Huntingdon journal. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1843-1859, May 16, 1855, Image 1

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    .ttiflifugbolt.iot . trilitit- - ,
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lect of a person to take from the office, newspapers
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masters to keep us posted up in relation to this
dal I.loctill.
At the bar, at the bar,
At the bar thundered,
Thundered with fiercest, din,
Topers one hundred.
There stood those thirty men,
Thirsty one hundred;
Calling tor drinks in vain,
The barkeeper slumbered ;
Hark, there's a sound from one I
List how the curses come
From each and every one
Of that dry one hundred.
Into the bar they pitch,
Noble old topers,
For up conics an order which
Pleased these old soakers,
"Forward the Tight Brigade I
Take the bar," litgins said I
Into it undismayed,
Pitched now each drunken blade—
Pitched the one hundred.
'Forward the Tight Brigade!"
Gads, what a charge they made l
No person was there afraid
No person blundered. -
Theirs but to drink their fill,
Theirs but to have a swill,
Theirs not to pay the bill,
Aye, yes they knew it well
Knowing one hundred,
Bottles to the right of them,
Bottles to the left of thorn,
Bottles in front of them,
Labelled and numbered ;
Nobly they fought and well,
There many n hero fell
Covered with blood and beer,
Beer that they lova no well,
Gallant one hundred I
Raised now each nose in air,
See what is under there,
Mugs charged with lager beer—
All the world wondered !
Fiercer the revel grows,
Redder each blazing nose,
Faster the liquor flows—
Under the table goes
Hull of the hundred.
Bottles to the right of them,
Bottles to the left of them,
Bottles all around them,
Emptied and sundered ;
Out from that dreadful room,
Out from that dark sato.,
Came forth a beery fume,
Came forth a dismal moan,
But none of the hundred.
When they awoke amtin,
0, how their heads did pain !
No pen., wondered.
Honor the Tight Brigade !
Honor the charge they made,
Thirsty ono hu nd red.
A polite young lady recently asserted
that she hsd lived near a barnyard, and
that. it was impossible for her to sleep
in the morning, on account of the outcry
made by a .grntlentsu hens.'
cs,elttt Chic.
'Now tell me all about it, Weldon. I
am so anxious to hear the whole story,
and it's such a nice evening for this, too.
It is so great a luxury to be all alone with
you, that the rain sounds really musical
as it drops against the panes.' She had
pushed a low ottoman to his feet, and
throwing herself on this, lifted her sweet
face, set in its framework of brown, soft
hair, to her brother's.
'So you have at last caught, and intend
turning my confessor, do you, little sis
smilingly responded the young clergy
man, as he turned his eyes from the an•
thracito blaze, where they had been drea
mily fastened for the last half hour, and a
beautiful, almost dreamy tenderness seem•
ed to drift into them as they rested on his
'Yes ; to think that you are really enga
ged, Weldon ! What would your good
parishioners say, if they knew it, particu
larly the younger portion of them ! lam
somewhat apprehensive their daily be
quests of boquets and fruits would be sen
sibly diminished But about the lady—is
she beautiful, Weldon?'
$1 25
2 50
'A woman's first query !' and again that
rich smile went like sunlight over the
grave but handsome features of the young
pastor. am not certain, Hattie, wheth
er an artist would think her so. Her lea.
tures are not entirely regular, and her
cheeks are less rosy then your own; hut
the emotions of her deep, gentle loving
nature look out of her dark blue eyes, and
there is a sweet heart chirography in the
smiles that sparkle at times over her small
and rather pensive mouth.
'You are drawing a charming Raphael
picture, brother mine. She is young, of
course ?'
'Hardly twenty-one.'
'And—no, I need not ask if her mind is
well cultivated, for I • know your opinions
respecting woman too well to doubt this
But is she intellectual—in short a book
worm ?'
'Well, something of one. The forma.
tion of her head indicates a superior men•
tal organization, but all the faculties are
well balanced.'
'And—let tne see—is she wealthy ?'
'Only in the possession of these great
jewels which ace above all price.'
'But her family—who are they ?'
never saw but one member of it, and
Ile was a hsggar.'
'Weldon !"I'lle little fingers that had
been playfully braiding themselves with
those of the young man's, were suddenly
wilhdrawn, the quick blood flushed into
the questioner's cheeks, and a look of
mingled astonishment, and displeasure fill
ed her brown eyes as she breathlessly
ejaculated, 'Weldon, are you in earnest ?'
'Yes, Lam, Hattie. You know' would
not jest on such a subject.'
'But you took me so greatly by surprise.
And—and'—the little red lips trembled a
moment, and then the tears brimmed over
the brown lashes, and journeyed slowly
clown the cheeks.
'And troubled you too, Hattie ?' interro
gated the young Irian, as ho leaned for
ward, and caressingly smoothed down the
bright hair of his sister. 'Don't look so
sorrowful, darling as though some great
evil had chanced me; but "ten to what I
shall tell you, and then see if your own
true and noble heart, unbiased by social
distinctions and prejudices, does not com
mend my election. Will you do this, Hat
tie, if not for my sake, for His who said
that the poor and the rich were alike in his
sight 1'
Sweet Hattie Marshall ! Ho r one foible
was her pride for het handsome, noble
hearted brother; it was hardly a weak
ness, for he was all that God had left to
her of the household over whom the spring
dairies; had long spread their golden cov
ering; and for a moment she had looked
with the world's eyes upon his betrothal
to the sister of a mendicant. But her
brother's words had silenced the pride
whispers in her heart, for Hattie :Marshall
"had learned of Hint who was meek and
lowly in spirit.
will do as you ask, Weldon. Forgive
me if I have done wrung,' she whispered,
drawing up closer to her brother, and lay
ing her head in its old resting place against
his heart ; for very tenderly did the broth
er and sister love each other.
Weldon Maishall drew his arm around
his sister's waist, and then, .when the rain.
moaned, and the wind muttered around the
windows, and the anthracite fire mingled
its ruddy glow with the silver astral light,
and filled the parsonage sitting rents with
a dreamy crimson light, he told a story of
the past, and his eyes grew darker, and
his low, earnest tones, full of pathetic elo.
quence, as he told it :
It is eight years next month, Hattie,
and I was in New York, engaged in my
collegiate studies. You see it was three
years after our mother's death, and you
were at that lime with Uncle Harvard, at
tending school.
It was a cold, wild, disagreeable night:
and I remember standing at the window of
my snug sanctum, and looking out rueful.
ly into the darkness, for I had en
gagement to meet several of my fellow
students that evening in a distant portion
of the city.
Dear me! how the wind blows ! I solilo•
quized, with a very feminine shrug of the
shoulders, as I drew the curtains closer
'l've half a mind to throw myself on the
lounge, which looks so provokingly com
fortable this evening, and not attempt an
encounter with the elements. It's absurd
to think they'll expect me such a night as
this. In short, I won't attempt an influen
za, by showing my face outside of the
door,' was the conclusion of my monologue.
I remembered that I wheeled up the
sofa in comfortable proximity to the fire,
located the lamp so that its rays fell softly
upon the volume 1 intended to commune
with, and that I had settled myself for a
long, quiet winter's evening.
But it would not do. My eyes wander
ed listlessly along the pages ; they could
not engage my attention. A strange, un
accountable feeling of restlessness and
anxiety seemed to possess me. At last I
resolutely closed the hook, and 9. few min
utes later I was in Broadway, mentally
censuring my folly in yielding to a feeling
I could not resist.
Ah me, looking back through the eight
years that lie between that dreary night
and the present, how clearly can I discov
er the great Father's love in it all !
it hat is it you want here, little boy I'
—I sec him now just a. though I had seen
him this morning, and the light from the
tall window .is falling on him, just as it
fell then, fevealing his ragged dress and
pale, pinched features, and the cold rain
is dripping off his thick, brown curls, just
as it did then. It is a strange, mournful
picture—the dark night in the back ground.
and the little ragged boy, and the brilliant
lights, and the great store, with all sorts of
rare confections in front. No wonder it
touched my heart. The boy started as I
gently laid my hand on his shoulder, and
looked tip with his wild, eager, bright
eyes into my face.
'O, sir !' he said, after a moment's earn
est perusal of my features, 'I was thinking
if I only could carry one of those cakes
home to Ellen, she is very sick, and —and
(the little fellows lips quivered) we haven't
had anything to eat for two days.'
I did not speak another 'cord ; but I
caught hold of the child and pulled him
after me into the store.
gland me down a plate of those cakes,'
I cried to the astonished clerk, who turn
ed with more than ordinary alacrity to ful
fill my request. I drew the boy into a
small sitting-room at one end of the estab
lishment. 'Now eat these as fast as you
can, and then tell me who Ellen is.'
His hungry look, the strange avidity
with which he grasped the food, almost
wrung tears from my eyes.
'Ellen is my sister—my only sister since
the baby died. We are all alone now.—
Last month, just after they buried mother,
she grew sick. I s'pose it was because
she cried so much ; and she's been grow
ing worse all the time.'
.And there is nobody to take c.tra of her
now but you, my little fellow 1'
'Nobody but me—the money mother
left is all gone, you see, sir, and though I
sometimes earn a sixpence by selling pa
pers or cleaning sidewalks, I couldn't leave
Nelly for the lost week, ske grew so much
worse. 0, sir, how good these taste ! I
can't thank you, but I want to.'
'Well, you needn't, my boy. I want no
other thanks than your enjoyment of them.'
'But mayn't I take the rest home to Nel
ly I She'll be frightened, I'm gone so
long. 0, sir, if you'd only go with me
will come and see you and Nelly to
morrow,' I said, you'll tell me where
you live ; and now while you are eating
the remainder of your cakes, I'll get some•
thing that Nelly will like hotter.'
I procured a basket which I saw well
stocked with a variety of fruits and con
fections most likely to tempt the appetite
of au invalid, and adding to these all the
money I had with, me, I returned to the
'Go home to Nelly with these as fast as
you can; I said, 'and tell her that I will
come and see her to-morrow morning
Now be a man, my little boy, and take
good rare of sister Ellen till then.'
'And are all these for her ?' mid the
child, as his large, wandering eyes roam•
ed over the basket. ..Arttl she has been
moaning in her sleep after an orange for a
whole week. 0, sir, we will pray God
to bless you for all this ; and he will, lor
tnother used to say he would hold those in
everlasting remembrance who forget not
the widow and orphan,' and tears of min
gled gratitude and delight were showering
fast down the little fellow's face as we par
ted. . .
The next morning, Hattie, I received
that letter which summoned me to my fa
ther's dying bedside. I had of course,
on time to fulfill my engagements with the
little orphans in whom I had become so
greatly interested ; indeed, the mournful
circumstances which drew me once more
to the home of my childhood, banished
them from my mind. -
If you will look down to that tine, my
sister, April was weaving her green car
pet over the meadows before we parted,
and I returned to the city to complete my
studies, and then to enter that service in
which before my father's dying bed I sol
emnly pledged myself to spend all the life
that God should grant me.
1 had forgotten the name of the boy's
residence, but I know that I made several
attempts to discover it after my return to
the city, all of which proved ineffectual.
It was the sunset of a bright day in the
early May-time, and even the great city
looked fairer; for the sunshine that plated
the house tops •.with gold, and swept in gol
den flakes and dimples along the pave
ments up which I was passing, with soma
fellow students, to supper•.
'Now, Marshall, remember to call for us
in time, for the lecture commences at sev
en, and will certainly be crowded,' called
out one of my companionthas we reached
the corner where our paths diverged.
I bowed my assent and adieu, and was
hurrying forward, when my coat was sud
denly grasped, and an eager but timid
voice said, .Please, sir, is your name Mar
shall 1'
I turned and looked at the speaker. It
was a little girl, apparout ly-about ten years
of age; her long curls falling in a bright,.
tangled mass about her small, sorrowful
luoking face, while her large blue eyes
were fastened with a kind of panting ea
gerness upon my own.
, Yes, that is my name. And what do
you want with me, my little girl ?• I
queried. greatly surprised at this singu
lar encounter.
0, sir, do you remember a little boy
whom you met one winter, who told you
that he had a sister Nelly, and—, The
mystery was cleared up.
'Yes, yes, I remember it all I inter
rupted. 'And you are Nelly I suppose?'
and I surveyed the child with enhanced
interest. Her ragged garments, her pale
mournful face, bore a legible history—a
history of sharp poverty and bitter suf.
'Oh, l am so glad.—so very glad, sir !'
and the light that broke into the little care
written face, was beautiful to behold. 'I
was almost sure it must be you when the
gentleman called your name, and you
looked just as Willy said you did. 0, sir,
I have looked, and watched, and waited
for you so many days, that I had almost
given up hoping.
'Poor child ! I have been out of town,
Or I would have come to you as I promis
ed. But where is Willy now ! and what
do you want with me P I was well nigh
ashamed after the latter question was ask.
ed, her poverty answered it so plainly.
'O, sir, Willy is,sit.k, and his face looks
so white and strange lately, I fear he is
going home to mother sometimes. You
see I got better after you sent me the cokes
and oranges, and Willy bought the some
medicine with the money you gave us,
and we paid the rent three months, so the
woinan let us stay there. But one day,
about a month ago, Willy was out all day
in the cold rain selling papers, and he has
been growing worse and worse, and he
has so altered now, you'd hardly know
hint now. But he's wanted to see you so
badly, and he talks about it all the time in
his sleep, and fur the last two or three
days he's grown very nearly wild about
it. and so I've been keeping watch for you
all day; and I couldn't bear to go home at
night, for Willy would spring up in the
bed and cry out so loud, 'Kelly, have you
seen him ?' and when I shook my head
ha would lie down with such a look, that
I would go off in one corner, and cry all
alone, it made my heart ache so to see it
But now Willy will so glad ! 0, please
sir, won't you go and see hint 1'
I see, Betty, that your eyes are grow
ing wet with tears; and if you could have
heard the simple, touching pathos with
which that fair child told her sad story,
you would have answered as I did, 'Yes,
Nelly, I will go now.'
'Willy, Willy. I've brought him t I've
brought him !' The little hand which
guided me so carefully up the dilapidated
stairs, was withdrawn as the little girl
broke into that old attic chamber, her ea
ger, joyful tones making the bare walls
ring sigain— , l've brought him! I've
brought him !'
The dying sunlight looked with a sweet
solemn smile into the room, whose entire
destitution one glance revealed to me. I
had no time for another, for a child's head
was lifted front a miserable mattress in one
corner. I came forward, a pair of atten
uated arms were stretched out, and those
large burning eyes were fastened a mo
ment on my face, as though life or death
rested upon their testimony.'
'Yes, yes, I knew you would come at
last,' and the little cold arms were wrap
ped about my neck. 'O, 1 have watched
and prayed, and hoped so long, and it see
med as if you would never come ; but I
knew you would to-day, for last night mam
ma came to inn, looking so beautiful, with
the flowers woven all around her head, and a
white robe flowing down to her feet, and she
smiled so sweetly and said, ',My little Willie, he
will come to you tomorrow ; and his coming
will be a signal, for then, too I shall come for
' - ky tears were falling fag on the boys brown
curls; but a sharp pang Leached my heart ne
be spoke these words, 'No, no, Willy, you
were only dreaming,' I said, %s I lifted up my
head and %eked at him anxiously. One
glance into the rigid fitce told me enough—the
mother had come fur the child. 'Bend down
quick,' murmured the boy's white lips. 'Nelly
will be alone when I leave her; for there's no
body to take care of her, you see, and I want
to give her to you. You are so kind and good,
I know you will take e'ood care of her, and
never let her suffer ' • and mamma and I will
look down from our home in Heaven, and bless
you for it all; and maybe we shall come some
time to take you to us. You will promise me
this, wont you? quick, for I can't see you,'
and his glazing eyes wandered over my face.
'Yes, Willy, I promise it to God to your
mother in Heaven, and to you,' I answered sol
'Nelly, you have heard what he said—be will
take care of you. Kiss me once . more, little
sister. There, there, mother has come for me!
Good bye I' the little cold fingers sought fur our
hands and drew them together—a smile wan.
cloyed over the stark, rigid thee, and the last
light of that May-day looked into that hard ai
de, where the beautiful clay was lying on the
cold mattress.
'O, sir, is he dead?' questioned the little girl,
with her large pathetic eyes wandering from
the dead face to my own.
My looks answered her, fur my lips could
not. 'Willy, Willy, come back, come back to
me!' she cried out in a voice, whose exceeding
anguish will haunt my memory, will haunt my
heart until it has grows cold as the one that
lay beneath me ' and little Ellen limits lay
senseless as her brother in my arms.
Two days later, in a pleasant part or the con.
etery, the May violets were turned aside, and u
child's coffin lay beneath them.
For a little While I placed her iu the country
among simple people, whose curiosity would
be readily appeased; for I was exceedingly de
sirous that the world should never become cog.
u:zant of the part I had borne in her
ry. I read well her sensitive nature, and 1
!mew there might come a time in her laterlifc
when it would cause her much antioyance and
mortification if the world knew our secret.
Fur this reason, sweetest and dearest of sin
ters, I did not communicate to you till I had
obtained her permission, which I sought in my
interview with her. I could, of course, have
received this at any time I had chosen to seek
it ; but I thought it would be untitir to obtain
her consent to this matter, before her mature
judgment had ratified it.
After much deliberation I resolved to confide
Ellen's history to Mrs. Whittlesey, the lady with
whom I boarded, and in whom I placed entire
She listened with intense interest, and her
womanly sympathies were at once enlisted in
behalf of my protege. Besides this, she was a
widow and childless; nod though by no means
wealthy, her circumstances were such that she
could surround Ellen with everything necessa•
ry to her well being and happ iness.
She proposed to adopt her in the place of the
children God had taken from her; and to this
proposition I joyfully assented, for there the re
ligious, social, and home atmosphere would he
all that I wished to be about my Ellen.
1 was noxious, too, that she should no long.
er be dependant upon me, for I thought even a
time might come when I should ask her a ques.
time, whose answer I would in no wino have re•
gulated by her gratitude tbr the past.
You have often, little sister, heard me speak
of Ellen Evans, Mrs. Whittlesev's alopted
daughter ; but you little dreatnea that 1 had
such a great personal interest iu all that per
tained to her.
Her character and person have developed
with more than all that rice loveliness pronto.
ed. The sister that I shall bring you Bade,
is an elegant, accomplished. talented woman ;
and more than all that—and the young clergy
man's eyes grew lustrous with the almost holy
light that beamed out from their darkness—my
Ellen, has the ornament of a week and quiet
spirit, which is above all price.
And now, my Bettie, you have heard her his
tory, will you not welcome her to your heart?
I guessed well the pang which the knowledge
of my engagement would give you ; fur as bro
ther and sister have seldom loved, du we love
each other, and 1 knew it must seem like bring-
Mg another to take your place. But my Ellen
is very gentle, and she will never come between
us. She knows, too, the story dour orphaned
youth, and of our atteetien for each other; and
even now, her heart goes out with great love
for you. 'Tell her all,' she said in that last in
terview, 'and tell her that without her consent
I dare not become your wife. When I return
to her, and her questiouing eves ask tee if I
have obtained it, may I tell her you are ready
to love and welcome her to your home ?
Aud Harriet Marshall lifted her brown, tear•
filled eyes to her brother's Mee, and answered:
'Tell her Weldon, that my heart is waiting to
welcome her to a vacant place—and it is the
on , by !in,
Jedediah llbdge was dead in love with
the beautious Sally llanunond, but owing
to an unconquerable feelintof diffidence,
he had never been able to screw up his
courage to the sticking point absolutely
requisite to enable him to inform her of
his predilections. Three several times he
had dressed up in his
ing fixings," and made his way to her fa
ther's house, determined tnis time to do or
die. But , unluckily, his courage oozed
away, and became "small by degrees and
beautifully less," as the politcians say, till,
when he was fairly in her presence, he
was barely able to remark that it was a
warm evening. Sally got tired at length
of this old reiterated observation, and res
olved to help him out of his predicament
or, like a true woman she hnd net failed
to percieve what Jedediah was trying to
come at, but couldn't. For the fourth
time Jedediah came, but did not succeed
any better. Sally commenced her attack
by informing him that Mary Somers,
an intimate friend, was going to be mar
"You don't any so," said Jedeiah, that
being the only idea that occurred to him,
except one, and that he didn't dare give
utterance to.
"•Yes," said Sally, "she's going to be
married next week. It seems rather queer
that she should be married before me,
considering she's a year younger."
Jedodiah's heart leaped up in his throat
but he didn't venture to say anything.
There was a pause.
"Jedediah," resumed Sally, after a lit
tle hesitation, "I'll tell you something, if
you'll promise certain true that you won't
never tell anybody."
"No, I. won't," said Jedediah, stoutly,
proud of the confidence reposed in him.
"It isn't much, after all," said Sally,
casting down her eyes ; '‘only n dream,
and I don't knoi mhether I ought to tell
you, after all, though, to be sure, there
was something about you in it."
"Do tell me," pleaded Jedediali, his cu•
riosity overcoming his bashfulness in a
"But I'm afraid you'll tell after all."
"No, I won't, certain, true. I hope I
may be horsewhiped if I do."
'•'Then—don't look at me, Jedediall, or
I can't tell it—l dreamed that—you and I
—L never shall be able to tell you—that
you and I were going to be married the
day before Mary Somers !"
Jedediah started as if struck by a shock
from a galvanic battery, and shouted en
"So we will, by gosh, if you'll July say
the word !"
Of course Sally Was astonished at this
sudden application of her dream, and
could not believe he was in earnest. At
length she yielded her consent, and dream
was verified at the alter in less than a
Ladies that have bashful lovers, take
Sroxotrro IT.—The last dodge we have
heard in evading the State Liquor Law
occurred yesterday, at one of our fashion
able drinking saloons. An individual
walked up to the counter, and demanded
a dime bottle of brandy. Now, the rule
is to charge fifteen cents, unless an empty
bottle is furnished in return for the bottle
received, and as the consumer laid only a
dime on the counter, the extra five cents
was demanded.
"I don't want the. bottle," said he,
"draw the cork."
"The liquor can't be drank on the prem
ises," replied the bar.keeper.
"I aint going to drink it on the preani.
ses;" rejoined the other, and the bar-keep
er, supposing that he had some vevel to
pour it into, drew the cork, when the gen
tleman quietly pulled out a sponge from
his pocket, and poured the liquor into it
then taking his sert, commenced leisurely
sucking it.
"You see," said he, nodding compla
cently to the astonished bar keeper, .1
ain't going contrary to the rule, for the
law says the stuff slum t be drunk on the
Thu bystanders came to the conclusion
that the stranger would make an appropri
ate Governor of Illinois, being decidedly
the greatest sucker of them all.
A l'ic-ruaa.—A tali ladder leaning
against a house—n negro at the top, and
a hog scratching himself against the bot
tom. .'G'way—g'way Liar ! You'm ma
kin' mischief."
as-Ignorance thinks no nne learned but
VOL. 20. NO: 20.
Hufeland, in his treatise on sleep, has
some curious as well as forcible ideas on
the necessity of devoting midnight to rest
and sleep. He considers that the period
of twenty-four hours, which is produced
by the regular revolution of the earth on
its axis, marks its influence most definite
ly on the physical economy of man.—
Diseases show this regular influence on
their daily rise and_ fall. Settled, regu
lar fevers exhibit a twenty-hours' flux and
reflux. In the heathful state, there is
manifest the same regular influence, and
the more habitual our meals our hours of
exercise or employment, and our hours of
sleep, the more power it there in the sys
tem to resist disease.
In the morning, the pulse is slower and
the nerves calmer, and the mind and the
body better fitted for every description of
labor. As we advance towards the eve•
ning of the day, the pulse becomes accel
erated, and an almost feverish state is pro
dused, vihich, in excitable people, be
comes an absolute evening fever. Rest
carries off this fever by sleep and the re
freshing opening of its pores which sleep
produces, In this mighty respiration,
there is an absolute crisis of the evening
fever, and this periodical crisis is necessa
ry to every one, for it carries off whatev
er useless or pernicious particles our bod
ies may have imbibed.
This evening fever, Hufeland thinks,
is not entirely owing to the accession of
new chyle to the system, but to departure
of the sun and of the light. The crisis
of this fever, to be most effective by its
regularity, ought to take place at mid
night, when the sun is in its nadir, and
then the body becomes refreshed for the
early morning labor. Those who neglect
this period, either push this diurnal crisis
into the morning, and thus undermine the
importance of its regularity, or lose it en
tirely, and arise to their labor"unrefreshed
by sleep. Their bodies will not have been
purified by the nightly crisis, and the
seeds of disease will have thus been plan
Nervous people are peculiarly subject to
the influence of this evening fever, and
think they cannot labor without its excite
ment. Hence their mental efforts are
performed in the night time ; the impor
tant time for the crisis of their nervous
excitement passes over in wakefulness, and
no refreshing perspiration cleanses the
body or strengthens the nerves. Such peo
ple will wear ont soon, unless they change
their habits, and seek rest when nature
and the human constitution dictate.
These considerations ought to be deep
ly studied and regarded by all who are in
the ruinous habit of turning night into day
and of changing the functions of each.—
A failure of health will soon manifest the
truth of these remarks.—Hartford Cour
Mark Your Bible!
Why mark my Bible T To my mind
there is a plain and affecting reason•—
Within a few days past, I have lost a
dearly-beloved daughter. After her death
I saw on her mantle three books, that at
once spoke the taste and character of her
mind, The Bible, Burkitt's Commentary
and The Mine Explored. In opening her
Bible, all the pages looked like a well•trod.
den path. Jer. vi, 10. They were so
numerously marked, rind so many of their
precious promises noted by the pencil,
that they seemed silently to repeat the
languague of the Psalmist, "Blessed is
the man whose strength is in thee, in
whose heart are the ways of them,, who
passing thr)ugh the valley of Baca, make
it a well ; the rain also filleth the pools.—
They go from strength to strength."
As the Samaritan woman said of the
well, "Our father Jacob drank thereof
himself," and as she felt that its waters
were sweeter and snore refreshing front
that hallowed association, so will we be led
to regard, with increased delight and val
ue, those precious promises thus noted by
deceased friends, front which, as from
springs along life's weary way, the trav
elers thin have gone to their rest, drew
those waters that renewed their strength
in their toilsome journey.
As We gaze with special delight on those
bright stars that bespangle the firmament
which were once the objects of admira
tion to friends no more on earth, so will we
admire and dwell with love upon those
sweet and precious promises, that were
the refulgent signatures of the Saviour's
love to departed friends.— Watchman
and Euangeiat.
Mir The following question is now be
fore the Sand Lake Debating Society :
"Which is a bad man least fitted for—to
live or to die ?" We shall 159 , 1 P the ver
dict in an extra.