guild society—foreign counts always
wear them, you know.
Miss Rogers had spent years inn fashionable
boarding school, where she tried to learn
French, but had succeeded only in learning
fully, and su she considered herself au excellent
judge of all things pertaining to make. She
bud a cousin, moreover, who was travelling in
Germany and wrute her a long letter about the
German counts whom she met at German
watering places. Miss Rogers had, therefore,
a weakness for moustaches, big beards and
foreign customs in general.
Foreign counts always wear them, do they?
said Fanny. And so do barbers. Fur my part,
when I was in London last winter, I hardly
knew whether it was u wig maker or a dandy
that was coming down street; and I always
supposed it was the first, till the animal raised
his hat, and then I knew he must he one of the
human planes that 1 was accustomed to dunce
with at the assemblies.
For my part, retorted Miss Rogers, making
the second effort to stand her ground, I rather
admire a handsome moustache; some men suit
it so well.
Yes, the moustache is a fortunate thing to
some men, said Fanny, mischievously, for those
that can't grow hair.
The laugh was against Miss Rogers, who,
accordingly, paused and kept silent. The en
trance of a fresh visitor now changed the con
versation, and in five minutes Charlie Weaver
and his moustaches were forgotten. In fact,
the girls were too busy talking about the pie.
nic to devote much time to anything else. In
about an hour they seperated, full of the con
templated excursion.
The morning dawned brilliantly, with every
prospect of a bright day. At six o'clock, be.
fore the dew was well off the gr ass, the picnic
began to assemble, and before seven all conve
ned in a beautiful grove, about a mile beyond
the village.
The girls were a joyous, happy set, blessed
with good health, fond of exhilarating sports,
and by no means infected with any of the maw
kish affectationa of the city.
For instance, they were not afraid of waking
their feet large by exercise, or of spoiling their
hands by household work. They liked a hear
ty dance, were fond of a good laugh, and even
some of them at least sad romps. But they
were an excellent set, for all that; with fine
graceful figures, rosy cheeks, and sparkling
eyes. and a constant flow of spirits. lam sore
any one of them was worth a dozen of the faded
beauties, who, with faces, lustreless
eyes, and stooping shoulder, mope about town
ball-rooms. A few, indeed, were infected with
a mania for French manners, and thought for
eign counts divine; and of these Miss Rogers
was acknowledged leader.
Among the beaux, Charlie Weaver shone, or
fancied he shone conspicuous. His coat was
of the latest cut; his vest spread out in vast
amplitude; and his boots were of varnished
leather, made on red morocco—yes, positively
on red morocco leggings. But his moustache
—that was the crowning glory. It was between
a yellow and a brown, stiff as a hair brush, and
grew beneath his nose like a forest of rushes
under the side of a hill. Charlie was evidently
proud of his moustache. He often stroked it
complacently when talking with the ladies.—
He trimmed it with great care, every morning;
and lie was never in a room fur five minutes
where there was a mirror without looking at
the charming excrescence.
Charles Weaver—or as the girls familiarly
termed him, Charlie Weaver—had been a sen
sible young man until he went to London to
study medicin4. He there caught the mous
tache rabids, a madness I verily believe as in
fectious among young men, as hydrophobia is
among dogs. Nature was a little obstinate at
first; for only down grew where Charlie bed
wished fur bristles; but, by dint of frequent oil
ing and shaving, and much time and money
spent on various hair preparations, he succeed
ed at last in obtaining Isis heart;s desire. That
day was the proudest of his life. In his secret
heart he believed all the girls of the place
would be in love with him before a week.
And now be was at the pic-nic, shining, res
plendent in that moustache. He first address
ed himself to Fanny; she had always been bis
favorite; but she-was now full of mischief, and
soon detecting the conceit of Charlie, resolved
that he should suffer• for it. So Fanny, without
actually driving him oft' altogether, kept him at
a respectable distance, taking care to give him
but few smiles, and then only when she saw
him beginning to move away. In this there
is something of coquetery, we must admit; but
vanity in the male can only be matched by co
quetery in woman.
Oh, come let us have a game at Copenhagen,
said Fanny, at last giving a wicked glance at
Charlie. We have danced and sung and pro
menaded, and eaten and drank; we have done
everything that sensible people can be expect
ed to do. Now let us, for once, be children
again. What say you, girls?
Miss Rogers was the first to speak. Pursing
up her acid.looking multi), and drawing her
thin figure to its full height, said:
Copenhagen I lam astonished at you, Miss
Alleyne. Copenhagen for young Indies like
ourselves! Why it is not played now by young
Our grandmothers used to play at it, and
thought it not vulgar, said Fanny.
However, I want a good romp, and I vote
for Copenhagen.
Funny had a purpose of her own to serve,
besides she enjoyed the reputation of cluing as
she pleased; and truth to tell, when she now
proposed Copenhagen, many approved that
would not have dared to suggest. As for the
gentlemen, they all with one voice cried out for
it except Charlie.
And what do you say, Mr. Weaver, demure.
ly asked Fanny. You are silent I see. Have
you ibrgotten how to hold buttercups under the
girl's chins, twirl the platter at pawns, or catch
a partner at Copenhagen?
Copenhagen! said he, as if trying to recollect.
I believe that's the game where the gentlemen
kiss the girls, is it not?
Exactly so, replied Fanny; that is if they can.
And if I play at Copenhagen, and catch you,
you will play fair and let me kiss you, inquired
The question was rather pointed, and Fanny
blushed a little, but she answered resolutely:
As I said before—lf you can.
'Poe honor, then, said Charlie, I'll play, and
take care to get the kiss. I never object to
kissing pretty girls.
The party soon entered into the spirit of the
game. •
There was a good-deal of dodging, shuffling,
and pretty screaming, mingled now and then
with some loud kissing. One large, fat young
man especially, always kissed with a noise like
the report of a pistol. He rarely succeeded in
touchin;; a young lady's cheek, being rather
awkward; while the girls, one and all, dodged
like wild pigeons, and Fanny said, she took it
flying. As for Funny, the mina, no one as yet
had kissed her. Being the prettiest girl on the
ground, and by all odds the merriest, a dozen
at least had tried to touch her hands, in order
to entitle them to a struggle at least for the
Now, that's not exactly fair, 3lisx Alleync,
drawled out Charlie. Mind, if I succeed in
touching your right hand when I am in the
ring, you must play fair. Any lady can get recently published by Ticknor, Reed & Fields,
off if they lift up the rope in that manner. we copy the following chapter on sleep:]
I promised you I'd play fair—to you at least, I have already shown that sleep is one of the
said Fanny, without oven a blush, and I mean wisest regulations of nature, to check and mod.
to keep my word. There, catch me if you can. crate at fixed periods, the incessant and hope.
She slightly touched his hand while he was tunas stream of vital consumption. It forms.
still pluming himself on her flattering speech, as it were, stations for our physical and moral
and whiz! like an express locomotive she was existence; and we thereby obtain the happiness
at the other aide of the ring, and fairly nut of it, of being daily re-born, and of passing every
Oh I'll have revenge, said Charlie Weaver, morning, through a state of annihilation into
shaking his bead at her; I did not see what you a new and refreshed life. Without this contin
was at. Charlie instantly sprang forward, and ual change—this incessant renovation, how
would have placed an arm around her person. wretched and insipid would not life be; end
But Fanny drew herself up with a wonderful how depressed our mental as well as physical
quick assumption of dignity, stepped a pace sensation 1 The greatest philosopher of the
back and said—Not so fast, Mr. Weaver, we present age, says, therefore, with justice—Take
country bred girls are not over fastidious, I front man hope and sleep, and he will be the
know, but we don't allow young men to put most wretched being on earth.
their arms around us. I How unwisely, then, do those act who ima.
A peal of laughter broke from the crowd.-- gine that by taking as little sleep as possible
Her look was so serious, as much in contrast' they prolong their existence. They obtain
with her mirth, so the whole thing was hien. their end neither in intensive nor extensive life.
pressibly ridiculous. Charlie drew back abash. i They will, indeed, spend more hours with their
ed for a moment, but recovering himself, he eyes open, but will never enjoy life in the pro•
said— I per sense of the word, nor that freshness and
This is a breach of your agreement. You I energy of mind which are the certain cense•
said, Miss Alleyne, you would play fair. You! quences of sound and sufficient sleep, and
said if I became entitled to it by the laws of which stamp a like character on all underta•
the game, I might kiss you. kings and actions.
0, I mean to keep my word, said Fanny, But sufficient sleep is necessary, not only for
coolly, but you were about to put your arms I intensive life, but also for extensive, in regard
around me, and there was no stipulation about Ito its support and duration. Nothing acceler.
that, was there? I ales consumption su much, nothing wastes us
Then there was another general laugh.— so much before the time, and renders us old as
Charlie was forced to acknowledge that Fanny a want of it. The physical effects of sleep are,
was right. that it retards all the vital movements, collects
You were to kiss me—if you could, that was the vital power, and restores what has been lost
the bargain, was it not? in the course of the day; and that it separates
She looked seriously around the circle; all from us what is useless and pernicious. It is,
confessed that she was right. Yes, said Char• las it were, a daily crisis, during which all se•
lie, that was right. I eretions are performed in the greatest tranquil.
She folded her arms, stood straight up, and itv, and with the utmost perfections.
looking him full in the fuce, said ; un, , Continued watching unites all the properties
then. I
1 destructive of life; incessant wasting of the vi-
She had stood in the meantime, without mu• till power and of the organs, acceleration of
ring a muscle of her face, and serious as a 1 consumption, and prevention of restoration.
judge about to pronounce sentence of death.— i We must not, however, on this account, be.
She suffered Charlie to come within a foot of lieve that too long continued sleep is one of the
her, when she suddenly raised her finger and best means for preserving life. Long sleep
drew back again. accumulates too great an abundance of perni
Remember, said she, you aro to kiss use if cious juices, makes the organs too flaccid and
you can. unfit for use, and in this manner can shorten
To be sure, be said; but fair play requires life also.
that you stood still. If you keep receding in In a word, no one should sleep less than six,
this way, of course I can't kiss you. nor more than eight hours. This nay be es
lie spoke in a pique—indeed, half anger,— i tabtished as a general rule.
He found himself a sort of a butt, and began I To those who wish to enjoy sound and peace
to see somewhat through Fanny's behaviour.—i ful repose, and to obtain the whole end of sleep,
He discovered that she woo not so desperately I recommend the following observations:
its love with him as her conduct had led him to I 1. 'The place where one sleeps must be quiet
suppose. He was already taken terribly down. I and obscure. The less our senses are acted
But if Ido stand still, said Funny, and her upon by external impressions, the more per•
eves began to resume a roguish look, you can't fectly can the soul rest. One may see front
kiss me, and you know you can't. this how improper the custom is of having a
Only stand still, and you'll see, retorted he, candle burning in one's bed•cbantbcr during
recovering his spirits; and he mentally added, the night.
and I'll kiss you in as hsndsome a fashion as 2. People ought always, to reflect that their
ever a gentleman kissed a lady. l bed-chamber is a place in which they pass a
No you won't and you can't, Charlie, said great part of their lives; at least, they do not
Fanny, calling him by the familiar name tar remain in any place so lung in the same situa
the first time that 'day. and she spoke in a tion. It is of the utmost importance, therefore,
wheedling tone; it is a mile and more from the that this place should contain pure, sound air.
edge of that moustache to the mouth under- A sleeping apartment must, consequently, be
neuth, and you never could get your lips to roomy and high; neither inhabited nor heated
mine, if you were to try for a week. during the day; and the windows ought always
I wish you could have heard the peal of to be kept open, except in the night time.
laughter burst forth, as Fanny, with a demure, 3. One should eat little, and only cold food
provoking air said these words. The old woods for supper, and always some hours before going
rocked with the echo. The fat young man, I to bed.
have already told you of, rushed to the edge of 4. When a-bed, one should not lie in a forced
the crowd, threw himself on the grass, and or constrained position, but almost horizontal;
rolled there in agonies of laughter. The girls, the head excepted, which ought to be a little
one and all, held their handkerchiefs to their raised. Nothing is snore prejudicial than to
mouths. Fanny only was polite. There she lie in bed half sitting. The body then forms
stood demurely regarding, Charlie, with not a an angle: circulation in the stomach is checked
vestige of laugh on her face, except a roguish and the spine is always very much compressed.
_ . . . _
working of the corners of her mouth. I By this custom, one of the principal ends of
The butt of all this regarded her for a sec• sleep, a free and uninterrupted circulation of
ond, anger and shame mounted blood red to the blood, is defeated; and in infancy and youth
his forehead. He tried, at first, to brave it deformity and crookedness aro often its cone
out, but the attempt was in vain; and at last, I quences.
with an audible oath, he turned his back on his I 5. All the cares and burden of the day must
fair tormentor, and rushed madly away I be laid aside with one's clothes; none of them
Our village was never troubled with a mous- must be carried to bed with us; and in this res
tache after that. The ridicule that followed pect, one by custom may obtain very great
Charlie, when Fanny's jest became known, power over the thoughts. I am acquainted
drove him from the place, and no successor has with no practice more destructive than that of
over ventured to spm•t a moustache there since. I studying in bed, and of reading till one falls
Occasionally a travelling dandy stops at the asleep. By these means the soul is pot into
inn for a night's rest, and on such occasions a too great activity, at a period when everything
moustache may be seen for an hour or two in conspires to allow it perfect rest; and it is 'nat.
the quiet street, but at other times the article oral that the ideas, thus excited, should wander
is as scarce as money in a Printer's pocket.— and float through the brain during the night.
Fanny is somewhat sobered since the day of I It is not enough to sleep physically; man must
the pic.nic. Several years have passed, and sleep also spiritually. Such a disturbed sleep
the once merry maiden is now a sedate matron. is as insufficient as its opposite—that is, when
She married a rising young lawyer, and imme- our spiritual part sleeps, but not our corporeal;
diately took her place at. the head of fashion; I such, for example, as sleep in a jolting carriage
for her wit, as well as her beauty, gave her a un a journey.
preeminence which all acknowledted. To ti. One circumstance, in particular, I must
this day, however, she laughs heartily, when not here omit to mention. Many believe that
the story of Charlie's discomfiture is told. it is entirely the same if one sleeps these seven
Miss Rogers, after all her affectations, was hours either in the day or the night time. Peo
forced to put up with the fist young man, who pie give themselves up, therefore, at night, as
makes a very worthy husband for her, though long as they think proper, either to study or
he kisses as boisterously as ever. pleasure; and imagine that they make every
thing even when they sleep in the forenoon
those hours which they sat up after• midnight.
But I must request every one, who regards Isis
health, to beware of so seducing an error. It
is certainly not the same whether one sleeps
seven hours by day or by night; and two hours'
sound sleep before midnight are of more bene
fit to the body than four hours in the day. My
reasons are as follows:
That period of tweutyfoar hours, formed by
the regular revolutions of our earth, its which
all its inhabitants partake, is particularly dis
tinguished in the physical economy of man.—
This regular period is apparent in all diseases;
and all the other assail periods, so wonderful
in our physical history, are by it in reality do•
tersniued. It is, as it were, the unity of our
natural chronology. Now, it is observed, that
the more the cud or Vmsc 1 c - iesta coincides
A JAIL BIRD.—Some days ago, a gentletaun
visiting a jail in Cincinnati, heard one of the
female convicts singing with gaiety and spirit.
"Ah, my canary bird;" said be, looking through
the bars of her cell. "Your canary," she re•
plied; "if so, I wish you would hang the cage
where I could get a little sunshine."
DISPARITY or FORTT;E.—Au old gentleman
once said, in speaking of the bad consequences
of disparity of fortune, especially on the wife's
side, in marriage, that when he married, he
had twenty cents, and his wife twenty-five, and
that she was throwing out this extra five cents
to hint ever afterwards.
Re— A mother in San Francisco cured her
little boy of swearing by washing out his mouth
with soop suds every time ho bad profane words
to it.
[From ITufeland's "Art of Prolonging Life,"
with the conclusion of the day, the more is the
pulsation accelerated, and a feverish state is
produced, or the so-called evening fever, to
which every man is subject. The accession of
new chyle to the blood, may, in all probability, ,
contribute something towards this fever, though
it is not the only cause; for we find it in sick
people, who have neither eat nor drank. It is
more owing, without doubt; to the absence of
the sun, and to that revolution in the atmos
phere which is connected with it. This even
ing fever is the reason why nervous people find
themselves more fit for labor at night than du
the day. To become active, they must
have an artificial stimulus; and the evening fe
ver supplies the place of wine. But one may
easily perceive that this is an unnatural state;
and the consequences are the same as those of
every simple fever—lassitude, sleep, and a cri
sis, by the perspiration which takes place du
ring that sleep. It may, with propriety, there
fore be said, that all men every night have a
critical perspiration, more perceptible in some,
and less so in others, by which whatever use
less or pernicious particles have been imbibed
by our bodies, or created in them during the
day, are secreted and removed. This daily
crisis necessary to every man, is particularly
requisite for his support; and the proper period
of it is when the fever has attained to its high
est degree, that is, the period when the son is
in the nadir, consequently, midnight. What
du those, then, who disobey this voice of Na.
ture which calls for rest at the above period,
and who employ this fever, which should be
the means of secreting and purifying our jui
ces, to enable them to increase their activity
and exertion? By neglecting the critical
riod, they destroy the whole crisis of so much
importance; and, though they go to bed to.
wards morning, cannot certainly obtain, on
that account, the full benefit of sleep, as the
critical period is past. They will never have a
perfect, but an imperfect crisis; and what that
means is well known to physicians. Their hod
ies also will never be completely purified. How
clearly is this proved by the infirmities, rheu
matic pains, and swollen feet, the unavoidable
consequences of such lucubration.
Besides, the eyes stiffer more by this custom;
fur one labors, then, the whole summer through
with candle light, which is not necessary for
employ the morning.
And, lastly, those who spend the night in la
hot, and the morning in sleep, lose that time
which is the most beautiful and the best fitted
for labor. After every sleep we are renovated,
in the most proper sense of the word; we are;
in the morning, always taller than at night; we
have then more pliability, powers, and juices;
in s word, more of the characteristies:olyouth;
while, at night, our bodies are drier and more
exhausted, and the properties of old age then
prevail. One, therefore, may consider each
day as a sketch, in miniature of human life, in
which the morning represents youth; noon,
manhood; and evening, old age. Who would
not then employ the youthful part of each day
for labor, rather thus begin his work in the
evening, the period of old age and debility?—
In the morning, all nature appears freshest
and most engaging; the mind at that period is
also clearest, and possesses most strength and
energy. It is not, as at eight.worn out, and
rendered unequal by the multifarious impres
of the day, by business and fatigue; it is
then more edgiest, and possesses its natural
powers. This is the period of new mental cre
ation, of clear conceptions and exalted ideas.
Never does man enjoy the sensation of his ex
istence so purely and in so great perfection as
in a beautiful morning. He who neglects this
period, neglects the youth of his life.
Cork is nothing more or less than the bark
of an evergreen oak, growing principally in
Spain and other countries bordering the Med.
iterancan; in English gardens it is only a cu•
riosity. When the cork•tree is about fifteen
years old, the bark has attained a thickness
and quality suitable for manufacturing pup°.
aes; and after stripping, a farther growth of
eight years produces a second crop; and so on
at intervals of eight years, to the extent of even
ten or twelve crops. The bark is stripped from
the tree, in pieces of two or three inches in
thickness, of considerable length, and of such
width as to retain the curved form of the trunk
when it has been stripped. The bark peeler
or cutter makes a slit in the bark with a knife,
perpendicularly from the top of the trunk to
the bottom; he makes another incision, parallel
to, and at some distance from the former; and
two shorter horizontal cuts at the top and hot.
tom. For stripping off the piece thus isolated,
he uses a kind of knife with two handles and a
curved blade. Sometimes, after the cuts have
been made, he leaves the tree to throw off the
bark by the spontaneous action of the vegeta'
tion within the trunk. The detached pieces
are soaked in water, and are placed over a fire
when nearly dry; they are, in fact, scorched a
little on both sides, and acquire a somewhat
more compact texture by this scorching. In
order to get rid of the curvature, and to bring
them fiat, they are pressed down with weights
while yet hot.
A HAPPY OLD FARMEIL—Said a venerable
farmer, 80 years of age, to a relative who late
ly visited him—"l have lived on this farm more
than half a century, I have tto desire to change
my residence as long as I lieu ou earth. I
have no wish to be any richer than I now am.
I have worshipped the God of my fathers with
the same people for more than 40 years. Du
ring that poriod 1 have scarcely ever been ab-
sent from the sanctuary on the Sabbath, and
never lost more than one communion season.
1 have Dever been confined to my bed of sick
ness for a single day. The blessings of God
have been richly spread around me, and I have
made up my Mind long ago, that if I wished to
bo any happier, I mud have more religion.
ear Aviio la it that a woman frequently
giieb her rounteunnee to, and yet never takes
? Thciitpall Pox.
VOL. 19. NO. 26.
Peculiarities of the Laplanders.
Matthias Alexander Castren, a Swede, has
recently published a volume of travels in Lap
land, in which he gives to the world the peculi
arities of the Lap.' Among other Matters, they
seem to have a great love for religious exerci
ses. Mr. Castrin describes the Enare Laps as
engaged for twenty-four hours together, in list.
ening to sermons, praying, &c. He also men.
Lions their great affection toward their wives.
`One husband assured me that daring thirty
years of wedlock, no worse world had passed
between himself and wife than gloddadsham;
or 'my little bird.'
A peculiarity of the female Laps is given in
the following extract. It strikes us that it is a
funny kind of timidity, and we do not wonder
that the Lapland husbands are so careful to use
only the kindest language to their wives, since
they are so easily, and terribly frightened, or
that they pass twenty-four hours at a stretch in
praying to be delivered from devils.
I had often, on my journey through Lapland
been warned, to be cautious in my dealings
with the Russian Lap, and especially with the
female sex, on account of a strange propensity
among them, to sudden fit of phrenzy accom
panied by the loss of conciousness and control
over their actions. I treated these reports at
first as fables of the ordinary kind applied to
the people in question. I fell in, however, one
day, in a village of Russian Lapmark, with
some Karelians and two Russian traders.—
These repeated the warning above mentioned,
advising me never to frighten a Lap woman,
for in their opinion this was a ‘res capitalis.'
With reference to this caution, one of the Hare.
liens told me the following, I was once, said he,
when a boy, fishing out at sea, when I met
with a boat rowed by Laplanders. Among
them was a woman with a child at her breast.
Upon seeing me in a dress unusual to her, she
became so beside herself with fear, that she
flung the child into the sen.
Another Karelian related how he was once
in the society of Terski Laps:
We were talking of different matters when a
sound was heard like the the blow of a hammer
on the outside of the wall. On the instant all
the Laps present fell flat on the floor, and after
some gesticulations with hands and feet, be
came stiff and immovable as corpses. After a
while they recovered and behaved as if nothing
unusual had happened. To convince me of the
truth of this, and other such taler, one of the
Russians proposed to show me evidence of the
timidity of the Lap women. He began by put
ting out et the way knives, axes, and any other
mischevious implements which happened to be
at hand. He then came suddenly behind a wo
man present, and clapped his hands. She
sprung up like a fury and scratched, kicked,
and pummelled the aggressor to our edification.
After this exercise she sunk exhausted on a
bench, and recovered with difficulty, her breath
and senses.
Having regained the latter, she declared her•self determined not to be so frightened again,
In fact a second experiment only produced a
piercing shriek. While she was priding her
, self on this success, the other Russian flung a
pocket book, so that it passed just before her
eyes, and ran instantly out of the room. The
lady hereupon flew at every one present in
succession, flinging one to the ground, dishing
another against the wall, beating them, and
tearing their hair out by handful's. I sat in a
corner waiting my turn to come. I saw at last
with horror her wild glance fixed on me. She
was on the point of printing her nails in my
face, when two stout men in a fortunate mo
ment seized her, and she sank fainting into
their arms. It was the opinion of my compan
ions that my spectacles had especially excited
her phrenzy.
I cannot Pray for Father any More!
She knelt at the accustomed hour, to thank
God for the mercies of the day, and pray for
care through the coming night; then. as usual,
came the earnest "God bless dear mother, and"
—but the prayer was stilled ! the little hands
unclasped, and a look of agony and wonder
met the mother's eye, as the words of hopeless
sorrow burst from the lips of the kneeling child,
"I cannot pray for father any more!" Since
her little lips had been able to form the dear
name, she had prayed for a blessing upon it;
it had followed close after mother's name, for
he had said that must come first; and now to
say the familiar prayer, and leave her father
out ! No wonder that the new thought seemed
too much for the childish mind to receive.
I waited for some momenta, that she might
conquer her emotion, and then urged her to go
on. Her pleading eyes met mine, and with a
voice that faltered too much, almost, for utter-
ance, she said, "0, mother, I cannot leave him
all out, let me say 'thank God that I had a dear
father once I' so I eau still go on, and keep
him in my prayers." And so she always does,
and my stricken heart learned a lesson from
the loving ingenuity of toy child, Remember
to thank God for mercies pax' as well es to ask
blessings for the future.—Prelb'
ed that the grandmothers of Louis Napoleon
and the Sultan were both natives of the Island
of Martinique, in the West Indies, and were in
timate friends in their childhood. One of them
was Josephine, afterwards Empress of France,
whose daughter Hortense married the King of
Holland. and became the mother of the pres
ent French Emperor. The other lady was a
"Miss S. quitted the Island of Martinique
sometime before her friend. But the vessel
was attacked and taken by the Algeriue Con
stairs, and the crew and passengers were made
prisoners. But this Corsair ship was in turn
attacked and pillaged by Timis pirates, and
Miss S. was carried by them to Constantinople,
and offered for sale as a slave. Her extraordi
nary beauty and accomplishments found her a
purchaser in•the Sultan himself, and she soon
became the chief lady.of the Seraglio and Sul.
taneas of Turkey. Mehteoad IL was her son,
and the present Sultan, OW is the
3on of Mahmoud." • ' . '