Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, August 30, 1854, Image 1

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lf ottq.
What heroes from the woodland sprung,
When, through the fresh awakened land,
The thrilling cry of freedom rung,
And to the work of warfare strung
The yeoman's iron hand I
Hills flung the cry to hills around,
And ocear.•mart replied to mart,
And streams, whose springs were yet unfound,
Pealed far away the startling sound,
Into the forests heart.
Then marched the brave from rocky steep.
From mountain river swift and cold,
The borders of the stormy deep,
The vales where gathered waters sleep,
Sent up the strong and bold.
As if the very earth again
Grew quick with God's creating breath
And, from the sods of grove mid glen,
Rose ranks of lionhearted men
To battle to the death.
The wife, whose babe first smiled that day,
The fair fond bride of yestereve,
And aged sire and matron gray,
Saw the loved warriors haste away,
And deemed it sin to grieve.
Already had the strife begun:
Already blood on Concord's plain
Along the springing grass had run,
And blood had flowed at Lexington,
Like brooks of April rain.
That death stain on the vernal sward
Hallowed to freedom all the shore;
In fragments fell the yoke abhorred—
The footstep of a forerun lord
Profaned the soil no more.
*tied Cale.
From the Star Spangled Banner,
Or, The Trapper of the Cuyahoga.
Hocking, the trapper, or Cleve Hocking, as
he was called by the neighboring hunters and
trappers—l say neighboring, for so he termed
them, although the nearest was more than 20
miles distant—was pursuing his way through
one of those wild forests of the now flourishing
state of Ohio, a large portion of whose trees
have contributed their room for cities and their
substance to build them.
He was a Virginian by birth, his father be•
ing one of the early settlers of Jamestown. At
an early age be had been apprenticed to ablack•
smith, where his great strength and ingenuity
soon made him a useful artisan.
After becoming free from his employer, he
pursued the trade upon his own account for
several years. Suddenly his friends were our.
prised with the intelligence, that he had sold
his shop, and had gone, his former neighbors
knew not whither; some whispered that it was
an affair of the heart, but the world is apt to
speak ill•naturetry of the absent.
At the time to which we refer he was nbout
fifty years of age, and had lived in the fore.“
for at least twenty.five years, where his prod',
gloss strength, his skill in woodcraft, and his
triumphant exploits with the Indians and wild
beasts, had won for him a name which the old.
est hunter might have envied.
His appearance was by no means remarks.
ble, nor did his dress, which as composed of
the skins of Lae deer, differ wildly from that
worn by the professed hunters of his time. Its
stature he was rather short, with an immense
chest, broad shoulders, and limbs exceedingly
compact and sinew;, especially his arms,which
were long almost to deformity, but when view•
ed physically, might be termed perfect pyre.
mids of muscle and sinew. His features, tho'
plain, were by no means repulsive, and their
expression was one of those which gradually
gains our liking by acquaintance.
He had been unusually successful that mor•
ming with his traps, and was bearing his spoils
to his cabin in excellent humor. Although in
the vicinity of Indians, many of whom had
plainly evinced a spirit of hostility, he did not
seek to disguise his trail, nor would his appea•
ranee indicate that he was fearful of danger.
In his powerful dogs which accompanied him,
ho hod two friends. r•ho had often
a itt'Von..:llllll,l4,l.
shared the dangers, sports, and fatigue of hunt.
ing with their master. These e re proceeding
as quietly as himself, when sonenly they stop.
pod, snuffed the air a moment, and with their
noses fairly plowing the loose leaves, dashed
forward and were soon out of sight.
Hocking hal called them back, and was be
pining to examine the grounds, when a report
of tire-arms made faint by distance, was just
audible, and shortly after another was heard.
"Something's going on in that quarter, for
sartin," said the trapper, for the want of a com
panion speaking to himself. "I will just look arter
these skins a-bit, and then see what it means."
A few miles distant front the cabin, a scene
of altogether a different character was occur
ring. A young man was defending himself
against a small party of Indians, slowlyretreat
ing all the while in the direction marked out
by the open trail, which he managed to keepin
sight of, although he did not walk in it, for in
many places it was so open that it would have
left him exposed to the arrows of the savages.
He had never trod upon that trail, but the
knowledge of hunting satisfied him from itsap
pearance. that it led to the lodge of some white
man. Bounding from tree to tree, behind which
be sought momentary shelter, he managed for
a long time to keep in advance of his foes,sorne
of wham had been trying hard to get in his rear,
by which means he would at once be at their
mercy. Fully aware of their intentions, he ex
erted himself to the utmost to maintain his
slight advantage. During his movements he
managed to load his rifle from time to time, and
if a limb or the slightest part of the body of
one of his wily foes were exposed, an unerring
ball was sure to mark it. In this manner he
had already killed, or fatally wounded three,
while several others had received flesh wounds
which made them cautious of exposing, them.
selves afterwards. Nor had he wholly escaped
their shafts, for his dress was stained by blood
in several places, where the arrows of his foes
had also made their mark. For several hours
had he been thus engaged, and he felt his
strength gradually giving way to over-exertion
and increasing fatigue. Still he continued his
defensive and retreating movement, straining
every muscle to the utmost.
Feeling that his life was at stake, or what
was worse than simple death, a lingering tor
ture, such as only a savage could invent, would '
be his portion if taken, he was determined to
defend himself to the last moment, and if talc
en, it shonld only be when they deprived him
of life. At length, completely exhausted, and
r finding that he could proceed no further with.
out some rest, he hastily chose a spot which
afforded the best available protection, and re
solved, whatever might he the result, to pause
for a few moments. Leaning against the
trunk of an immense tree, and still upon the
lookout, he was surprised to see the forms of
six savages suddenly spring from their lurking
places with a yell of dismay.
Sl 25
1 50
Ina moment his rifle was to his shoulder
and his foes numbered one the less, Scarcely
waiting to observe the effect of his shot, he
hastily loaded his piece without leaving his cov
er. This accomplished, and he now saw the
reason of the unexpected movement on the port
of the Indians. A single form of grotesque
appearance was opposed to the whole forceand
stood alone defying them, His limbs were en
veloped with thick coverings of raw bide, while
his head and features were completely masked
with a tight fitting envelope of deer skin, and
sleeveless shirt of the same material hung
loosely about his body.
What most astonished the young man, was,
to observe that the arrows which were directed
towards him, when they struck, seemed to
bound back without giving the slightest wound.
or disturbing him in the least. A rifle was
slung upon his shoulder, hut 14; fitvorite weap•
on appeared to be a large, bar of iron, which
he handled like a plaything, making the air
whistle as he flourished it above his head.
The observation of the young man occupied
but a moment, and with new courage and re
vived strength, he rushed to the assistance of
his oily. But the moment he appeared a pow.
erful voice shouted—" Back to your cover,
young man, you have had hot work this morn
ing ; I will take care of these chaps,"
The young hunter hesitated, when the other
exclaimed impatiently—"To your cover. T say,
as you value the friendship of Cleve Hocking.
Back, or I wash my hands of you."
Just then an arrow whizzed close to the
head of the young. man.
"There, your imprudence will spoil all,"
again shouted llockinr• "I tell you I will
manure the critters, and its aein my principles
to Sght less than four, for I don't like to take
an onhnadsome advantage, even of a redskin.
Just keep a look, and if any of 'em turn deer.
bore 'em. that's all."
The young hunter did no the trapper request.
ed, while the latter was now engaged with the
remaining Indians, who, hoping to overcome
his giant force, had, in a mass, closed with him.
It was only the work of a minute. At each blow
from the terrible club of iron, there was one foe
the leas to contend with. No tomahawk could
arrest that instrument of death in its descent.
Four savages had felt its w•eirht, and lay
writhing amid the leaven ; the fifth attempted
flight, but the crack of a rifle in the hands of
the young man soon compelled him, also, to
taste the leaves. The work was now secant
plished, and the young man felt that his deliv
erance had been ordered by an all.wise Provi
dence, who had made his strange ally the in
strument of his present safety.
"That job's well finished, at all events," said
the trapper, coolly wiping his bloody instru
ment with some fresh leaves.
"And I have to thank-you for my life," said
the young stranger.
"Rather thank that Being that looks arterus
all, that's the advice of an old trapper. But I
see blood on your shirt; are you hurt ?"
"But slightly. Only the marks of two of
their arrows, that's all."
"I will examine them presently; but how
raw you on this trail ?"
"A small party of us were hunting alongthe
margin of the lake, when, arriving at the mouth
of this stream and observing its wild beauty,
we resolved to follow its course, occasionally
striking into the depths of the forest in search
of game. In one of these excursions, I lost
my companions, and in search of them gotcon•
fused by several trails, and finally lost my own.
I have now been wandering alone for more
than a week, and have been skirmishing with
Indians ever since day break."
"You are a good shot—have a fine rifle and
a stout heart of your own ; but a little hot•
blooded and rash; well, well, these are the
faults of youth, which time'll cure. Young man,
I rather like you, and if so be that you can put
up with a trapper's home, you're welcome to a
bit of venison and a skin to sleep upon."
The young hunter accepted his offer with
thanks, and the two proceeded on their way to
the cabin. Before they arrived there, Foster
Lovel, the name of the young man, became ac•
painted with the reason fur the indifference of
Hocking regarding the arrows of the savages.
The fact was, the head covering was a steel hel•
met, visor, ac., while under the shirt a polished
breastplate of the same materials, relicsof chi•
valry which Hocking had procured in the colt).
nits and made practical in his forest home.
Near the door of the cabin. Lovel was sur
prised to see a beatiful girl, seated upon the
trunk of a fallen tree, playfully caressing two
large dogs which from time to time gamboled
around her. He thought he never saw an oh.
ject more beautiful in all her simplicity of man.
ner and dress, and lie could not avoid an excla
mation of surprise and delight as he gazed up.
on her.—Hocking noticed this, and a cloud
passed over his features. He clutched his
iron club so firmly that had it been of any soft.
er material than metal, his fingers must have
indented its surface, as he said—
"The man that ahould intend harm to that
girl, I'd no more mind braining him, than I
would a merciless red Ain,"
Lovel met the searching gaze of the trapper
with a look equally as firm, as he answered—
" You do not know me, ir, or you would
have known that such a remark was unnecen•
nary in my presence."
There was so much dignity in the young
man's manner. and such a noble scorn expree.
sed in bin word, that the trapper was at once
convinced, and seizing his band with a grasp
that almost dislocated the joints, he said—
" Forgive me stranger, If I have wronged
you even in thought; but I am as kearful of
that child as though she was my own (laugh.
"Not, your daughter, did you say?'
"No," said the trapper, with a sigh; "once
the time was, when I had friends and happy
prospects; but that has gone by these many
years. I'm alone in the world, with nobody to
kear fur me except Forest and the two dogs.
Well, well—but I am keeping you out here,
when I dare say your wounds ought to be look.
ed arter."
"Is her name Forest?"
"I call her Forest for short, but her name is
Forestina Chace. She is a brave.hearted lass
as one could wish to see, and gentle in her
temper as a young fawn.
Lovers wounds, if not of a serious character,
were more extensive than he had imagined,
and the trapper having dressed them skillfully,
prescribed quiet for a few days. During this
time he had a good opportunity of making the
acquaintance of Forestina, the purity of whose
mind charmed him more than the graceful
beauty of her person.
He heard the story of her life from her own
lips, the substance of which was as follows:
Of her mother she could remember but lit.
tle, having died when Forest was only seven
years of age. Reverses of fortune soon follow.
ed after her death, and her father, who was a
trader, dispirited by his losses, and mourning
the decease of his wife, left the colonies and
plunged into the forests with his only child.
Her mother was of gentle birth, her father
being a baronet and holding a colonel's com
mission in the army. The marriage had ta•
ken place in opposition to his wishes, and he
at once disowned her. Soon after, the young
couple left their native land for the continent
of America.
In their forest home, Mr. Chace had endenv.
ored, to the best of his ability, to educate his
daughter. Here he also made the acquaint.
ance of Hocking, to whom in his last moments,
he confided the care of his child, and well had
the worthy trapper fulfilled the promise he then
made. Her father had also desired that the
relatives of his wife should not be made ac•
quainted of the existence or whereabouts of his
daughter, unless they first made inquiries for
One afternoon, as Hocking was cleaning his
rifle, seated on the doorsteps, and Forestina
and Lovel were walking at a little distance en
gaged in conversaticn, the dogs, who had been
crouching lazily at the feet of their master, sad
denly started up with bristling hides and sul
len growls.
"What is it you see that disturbs you so, my
good pups?" said their master.
At that moment a piercing cry was heard at
some little distance, and Lovel and Forestina
hastily joined the trapper.
"If I mistake not, that was the cry of n pan
ther, was it not?" asked Lovel.
"There is no mistaking the cry of a rascally
panther, any more than the yell de red•skin,
and one is just about as pleasant as Cother,"
replied Hocking, at the same time securing the
dogs, who were growing more and more ones•
"We must shoot him of course," said the
young man, directing a look of anxiety to the
fair girl, "his vicinity is unpleasantly near.—
Don't you think so, Miss Chace?"
"I have so often heard these cries," she an
swered, "that I regard them but slightly, espe•
daily when I have brave friends to protect me."
"If you will go into the woods with me," said
Hocking to Lovel, "I will show you a bit of
sport thut perlt,pti ye' ne,r
"But Miss Chace—shall we leave her alone?"
"Oh, she won't mind it; besides she has the
dogs to protect her."
In a few 'ninnies Hocking appeared from
the cabin, thoroughly rigged, as he expressed
it. He was clothed in a complete suit of ar
mor, and no knight in the days of chivalry
could have been more completely encased in
steel than he was. Bidding the young man
take his rifle fur fear of accident, he started in
the direction from whence the cry had proceed.
"You have forgotten your arms," cried Love!.
"No, I have not; I always carry them on my
shoulders, but as for a weapon, I don't need
one in this affair. It ain't every man that can
move in this armor, though I say it; but if a
panther can stick his claws through it, why, he
is welcome; but it's my opinion he will have to
choke first."
A panther is a fearful animal to look upon
in his wild state of unchecked ferocity. His
glaring eyes, extended fangs, and dashing tail,
are not pleasant to regard, even when one has
a sure rifle in his hand; but for a man to cope
single•handed with a monster of this kind, even
though protected in a measure by armor, Low
el thought was more than ho would willingly
They were not long in finding their object,
whose growling increased as they approached.
Gaining a good position, with his back braced
firmly against a tree, Hocking waited for the
panther to attack him, while Level was sta
tioned at a little distance on one side. Wheth
er the animal was afraid of the armor or not,
they could not tell; but it was certain that he
showed no disposition to spring upon his intru
der, until the latter, growing impatient, caught
up a large stick and threw at him.
This was too much for brute nature to bear,
and, leaping almost an incredible distance, he
alighted at the feet of the trapper, who at once
closed with him. Never had Level seen such
a terrific struggle on the part of the beast, or
such strength and coolness displayed by any
man before.
At the first onset, Hocking encircled the
panther with a hug that might have done cred
it to a polar bear. The animal, unused to
such receptions, was maddened to the highest
degree, and in his struggles actually left the
marks of his claws on the surface of the finely
tempered steel armor. The trapper now firm
ly grasped his throat with•his left hand, while
his right descended like avititib•hammer upon
his back and side with a force suffi iota to ac
tually break some of his ribs.
The animal now seemed disposed to give up
the contest, while Hocking, with an immense
effort; threw Lim to the ground, and planting
his knee firmly on the shoulders, held him
down, while his hands compressing his throat
like a "garrote," he caused his strangulation.
There is an attractiveness in an object of
power, whether of a mental, physical or me
chanical character, which we all have felt and
which at some time, has commanded our ad
miration. For the same reason we cannot
avoid feeling an interest in a man of strength,
though the bluntness of his nature may not
have been smoothed by education nor softened
by intercourse with the social world.
So thought Lovel, as he beheld the trapper
moving towards his cabin with his trophy of
victory upon his shoulder, breathing a little
harder perhaps than usual, but calm, and un
excited, as though he had finished an ordinary
The young hunter spent several weeks with
Hocking, occasionally hunting with him and
often plying the canoe upon the beautiful Cuy
ahoga, accompanied with l'orestina. The
young people had become very fond of each
other—too fond for simple friends, and in a
short time their affections were no longer at
their disposal.
The trapper was not blind to the state of af
fairs, and though he could not endure the tho't
of a separation from his adopted child, yet an
alliance with a family so influential and respec.
able as the Lovell was not to be slighted. Be
sides, as his acquaintance ripened with the
young man, so did his esteem.
Level now felt it necessary to return, but he
left Forestina, his plighted bride. After a te
dious journey he arrived at one of the colonies,
where he found an agent of her grandfather's,
who had been from settlement to settlement
endeavoring to gain some information of his
daughter's child, who, with her aged relative,
were the last representative of a proud and an
cient family.
One year afterwards, Level crossed the
ocean with his beautiful bride. A few months
were spent in England, and then they made
America their home. Near the mouth of the
Cuyahoga they chose a romantic site for a set
tlement, not far from the place where the beau
tiful city of Cleveland is now located. The
visits of the old trapper were frequent, but no
thing could induce him permanently to leave his
cabin in the wilderness. His herculean strength
and courage were so much admired by the red
men of the forest that they gradually became
his friends, and his influence was so great
among them, that he was enabled to protect
many a defenceless settler of Ohio, who would
otherwise have been the victims of the merci
less savage.
A St:NRIIII.E WILL—The following is the
copy of a will left by a mar, who chose to be
his own lawyer:—"This is the last will and tes
timent of me, John Thomas. I give all my
things to my relations to be divided among
them the best way they can.
"N. B.—lf anybody kicks up a row, or makes
any fuss about it, he isn't to have anything.
Signed by me, John Thomas."
LAY or SAN JUAN.—A New York journal in
the rural districts, satirizes the bombardment
of San Juan after the following far,liien
"Father and mother and I,
And ton good soldiers more,
Heat en old woman atone blind,
1112, nri•Nr' , ae. , much I,cf,re."
The Old Wife's Kiss.
The funeral services were ended, and the
voice of prayer ceased, tears were hastily wi
ped off from wet cheeks, and long-drawn sighs
relieved suppressed and choking sobs, as the
"mourners" prepared to take leave of the
It was an old man that lay there, robed for
the grave. More than three score years had
whitened these locks, and furrowed that brow,
and made those stiff limbs weary of life's jour
ney, and all the snore willing to lie down and
rest where weariness is no more suffered, and
hffirmaties are no longer a burden.
The aged have but few to weep for them
when they die. The most of those who would
have mourned their loss have gone to the
grave before them; harps that would have sigh
ed are shattered and gone. And the few who
remain are looking cradle•ward rather than
grave•ward—to life's opening rather than to its
closing goal—are bound to and living in the
generation rising, more than the generation
Youth and beauty have many admirers while
living—have many mourners when dying.—
Many tearful ones bend over their coffined
clay; many sad hearts follow in their funeral
train. But age has few admirers, few mourn
This was an old man, and the circle of
mourners was small. Two children, who had
themselves passed the middle of life, and who
had children of their own to care for, and to be
cared for by them. Besides these, and a few
friends who had seen .d visited him while
sick, and possibly bad known him for a few
years, there were none others to shed a tear
except his old wife. And of this small compa
ny the old wife seemed to be the only heart
mourner. It is respectful for friends to be sad
for a few minutes, till the service is performed,
and the hearse is out of sight. It is very pro-
per and suitable for children, who have out
grown the fervency and affections of youth, to
shed tears when an aged parent says farewell,
and lies down to quiet slumbers. Some regrets,
some recollection of the past, some transitory
griefs and the pangs are over. Not always so.
But often, how little true genuine heart-sorrow
there is !
The old wife arose with difficulty from her
seat, and went to the coffin to look her last
look—to take her last farewell. Through the
fast falling tears site gazed long and fondly
down into that pale, unconscious face. What
did she see there? Others saw nothing but the
rigid features of the dead; site saw more! In
every wrinkle of that brow, she read the histo
ry of years. From youth to manhood, from
manhood to old age, in joy and sorrow, in
sickness and health—it was all there; when
those children, who had now outgrown the sym
pathies of childhood, were infants lying on her
bosom, and every year since then—there it
was! To others, those dull, mute monitors
were unintelligible; to her, they were the al
phabet of the heart, familiar as household
And then the future! "What will become
of me? What shall Ido now? She did not
say no; she did not say anything; but she felt
it. The prospect of the old wife is clouded.—
The home circle is broken, never to be re-uni
ted; the visions of the hearth-stone are scatter
ed for ever. Up to that hour there was a home,
to which the heart always turned with fondness.
But that magic is sundered; the key-stone of
that sacred arch has fallen, and ay/ home is
no where this side of heaven I What shall the
old wife do now? Go and live with her chil
dren—be a pensioner upon their kindness;
where she may be more of a burden than a
blessing, so at least she thinks? Or shall she
gather up the scattered fragments of that bro
ken arch, snake them her temple and her shrine,
sit down in her chill solitude beside its expi
ring fires and die? What shall she do now?
They gently crowded her away from the dead,
and the undertaker came forward with the cof
fin-lid in his hand. It is all right and proper
--of course, it must be done; but to the heart
mourner it brings a kind of shudder, a thrill of
agony, as when the headsman comes forward
with his axe! The undertaker stood for a
moment with decent propriety, not wishing to
manifest a rude haste, but evidently desirous
to be as expeditious as possible. Just as he
was about to close the coffin, the old wife turn
ed back, and stooping down, imprinted one
long, last kiss upon the cold lips of her dead
husband, then staggered to her seat, buried her
face in her hands, and the closing coffin hid
him from her sight forever!
That kiss! Fond token of affection, and of
sorrow. and memory, and farewell! I saw
many kiss their dead—many etch seals of love
upon clay cold lips—but never did I see one so
purely sad, so simply heart-touching and hope
less as that! Or if it had hope, it was that
which looks beyond coffins and charnel houses,
and damp, dark tombs, to the joys of the home
above. You would kiss the cold cheek of in
fancy. There is poetry; it is the last rose bud!
Or the pallid cheek where beauty blushed.—
There is romance there; for the faded flower is
still beautiful! In childhood, the heart yields
to the stroke of sorrow, but recoils again, elas
tic with faith, buoyant with hope. But here
was no beauty, no poetry, no romance. The
heart of the old wife was like the weary swim
mer, whose strength has often raised him above
the stormy waves, but now exhausted, sinks
amid the surges.
Why should the old love the old, or kiss the
cold, unloving lips? Al., why shouldn't they?
Does affection grow old? Does the true heart
feel the infirmity of years? Does it grow cold
when the step becomes unsteady, and the bands
bang down? Who shall, say that the heart of
the old wife was nut as young and warm as in
those early and bright days, when ha wooed
and won her? The temple of her earthly hope
barl v,„r
to sit down in despondency, among its lonely
ruins, and weep, and die? Or, in the spirit of
a better hope, await the dawning of another
day, when a hand divine shall gather its scat
tered dust, and rebuild, fur immortality, its
broken wall.
May the old wife's kiss that linked the living
with the dead, be the token of a holier tie, that
shall bind their spirits in that better land, where
tears are wiped from all faces, and the days of
their mourning are ended.
"Died Yesterday."
Every day is written this litttle sentence—
" Died yesterday, so and so." Every day a flow
er is plucked from some sunny home—a breach
made in some happy circle—a jewel stolen
from some treasure of love. Each day from
the summer Gelds of life, some harvesters dis
appear; yea, every hour, some sentinel falls
from his post, and is thrown from the ramparts
of Time into the surging waters of Eternity.—
Even as we write, the funeral procession of one
who "died yesterday," winds like a summer
shadow along the street.
"Dien YEBTERDAY."—Who died? Perhapsit
was a gentle babe, sinless as an angel, pure as
the zephyr's hymn, one whose laugh was as the
gush of summer rills loitering in a bowerof ro
ses, whose little life was a prepetual litany—a
Maytime, crowned with passion flowers that
never fade. Or, Mayhap it was a youth, hope
ful and generous—one whose path was hem
med by flowers, with not a serpent lurking un
derneath—one whose soul panted after com
munion with the great and good, reached forth
with earnest struggle for guerdon in the dis
tance. But that heart of his is still now, for
be "died yesterday."
"DIED YESTERDAY."—A young girl, pure as
the orange flowers that clasped her forehead,
was stricken down as she stood at the altar;
and from the dim aisles of the temple she was
borne to the "garden of the slumberers." A
tall brown man, girt with the halo of victory,
and standing at the day's close under his own
vine and fig•tree, fell to the dust, even as the l i
anthem trembled upon his lips; and he, too,was
laid "where the rude fore-fathers of the hamlet
sleep." An aged patriarch, bowed with years
and cares, even as he looked out upon the dist
ant hills for the coming of the angel-host, sank
into the dreamless slumber, and on his door-step
was next day written—"died yesterday."
"Dien YEsTeansv."—Daily, men, women
and children are passing away, and hourly in
some graveyard the sod is flung over the dead.
As often in the morn we liud that some flower,
that blushed so sweet in the mellow sunset, has
withered up forever, so daily, when we rise from
the bivouac to stand again at our post, we miss
some brother soldier, whose cherry cry, in the
sieges and struggles of the past, has been as
Gte from heaven upon our hearts. Each day
some pearl drops from the jeweled thread of
friendship; some lyre, to which we have been
wont to listen, is hushed forever. But wise Is
he who mourns not the pearl and music lost,
for life with him shall pass away gently as an
Eastern shadow from the earth, and death be a
triumph and a gain.
Gon!—There is a God! The herbs of the
valley,the cedars of the mountains, bless Him—
the insects sports in His beams—the elephant
salutes Him with the rising of day—the birds
sings Him in the foliage—the thunder prodaims
Him in the heavens—the ocean declares His im
mensity—man alone has said,"There's no G od."
Unite in thought, at the same instant, the
most beautiful objects in nature; suppose that
you see at once all the hours of the day, and all
the seasons of the year; a morning of spring
and morning of autumn; a night bespangled
with stars, and a night covered with clouds;
meadows enameled with flowers, forests hoary
with snow; fields gilded by the tints of autumn;
then alone you will have a conception of the
universe. While you are gazing on that sun
which is plunging under the vault of the west,
another observer admires him emerging front
the gilded gates of the oast By what incon
ceivable magic dues that aged star, which is
sinking fatigued and burning in the shades of
evening, reappear at the same instant freshand
humid with the rosy dew of the morning? At
every instant of the day the glorious orb is at
once rising—resplendant at noonday, and set
ting in the west; or rather our senses deceive
us, and there is properly speaking, no east, or
south, or west, in the world. Everything redu
ces itself to one single point, from whence the
King of Day sends forth at once a triple light
in one single substance. The bright splendor
is perhaps that which nature can best produce
that is most heatiful ; for while it gives us an
idea of the perpetual magnificence and resist
less power of God, it exhibits, at the same
time, a shining image of the glorious Trinity.
Working on the Sabbath.
There are a great many people who profess
to keep the Sabbath, according to the fourth
commandment, but who, some bow or dther,
always find a multitude of 'works of necessity'
to be attended to. We have seen a capital
anecdote lately, about a family of such people
who were pretty severely rebuked by a colored
man in their employ. The family were far•
mers. One Sabbath morning the colored man
was not up, as usual, at breakfast. The son
was sent to call him, but Quer said they
might not wait for him, as he did not wish for
any breakfast.
"Why, Cwzar," said the young man, "we
shall want you, as soon as the dew is off, to
help about that hay."
"No," said he, "I cannot work any more on
the Sabbath, it is not right."
"It is not right?" said the other, "is it not
right to take care of what Providence Las giv•
on us ?"
"0, there is no necessity for it," said he
"and 'tie wrong to do it:"
"But would you not pull your cow or sheep
out of a pit on the Sabbath, Ca tar ?"
"No, not if I had been trying all thr.. weep
,4 1.4 41,,t:1,
VOL. 19. NO. 35.
Peppering 'Em.
"Did I ever tell you how near I came to 1o•
sing my election as Senator?"
"No, I blieve not."
"Well, it was altogether owing to Waterem'a
not having a sufficient supply of liquor on
hand. You see the main strength of our party
lies in the upper end of the country—'specially
among the inhabitants of the Swamp, as it is
called. So you see, about two days before the
election, I sends Sam up among the Swamp•
ers with five galls. of the real hardware—tree.
menduous stuff—knock a horse down—the last
Waterem had on band. About four hours, back
came Sam, horse in a perspiration, himself in
a fright. and everything indicating an unto•
ward state of affairs.
"What's the matter, Sam?" aaid I.
“'Matter?'” said he, 'matter enough—you
have outraged the feelings of the virtuous
Swampers; they swear that any man who e:•
poets to go to the Senate for three years, and
can't afford ten gallons of whiskey. is too mean
for the post—they won't vote for him l'
"Matters looked squally enough. Only one
other storekeeper within a day's ride, and he is
a Whig. Of course he wouldn't sell any liquor
to me so near the election.
"What did you do?"
"Called a council of war immediately—Law.
yer Ross and several more. Roes proposed a
letter of apology to the disaffected. Rejected
—wouldn't do without the whiskey. Calo Al
wright was the feller to help us out, always
full of expedients. He proposed to water the
liquor up to the right quantity. We did so,
but on trying it, found it much too weak for
our friends. Such stuff would not go down
with them. Cale asked if we had any other
spirits; handed him about a gallon of gin; in it
went; tasted it; not strong enough. Found
about a quart of rum—poured it in. Sam tried
it. "Too weak," said he.
"Red pepper," said Cale,
"It was brought; in went a pound; he stirred
it up. We tried it, and nearly blistered our
throats; it would have killed rats. Sam took
it up the next day, explaining that it was all
owing to the scarcity of liquor in the neighbor
hood—that a fresh supply of the 'old Dlonga
hale' had been obtained, and invited a trial of
its merits. They were mollified—pronounced
it the 'rale stuff,' and I became Senator by a
maiority of 200 votes."
Smith Drank vs. Smith Sober.
Smith, the Razor Strop man, occasionally
breaks off from the subject of the very superior
quality of the strops, and gives his audience a
short lecture on temperance in his own peculi
ar, droll way. Here is a short extract :
''Ssitzn's CAT.—When I drank grog I owned
a cat. a poor, lean, lantern-jawed thing, that
was always getting into a scrape. As I had
nothing for her to eat she was compelled to
take to the highway, and the neighbors were
continually crying out, 'Cos that Smith's cat,
she's drunk all my milk' Poor thing, she had
to steal or die; for she could find no pickings
at home, for even the poor mice that were left,
were so poor and scraggy that it took several
of them to make a shadow; and a decent cat
would starve to death in three weeks on an al
lowance of eighteen per day. But when I re.
formed, things took a different turn. The
kitchen being well provided, the crumbs were
plenty; and the old cat grew fat and honest to
gether. Even the mice grew fat and oily, and
the old tabby would make a hearty supper on
two of them, and then lie down and snooze
with the pleasing consolation of knowing that
when she awoke there would be a few more left
of the same sort.
And again: When I was a beer guzzler,
mother, cried,father cried, Bill cried, Moll cried,
and the cat cried. But when I signed the
pledge, father sung, mother sung, wife sung,
Bill sung, Moll sung, Bet snuff, the cat sung,
and the kettle sung, and I bolght a new frying
pan, and put a nice piece of beef steak in it,
and placed it on the fire, and that sung, and
that's the kind of singing for the working man.
And a third : The difference between Smith
sober and Smith drunk, is this: Smith drunk
was rummy, ragged and riotous—Smith sober
is joyous, jovial and jolly. Smith drunk was
stuttering, stupid and staggering; Smith sober
is cool, clear-headed and cautious. Smith
drunk was sick, sore and sorry; Smith sober is
hearty, healthy and happy. Smith drunk is
ill-read, ill-bred and ill-led; Smith sober is well
saved, well-behaved and well-shaved:'
A St NG use VERDICT.—The following is a
correct copy of a verdict recently rendered in
this city
Cook County, •
At en inquisition taken for the people of the
State of Illinois and County of Cook, this 26th
day a. d. 1834 before Mr. Austin Haynes Coro.
ner of said county of Cook upon the b dy
of a Female Child, ounce unknown thenanl
lying dead upon the oaths of Twelve Good and
Lawful Men of the peopleof the Said Stateand
County of Cook, and when and who the said
came to his or she came to her death, We the
Jury do say We the Jurors do Agree The Bo
dy came to her death by death unknown.
air A bashful fellow who was about to get
married by a minister who required responses,
resolved to make himselfperf.ict in the responses
of the marriage service; bet by mistake, corn.
milted to memory the answers on baptism: so
when the clergyman asked him, "Wilt thou
have this woman to be thy wife," Ice., the bride.
groom answered its a very solemn tone—
"l renounce them all."
The anstonished minister said, "I think yon
are a fool."
To which he replied; "All this I steadfastly
'Mind, John, if you go out in the yard.
you will wish you had staid in the house.'
`Well, if I stay in the house, I will wish I
was in the yard. se where is the great differ.