*tat. * 'trim*Utast lAasmtv ET ROBERT wzierm I=LETOII.I ULLEI - g0,1&.310O 0 ~...--;;.,,,,,,,... _1 , 1 *-_,-.... ....... 'A. ,:. I . k• ''gr ' '•!..:' ~':•.``'. — 1: i , f::: 7 .... fr • -..2,4 ..„,„ ~. .._,-,,,i, , „::- ,,, 1, ,: ... :,..„ .„._.... "•_=:T5..... t .- 7 •0: • - • C r' f. .. ) l . -t-1 ,- •• . •••••-----., .• t, • ' • •' ''' •••''.'ciits ' "Nigh sweetest flowers enrich'il, From various gardens cull'd with care•" FOR TIIE GETTYSBURG!! STAR AND BANNER THE SLAVE MOTHER. SLEEP on, poor little careless tiling! Enjoy thy sweet unconscious rest; 'Tis the last night thou E'er may 'st. lie Upon thy mother's breast! Thou'rt sold away—and we must part— To-morrow I must see thee go ! Alas! this struggling, frantic heart— Mad with the sternest woe ! I lov'd thy father fervently, He was my Friend, tried, true, and kind; His was a tender, generous heart, A high and noble mind. The bloody priest of Moloch came, The noble, generous NI AN" WWI SON! Hearts broken ! spirits agonized ! Immortal changed for gold ! Oh, what an hour of agony Of ire, and horror, dread and wild ; And yet for thee I calm'd my 4 soul, Thou wert his much lov'd Fondly I hop'd to guide thy youth, To aid thy little awkward hands; And screen thee from the cruel task That goads our wretched hands. I hop'd to teach thee to revere The Lord, that came from Heaven to save— Who labor'd, wander'd, bled, and died, To ransom e'en the slave! And I had hop'd to see thee free! Ali, phantom hopes! so sweet, so wild, Which, springing from, a mother's heart, Cling round her infant child. 'Tis past—and I must hear thy cries As struggling thou art borne away ; Must see thy little.arms stretch'd out Imploringly to me ! 0, God! forgive a frantic slave My heart is mad ! my brain is wild! I feel a purpose stern, and dire, To kill this sleeping child— 'Twill be but one short pang, my boy! One moment's pain—and thou art free! Where neither task, or lash, or scorn, Can o'er be felt by thee. He wakes! he smiles! Oh, Jesus! God ! Forgive, support, and soothe, and save— Oh, be a parent to my boy ! Tho little ORPHAN EILA VE.— Oh, aid the blest and glorious band That nobly dare to plead our cause; I know their words are sweet to Thee As the blest turtle's voice ! Help them to raise their Banner high With Abolition in the field— &glorious day Star in the sky, Pure freedom's sword and shield ; 'Till Slavery's lords and advocates Shall hide from Freedom's scornful eyes Their spirits, darker than the skins Of their bound merchandize. Their god is gold ! they sacrifice Thy conscious Image at its shrine; And with the trembling mould of clay They crush the Breath divine! Yes! for they lock the immortal mind In ignorance's Cimmerian night ; Knowledge and Virtue, with Thy Word, Are hidden from our sight Our blood, and tears, cry from the ground ; Our ruin'd souls require their (loom Thine ears have heard! We must be free! Or vengeance's hour must conic. To Thee, Oh Gun, I yield my child! And day and night cry to Thee— "rill Abolition's cause prevail, And every slave be rues ! ThisAilessed hope is in my heart, My stay in this extreme distress; Thou wilt avenge the Widow's tears, Altd save the Fatherless! LYDIA JANE LIBERTY, PA., October 15, 1836. % . .t'a -.i31.-gI.P.DOLViT,OLT&G For the Gel! ysburgh Situ. 4 Republican Banner. Henry Stanley. • I•r was on one of those warm and sultry days in the month of August, in the year 1815, when the pernicious influence of the Dog-star is exerted to the great detriment of the weak, that I was travel ling leisurely and carelessly along through one of those fertile and beautiful valleys so peculiarly characteristic of the interior' of the Key-Stone State. In; ttenti% e, almost, to the direction my horse was pursuing, he nt lengthoinheeded by my self, turned instinctively to the right, when, upon awaking from the profound revery into which I had insensibly fallen, I discovered that he had for saken the main road, and wandered along a wind ing path which led to a beautifully meandering stream, whose gentle current glided softly through the valley. Its bunks were covered with towering and majestic trees, whose lofty and spreading branches alluded a salutary and delightful shelter from the scorching rays of an almost vertical sun. .) After my horse had allayed his thirst by drinking copiously from the pure stream, I permitted him to / graze among the fine pasture which grew so luxuri " ously around, whilst I seated myself upon the frag ment of a rock in the cool shade. The delicious odour of the wild flowers which grew in such rich profusion around me, could just ly compare with the delightful gales wafted over the spicy fields of Arabia. The carolling Of the feathered songsters, perched upon the widespread ing boughs of the elm and beach, afforded a melody more grateful to my enraptured ear than the en chanting strain of the light guitar. These, with the glassy stream which rolled its pure current heedlessly along, furnished a banquet to my senses that rarely falls to the lot of man to enjoy. Sure ly, thought I, wrapt up as I was in the most de lightful cogitations, surely such a svelte us this is sufficient to dispel every gloom and sorrow from the mind, and to direct it to that BaniticentSource which is the pure unsullied fountain from which alone real and unalloyed happiness can flow.— I There was something :10 ctherial, and so divine, in "I WISH NO OTHER HERALD, 'NO OTHER SPEAKER OF MY LIVING ACTIONS, TO KEEP MINE HONOR FROM CORRUPTION."-SHAIPI the sentiments inspired by the lovely scene, that I could not but despise the grovelling propensity of those whose only earthly solicitude appears to be the accumulation of perishable treasures. I envied not the miser his corruptible gold, for which he spent so many hours of bitter toil, and for which he sacrificed all the little pleasure that poor mortals arc destined to enjoy on this sublunary sphere ; but I rather thanked Heaven f having, in the plenitude of its goodness, Llcssed me with that treasure above all price, a quiet and contented mind. To a contented mind, this romantic and peaceful grove aflbrdcd more real bliss than all the gold of Ophir, or the troasures of both the Indies. The farm-fanned fields of Arcadia came fully upon my imagination; I fancied that I tasted the delights, and enjoyed the pleasures of that delightful re gion, whilst I was basking at my ease in the full enjoyment of this enchanting spot. Whilst thus wrapt up in my own reflections, was suddenly aroused by a slight rustling noise resembling the sound of approaching footsteps.— Who, I eagerly enquired, would presume to ap proach this hallowed place! Upon reflection,how. ever, I seriously demanded of myself, by what au thority I had entered the sacred precincts of this Elysian grovel Unobserved, I soon perceived the the object which had given rise to the foregoing train of reflections. I espied at some distance to my right,rambling amongst the shrubs and flowers a youth, apparently about eighteen years of age, clad in a loose habit, adapted to the season and to his pursuit. Upon his approaching toward the spot to which I bud been unconsciously rivetted, my sight affinded me convincing evidence that he was none of those ordinary beings which we are daily accustomed to behold. He was the most an gelic being I had ever beheld. Every endowment that could render the human form attractive and captivating, was to be met with in this fine form. He was a temple that the Graces delighted to dwell in. His elevated and expanded forehead was a cer tain indication of the greatness of its intellectual inhabitant. His beautiful hair, which vied in color with the raven, hnng in careless disorder over his tine shoulders. In his hand he held a hunch of flowers he had gathered in the grove. At length, raising his eyes for the first time from the ground, he perceived me sitting on the rock, and attentive ly gazing at him. With a kind of instinctive feel ing, he endeavored to retrace his step,unconseious of the fact that he had been seen by mortal eye. When I perceived the agitation of his mind,which he was unable to conceal from, my view, in con sequence of the sudden change in his features from the most calm serenity to the most violent confusion, I beckoned him to come 'and seat him self by my side, which he accordingly did, having nt the same time the happy tendency to compose the perturbed state of his feelings. After he had seated himself,and made a few de sultory observations on our unexpected meeting, I could not avoid admiring the striking similarity ex isting between the graceful exterior and the high ly developed condition of his intellectual faculties. He related to me the cause of his rambles to this secluded spot, but with a diffidence almost culpa ble. It appeared, that he came here to gather flowers,that lie might indulge in a pursuit of which he was immoderately fond—one indeed which can not fail to interest every one who feels desirous of acquiring a thorough knowledge of the real beau ties of Nature. He descanted on the characters and properties of the various flowers lie held in his hand with so much ability,that I greatly doubt whether the celebrated Philosopher of Upsal en tertained more correct opinions on this interesting subject. Time sped on so swiftly, that before I could re concile my feelings to take leave of a companion so instructive and agreeable, the sun had already been merged from our view beyond the western mountains, and nothing but the glittering of the golden rays of that refulgent orb upon the tops of the tall trees gave indication of his not having yet entirely sunk beneath the horizon. I arose from my rocky sent for the purpose of taking my leave of youthful and interesting stranger, and pro ceed on my journey to some place where I might remain for the approaching night; but no sooner did I acquaint him with my intention, than he en treated me with the most urgent and frequent so licitations to accompany him to his paternal home, which was not far distant. Ho assured me,in the most undissembled terms of friendship, that I should receive a hearty welcome from his father, and share all the hospitality their humble habita tion could ailbrd. No apology was required, for with him for a companion the meanest hovel af forded me more happiness than is to he met with in the most splendid mansions of the most wealthy. After some hesitation whether I should proceed on my journey, I resolved to accompany him home. After having partaken of a frugal, yet withal a de licious supper, our conversation turned on various interesting and important subjects, until the time had arrived for repose. HENRY STANLEY, for by this name I shall beg leave to introduce to my readers this paragon of excellence, was the son of a pious Clergyman, whose condition in life was far from what might be styled affluent. The scanty living of his fath er, was insufficient for the maintenance of his fa mily and to defray the expenses necessarily in curred upon a constant attendance at college.— The iron hand of penury denied Henry the privi leges which the children of those in more opulent circumstances enjoy. He was unable from the surplus of his father's income to remain more than a few months in each year at college. This short period had, hoWever, the happy effect of giving a new impetus to his efforts, and to arouse with re doubled energy the mighty faculties of his mind. The assistance thus afforded him, with the guar dian protection of his pious parent, whose fervent supplications were daily offered up to the Throne of Grace, imploring the Divine benediction for the welfare and prosperity of his fond and affectionate son, were of more real benefit to him than whole years spent at seminaries of learning is to others. No obstacle could deter the rapid progress of im provement; the chill hand of poverty had no ter rors to intimidate him; but with an ardor and en thusiasm rarely to be met with among mortals, he braved the difficulties that he had to encounter on the way to fame with giant strength, and trod the thorny path with the most daring intrepidity and heroic fortitude. He knew full well that diligence and perseverance were mighty in surmounting die. faculties; every effort he made was crowned with a correspondent degree of success—then why should he despirl He was well aware that the carauttiqra.aiwzaxim. rPQa.. muoroalr. Mab7ll2MtillZßl2 sa. aaaa. God of Nature had stamped upon his soul the same faculties and attributes that had in others, when properly cultivated, led them to eminence and use fulness—for which they were honored and revered whilst alive, and to whose names a grateful pos terity had erected monuments and mausoleums, in commemoration of their worthy deeds, after death. He knew full that in this land of Liberty, every man must be the architect of his own fame, and that honor and preferment were solely dependent upon intrinsic merit. His indomitable resolution was ever the same—what would have chilled the ardor of every other, only the more aroused the faculties of his mind, "Chill perury could not repress the noble rage Or freeze the genial current of the soul." After having spent an hour or so in agreeable conversation, he conducted me into an adjoining apartment which he occupied as a study. Here lay n large collection of flowers; to which were added those he had gathered during the day. A flue col lection of choice minerals adorned his shelves,and insects of almost every description were to be found in his cabinet. He discoursed on those subjects with a fluency and familiarity that at once afford ed convincing evidence of his extended knowledge of things. His library was well stored with books, the selection of which manifested great powers of discrimination and a judgment that would have done honor to one of riper years. He conversed with great ease on the most abstruse metaphysical subtleties, as well as on moral and natural philosophy; he displayed such an aston ishing diversity of genius and talent, that I was sometimes almost inclined, contrary to my own conviction of the truth, to believe that his knowl edge was, to a great degree at least, intuitive and not acquired. - The sublime ideas and conceptions of Socrates and Plato had made a permanent im pression on his mind ; the refined philosophy of Locke and Bacon had so deeply impressed his youthful intellect, that the charms and fascinations of the gay world were unable to allure him from the path of rectitude which he had prescribed for ' himself, with the most rigid discipline, after his favorite authors. The mathematical problems of Euclid were to him like to his illustrious prede cessor, the immortal Newton, self evident ; they did not require the labored and tedious process of demonstration, but as it were by intuition his powerful and capacious intellect was able at a sin gle glance to comprehend what to others required immense toil and study. Neither was he a stran ger to the sublime truths and precepts of the Gos pel. He lived a perfect example of christian piety. To do the will of his Heavenly Father, was his chief delight. Before he closed his eyes in sleep, on bended knee did he offer up his most fervent and heart-felt prayer to God, and supplicate Him for a continuance of His blessings. The Divine Benediction was implored in such a holy and zeal ous manner, that surely, thought I, a God of Jus tice and Mercy, in the infinity of His goodness, would not turn it deaf car to his petition. In the morning, ere the golden rays of the majestic sun streaked the eastern horizon, with the carolling of the feathered songsters of the grove did he offer up his orisons, invoking the blessing of his Heavenly Father. There was something in all his words and actions so truly noble and sublime, so pecu liarly characteristic of the greatness and magnani mity of his soul, that it was utteriy impossible to contemplate his character without a feeling of ad- mitati(in. Envy was struck dumb and transform ed into love, in contemplating the goodness of his heart ; he was so amiable in his demeanour, and bore his faculties with so much modesty and meek ness, that no one even dared to condemn. Breakfast being over, I expressed my earnest intention of setting out on my journey. To part with so excellent family, was a matter of pain to me. The sensations I experienced at the thought of leaving this interesting family circle, and above all, the agreeable and instructive young philoso pher,may be more readily imagined than described. Before I was permitted to .take my final leave, he made me give him the most solemn and frequently repeated assurances of writing to him as soon as I should reach home, with a faithful narration of ev ery circumstance that transpired worthy of recital. Whilst pursuing my journey alone, my thoughts would oft recur with fond delight to the numerous and various pleasing incidents that occurred dur ing the brief period I passed with Henry Stanley. As soon as I had reached home, and had look ed after my domestic affairs that required my at tention, agreeably to the pledge I had given my friend upon my departure, I accordingly redeemed it. I sat down and indited a long epistle, in which I recounted every incident, in compliance with his request, that I thought might prove interesting to him. Amongst other occurrences, I gave him the very flattering account I obtained from one of the Professors, with whom I had unexpectedly met, of the institution at which he spent the few months (as I have already intimated)that his limi ted pecuniary means would admit of. Ho assured me, in the most unequivocal terms, that, combined with the most gentlemanly and affable disposition, he possessed talents of the rarest and most bril liant order,and that it was his firm conviction that he was destined at some future day, to become an ornament to the human family, and ape of the brigntest pillars in the temple of fame. Every sen- dinent I had formed relative to the character of the young student, met with a ready response from his preceptor,who had watched with so much pleasure the assiduity with which he applied himself to study and the noble ambition that fired his soul. Often had he watched the rapid progress of im provement and the mighty efforts of his towering genius. It was with the most enraptured emotions of delight that his preceptor dwelt upon the great ness and magnanimity of the young man. Soon after I had written I received a reply; it breathed such amiable and afibctionate, and withal such noble sentiments, that the scenes I had left with so much regret came fresh upon my recollec tion, and I almost again fancied myself with him to whom I had become so ardently attached. From this time forward, we maintained .a regular corres pondence—every letter I received gave indication of the increasing vigor of his mind, the assiduity with which ho labored, and the success which crowned hie efforts. The time no sooner had ar rived when his talents became known and appreci ated,than they were called into exercise by the unan imous desire of the community ; he discharge.), the duties that were required of him with so much abil ity end fidelity, that he increased daily in the affec tions of the people, who valued him for his amiable and estimable qualities as a man, by which ho had endeared himself to all who knew him, and by his invaluable services as a public servant. Every an ticipation that had been formed of his future great ness was fully realized: and had he been permitted yet a little longer to remain upon the field of ac tion, they would have been more than realized. But death ever loves a shining mark!—then why should he escape? By his premature decease, the literary, scientific and political world was deprived of one of its most valued members. 'lt appeared,' (to borrow the phrase of a certain French writer,) 'that Nature is, as it were, alarmed at the keen scru tiny of those who make the most rapid progress in her secret stores of knowledge, and therefore ex -acts of them a premature death.' In his early death, we are forcibly struck with the allusion above quoted. In the above portrait, which I have thus hastily and rudely sketched, I have endeavored to illus trate the extent of the UNDERSTANDING — the la bors it may achieve, the difficulties and obstacles it may surmount, with the means necessary to be employed. The most untiring assiduity and appli cation will oftentimes be able to accomplish what makes the vulgar stare with wonder and amaze ment, regarding the individual who has been so fortunate as to excite in their minds those feelings of veneration and respect, as something more than mortal—as endowed with supernatual abilities.— Whereas, if they were to examine the subject in its true aspect, they would immediately perceive that every thing was effected by purely natural means; means which they possessed as amply as those they have admired so much. Every one should set out with alacrity, enlist themselves with a zeal commensurate to the work they are anxious to perform, and success would invariably crown their efforts. Q. lii&DMOD The Young Wife. A woman runs a great risk of being spoilt by the flattering period that proceeds marriage. She is, of necessity, then, a first object; and custom has added to the homage which love would wil lingly render. An individual pf a family, who may before have been but little considered, rises at once into importance; and the person she most values is ready to execute the slightest expression of her will. The sooner that n woman can divest herself of 'any unreasonable expectations which the devotion of the lover may have excited, the greater the probability of her securing permanent attachment. Courtship is a dream, from which it is better to awake, voluntarily, than to be reluctantly roused. It is better to return to ordinary habits—to the sober and calm fulfilment of daily business, in the place assigned by duty—than to cherish ari arti ficial excitement, and cling to a false position. It is a proof of judgment in a woman, when she bestows attention on her husband's character; whet: she acts herself to study his peculiarities, and to consult them to the utmost of her power. This is the maruzgeinent which is not only allow able, but praiseworthy; for its object is, not the obtaining of sway, but the promotion of mutual It is certainly much to be lamented when a young wife yields to a timidity, of littleness, which prevents her from making independent efforts, when she nurses the nervousness which unfits her for all useful services; when, whatever be the call up on her she is herself in need of aid; and from never having thought of exerting herself, is incapable of doing so when the emergency arrives. Incidents daily occur which mark either the helpless or ca pability of every woman. Sudden alarms, trifling incidents, throw one into uncontrolable agitation, whilst another camly avoids or relieves the mis chief. Ono is unable to put forth a hand to help herself, the other, without appearance of effort, is ready to help all besides. One cannot stir with out support; the other is continually employed in some useful or benevolent purpose. One reclines upon a sofa, establishing no other claim on others .but her own incapacity; the other by her perpetual good offices, pays up a debt which is willingly paid on demand, and thus provides in the best way for her future exigence. It not unfrequently hap pens that a young married woman is oftener alone than she has been previously accustomed to be; and that she misses the family circle with which she has hitherto been surrounded. Let not this, however, depress her spirits or render her too de pendent on her husband for entertainment. Let it least of all, lead her to seek too frequent relief in company. Ono of the first things she should learn is to be happy in solitude, to find there occupation for herself; and to prove to her husband that, how ever she may enjoy social intercourse, and espe cially desire his presence, she needs not either a sister or a friend to entertain her when he is away. Behavior of Fernalea in Company. One of the chief beauties in a female character is modest reserve; that retiring delicacy which avoids the public eye, and is even disconcerted at the gaze of admiration. When a girl ceases to blush, she has lost the most powerful charm of beauty. This extreme sensibility which it indi cates may bo considered as a weakness and incum brance to the other sex, but in females is pecu liarly engaging. A blushing is so far from being necessarily attendant on guilt, that it is the usual company of innocence. That modesty which is so essentialto tho sex, will naturally dispose them to be rather silent in company, especially in a large ono; people of sense and discernment will never take such silence for dulness. A person may take a share in conversation without uttering a syllable —the expression of the countenance shows it, and this never escapes an observing eye. Converse with men with that dignified modesty which may prevent the approach of the most distant familiar ity, and consequently prevent them feeling them selves your superiors. Wit is the most dangerous talent which a fe male can possess. It mast be guarded with great discretion and good nature, otherwise it will cre ate many enemies. Wit' is perfectly consistent with softness and delicacy, yet 'they are seldom iound united. Wit is so flattering to vanity, that they who possess it become intoxicated and lose all self command. Humor is a different quality. It will make your company much solicited—but be cautious how you indulge it;—it is often a great enemy to delicacy, and a still greater one to dignity of character. It may sometimes gain you applause, but it will never procure you respect Beware of detraction, especially vrhcre your own sex arc concerned. You ire generally charg ed of being particularly addicted to this vice, per haps unjustly; men aro fully as guilty of it when their interest interferes. But as your interests frequently clash, and as your feelings aro quicker, your temptations to it are more frequent. For this reason be particularly careful of the reputa tion of your own sex. Consider every species of indelicacy in conver sation as shameful in itself, and highly disgusting to modest men, as well as to you. The dissolute. ness of some men's education may allow them to be diverted with a kind of wit, which yet they have delicacy enough to be shocked at when it comes from the mouth of a female. Christian purity is of that delicate nature that it cannot even hear certain things without contamination. It is always in the power of woman to avoid these; no man hut a brute or a fool will insult a woman with conversation which he sees gives her pain; nor will he dare to do it if she resent the injury with becoming spirit. There is a dignity in con. scions virtue which is able to awe the most shame less and abandoned of men. You will be re proached, perhaps, with an affectation of delicacy; hut, at any rate it is better to run the risk of be ing thought ridiculous than disgusting. The men will complain of your reserve; they will assure you that a frank behaviour would make you more amiable; but they are not sincere when they tell you so. It might, on some occasions, render you more agreeable as companions; but it would make you less amiable as women, an importapt distinc tion, of which many of the sex are not aware. Have a sacred regard to truth. Lying is a mean and despicable vim Some who possessed excellent parts have been so much addicted to this, that they could not be trusted in the relation of any story, especially if it contained any thing of the marvellous, or if they themselves were the heroines of the tale. There is a certain gentleness of spirit and man ners extremely engaging in young women; not that indiscriminate attention, that unmeaning sim per, which smiles on all alike. This arises from an affectation of soffitess, or from perfect insi. pidity. Our young female friends may perhaps think that by persuading them to attend to the preceding rules, we wish to throw every spark of nature out of their composition, and to make them entirely artificial. Far from it; wo wish them to posess the most perfect simplicity of heart and manners. They may possess dignity without pride; affability without meanness; and simple elegance without affectation. Milton had the same idea when ho said of Eve— "Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, In every gesture dignity and love." To TUE LADIES.—John Neal, ,in one of his rhapsodies, says— There is no misfortune so great for a family of girls, as to be all beautiful and all unmarried, about the same time. They are sure to wane, perish, die, of loneliness and ill humor. If one half of them wore as ugly as the devil, another quarter just passable, and the remainder all unlike each other With only one beauty, the whole might get marri ed at last. So, ladies, depend upon it, if there are many of you marriageable, or not, my advice to you is plainly this, draw lots fairly and honorably; and blow up all your faces with powder, except one. But if that be too terrible, take the small pox. It is your only chance. In a few years too, you will be, assuredly the more agreeable of the two, you will have mind, in the wintry hour, when the personal beauty of women is like the shadow that hath gone—something that nobody will take the trouble to run after, even in thoUght. VARIETY. PROM THE BOSTON EVENING GAZETTE 10LE . AiSth.Ldjai±la!ji: i Zitt . : E. Lail BY B. BROWN, ESQ. In the days of my boyhood, (I recollect well, And others, no doubt, the same story can tell,) Our tradesmen were honest; no one tho't of cheating; And, what is still stronger, they all went to meeting! There was Shoemaker Lot— I remember tilt spot, And the bench where he sot, With his strap on his kneei— Ile was upright and fair, Ay, exact to a hair, And a faithful old Cordwainer he. On a moon shiny night, (Thanksgiving was coming,) I mounted, in haste, Uncle Jeremy's mare; 'O6, Dobbin,' said 1, 'let your trotters be drumming Toward Uncle Lot's,' and soon had me there. 0, good Uncle Lot, I remember the spot, And the bench, where be sot, With his strap on his knee! Our shoes were all ready, For me, and for Noddy. And Sally and Hotly, And Dolly and Betty:— What a faithful old Cordwainer he! Then, there was the stitching, so strong and so nice; Why, threads held the leather as firm as a vice! There was none of your pegging,and none of your nail- Andg ; there was no fretting, no scolding, no railing, When Shoemaker Lot, He worked on the spot, With the strap on his knee, How strong he would sew them! 0, could he now show them What a faithful old Cordwainer he. And alas, now-a-days, 10, how changed is the matter! Old honesty seems to go begging about! For one scarce has a coat, or a shoe, or a garter, That lasts more than three weeks,before it's worn out! 0, that some Uncle Lot Would again take the spot, And the bench where he sot, With the strap o'er his knee; Who would work at the trade, And have shoes duly made; No cheat, and no cozen, Nor rips by the dozen— Bow useful a Cordwainer hc? . Our good Uncle Lot lately took his departure, And went to inhabit the 'land of the Lest!' No doubt but his, soul there will find better quarter; But, then, ho has left us all 'down at the heel!' 0, blest Uncle Lot, I do verily wot You will ne'er be forgot, Nor the strap on your knee, Your making, your mewling, Nor all your mast-ending Adieu, Uncle Lot, now, to thee! FILOX THE IIALTDIOILI: Vxsrrtn. The Poor Man and the Rich Man. There is too great a disposition among the poor to envy the rich, instead of endeavoring to rival them. That is a mean spirit that looks with longing eyes upon other men's gtiods. He is only the upright and independent man who wants nothing but what his own honest industry will gain him. Let parents instill this kind of reason ing into their children, and they give 'them Wealth. Every man who kas health, can, if ho will, be rich. He may not be able to accumulate a f -rturle [VOL. 7--NO. 34. of half a million—nor does he want it. If he have enough to supply all his reasonable demands, and a few thousands, nay, a few hundred to lay by, he is a rich man. Our young mechanics are not saving enough of their earnings. Those who are unmarried, might if they would, lay by from one to three hundred dollars every year. With this they would soon begin business, and in n few years be compare tively rich. Instead of this, by far too many think it manly to spend their earnings in the (good coin pony' that is found at taverns and other places of public resort. They must attend the theatre once or twice in the week. Enjoy their Sunday excur sion, at the expense of one or two dollars. Dress in the very height of the fashion, and sell their half worn out clothing to the Jews! It is worse than foolishness for our young men who can earn only from eight to ten dollars in the week, and that by hard labor, to ape the fashion able dissipations of those sprigs of gentility whose extravagance is annually met by heavy ili001.14P•, on the pockets of their wealthy parents. If they desire to possess the ample means whieh others seem to enjoy, let them 'spare to spend. In a few years they will enjoy a competency; and in the end be able to number their thousands, when those they at one time foolishly envied, may be re duced to poverty. . We have always noted those who were ready on every occasion to cry out against the rich.— They were invariable those who lived up - to or. beyond their income. Generally such as could lounge independently in a billiard room, and Lois off their glass with the best. These are ever raising the cry of the oppressions of the rich; and they are such as are first to throw ungenerous im putations upon every young man who is - rising by industry and frugality above them. Young man! if you desire to bo rich, save your earnings. Do not visit taverns and theatres. Lay by your first dollar, and others will gather around it as if by magic. Spend only what is - necessary, and you will be suprised to find how fast your little hoard will - grow. If you are ashamed of be ing poor, do not foolishly remain so all your life by striving to seem independent. Rather seem poor for .a while that you may be rich. Never envy the rich, nor waste your time in idle abuse of their oppressions of the poor. Be above them. Take care of your own, and they will never rob you of it. Again we say be honest, be industrious, be frugal and temperate, and you will be EXPEDIVNTB.-I despise expedients: they are the gutter-hole of politics, and the sinks ivhore rep utation dies. Intemperance drives wit out of the livid, money out of the pocket, elbows out of the coat, health out of the body, and moderate drinkers to the alms- The Arabs of the desert are the most hardy of the htiman race, enduring the greatest fatigue and exposure under a burning sun, and their habitual drink is water. PRIDE or A3rcasTar.—There Was much sound truth in the speech of a country lad to an idler who boasted his descent from an ancient family. “So much the worse for you," said the peasant, as we ploughmen say, "the older the seed the worse the crop." Cum./vv.—A long habit of not thinking a thing wrong, gives it a superficial appearance of being right and raises at first a formidable outcry in de fence of custom. But the tumult soon subsides.— Time makes more converts than reason. A toper in the last stages of dropsy, was told by his physician that nothing would save him but be ing tapped. His son protested against the opera tion, saying, "Father, do not submit to it, for there was never anything tapped in our house which ever lasted a week." EXPERIENCE PETRIFIES TUE HEAR.T.-TllO drops that trickle within the cavern, harden, yet brighten into spars as they indurate. Nothing is more polished, nothing is more cold, than that wis dom which is the work of former years, of former passions, and is formed within a musing and soli tary mind! AntemoTE.--“Whatever is just is honorable." —Manual labor is esteemed at the South disgrace ful. A circumstance showing to what an extent this sentiment prevails among slave holders, re cently occurred. A student from one of the Sou. thorn States, in the Theological Seminary at An dover, had purchased some wood, and was ex_ ceedingly embarrassed at being unable readily to obtain some ono to saw it for him. Ho went to Professor Stuart to inquire what ho should do in so ufortunate a predicament. The learned Pro fessor replied that he was in want of a job himself, and ho would saw it for him. In your intercourse with the world, you must take persons as they aro, and society as you find it. You must never oppose the one, nor attempt the other. Society is a harlequin stage, upon which you never appear in your own dress nor without a mask. Keep your real dispositions by your fire side and your real character for your private friend. In public never differ from anybody, nor from any thing. The agreeable man is one who agrees. "What always struck me," says Mac Parkin", "as something extremely romantic and mysterious, was the noisless step of the camel, from the spongy nature of its foot. Whatever be the substance of the ground—sand,or rock, or turf, or paved stones, you hear no foot fall; you see an immense animal approaching you, still as a cloud floating on the air; and unless ho wear a hell, your sense of hear ing, acute as it may be, will give you no intima tion of his presence." GOOD SENTIMENT.—The Beaton Pearl says that profane language is to conversation what ten inches spikes would be to iieneeringlittiife shivering, and defacing it. It is in bad taste, of. fensive to a majority, and gratifying to none. ODD TITLE.-L -A temperance pamphlet in Bar 'on is entitled “Tira Ilos, designed to uproot the Bramble of John Gregory, of Woburn. By MI Abstinence man." This is as quaint as the name of one of Cromwell's books, which was, unooke Eves for Believer's Mere:heel:"
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers