• A
BY WM. BREWSTER
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clest nail.
The Night.
BY BARRY CORNWALL.
Oh, the summer night,
Hue a smile of light,
And she sits on a sapphire throne,
Whilst the sweet winds load her
With garlands of odor
From the bud of the rose o'erblown I
But the autumn night
Hue a piercing sight,
And a stop both strong and free;
And a voice of wonder,
Like the wrath of thunder,
When he shouts to the stormy-sea.
And tho winter night
In all cold and
And she singeth a song of pain,'
Till the wild bee luntneth,
The warm spring co moth, •
When she dies in a dream - of rain
O, the night, the night I
"Pie a lovely eight,
Whatever the clime or time,
For sorrow then Honreth,
And the lover otttpoureth,
His soul in a star-bright rhyme.
It bring eth Acep
To the forest deep,
The forest bird to its nest ;
To care, bright hours,
And dreams of flowers,
And that balm to the weary—rest !
A *dt.ct *Org..
1 1 111 Altlllll 11521111%.
From the MSS. of a Physician.
It was evening—the evening of a summer
Sabbath. The sweet hush of nature unbroken
by a single sounclof busy life, harmonized but
too painfully with the oppressivestillness which
pervaded The chamber whither my footsteps
were bent. It was on the ground floor of a
pretty residence in the out-skirts of the village
of C—. Its open windows overlooked agar
den where taste and beauty reigned supreme
—a second Edeu which extended with a scarce
perceptible delineation to the very margin of a
stream, where it was bounded by a white pick
et, and by a hedge of luw trimmed shrubbery,
over which the eye caught the flashing waters
as they swept on, slowing in the crimson radi
ance of the sunset.
1 entered the house and stepped lightly along
a carpeted passage, tapped softly at the door of
th chamber of sicknessaye of death.
wWelcotne doctor," said the silvery voice of
a ludy, who sat by a low couch, partially hung
with white drapery. "Welcome I the dear suf
ferer is now in a quiet slumber—but must
presently awake, and one of her first enquiries
will be fur you."
"How is your sweet Lucy, now ?"
"She has been quiet and apparently confort
able all day. It is her Sabbath, doctor, as
well as the worshippers who go up to the earth
ly courts of Zion. Oh I she added, while the
sunlight of joy irradiated her features, pale
with long vigils at the bedside of her sweet
Lucy. "Oh 1 bowfullof consolation is the scene
of mortal life and suffering, of earthly bitter
ness, of expiring hope!"
. .
"Yes, my dear friend," I replied, your cup
of affliction is indeed sweetened from on high.
lb took from my hopeless care a victim all
unprepared even after a long and faithful
warning ; and the reconciliation of the sad
struggle, the terrible anguish vanquished, the
fierce triumph of the conqueror, and the pier.
sing wail of exhausted nature, haunt my
memory still; and even in this earthly para
dise I cannot forget them."
"And is poor Edward gone at last to his
dread account l Oh, how fearful I" and the
gentle lady covered her face and wept.
Some time elapsed, I lingered at the couch
of Lucy till she should awake. and taking from
the stand a small though elegant. copy of the
Bible, I opened the silver clasp, and my aye
caught tho simple inscription on the fly leaf:—
"To my Lucy—a parting gift of Clarence." I
had designed to read a portion of the word,
but thought was for the time engrossed.
I had known Lua;• May from her infancy,
1 SEE NO STAR ABOVE THE HORIZON, puomrsiso Lima To GUIDE us, BUT THE INTELLIGENT, TATmorio, UNITED WHIG PARTY OT TUE UNITED STATES."— [WEBSTER,
and she was scarcely less dear to me than my
own daughter. Indeed, they bad grown up
like twin blossoms, and were together almost
every hour of the day. Seventeen summers
they both had numbered—though Lucy was
some months older; no brother or sister had
either of them, and hence the intensity of mu.
toll love. Their thoughts, their affections, and
their pursuits were in common. Tliey called
earls other "sister." and their intercourse hon
ored the endearing name.
And Clarence—the giver of this little vol
ume in my hand who was ho t Clarence Ham
ilton was the son of my best earthly friend,
and a nobler youth, in all the lofty faculties
and endowments of the heart, and intellect,
never rejoiced in the vigor of life and early
manhood. To him had Lucy been betrothed
for more than a year, and ho was now absent
from the village, though we trusted that when
each sun rose, that its setting could bring him
back in answer to our cautious summons.—
Especially had hope and expectation grown
within our hearts, on that evening, yet had not
a word beets spoken on the subject of the wid.
owed mother of her lovely Lucy, however, she
raised her head, and observing the open vol
ume in my hand she said in an assumed tone
of cheerfulness, "I trust Clarence will come
house this evening. It is now—
" Clarence 7" stti the sweet patient, opening
her dark eyes and looking eagerly around.—
Her eye rested on her mother and myself, and
with a slight quiver, and a sad smile, she said,
"ho is nut come."
$1 25
I 50
"No, my darling, he is not come; but there
is more than au hour to the close of the day,
and then—"
"God grant he may come," said the maiden,
and she added with energy, "if it be His holy
will." Oh, doctor, my kind, dear friend, your
Lucy is wearing away fast is she not ? and
then observing the emotion which I attempted
to conceal, she said, "but I am better today,
am I not ? Where is Ellen—Why does she not
come 1" Her toothier turned an enquiring
glance upon .me as I took the thin white band
of the young girl in mine, and marked but re
gular beating of the pulse.
"Shall I send for your daughter, doctor ?"
she asked.
I acquiesced, and in a few minut&l Ellen
wne sobbing violently, with her face hidden on
the bosom of her "sister."
"Ellen, my sweet sister," said Lucy, "your
father has tuld me that I must leave," and her *
voice lidtored, "my own deer mother, and-'
but alao did not utter the setae sf trer
fur at that moment the voice of one of the do.
mestics was distinctly heard saying.
''He is come. Mr. Clarence is come. Now
God bless my young lady." Lucy uttered a
scream of joy, and clasping Ellen around the
neck, murmured, "Father is Heaven, I thank
Thee!" and then fainted with excess of hap.
piness. Her swoon was brief. She recovered
almost immediately, and her face was radiant
with happiness.
Clarence Hamilton was pursuing his studies
at a distant College, and the letter which sum•
mooned him to C-, had 'scarcely intimated
danger in the illness of his betrothed. It had
been delayed on the way, and but half the time
of its journey had sufficed to bring the eager,
anxious student to the spot where his heart
had shared its affections, and centred its
hopes, next to Heaven; for Clara.° *as
more than a noble•hearted, high.souled man;
he was a disciple of Jesus Christ ; and he was
getting himself to be an apostle of his holy re:i
gion. He bad nearly completed his course of
studies, and was then to be united to the beau.
ful Lucy May.
Three months before the Sabbath evening of
which we write, Lucy was in health and with
her companion Ellen, was performing her de
lightful duties as a Sabbath School Teacher.
Returning home she was exposed to a sudden
storm of rain, and took cold: Her constitu
tion naturally weak, was speedily affected, and
consumption, that terrible foe of youth and
beauty, seized upon her as another victim for
its mighty holy.caust of death. At first the
type of her disease was mild, but within three
weeks it had assumed a fearful character, and
now her days were evidently few.
For this dreadful intelligence Clarence was
not prepared. He learned but he hoped snore,
and though his heart was heavy, hope kindled
a bright smile in his manly face, as he enter
ed the little parlor, where he had spent so
many hours of exquisite happiness. He had
alighted from the stage just before it entered
the village, and proceeded at once to the resi
dence of Lucy.
As Mrs. May entered the room, the smile on
his lips faded, £or•her pale face told a sad tale
to his heart.
''Clarence, dear Clarence, you have the wel.
come of fond hearts."
"How is Lucy ? Why is your face deadly
pale ? Oh, say, is she . not dangerously ill ?
tell me"—and a thought of misery entered his
heart, "she is,—oh, my God, my Father in
Heaven strengthen me,—she is dying—even
now, dying I"
"Nay, nay, Clarence," sai tl the mother sooth•
ingly, "Lucy lives, and we must hope for the
hest; but be not alarmed if you see her face
even paler than my own. Are you able to
bear the sight now ?"
There was but little consolation to his fears
in the reply of Mrs. May. Lucy was living,
but there was anguish in the expression,—
"hope for the best," and he said hurriedly,
"Oh, take ;no to her at oneo,—now•," and ho
pressed his hand on his throbbing brow, and
then sinking on his knees, while Mrs. May
knelt beside him, he entreated God, in a voice
choked with emotioa, for strength to bear the
trial to kiss the rod of chastisement, to receive
the bitter with the sweet; and prayed that the
cup might pass from him, even as did his maw
ter in the days of his incarceration and anguish.
lie arose and with a calmer voice said, "I can
see. her now."
HUNTINGDON, PA., WEDNESDAY,. NOVEMBER 8, 1854.
At this moment I joined them, with Lucy's
earnest request that Clarence should come to
her at once. We entered the chamber just ns
Ellen had partially opened a blind, and the
last rays of sunlight streamed fairly through in
the room, and fell for a moment on the white
cheek of Lucy, rendering its hue still more
onowy.
Alasl Clarence, as his earnest eyes met
those of his betruthed,—her whom ho had left
in the very flush of perfection, of youthful love.
lincss—now how changed I Ills heart sank
within him, and with a wild sob of anguish he
clasped her pale thin fingers, and kissed her
colorless lips, kneeling a while at the side of
her couch.
"Clarence, my own Clarance," said the
sweet girl, with an effort to raise, which she
did supported by his arm. He spoke not—he
could not—dared not to speak.
"Clarence, cheer up, my beloved," but her
fortitude failed, and all she could do was to
bury her face in her lover's bosom and weep.
We did not attempt to check their'grief, nay,
we wept with them, and sorrow fur a while had
its luxury of tears unrestrained.
Clarence at length broke the silence.
PLucy, my own dear Lucy I God forgive
me for my own selfish grief; arid ho added ter•
vently, lilting his tearful eyes to heaven,
"Father give us grace to bear this trouble
aright," and turning to me, added, "Doctor,
oh I pray that we rosy have strength to meet
this hour like Christians."
When the voice of prayer ceased, all feelings
were calm, but I deemed it advisable to leave
. the dear patient to brief repose ; and Ellen
alone remaining, we retired to the parlor,
where Clarence learned from us more of her
illness, of her true condition, for I dared nut to
delude him with tills° hopes.
"Vector," said he, with visible anguish, "is
there no hope ?"
"Not of recovery, I fear, though she may
linger some time with us, and be better than
she is to•day."
"Then God's will be done" mid the young
man, while a holy confidence lighted up his
face, now scarcely less pale than that of his
betrothed Lucy.
Day after day the poor girl lingered, and
many sweet hours of conversation did Clarence
and Lucy pt. together ; once even she was
permitted to spend a few moments in the por
tico of the house, and as Clarence supported
her, and saw a tint of health overspread her
cheek, hope grew strong in his heart. But
Lucy 00.111111 111.11. 111. cub aiivialu
and happily, this conviction reached her heart
ere Clarence Caine, so that the agony of her
grief in prospect of separation front him had
yielded. to the blissful anticipation of heaven,
that glorious clime where she would ere long,
meet those from whotu it was more than death
to part.
"Dear Lucy; "said Clarence, as they stood
gazing on the summer flowers, "you are better,
love. May not our Heavenly Father yet spare
you to use—to cousin Ellen--to happiness.
"Ah, Clarence, do not speak adds. It will
only end in deeper bitterness, I must go, and
Clarence you must not mourn even when I ex
change this blight world fur the paradise. of
immortality."
Clarence could not answer. He pressed her
hand and drew it close to his throbbing heart,
and she resumed, pointing to a bright cluster
of A marauth,—
"See there Clarence, is the emblem of the
life and joys to which I am hastening."
* * * * * *
Three Weeks bad passed. It was the even
ing of the Sabbath. I stood by the couch of
Lucy May. Her mother and Ellen sat on
either side, and Clarence Hamilton supported
on a pillow in his arm the head of the fair girl.
Disease had taken the citadel, and we awaited
its surrender to death.
The man of God, her pastor from childhood,
now entered the room, and Lucy greeted him
affectionately : and he soid "is it wt•ll with thy
soul?" She answered in a clear and sweetly
confiding voice :
"It is well I Blessed Redeemer, thou art
my only trust."
Clarence now bent his head close to the head
of Lucy, and whispered is her enr, but so dis
decay that we all heard.
"Lucy, since thou may not bo mine in life,
be mine in death ; let me follow you to the
grave us my wedded wife, and I shall4ave the
blissful consolation of anticipating a re-union
in Heaven."
Tho eye of the dying girl lighted up with a
quick and sudden joy, as she smilingly ans•
wered
"It is well, Clarence, I would fain bear thy
name before I die I' we were startled at this
strange request and answer; but no heart or
lip ventured to oppose it. Lucy then said:
Mother, dear. mother, deny me not my last
request ; will you and Ellen dress me in a Uri•
dal robe ? I will wear it to my tomb I" Clan
once also besought Mrs, May to grant this wish,
and let him win a bride and mother; and she
answered:
"As you and Lucy will, but it will be a
mournful bridal.
Lucy uow motioned us from the room, and
wo retired. Clarence was the first to speak.
"You will not blame !no that I seek even in
the arms of death to make her my wife. Oh,
how much of bliss has crowded into this one
anticipation, and though indeed it will be a
'sad bridal,' it will sweeten the cup of bitter-
ness which is uow pressed to my lips.
In a few minutes we re•entered that hallow
ed chamber ; the light of day had faded, and a
single lamp was burning on the stand. Lucy
was arrayed in a muslin robe which scarcely
outrivalled her cheeks in whiteness, save where
the hectic, now heightened by excitement,
flushed in. Clarence seated himself by her,
and she was raised to a sitting posture, and
supported her head in his arms. She placed
her hands in his, and said, half playfully half
sadly, "'Ti. a worthless offering, Clarence."
He pressed it to his feVered lips—his face
pale and flushed by turns. The minister arose
and stood before them, and in a few and simple
words united those two lovely beings iii a tie
which all felt must be broken ere 'another anti
must rise. Yet was, that tie registered and
acknowledged in Heaven.
As the holy man pronounced Ahem one flesh
and lifted up his hands in benediction, Lucy
put her feeble arms around Clareucc and in a
low voice murmured—
"My husband." .
"My wife," responded Clarence, and their
lips met in a long and sweet embrace.
That night before thelhst hour, mid angel
Azriel came as a messenger of pence to the
bridal chamber, and though new lbundations
of earthly bliss Itrul been opened to the heart
of Lucy Hamilton, she repined not at the sum
mons, but while hettienly joy sat on her fea
tures, and her lips murintrred—"pertee—lbre
wA—husband—m other—sister— all," her pure
spirit took its flight, and her _lifeless body lay
in the embrace of the woo,striekon Clarence—
who still lingers in this weary world doing his
master's work, and waiting his will to be re
united with his ANGEL Beine IN HEAVEN.
Tizallnous.
Extraordinary Case,
The Pella correspondent of the Columbus
Journal translates the following story from the
late German papers:
A very rich old lady, the CoUntess
bad, by her first marriage, two twin sons,
whom she loved fondly. After having trem
bled a long while for their existence, she - de
cided to quit Germany, her native country,
where she possessed, independent of a vast
and magnificent chateau, an immense proper.
ty under rent. She travelled, consulted the
most eminent physicians and filially fixed her
residence in Italy. There, under the influence
of a beautiful sky, the two boys grew up, but
they preserved the excessive nervous impressi
bility which had, since their infancy. put their
lives in peril. The two boyS , had between
them a remarkable resemblance; they both en
gaged in the culture of sets, but especially to
painting. At sixteen years of age they were
already cited as masters; but at this epoch a
new crisis appeared: the same symptoms, the
same pains; the physicians decided that to
prevent the return of ther nervous crises, the
'young men should be separated. They obsti
. . .
sup . Oications of their distracted mother, they
consented to the painful separation. It was
left to chance which one should leave tho ma
ternal roof, and it fell on Alfred.
Alfred K. started on the tour of Greece and
Egyptithe journey was to continue a year. Al .
fred wroteregularly every day to his mother
and brother he sent them his drawings and his
pictures. But what was remarkable, the young
man who remained in Italy lived so perfectly
the life of his brother, that ho designed and
painted exactly and simultaneously what his
brother designed and painted after nature.
Each time that a package arrived from Athens
or Alexandria, the paintings, the aquarells that
they contained, had already their duplicates so
faithful that the artists themselves could find
no difference.
One day, returning from a journey in Up
per Egypt, Alfred K. died, and the I.'lysicians
sent to the flintily a detailed account of the
circumstances which attended the death of the
young man. The same day,int the same hour,
and under circumstances, and with symptoms
precisely identical, the brother who remained
in Italy died, pronouncing the same words as
his brother had pronounced. The desolate
mother, who was yet young, being but sixteen
years older than her sons, returned to Germa
ny, where her husband occupied a high posi.
tion under government. Two years after her
return, she gave birth a second time, to two
twin boys, who resembled, trait for trait, the
twin sons whom she had so unfintunately lost.
They retired at their baptism the names of
their deceased brothers. All the circumstan
ces which had at development of the fitht
chil
dren, were reproduced precisely with the see.
find; the seine nervous paroxysms, the same
mysterious sympathies. Again the mother
was advised to travel. This time she went in•
to Spain; the boys exhibited the same taste for
the arts, particularly fur painting. At the age
of sixteen, and day for day with the first broth
ers they fell sick. Then separation was order.
ed, but this time the mother resisted energeti
' tally; she was vanquished, however, by theper
sistence of their malady and the continued per
suasions of the physicans, who declared that
they would die if they remained together on ac
count of the extraordinary resemblance of their
nervous organization, which absorbed mutually
the principle of their existence. The mother
consented that ono of them should make a
voyage into the south of Spain.
Silence again designated ono who bore the
name of Alfred. The same phenomenon of
intuition was reproduced. The one designed
at Madrid or Barcelona what the other painted
at Cadiz, and with the same wonderful iesem
blatice of touch. The day Alfred was ready to
start home to rejoin his mother and brother,
he fell sick and died at the same hour that his
brother died at Cadiz in the arms of his moth
er, and both pronounced at the same time the
words which their deceased brothers had pro
nounced eighteen years ago.
1191.. An elderly lady being asked how it
happened that she remained single, replied by
saying' that she never saw the man yet that
she would consent to cook three meals a day
for, during life. _ _
Sfir*One boy inn shop is as good as a man.
Two boys, however, are worso than none atoll.
If there be but one boy in the room he is as
quiet and sedate as a Quaker. Introduce an
other, and ground and lolly thmbling:and
somersets over the stove are in order fromaust
rise till dark.
The Beautiful Maniac,
"The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic islo •
No torch is kindled at its blaze—
A funeral pile!"
In the morning train from Petersburg there
was a lady, closely veiled, in the same car with
.ourselvs. She was dossed in the purest white,
wore gold bracelets, and evidently belonged to
the higher circles of society. Her figure was
tleVate, though well developed, and exquisitely
sym met ri cal; and when she occasionally drew
aside her richly embroiderd veil, the glimpse
of her features which the beholder obtained,
satisfied him of her extreme loveliness. Beide
her sat a gentleman in deep mourning, who
watched over her with unusual solicitude; anti
several times when she attempted to rise, he
excited the curiosity of the passengers by
detaining her in her sent.
Outside the cars all was confusion ; the pas
sengers looking to baggage, porters running,
cabmen cursing, and all the usual hurry and
bustle attending the departure of a railroad
train. One shrill warning whistle from the en.
gine, and we moved slowly along.
At the first motion of the car, the lady in
white started to her feet with one heart-piercing
scream, and her bonnet falling off, disclosed the
most lovely features that we ever contemplated.
Her raven tresses fell over her shoulders in
graseful disorder, and clasping her hand in
prayer, she turned her dark eyes to heaven!
What agony was in that leek! What beauty;
what heavenly beauty, had not so much of
misery been stamped upon it: Alas ! that one
glance told a melancholy tale.
She was changed„
As by sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not dearth; site was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjoiued things;
And forms, impalpable and unpercieved
Of other's sight, lioniliar were to hers."
. tier brother, tho gentleman in black, was
unremitting in his efforts to
. soothe her Spirit.
Fie led her back to her seat; but her hair was
still unbound, and her beauty unveiled. The
curs rattled on, and the passengers in groups
resumed theii conversation. Suddenly a wild
melody arose: it was the beautiful maniac's
voice, rich, full, and inimitable. Her hands
were crossed on her heaving bosom, and she
sang with touching pathos
"She is far fron the land where her young
hero sleeps,
And lovers around her aye,siglling .
But coldily she turns from
For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild songs of her dear no,
five plains,
Every note which he loved awakening—
Ali I little they think whA delight in her
strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is break
ing I"
Her:brother was unmanned, and he wept as
only man can weep. The air changed and
she continued :
"Ilas sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds e'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
That even in sorrow were sweet I
If thus the unkind world wither
Each feeling that once was dear—
Come, child of misfortune I come hillier;
I'll weep with thee. tear for tear!"
She then sang a fragment of that beautiful
hymn
"Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly."
Another attempt to raise up was pravented,
'and she threw herself upon her knees beside
her brother, and gave him such a mournful,en
treating look, with a plaintive "Save me, my
brother! save your sister I" that scarcely a
passenger could refrain from weeping. We
say scarcely; for there was one roan, (was he
man I) who called upon the conductor to "put
her out of the car." He received the open
scorn of the company. His insensibilities to
such a SCCIIO of distress almost defies belief;
and yet this is, in every particular, an "over
true tale." Should he ever read these lines,
may his marble heart be softened by the recol
lection of his brutality !
Again the poor lone benighted beauty rais
ed her bewitching voice to one of the most
solemn sacred airs:
"Oh! where shall rest be found—
Rest for the weary soul?"
And continued her melancholy chant until
we reached the steamer Mount Vernon, on
board of which we descended the magnificent
James river, the unhappy brother and sister
occupying tho "ladies cabin." His was a sor
row too profound for ordinary consolatbn, and
no one dared to intrude so far upon his grief
as to satisfy his curiosity.
We were standing upon the promanade deck
admiring the beautiful scenery of the river,
when, at one of the landings, the small boat
pulled away for the shore, with the unhappy
pair, en route for the asylum at .She
was standing erect in the stem of the boat, her
head uncovered, and her white dress and ra•
von tresses fluttering in the breeze, Tho boat
returned, and the steamer moved on for Nor.
folk. They were gonel that brother with his
broken heart, that sister, with the melancholy
union of beauty and madness.—Charlston
Courier. •
esay-Bussiso.—Buss--to kiss. Rebus—
to kiss again. Pluribuss—to kiss without
regard to sex. Sillybuss—to kiss tho hand
instead of the lips. Blunderbuss—to kiss
the wrong person. Omnibuss—to kiss all
the persons in the room. Erebus—to kiss
in the grave yard, or in the dark. Boilerbuss
—to kiss the cook 1
WA Lawyer once approached a pretty
quakeress and said she looked so charming he
could not help giving ber a kiss. 'Friend,
said she, 'thee must not do it l"Oh, by htav
en I will!' replied the barrister. Well, friend,
as thou last sworn, thee may do it, bat thee
must not snake a practice of it r
Plower's upon a mother's Grave.
Four motherless little children 1 Who can
think of them without a saddened heart? True
they are too young to know how great is find;
loss ; but eh 1 now? Who will talk to them
of Jesus? 'Who will teach them to lisp his
name?- Who will teach them to he Christians
early? The fathers business calls him away
during their waking hours. 'When he comes
home, sleep hangs heavy upon their eyelids.—
He can pray for them, and sometimes with
thorn. But all f a mother's constant care and
influence are buried with her in the grave.
Not long since there were four such little
ones. Their mother bad been borne to a sun
ny laud of flowers, that she might catch again
the bloom that had faded from her cheek.—
but it came not—and there among strangers,
she died. Her soul went to the spirit-land, and
her body was brought to rest amongits kindred.
Two of the little ones went to the tomb with those
who bore their mother's precious form. As
they passed the grave, and looked down deep
into it, each one cast some flowers upon the
coffin lid. It was a sweet sight—a pretty tri
bute to the memory of a moth,—all they could
do now to tell of their deep affection.
Young reader, does your mother still live ?
How should you cherish her affection, and trea
sure her words ? She may die. Then you will
feel that you have never done enough fur her;
never obeyed her as you ought; never loved
her half enough. Try to be more earnest in
your attentions toward her. Then, should you
come to cast flowers into her tomb, no tears of
regret will fall upon them.—Sunday School
Advocate.
Description of Jesus
The following epistle was taken by Napole
on from tho records of Rome, when he depri
ved that city of so many manuscripts. It
was written at the time and on the spot where
Jesus Christ communed his ministry, by Pablius
Lentullus, the Governer of J uda, to the Senate
of Romo—Cercsar, Emperor. It was the cus
tom in those days for the Governer to write
home any events of importance which transpi
red white he held office.
'•Consceipt. Father:—There appeared in
these days, a man named Jesus Christ, who is
yet living among us, anti of the Gentiles is ac
cepted us a prophet of great truth, but his own
disciples call him the son of God. Ile bath
raised the dead' cured all manner of diseases.
Ile is a mail of stature A0g0........-t-n----,- , -
-est---utLectatter nthVag love and fear. Ilis
hair is the color of the filbert when fully ripe
plaits to his ears whence dowuward it is more
orient of color, curling and waving about his
shoulder; in the !radio of his head is a seam or
portion of long hair, after the scanner of the
Nazarites. His forehead is plain and delicate,
his face without spot or wrinkle, beautified
with a comely red; his nose and mouth are ex
actly formed; his beard is the color of his hair,
and thick not of any great height but forked.
In reproving, he is terrible; in admonishing,
courteous; in speaking, very modest and wise;
in proportion of body, well shaped. None
have seen him laugh, but many have seen him
Weep. A mats for Lis surprising beauty, excel
ling the children of men.
Maxims for a Young Man.
Never he idle. If your hands cannot be use
fully employed, attend to the cultivation of
your mind.
Always speak the truth.
Keep good company or none.
Make few promises.
Live up to your engagements.
Have no very intimate friends.
Keep your own secrets, if you have any.
When you speak to a person, look him iu
the face.
Good company and good conversation aro
the very sinews of virtue.
Good character is above all things else.
Never listen to loose and idle conversation.
You had better be poisoned iu your blood
than your principles.
Your character cannot be essentially injured
except by your own acts.
If any one speaks evil of you, let your life
be so virtuous that none will believe him.
Drink no intoxicating liquor.
Ever live, misfortunes excepted, within your
income.
When you retire to bed, think over what you
have done during the day.
Never speak lightly of religion.
Make no haste to be rich if you would pros
per.
Small and steady gains give competency
with tranquility of mind.
Never play at any kind of game.
Avoid temptation through fear that you may
not withstand it.
Earn your money before you spend it.
Never run in debt, unless you see a way to
get out again.
Never borrow if you can possibly avoid it.
Be just before you are generous.
Keep yourself innocent, if you would be hap
- Save when you are young, to spend when
you are old.
Never think that which you do for religion is
time or money miss•spent.
Road some portion of the Bible every day. '
;tor A gentleman having occasion to call
upon a physician in Cincinnati, the other day,
stopped at the door and rang the bell. The
summons was answered by a Dutch servant
girl, of whom ho inquired if the doctor was in.
'No!'
'ls his lady in ?'
'Yes!'
'ls she engaged?'
The girl looked at him a moment, while a
.curious expression settled on her features, as
she replied
'Why, ske is already married!'
The gentleman left.
,
VOL. 19. NO. 45.
tly farmer.
He thnt by the plough would thrive,
Himself must either hold or drive.
FARMER'S GIRLS,
tip in the early morning,
Just at the peep oe Jay,
Straining the milk in the dairy,
Turning the cows away ;
Sweeping the floor in tie kitchen,
Making the beds up stairs,
Washing the breakfast dishes,
Dusting the parlor chains.
Brushing the crumbs from the pantry,
Bunting Tor eggs at the barn,
Cleaning the turnips. for dinner,
Spinning the stocking yarn;
Spreading the whitening linen
Down on the bushes below,
-Ransacking every meadow
Where the red strawberries grow.
Starching the "Bxins"• fur Sunday,
Churning the snowy cream,
Rinsing the pails and strainer
Down in the running stream;
Feeding the goose and turkeys,
igniting the pumpkin pies,
Jogging the little one's cradle,
Driving away the dies.
Grace in eery motion,'
Music in every tone,
Beauty of form and feature
Thousands might covet to own,
Cheeks that rival Spring roses,
Teeth the whitest of pearls ;
One of these country maids ary worth,
A score of your city girls.
Improve Your Stock,
Occasionally we meet those who • complain
that they can do nothing towards obtaining an
improved breed of animals because they can
not aftbrd to avail themselves of imported or
superior animals to begin with. To such t *Wo
would hint that all the improved breeds now
commanding high prices must have sprung
originally front common stock. Some particu-.
ler male or female must have been selected for
some special good quality, and this good qual
ity would be inherited more or less by.the pro
geny of that particular animal. This must
have been the starting point of the most cele—
brated breeds of domesticated animals. Cer
tain animals having some superiority, must
ity stag sought alter nna =leant teem genil
ation to generation, and every auxiliary which'
good judgment could suggest in feeding and'
management, being brought to assist in the
development of the quality or qualities desired,
at length a breed of animals celebrated fur
sonic particular point of excellence was ob
tained.
Now, if in this way all our distinguished
breeds have beets produced in the past and in
foreign countries, the secret is at tlui service of
those who think they cannot afford to get a
good animal or the use of one to commence
breeding from. But this may be only an
apology fur indifference, or for a very question-
able econemy. It will take generations, per
haps, to improve at home up to a point that
one may start from by the expenditure of afew
dollars.
To Same Bacon from the Ply.
A writer in the American Farmer, recom
mends as an infallible remedy against the fly:
When your bacon is smoked early iuthc spring
before the fly has made its appeaaance, take
quirk-lime slackened to - a dry powder, and rub
the meat thoroughly on every part with it,
leaving it to adhere as much us possible ; hang
up your meat, and rest secure from tiny trou
ble from insects. We have for sunny years
rubbed our hams with hickory wood ashes. and
then packed them up in ashes iu close casks,
with tight Sitting tops, and we have yet to Mind
the first insect in our bacon. We think ash.
preferable to lime, and are much pleasanter
landlitig in packing away, or in getting rid of
when the hams are required fur use.Germun
town Telegraph.
Preserving Batter.
The farmers of Scotland, aresaid to practice
the following method of curing their butter,
which gives it a superiority over that of their
neighbors :—"Take two quarts of the best com
mon salt, one ounce of saltpetre ; take ounce of
this composition for one pound of butter, work
it well into the mass, and close it up for use?'
The butter cured with this mixture appears of
a rich marrowy consistency and fine color, and
never acquires a brittle hardness nor tastes
salty. Dr. Anderson says: "I have eaten
butter cured with the above composition that
has been kept for three years, and it was as
sweet as at first." It must be noted, however,
that butter thus cured requires to' stand three
weeks or a month before it is used. If it is
sooner opened the salts aro not sufficiently
blended with it, and sometimes the coolness
of the nitre will be perceived, which totally
disappears afterwards."
First Milk of Cow&
On the question whaber the first milk of
cows is poisonous to swine, Dr. Gibbs, of Perry,
Ohio, writes to the Country Gentlemen, that
its injurious effects are owing to its containing
in common with that of many other abimallt,
Colostrum, "tho properties of which aro not
fully known, but it is supposed to be a cathar
tic provided by nature, and well adapted to tbo
wants of the offspring, removing the viscid
contents of the intestinal canal." The first
milk should not be given in large quantities to
any animal, ns it will induce diarrhoea, cholic,
&c., and perhaps cause death.— Wool Grower.
REOULARITT IN FEEDING.-If there is one
rule which may 4., considered more imperative
thnn any other in stock raising, it is that the
utmost regularity be preserved in feeding.
SS. Plough deep. Menage well.