t linntingDnit naniaL
BY WM. BREWSTER.
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*fiat loc4.
From the Louisville Journal.
HOURS OF SADNESS,
I'm very cad and lon, to-night--
My soul with bruoding fancy teems,
And hopes and joys that once were bright,
Seem but the whispering of dreams,
Sad echoes o'er nay heart strings play--
Their trembling tours its chords awake,
AO I must breathe the saddened lay,
Or else this burdened heart will break.
Soft stars float up the crystal air,
The moonbeams tread the silent sea,
That aeons like music slumbering there,
A sweet unbroken melody.
The chanting wares are laid asleep,
All fringed with merry twinkling beams,
As if the stars that gent the deep,
Were laughing sweetly in their dreams.
Around the columns of the night
The sit,. winds their light arms wreathe,
And warhle tones as faint and light
As sighs that parting lovers breathe
SO clear and soft they swell and die
Along the dewy brow of even,
They seem lilto ands wandering bfg;
And tnurtn'ringsoags they heard in heads.
There floats a cloud with silver tips
Act gently by the smith wind kissed,
It breal, upon the fragrant lips
A sho.,y of brightly shivered mist ;
Pale midnight. twines her dusky brow
With floating wreaths of summer air,
And here and there a startling glow
Of radictice gleaming in her hair.
But not the beauty of the hour,
Nor rippling sound of waters sweet,
Nor young ietives trembling in the bower
Am' whispering as their edges meet--
Not these eau bring the sweet repose,
The joyous light of former days,
Nor still the wild and restless throes
. Xhist make one murmur sadden'd lays.
No more from me gay songs are heard—
My harp•strings have been jarred too long
For grief has tinged each joyous word
And sadly marred the source of song,
Then chide not l'or this mournful strain,
'Tis but the weary weight of grief,
Which long upon my soul has lain,
A ud sighs and tears bring no relief. .
The bloom has vanished from my life ;
Bird.like I gaze on yen blue shy,
And long to leave thin care and strife,
And feel 'twill he so sweet to die,
Far life in but Lweary nay—
A sad and aeltry way at beet—
Talk to my heart, oh Night, sad say.
Will the grave only give me rest
THE THISTLEDOWN.
LiggbUy soars the thistledown ;
Lightly doth it float ;
Lightly seeds of care are sown.
Little du we note.
Lightly floats the thistledown ;
tar and wide it flies,
Hy the faintest zephyr blown
Through the shining skies.
Watch lith's thistles bud aiz blow—
Oh l 'tin pleasant folly
But when all our paths they sow,
Then einnss
" I SEE NO STAR ABOVE THE HORIZON, PROMISING LIGHT TO GUIDE US, BUT THE INTELLIGENT, PATRIOTIC, UNITED WHIG PARTY OP THE UNITED STATES."-[WEBSTER.
*riert cafe.
PETER FRANCISCO,
THE SAMSON OF THE WESTERN
HEMISPHERE.
As late as the year 1836, there lived in
Western Virginia, a man whose strength
was so remarkable, as to win him the title
of the "Western Samson." He knew
nothing of his birth or parentage, but sup
posed he was born in Portugal, from
whence he was stolen when a child and
carried to Ireland. his earliest recollec
tions were those of boyhood in the latter
country. While yet a lad, he apprenticed
himself to n sea captain, for seven years,
in pay for a passage to this country. On
his arrival, his time and services were sold
to a Mr. Winston of Virginia, in whose
service he remained until the breaking out
of the Revolution. Being of an adven
turous turn of mind, he sought and obtain
ed the will of his master to join the army,
and was engaged in active service during
the whole contest. Such was his strength
and personal bravery, that no enemy could
resist him. Ile wielded a sword, the blade
of which was five feet in length, as though
it had been a feather, and every ono who
came in contact with hint paid the forfeit
of his life. At Stony Point, he was one
of the 'forlorn hope" which was adroit.
ced to cut away the abatis, and next to Ma
jor Gibbm, was the first man to enter the
works. At Brandywine and Monmouth,
he exhibited the most fearless bravery, and
nothing but his inability to write, preven
ted his promotion to a commission. Trans
ferred to the South, he took part in most
of the engagements in that section, and to
wards the close of the war, he was enga
ged in a contest which exhibited in a atri•
king manner, his self•confideuze anti cour
age.
St 25
1 50
2 50
One day while reconnoitering , lie stop
ped at the house of a man by the name of
W— to refresh himself. Whilst at the
table he was surprised by nine British
troopers, who rode up to the house and
told him he was their prisoner. Seeing
that he was so greatly outnumbered, he
pretended to surrender, and the dragoons
seeing he was apparently very peacefully
inclined, aftcr disarming him, allowed him
considerable freedom, while they sat down
to partake of the food which he had left
when disturbed. Wandering out into the
door yard he was accosted by the Paymas
ter, who demanded of him everything of
value about him at the risk of his life, in
case of refusal. "I have nothing to give,"
said Francisco "so use your pleasure."—
Give up those massive silver bucklets in
your shoes," said the dragoon. "They
were the gift of a friend," replied Francis
co "and give them to you I never shall,
take them if you will, you have the pow
er, but I never will give them to any one."
Putting his sabre under his arm, the
soldier stooped down to take th..a. Fran
cisco seeing the opportunity, which was
tco good to ho lost, seized the sword, and
drawing it with force from under the arm
of the soldier, dealt him a severe blow
across the skull
_Although severely
wounded, yet being a brave man, the dra
goon drew a pistol and aimed it at his an
tagonist, who was too quick for him, how
ever, and as ho pulled the trigger, u blow
from the sword nearly severed his wrist ,
and placed him hors de combat. 'The re
port of the pistol drew the other dragoons
into the yard, as well as W., who very
ungenerously brought out a musket which
he handed to one of the soldiers, and told
him to make use of it. Mounting the on,
ly horse they could get at, he presented
the muzzle at the breast of Francisco, and
pulled the trigger. wortunately it missed
fire, and Francisco closed in upon him.—
A short struggle ensued, which ended in
the disarming and wountlingihe soldier.
Tarleton's troop of four hundred men were
now in sight, and the other dragoons were
about to attack him. Seeing his case was
desperate, he turned towards an adjoining
thicket, and as it cheering on a party of
men, lie cried out, "Come on, my brave
boys, non's your time ; we will soon des
patch these few, and attack the Mill body!"
at the same time rushing at the dragoons
with the fury of an enraged tiger.
They did sot wait to engage him, but
fled precipitately to the troop, panic struck
and dismayed. Seizing upon the traitor
ous villian W—, Francisco was about
to despatch him, but he begged and plead
so hard for his life, that he forgave him,
and told him to secrete for him the eight
horses which the soldiers had left behind
them. Perceiving Tarleton had dispatch
ed awe dragoons in search of him, he made
off into the adjoining wood, and while they
stopped at the house. he like an old fox,
HUNTINGDON, PA., WEDNESDAY, JUNE 6, 1855.
doubled upon their rear, and successfully
evaded their vigilance. The next day he
went to W- for his horses, who de
' mantled two of them for his services and
generous intentions. Finding his situa
tion dangerous and surrounded by ene
mies, where he should have found friends,
Francisco was compelled to make the best
of it, and left with six horses, intending to
revenge hiinself upon W- at a future
time ; "but," as he said, "Providence or
dained that I should not be his execution
er, for he broke his neck by a fall from
one of the very homes."
Many other anecdotes are told of Fran
cisco, illustrative of his immense strength
and personal prowess. At Camden, where
Gates was defeated, he retreated, and af
ter running along a road some distance, he
sat down to rest himself. He was sudden
ly accosted by a British dragoon, who pre
sentild a pistol and demanded his immedi
ate surrender. His gun being empty, he
feigned submission, and said he would sur
render, at the same time remarking that
his gun was of no further usf to him, he
presented it sideways to the trooper, who
in reaching for it threw himself off his
guard, when Francisco, quick as thought,
run him through with the bayonet, and as
he fell fro - rn his horse, he mounted hint and
continued his retreat. Overtaking his
commanding officer, Colonel Mayo, of
Powhattan, he gave him up the animal,
for which act of generosity the colonel af
terwards presented him with a thousand
acres of land in Kentucky.
The following anecdote exemplifying
his peaceful nature and his strength, is al
so told of Francisco. How true it is, we
cannot say, but we tell it as it was told to I
us, many years ago, while he was still
living in Buckingham county, Virginia.
One day while working in his garden
he was accosted by a stranger, who rode
up to the fence and inquired of him if he
knew "where a man by the name of Fran
cisco lived ?"
Raising himself from his work, and eye
ing his interrogator, who appeared to be
one of the "halttiorse hulf-alligator" breed
of Kentuckians, he replied, "Well, strun.
ger, I don't know of any person by that
mune in these parts, but myself."
"Well, I recon you ain't the man I want.
I want to find the great fighting man I've
heard tell so much about. The fellow
they say can whip all creation and Kam
tuck to boot."
"I can't tell you; stranger, where you'll
find that man, I don't know such a man,"
said Francisco, resuming his work as a
hint to the other that the conference was
ended. But the Kentuckian was not to
be bluffed off as he would' term it. "Look
'ere stranger," said he, turning to the
charge, "what might your given name
be ?" "My name is Peter Francisco, at
your service."
!" returned the other, "you're just
the man I want to find," at the same time
riding inside the fence, he dismounted and
tied his animal—a rough, ungainly Indian
pony, to one of the posts.
"My name is Big Bill Stokes, all the
way from_ Old Kentuck. I can out run,
out hop, out jump, knock down, dreg out
and whip any man in all them diggings.—
So, as I heart tell of a fellow down here
abouts who could whip all creation, I
thought I'd saddle old Blossom and just
ride over and see what stuff he's made of,
and here I am. And now, stranger, Pm
most starved for a fight, and I'm bound to
see who's the best man, before I go home.
It's all in good feeling; you know, and if
you lick me, why I'm satisfiad, but—"
"Stop a minute, stranger," said Fran
cisco, "you've mistaken the man entirely;
I'm no fighting man at all, and if I was,
I've nothing against you to fight about."
"Well I don't know; is there any other
Peter Francisco in these parts ?"
"No, not that I know of."
'Well, then, you're the man, and you
must fight. I've come all the way from
Old Ktntuck, and I ain't a going back
without knowing which is the bent man."
•"13ut I won't fight. I've got nothing to
fight about, arid I tell you I won't fight."
"Darn'd if you shan't fight, stranger—
I'm bound to lick you if I can; if I don't,
you must lick me."
By this time Francisco had become an
gry at the importunity of his visitor, and
determined to put an end to the scene.—
Seizing his antagonist therefore by the
seat of his buckskin breeches, and the col
lar of his hunting shirt, he threw him over
the fence into the road ; then walking lei
surely to where his pony was tied, he un
fastened him, and taking him up by main
strength, threw him after his discomfitted
rider.
The Kentuckian raised himself from the
ground perfectly dumb founded by ouch
an exhibition of strength, and after tub.
bing his eyes as though he thought he
might not have seen dearly, he mounted
his pony, remarking "Well, stranger, I
reckon you'll do. I reckon it's about time
for me to make tracks. If anybody asks
you about the great fight, you can tell'm
You licked Bill Stokes most confounded.
Francisco was a powerfully built man,
standing six feet and one inch in height,
and weighing 200 pounds. His muscular
system was extraordinary developed, and
he had been known to shoulder with ease,
a cannon weighingeleven hundred pounds,
and a gentleman of undoubted veracity,
still living in Virginia, who knew him well
says, "he could take me in his right hand
and pass over the rosins with me, playing
my head against the ceiling as though I
had been a doll baby. My weight was
195 pounds." His wife, who was a wo.
man of good size, and filir proportions, he
would take in his right hand, and holding
her out at arm's length; would pass around
the room , vith her, and carry her up and
down stairs in that position. He would
take a barrel of cider by the chimes and
holding it to his mouth, would drink from
the bung, a long and hearty draught with
out any apparent exertion.
Yet, with all his strength, he was a very
peacefully disposed man, and never made
use of his power, except in case of neces
sity about his usual vocation, or in defence
of the right. On occasion of out breaks
at public gatherings, he was better at rush
ing in and preserving peace than all the
conservative authorities on the ground.—
Although uneducated, he was a man of
strong natural sense, and of a kind, amia
ble disposition. He was withal a compan
ionable man, and his anecdotes and stories
of war, of which he possessed a rich fund,
rendered him a welcome guest in the first
families of the State. His industrious and
temperate habits together with his kind
disposition, made him many friends, and
through their influence he was appointed
Sergeant•at•arras of the Virginia [louse of
Delegates, in which service he died in
1836 and was buried te,ith military honors
in the public burying ground at Richmond.
giiiccilantous.
IN A TIGHT PLACE.
We find the following in one of our ex
change papers it will be read with inter_
est, though we cannot vouch for the truth
of it:
Lord H—, an English nobleman,
ruined by the extravagance of London fash
ions, had counted on a handsome inheri
tance to pay off his debts and enable hint
to pass the remainder of his day in wis
dom and in quiet. But the expected in
heritance came not—and the young lord
rendered desperate by his disappointment,
and finding himself doomed to the most
precarious condition, deprived of all hope
and fortune, resolved to get rid of his life
full of misery, by blowing out his brains.
The loaded pistol was in his hand,
when most unaccountably, Lord H—
suddenly remembered that the Epsom Ra•
ces were soon to come off. Too supersti
tious to believe that chance had inspired
him with such a thought in such a mo
ment, without a illative., he dropt his pis
tol and began calculating his chances of
regaining his fortune in the approaching
contest. His critical situation was not
known, his credit in the sporting clubs
was unlimited, and he avaited himself of
it by unscrupulously engaging in very
heavy bets with some of the amateur
sportsmen. If fortune favored Lim, all
would go well, but if he lost, he could then
execute his project and make use of his
pistol. It was a last resort ; but Lord
ll—, in his peculiar way of thinking,
thought his faults would be affected by the
expedition, and that the fashionable world
would pardon his weakness and errors if
he should compensate them by a voluntary
death.
He, therefore, deposited the pistol in its
case and went to the club to engag. the
heaviest bets on three or four of the hor
ses most reliable in his opinion. It was
far more than fortune, it was his life which
these rapid courses tvere•to boar.
Tin, sum totol of his bets amounted to
50,000 pounds sterling. He presented
himself with a calm and stern face on the
race course. Not a cloud obscured the se
renity of his features. No oue in behold
ing him, could have suspected the serious
position in which he was placed. He ap
peared like a wealthy gentleman, who on
ly risked a portion of his surplus, and
could easily drown any loss in a glass of
champagne. Ills courage was rewarded.
His winnings allowed him to live
He had won more than money—for wis
dom came to hint out of his dreadful strug•
gle. A short time afterward he married a
fortune, and he became scrupulous as to
his winnings at Epsom. He thought his
money wrongfully got.. Assembling all
who had been his adversaries in betting on
the races, he said to them : "I have only
just discovered by an examination of my
accounts, that the state of my affairs did'
not permit me to back the bets we once
made together. If fortune had been unfa
vorable, I should not have been in a situa
tion to pay my losses. These bets are
then, in fact, null, and delicacy obliges me
to return to you the money."
Some hesitated to accept it ; but Lord
H-insisted so resolutely that they
were compelled to yield, and fifty thou
sand pounds were rightfully distributed.
This magnanimous conduct produced a
lively sensation, and honors the annals of
British sport. Lord H--, lately de
ceased, has left an illustrious name, a re
vered memory, and an example which gen
'Jensen riders will always cite with admi
ration.
Rose Tree.
We must begin to doubt the truth of the
oft-quoted lines from Shalcspeare :
-that which we call a rose,
By udy other name would smell as sweet;
for in a lecture upon the trees of America,
Pref. AOASSIZ states a remarkable fact in
regard to the family of the rose, which in
cludes among its varietes not only many
of most beautiful roses which are
known, but also the richest fruits, such as
the apple, pear, peach, plum, apricot,
cherry, strawberry, raspberry, blackberry,
&c., namely, that no fossils of plants be
longing to this family have ever been dis
covered by geologists. This he regarded
as conclusive evidence that the introduc
ti-n of this family of plants upon the earth
was coeval with or subsequent to the cre
ation of man, to whose comfort and happi
ness they seem especially intended by
Providence to contribute.
Hard of Hearing.
"I hive a small bill against you," said a
pertinacious lookin; collector, as he enter
ed the store of one who had acquired the
character of a hard customer.
"Yes, sir, a very fine day, indeed," was
the reply,
"I sin not speaking aisle weather, but
your bill," replied Peter, in a loudor key.
"It would be better if we had a little
rain."
"Curse the rain," continued the collec
tor ; and raising his voice, bawled, "have
you any money on your bill I
"Beg your pardon, sir, I rm hard of
hearing. I have made it a rule not to loan
any money to strangers—and don't recog•
nine you."
"I'm collector for the Philadelphian
Daily Extinguisher, sir, and have a bill
against you," persisted, the collector, St
the top of his voice, producing the bill and
thrusting it into the face of the debtor.
"I've determined to endorse for no one,
so put your not in your pocketbook ; I re
ally cannot endorse it !"
"Confound your endorsements I will
you pay it !"
"You'll pay it. no doubt, sir ; but there
is always some risk about the matters, you
know, so I must decline it, sir."
Pretty Good.
The following incident occurred un
the day the San Francisco banks suspen
ded.
A poor Dutchman who had a couple of
hundred dollars in Page, Bacon & Co's
drew it out and after carrying it about an
hour or two, thinking Adams & Cu. would
be perfectly safe, deposited it there ; hap
pening to hear some doubts expressed
about un hour later, ho became alarmed
and drew it out again ; took it to Wright's
and opened air account with him ; he had
not got ten yards from the door before he
saw a man rushing in his office looking
wild. Poor Sourkrout thought the devil
must be to pay there too, and forthwith
drew a check for his two hundred.—
Ile continued to deposit and draw again at
nearly every banking house in town, when
getting tired out and thoroughly in despair.
sat down upon the curb stone, wiped the
perspiration from his face, and soliloquised
thus : , Mine Cot ! mine cot ! vere shall
I put mine tollars I Me put them in differ
ent punks ; so soon I put hint tere he pc
gin to preak—l gets him out, and he no
preak. I tink every man vos proko. I
take him home and sows him up in ter
petticoat of mine vrow, and .spose she
prake, I prake her head." Struck with
the idea, he rushed for home, and proba
bly has rejoiced over his plan, which more
might have followed and been better off.
It ~ There is a calm for ever: ten(' ;
a joy to weary !piths aiven.
[From the London Punch.]
LAST HOURS OF A SINGLE GENTLE
MAN.
This moraing, November 11th, at half
past eleven precisely, an unfortunate young
man, Mr. Edward Pinckney, underwent
the extreme penalty of infatuation, by ex
patiating his attachment to Mary Ann
Gale, in front of the altar railings of St.
Mary's Church, Islington.
It will be in the recollection of all those
friends of the party who were at Jones' at
Brixton, two years ago that Mr. Pinckney
was there, and then first introduced to
Miss Gale, to whom he instantly began to
direct particular attention—dancing with
her no less than six sets that evening, and
handing her things at supper in the most
devoted manner. From that period com
menced the intimacy between them which
terminated in this morning's catastrophe.
Poor Pinckney had barely attained his
twenty-eighth year ; but there is no belief
but for the reasons of a pecuniary nature,
his single life would have come to an un
timely end. A change for the better,
however, having occurred in his circum
stances, the young lady's•friends were in
duced to sanction his addresses, and thus
became accessories to the course for which
he has just suffered.
The unhappy young man passed the
last night of his bachelor existence in his
solitary chamber. From half past eight
to ten he was engaged in writing letters.
Shortly after, his younger brother Henry
kn acked at the door, when the doomed
yodth told him to come in, On being as
ked when he meant to go to bed, he re
plied "Not yet." The question was then
put to him, how he thought ho would
sleep ? 'co which he answered, don't
know." He then expressed his desire for
a cigar and a glass of grog. His brother,
who partook of the like refreshments, now
demanded if he would have anything more
that night. He said "Nothing," in a firm
voice. His affectionate brother then rose
to take his leave, when the devoted one
considerately advised him to take care of
himself.
Precisely at a quarter °fa minute to
seven the neat morning the victim of Cupid
having been called according to his desire,
he arose and promptly dressed himself...-
He had the self•control to shave himself,
without the slightest injury, fur not even
a scratch appeared on his chin after the
operation. It would seem he devoted a
longer time than usual at his toilet.
The wretched man was attired in a light
blue dress coat, with frosted buttons, a
white vest and nankeen trowsers, with
patent boots. He wore around his neck a
variegated satin scarf, which partly concea
led the Corrazzo of the bosom. In front
of the scarf was inserted a breastpin of
conspicuous dimensions.
Having descended the staircase with a
quick step, he entered the apartment where
his brother and sister and a few friends,
.awaited him. He then shook hands cor
dially with all present, and on being ask
ed how he slept, answered; "Very well !"
And to the further demand as to the state
of his mind, he said that he "felt happy."
One of the party hereupon suggested that
it would be as well to take something be•
fore the melancholy ceremony was gone
through ; he exclaimed with some empha
sis, "Decidedly." Breakfast was accor
dingly served, when he ate a French roll,
a large round toast, two sausages, and
drank three great breakfast cups of tea.--
In reply to nn expression of astonishment
on the part of a person present, he decla
red that he had never felt happier in his
life.
Having inquired the time, and ascertai
ned that it was tun minutes of eleven, he
remarked that it would soon be over. His
brother inquired if he could do anything
for him, when he said he would like a glass
of ale- Having drank this he appeared
satisfied.
The fatal moment now approaching, he
devoted the remaining portion of his time
to distribute those little articles he would
no longer want. To one he gave his ci
gar case, to another his tobacco stopper,
and charged his brother Henry with his
latch key, with instructions to deliver it,
after all was over, with due solemnity to
the landlady. The clock at length struck
eleven, and at the same moment he was in•
formed that a cab was at the door. He
merely. said, .‘I sin ready," amid, Mowed
himself to be conducted to tho vehicle, in•
to which he got with his brother, his oth
er friend following en in others
Arriving at the tragical spot, a short but
anxious delay of some moments took place
after which they were joined by the lady
with her friends. Little was said on either
side ; but Miss Gale, with customary des
cortim, shed tears. Pinckney endeavored
to prinerre decorum, hut s slight I itch•
VOL. 20. NO.. 23.
ing in his mouthand eyebrows proclaimed
his in ward agitation.
All necessary preliminaries having now
been settled, and the prescribed necessary
formalities gone through, the usual clues,
►ion was put--- ,, Wilt thou have this woman
to be thy wife ?" "I will."
He then put the ring on Miss Gale's fin-
ger, and the hymeneal noose was adjusted
and the poor fellow was launched into—
matrimony !
DON'T DEPEND ON FATHER.
Stand up here, young man, and let us
talk to you—you have trusted alone to the
contents of "father's pries" or his fair
fame for your influence, or success in busi
ness. Think you that "father" haasttain
ed to eminence in his profession, but by
unwearied industry ? or that he has amas
sed a fortune honestly, without energy and
activity? You should know that the fac
ulty requisite for the acquiring of fame or
fortune, is essential to, nay, inseparable
from the retaining of either of these !*---
Suppose "father" has the '•rocks" in abun
dance ; if you never earned anything for
him, you have no more business with
those "rocks" than a gosling has with a
tortoise ! and if he allows you to meddle
with them till you have learned their eel.
ue by your own industry, he perpetuates
untold mischief. And if the old gentle
man is lavish of his cash towards you.
while he allows you to idle away your
time, you'd better leave him, yes, run
away, sooner than be made an imbecile or
something worse, through so corrupting
an influence. Sooner or later you must
learn to rely on your own resources, or you
will not be anybody. If you have never
helped yourself at all, if you have become
idle, if you have eaten father's bread and
butter, and smoked father's cigars, cut a
swell in father's buggy, and tried to put on
father's influence and reputation, you
might far better have been a poor canal
boy, the son of a chimney-sweep, or a boot
black—and indeed we would wish you
the situation of a poor, half starved, moth
erless calf. Miserable objects you are.
that depend entirely on your parents, play
ing gentlemen, (dandy loafers.) What in
the name of common sense are you think
ing of ? Wake up here ! Go to work ei
ther with your hands or your brains, or
both, and bo something ! Don't merely
have it to boast of that you have grown in
'father's house'—that you hove vegetated
as others ! but let the folks know that you
count one ! Come, off with your coat,
clinch the saw, the plow handles, the
axe, the pick-axe, the spade—anything
that will enable you to stir your blood
Fly around and tear your jacket, rather
than be the passive recipient of the old
gentleman's bounty ! Sooner than play
the dandy at dad's expense, hire yourself
out to some owner of a potato patch, let
yourself to stop hog holes of watch the bars
and when you think yourself entitled to a
resting spell, do it on your own hook.—
If you have no other mean, of having fun
of your own, buy with your earnings an
empty barrel, and put your head into it
and holler, or get into it and roll down hill
don't, for pity's sake. make the old gentle-
man furnish everything, and you live as
your ease.
Look about you, you well-dressed,
smooth-faced, do-nothing drones ! Who
are they that have worth and influence in
society ? Are they those that depend
alone on the old gentleman's purse ?or
those that have climbed their way to their
position by their own industry and ener
gy ? True, the old gentleman's funds, or
personal influence, may secure you the
forms of respect, but let him lose his pro
perty, or die and what are you A mis
erable iledgling--a bunch of flesh and
bones that needs to be taken care of !
Again we say, wake up—get up in the
morning—turn round at least twice before
breakfast—help the old man—give him
now and then a generous lift in business
—learn how to take the lead, and not de.
pend forever on being led ; and you have
no idea how the discipline will benefit you.
Do this, and our word for it, you will
seem to breathe a new atmosphere, pos.
sets n new frame, tread a new earth, wake
to a now destiny—and you may then be
gin to aspire to inan:inod. Take off, then
that riu from your lily finger, break your
cane, shave your upper lip, wipe your
nose, hold up your head, and, by all means
sev ! ., rtgain eat the bread of idleness, Nos
DEPEND ox FATHER !
filaw The Wyoming ~ Mirror" relates
n good joke of an old collector, who was
proverbial for his politeness as well as per
tenancity. He was always in the habit of
taking a delinquent aside whoa he dun
ned him. One day he met a non•payer,
upon a very unfrequented road, some half
mile from any human being. What does
the the old chap do but leave his buggy,
call the other aside, and in a fence corner
politely asked him for that little bill,