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WILLIAM BREWSTER, EDITORS.
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•1 L, the "Journal."
LINES,
Dedicated to a once dear Friend, now far awag.
FAREWELL 1 and if we meet no more,
Why, thou wilt soon forget,
Amid the blaze of brighter scenes,
That we have ever met.
I will not.ask remembrance,
Where memory is pain ;
'Tin better to forget niece we
May uover meet again.
Go ! tune thy lute to foreign songs,
And smile for Barker eyes ;
My pride shall teach me to control
The weakness, and despise.
'Tin well, since we may meet no morn,
If too CANST thus forget ;
Alas I but it were better tar
That we had never met.
Beechen Glen.
For the "Journal."
A HINT TO THE FARMERS.
The season is hard, and things are so scarce .
That every poor follow muse empty his purse,
To buy him some wheat, some corn and rye,
For fear that his wife or children should die.
The farmer will meet you, say 'how do you do,'
But in his great ha.,e, must his journey pursue,
Though you should call and ask the some grain,
lie has no time to spare, he'll see you again.
You ask him to sell you just what ho can spare,
For all it will raise ho never would care :
'My grain is not threshed, and I cannot sell,
For fear it should raise, and so fare yu well.'
:4 , 1 thee!, are the men who mako such a show,
\\ hen off in their carriage to church they go ;
To see them on Sabbath, 80 eager for prayet•,
In their thoughts you'd think this world had no
sham.
strange they don't seo in the Bibhi they
• ''
That charity here is one thing we need :
And blessed are they that renumber the poor,
For enough in this world they ba,ie MANN se-
Though somo of them pray, that the poor may
bo fed, •
And by tho kind hand of Providence led,
Yet still they wont give them a bushel of grain
For ono copper less, howe'er they complain.
Fannettsburg. Lone Star.
Qtlprining *lictelb
From ilia Chicago Journal.
VIE% 71[111Migo
"If the World should find the Old Village r --
and what then?".
How pleasant it is through the broad
breadths of time and space that intervene,
to contemplate the Old Village and every
thing in it. It is like reading a stanza of
sweet old poetry, or hearing a bar of some
sweet tune ;it strangely mingles sadness
and gladness ; it is like the music of Caryl
..pleasant but mournful to the soul."
I SEE NO STAR ABOVE . THE HORIZON, PROMISING LIGHT TO GUIDE US, BUT TILE INTELLIGENT, PATRIOTIC, UNITRD WHIG PARTY OP THE UNITED STATES."•
! To us who have beets so long amid the
jar and whirl of the world, long, we think
but not so very long, only it seems so, it
looks like a place to take one's breath in ; ,
where we can retire from the battle, and
throw off the armor, and fling ourselves
down under a spreading beach, and put
back the bushes around us just as we found
them, and nobody to part them again, with
an interrogation in his eyes or an volume-
tion upon his hps.
It seems to us, that Old Village, like a
nest hidden away in the woods whero this
curious world cannot find it, though wo
fear every day that it will. Like some
timid game, it is yet under cover, while
the Nimrod of the Age is beating about on
the borders of the forest, and starting the
echoes with a shout. It hears the panting
of a steamer up its neighboring river; it
hears the shriek of a railway train some
where to the south of it, but it lies still'
still under the sun and under the snow,
under the moon and under the rain. But
we fear, greatly fear, i t will be found out
yet. Why can it not pull some of the full
leaved boughs over itself, and hold its
breath for awhile, till the World gots done
looking, and thunders along by 1'
But we are especially afraid of a party of
Engineers, that are plunging and cutting
their way through the woods toward it.--
May be they do not know the old village
is there, and are only blazing their way
to some other destination, We hope so,
for their sake as well as the Villages, but
if they do, then the best we can propose,
is to go a round about way to meet them
and tell t hem that the Old Village is of no
account to anybody that does not live in
it ; that, in feet, there is nobody there hard
ly, only a very few, and as old-fashioned
as they are few ; indeed, that there is no
• thing about it except that a few people
were born there once, a good while ago,
but not so long as to have forgotten it;
that they d t not care to have the old era•
dles and tee old trees rived to feed hungry
engines that are never satisfied ; that they
feel a foolish old veneration for the dead
and the place where they lie, and are sure
there is a nearer route to the somewhere
they are seeking. than directly through
the grave-yard ; that there are old paths
I they used to walk in that they are very
dear to them though they would be utterly
valueless for railways; that the village
Green has never been any smaller since it
was carved out to the woods, and they do
not want a depot in it; that the Old
Badge over the creek, since they drew the
new logs on, to hold , down the plank, is
good enough, and nobody wants a new one;
that they are a whole day's drive from the
World and the World is as near a neighbor
as they would have it ; that they do not
care so touch about the steamer on the ri
ver, because it never rounds to at the land
ing, and they are perfectly willing anybo •
dy should put on another, provided it nev
er stops here ; it may ring a bell if it will, as
it runs by, but they would rather not, 4 0!ir
what would the deer upon the river shores
do if they did T
But what if the railway should come af
ter all, and they should clamp down our
Old Garden with a brace of iron bars, and
a noisy train should come shrieking into
that quiet valley, and tumble its upon the
startled village its first instalment of the
great world? What shall we do with our
, old memories, when they tear down the
, low garrets, and build Gothic ; when they
pull away the old signs, that we learned to
spell out, letter by letter, the dim, gray
signs•-•dim and gray as long ago as we
can remember, and substitute in their
places new ones, very bravo with their
gilding, and very sad to look at with the
new names they bear? What shall we
do with the old memories when they
, dissect the old Meadow with streets, and
build a brick block whore the strawberries
grew largest and sweetest ? Where shall
• we go when they cut down the old fismili
ar trees we slept under, and snake 'sleep•
ere of them!"
$1 23
150
2 50
A half a dozen trains or so, and there
will be an omnibus thundering up and
down our quiet streets, with rampant lions
painted on the pannels ; perhaps two, one
for each hotel, for everything is a 'house'
or a 'hotel' whore there is a Railroad; a nd
the two full of eyes and questions, that
will be strolling all about the Village, look
ing over our garden fence, peeping into our
Open doors, leaning upon our gate and cat
echizing our children.
They will inevitably ruin tlto old school
house with its uew belfry and bell ; and
the old Bible was whole in the meet
inghouse that turned to a chuch, at the
whistle of the coining traio, and pray,
what better is the new, for its gilt edging
and binding ? The girls are young ladies,
linsey-woolsey is silk, and the bonnets are
butterflies every one. Once we all went
HUNTINGDON, PA., WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 8, 1855.
'to bed,' but now we 'retire,' 'good night'
is good evening,' au revoir or adieu.—
Bare hands are Lisle thread, and plain
miss are new kids; when young people
marry, they are only 'at home; when old
people die, they are said to 'decease.'
Then, no neighbor will come in the mor
ning, and bring her knitting, and stay all
day, and the children have something
"good" both at dinner and tea; and no
neighbor will come, unless first invited.----
There will be no just running in,' with
sun-bonnet and sewing; no coming across
lots and through bars, 'to sit a while, and
praise the baby and look at the poultry ;
for there'll be no "cross lots" to come over
and no bars to let down, and no baby in
sight, but they'll sit in the parlor, newly
dusted and grand.
The pulpit will be a "desk," and they'll
velvet it, the purchaser a "clergyman," the
Elder a "Reverend," and the meeting a
"service.l. They will throw away old dea
con and get one that is new; a sleek look
ing, juvenile' deacon, with glossy black
hair. They will 101 l during prayer, raise
up when they sing, aad none will praise
God in a psalm but the choir. Very gay
will the gallery be with red curtains on
rings, from behind which will come whis
pers and song. Then where will St. Mar
tins be---St. Thomas and Mear ? Shall
we ever hear Denmark andporinth again?
Sweetly rose Dundee's wild warble in long
gone days ; Old Hundred, and Wells and
Peterboro', how grand they were, when
the breath of the great congregation went
up together, and the voices of marten and
maiden were blended.
But perhaps the Railway will not be
built, and the World will not find the vil
lage, and the forest will hide it a while lon
ger. Then may be, the church will stand
as it did--the plain old church, with no
square pews, nor cushion nor carpets, and
all the people will sing before the Lord as
of old. The minister, a minister still,
read for their instruction" every Sab
bath morning, and pray, for the lambs of
the flock and for them that are feeble and
old ; that God will have them all in his
good keeping, guide them in green pits
tarot and lead them besidd the still waters
and gather them all in the fold at the last.
flow much snow there used to be sprinted
about there in June----Time's snow on the
locks of the old. Thoy tell us there is
less of it now; that the children whose
feet swung clear of the floor, are the men
and the woman to day ; that the voice of
the 'Elder is stilled, and the prayers that he
uttered are ended. They have removed
the old square pulpit, as high as a house,
that succeeded the swallow's nest of a pre
decenor, against the wall; tho swallow's
nest of a pulpit, that hung there beneath
flowershaped bell, that Linnmus never
numbered nor named. We are sorry the
old square look-out between the heaven
and earth, is removed, for it was for years
among the mysteries of childhood : what
there might he in it----if ever an angel,
and where the minister went when we
could not see him.
Often have we stood at the foot of the
stairs that led up to the mystery, but only
once did we venture to ascend them.---:
Judge of our disappointment, that there
was nothing of gold there :---no glories
that we had read of in the Apocalypse, for
we fancied there were ;—there: was a
rough, bare floor, and uncushioned bench
ass old worn bible, ancient copy of Watt's
Psalmody, and a little pile of Sunday
School books in the Corner. And it was
thence from the midst of such a place those
words of eloquence had c ome, that charm
ed, and thrilled, and awed us then ; that
chants, and thrill and awe us in memory
yet. We ascended the little platform, and
standing upon tip toe, looked over the high
breast-work u,son tho empty pews. There
was something very grand about it, we
thought, that almost made us • breathless ;
and stealing down, we loft tbe.sacred place,
! --more sacred to us than any we have
seen since, the spot where the minister
wearied and slept.
The members of the old congregation
have gone up to loftier courts, and we shall
see them no more. The grandmothers in
sober black, that came tottering in with
their white handkerchiefs smoothly folded
and laid upon their arms; the fair browed
girls that sang the alto and the air ; the
children with the springs of carriway and
dill; the Deacon whose head blossomed
like an Almond tree hard by the pulpit
door ; the old woman that in winter time
'brought the tin foot-stoves for a solace ;
the little paper fans that waved, when days
were summer, like so many little wings
about the church, as if the old minister
had a family of cherubims for audience ;
the old Doxology they used to sing last in
the afternoon ; the trembling benediction
I like blessing of a patriarch, they received
tliese we shall never see again as they
were. No longer in Sabbath noons, do
they sit upon the grass beneath the old,
poplars, and talk in tones subdued, while
taking their frugal meal ; no longer among
old, gray grave stones of "the burying
ground," that is since a cemetry, and com
plete the stone willows that never put forth
a leaf, for the times have changed, and
there is but one sermon a day, and those
who brought their dinners of old, have sat
down, the most of them to the feast of the
lamb, where the tree of life, the true Allan
thus of Heaven, and no poplar, is bloom
ing forever.
The deaf who sat on the pulpit stairs in
those old times, can hear the waving of a
seraph's wing to-day, for 'the daughters of
music' have been lifted from the dust
wherein they were lying ; the old man
whose doubtful feet young eyes did guide,
lives now in morning light ; and old black
JONAH that stole softly in, and sat humbly
down in a pow beside the door, has been
made white at last and bidden to come up
higher.
We think it ought to be set down upon a
map somewhere, that the old church w as
very near the 'house not made with hands'
only the graveyard's breadth removed.--
We think it ought somewhere to be writ
ten 'the house they build ed of old, let it
remain forever.' Give to time the silver.
ing of the walls they have hallowed ; let
wind and the songs the dead singers began,
and the rains gently fall on its echoless
threshold.
iS C .11 uugus.
HOME MADE MEN.
Mr. Edward Bates, one of the most
eminent lawyers and wisest statesmen of
the west, thus wrote a few days since to
a committee of the Missouri Legislature
whn invited him to tecome a candidate
for the United States Senate
"illy habits are retirod nod loinestic, and
all my sources of happiness are at home."
Well indeed was it for him that it was
so, and well indeed for others ! Mark the
difference between the influence of the
home made character and that which is
made out of doors! history with its
coarse pen, dwells, it is true, almost exclu
sively on the latter class, but in that great
book in which the incidents of all real
life are written, how predominant will be
the former ! The example of gentle ten•
derness at the fire side,—of many and yet
delicate adherence to truth,—of severe
honesty in private business—when coup
led with such eminent success as thut of
Mr. Bates, tells on the community far
more effectually titan the dashing exploits
of the General, or the brilliant oratory of
the Senator. Viewed in a personal or a
public light, the history of the home
made man stands in strong relief. "I have
watched two races of 'politicians to the
grave,—said a late eminent judge, "and I
have seen nothing but vanity and wretch
edness." It is the fashion, it is true, to
sneer at the “slow" dullness of merely
home life. But it is by the lire-side that
practical genius—that genius which helps
itself while helping others—has its origin.
Watt was watching the pet boiling in the
chimney when the action of the steam on
the lid bro't gradually home to him the
great discovery which imortalized his name
And this, indeed, may be taken as an apt
Illustration of that wonderful influence
which radiates from the centre table—
where the children are gathered together
under the light of the astral lamp, and
which leads to these signal discoveries
by the young philosopher,—how self con
quest is the greatest of all conquests,—how
loving others is the best way of loving
self—and how the home made heart is the
only heart which, by being independent of
the world, makes the world both its ser
vant and its beneficiary.
And then while home becomes thus the
best representation of heaven on earth, i;
becomes the best preparation on earth for
heaven. The worldly man has no points
--we speak with reverence--at which di
vine grace can reach him. Take away the
object of his ambition, and he is soured ;
add to it, and he becomes intoxicated.—
Send him sickness and he only writhes
like the w^undsd snake. But the unseal
ing of the home heart by cutting off its
earthly objects of love, turns the fountain
of that love direct to heaven. The be
reaved soul looks its heavenly parent in the
lace all the more clearly because of his
chastisement. Sacred indeed then is the
hearth•fire whose presence gives happi.
!less on earth—and even where extinguish
ment serves to open the vision to the eter
nal glory of heaven !—Episcopal Recor
do%
A Clergyman Turned Soldier.
Some twenty years ago, a man, whom I
shall name "Jamie," was pastor of a large
congregation of the established Church of
Scotland. At school and at college he'
was distinguished for his love of learning,
and as a minister was unrivalled for his el
oquence and mental attainments. He had
been settled about a year, and was upon
the eve of being married to a fine young
woman, whom he had loved From childhood,
when the heritors and several English gen
tlemen, who were then on a visit to the
North, attended kirk to hear the famous
preacher. He more than verrified his
fame; he enraptured his audience. His
theme was the story of his church. Its
many years of diasterous wars, its mar
tyrs, its heroes, its undying hope, even
when despair seemed to shroud it in en.
dless night ; its unwearied toils and its fi
nal triumph were each in turn presented
to the minds of the hearers, with a power
and feeling that defy description. Ho
stood the genius of eloquence personified.
But there was one among his hearers who
was not bewildered by his glowing pic
tures. .
Tho gentle-hearted Bella, his betrothed
when the congregation disappeared, fol
lowed him to the manse. He received her
in his study, but while conducting her to
a chair, she sank upon the floor and burst
into tears. "0 Jamie ! Jamie!" she ex
claimed, as he raised her tenderly in his
arms, and seated her on a sofa, "ye have
broken my puir heart !" "How so, my
Bella ? explain ?" "Ye were drunk, ra
ving drunk, Jamie, and I wonder the el
ders did sae tak ye out o'the pulpit ! Ye
whined and ranted, and sometimes, God
forgic me for saying sae, I thought I saw
the Evil One standing beside you, laugh
ing and clapping you an the shoulder.—
My pair brain reeled—l was mad and
knew it—l am mad now—l canna live
out this day—l feel my blood freeze-0,
Clod, be merciful to me a sinner, and save,
0 save my Jamie !" Her head reclined
upon him a moment; and she expired in
his arms.
He had preached his last sermon. No
entreaties of a congregation who loved
him—no flattering offers of future prefer
ment, tendered by the gentry, could In.
duce him to resume his labors as a mitt-
Five or six years passed, when the
writer of this, who was his Fchoolfellow
accidentally met him in London. Jamie
was then one of the principal teachers in
the large educational establishment, and
was highly esteemed for the moral excel
lence of his character, as well as his va
ried learning and skill as a successful
teacher. Be was dressed in deep mourn
ing. shunned society, and when the lab
ors of the day closed, he either wandred
alone through the streets, or retired to his
lodgings. The scene of Bella's death
was ever present to his memory.
Her pure soul, he sold, saw him as he
was, a poor, vain, self-conceited sinner.—
For the purpose of concentrating his
thoughts and infusing lite into his ser
mons he was in the habit of taking a glass
of whiskey before entering the pulpit.—
Tho morning before he preached the fatal
sermon, ho felt rather nervous, for he
knew there would be strangers to hear
him, and he took nearly two glasses.—
What he said, or how he conducted him.
self, no effort of memory could recall—
the death of Bella alone had merged into
itself the doings of that dreadful day.—
The compliments which he received soun
ded in his ear like satire a mockery, and
the very name of liquor impressed him
with horror ?
He came home and came to London,
where ho obtained a situation as a teach
er ; but every thing appeared so black to
him that he expressed fear he should, in
sumo unguarded moment, destroy him
self.
His friend, who was a sailor, suggested
noise active employment, that would call
into play his physical faculties, and thus
give his mind a spell, and ended by offer ;
ing to procure him a place before the mast
in a ship. “I like your suggestion," he
said, ''but dislike the sea." ' , Then turn
soldier and seek employment in India,
where there is always plenty of fighting.
will," he said, springing from his chair
“when my engageinent expires I will pur
chase an Ensign's commission. I wonder
the thought never suggested itself to mg,
for toy ancestors, as far back as (can trace
them, were soldiers. Bettor, far, better,
die on the battle, than fall by one's own
hand !" We separated.
A few weeks since, in running illy eye
along the list 'of those who had distin
guished themselves at Inkerman I saw
the name of Lieut. Col,-. letter
'- [ W EBSTER.
from my friends has since informed me
that ho had served in India under Lord
Gouch, and was proamoted for his gallant
conduct in the campaigns. He was
present at the battles of Alma, Balaklava,
and Inkertnan, and at last accounts was in
good health, engaged in the siege of Se
vastopol. He was still single, his "heart
was dead to love !"—Bosion
JUST IN TIME.
A Tale of Early Illinois.
'Good evening, Me 11; well how do you
do 1'
'Tolerable, Jake, how's your mother
'She's well—how's yourn ?'
'Not very well, L'm sorry to say, for
now you see I have to tote all the water,
wash the dishes, and pale the cow. Oh !
it's too much for me. I won't stand it
muoh longer. I'll have a homo of my
own, and then I'll do as I please.'
'Jake, why don't you got married ?'
(Shaw ! I don't know, Mell ; reckon its
because I can get no one to splice with
'You've knowd better'n that ever since
you've been coming to see me. I wish I
had as good a chance as you've got.'
Though Jake was a backwoodsman, and
they have the reputation of withstanding
everything, this last remark from his fair
companion, brought a deep color to his
swarthy chocks.
'Law, what makes you turn so red,'
continued Mel!, pointing her finger at him
and laughing bewitchingly.
This only made Jack turn redder and
redder. lie seemed in the very last stage of
embarrassment : tried tostammer out some
thing, but could produce no sound that re
sembled a word in the English language.
At last, after he had cooled off a little, he
got his tongue and lips in working order
once more, and said—'Mell, f swory you're
too bad to 'case me of turnin' red ; I'm no
redder 'an you. Law ! did I tell you what
a great wolf limit I had yesterday ?'
, No,' she replied, with a sorrowful look,
which one might imagine was caused by
Jake's untimely change of the subject.—
No doubt but she thought she was fetching
him to a point ; and indeed it was time,
for lie had been courting her about two
years, and as yet had not got ready, been
willing or found coup ge to propose.—
Moll was willing, perhaps too wiling, and
her patience was becoming very much
wearied. She had tried to please him in
every way she could ; but it made no dif
ference ; and now as a last resort, she had
determined to bring Min to the point at all
hazards. Alter listening to a wonderful
day's adventure among wolves, to relate
which took Jake about' two hours, and
agreeing he hrd performed feats worthy of
nn Indian, site began
.Jake you've bin comic' to see the a
long time
'Yes,' said he.
'We know nne another well enough.'
'Yes,' he exclaimed, somewhat surpri•
sod.
'Then, any question you want to ax me,
I'll answer correctly.'
'Bat I've nothing to ax,' said Jake.
'What ! been comin' to see mo two years
and don't want to a me anything yet ?''
'Not as I know on.'
'Well, then, you needn't come again,'
said she, angrily, 'l'll marry Bill Fry if
ever Ito comes to see me again. I sacked
him for you—but it's the last time.'
Jake flew into a passion on hearing Bill
Fry's name mentioned—jumped up, kick-
ed the stool over, and broke home like a
racer.
Bill Fry soon heard the news, and after
putting on his new buck-skip auk !lumber
ed' for the 'neck of woods' whore Melt li
ved. Ile found her as bright as ever—
put in his claim, and was directed to as
dad and 'cam.' From some cause or oth
er the old folks were not willing, but Bill
and Moll were, so they fixed upon a plan
to marry anyhow. Bill went secretly to
Mr. Sterling, got a license, and that night
made off for Squire Brown's. On their
road to happiness, however, who should
they meet but Jake. He had got a hint
of what was going on, and mot them pur
pose ; knowing precisely how the case
lay.
.Mell,' said he, 'l've fooled you that's a
tact, and fin sorry for it; but if you still
like me better than Bill Fry, jist sny so,
and I'll be darned if I don't give him a
thunderiu' thrashire, take his license, and
old Brown shall marry us with them, right
away.'
The old love was too strong for the new,
and Melt told Jake 'to pitch in.' fhey
both pitched in, and such a fight as it was.
The brush broke, the dirt flew, the fists
sounded, and the skulls cracked in such a
way that hail ono been within a yard, he
;_~~
VOL. 20. NO. 32.
would have taken it for a herd of buffaloes
on a regular stampedo. After fighting all
over the hazel patch for about an hour,
Bill cried entail.'
'Give rue the license, then,' said Jake
'No, darned if I do,' was the reply, and
At it they went again. This time they
fought so long that Moll got uneasy lest
daylight should come before they got to
the Squire's, which she knew would put
au end to their marrying that day, as the
Squire would be out with his gun. How
ever,after fighting along the road near half
a mile, Bill again cried 'enuff.'
'Give me the license,' shouted Jake,—
'Na unless you'll pay me the dollar and
bit they cost me,' replied Bill.
'Nary dime,' said Jake, beginning to
pitch into him again.
Feeling rather tired of such sport, Bill
handed out the license. Juice thrust then►
into his shot pouch, and tuking Moll by the
arm said 'Come on, old gull—now for
Squire Brown's.'
They arrived at his honor's about three
o'clock in the morning, and Jake called
out :Hallow V'
, Hallow yourself,' said dm squire, who's
there ?'
'A couple on us what Want to marry,'
said Jalce.
'Come in then,' said the man dale peo
ple, who soon got all things ready for the
ceremony.
, 'What's your name ?' he asked.
Jake told hint both their names, and then
handed him the license.
'But these won't do, said Squire, after
spelling at them some time, they hav'nt
got your name on 'em—aint according to
law
-1 dunno' much about your law loins;
said. ake, 'but one thing I do know, I had
to thrash a feller like blazes to get them
'ere license, and now of you don't put us
thru' with 'em I'll thrash you a darn'd
sight wuss' •
This was enough for Squire Brown,
and without any more ado he pronounced
them man and wife; and sent them home,
the happiest pair in the territory of Illi
nois.
A Yankee Lighting his Pipe with Holy
The author of the "History and Myste
ry of Tobacco," which is published in Har
per's Magazine the present month relates
the following anecdote, which illustrates
some of the peculiar traits in the Yankee
character :
As one of the divisions of our army, un
der Scott, was proceeding on towards the
city of Mexico, filling the "national road"
for miles with a serpentine train, a number
of monks, residing in a monastery situated
on a neighboring eminence, in picturesque
procession descended to the road side,
chanting hymns, the leader bearing before
' hint a silver box, on the top of which was
a lamp burning before a cross, and an ap
erture to receive contributions from the
charitably disposed, as our soldiers passed
along. Many of "foreign birth" contribu
of their pay, and received a blessing from
the awaiting monks: Finally a tall Yar
kee belonging to one of the New England.
Regiments, upon whose clothes still rested
the fragrant perfume of the Aristook pine,
stopped before the contribution box, drop
ped his musket, and commenced searching
in his pockets. It is evident that he wonld
give something. Ilaving completed his
explorations, he unhitched a short stemmed,
tobncco pipe from the string that served as
a band to his slouched hat and filled the
bowl with the tobacco that had taken him
so long to find, quietly lighted it at the
holy fire. then, perfectly unconscious of
having committed an improper, much less
a sacri•religious deed, he wended his way
onward toward the fabled halls of Monteztt..
mas. The eyes of the old friars, wile wit
nessed the profanation, fairly rolled our of
sockets with surprise and horror, and they
felt an additional dread of the barbarous
North Amedeans, who were according to
their estimation, not only giants in strength
and eagles in courage, but als3 headlong
and heretics of the most formidable degree
and the most irreclaimable kind.
To 'rAKE SEVASTOPOL.-4. San Francis
co paper explains how the said.to-be thiev
ing city council of that city can be made
useful to the Allies :
S-says that a company has
been formed to take Sevastopol ; that they
offer to do it for a million of dollars, and
that the company will make nine hundred
and fifty thous and dollars by the transac
tion.
"How do you propose to take Sevnsto•
pol, Colonel ?"
"Why; sir," he replied, "pie intend to
giro the pity council fifty thousand dol•
lass, and they will steal it !"