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TILE GARLAND
%V ith sweetest Bowers emrse - Va.
From various gardens esti rd sitlh case."
THE DEAD MARINER_
DT G LODGE D. PTITXTICE.
Sleep on—sleep on----aarre thy e. - vise.
The winds their Sabbath Ikerp---
The wave is round thre--and thy ireaq
Heaves with the heaving doer,
O'er thee, mild eve her beauty
And there the white gall hits her wmg;
And the blue halcyon lam; to lave
Her plumage in the holy wave.
Sleep on—no willow ecir thee bends
With melancholy air,
No violet springs„ nor dewy rose
Its soul of love lays !sue ;
But there the sea-flower, bright and young,
Is sweetly o'er thy slumbers flung,
And like a weeping mourner fair;
The pale flag har.gs its tresses there.
Sleep on—steep on—the glittnica depths
Of ocean's carat wares
Are thy bright am—thy requiems.
The music of 43 scacesy
The purple gears forever bum,
In fadeless beauty maul thy um.
And pure and deep as infant lave,
The blue sea colts i:s waves above
Sleep on—slcep ma---the fearful math
Of mingling dour' old deep,-
May leave its wild and stormy tragic
Above thy Fives of steep;
But when the wave has souk to nut,
Aa now. 'twill murmur OW thy beirt n ,
And the bright victims of theme
Perchance sail =he their home with thee.
Slcop on—thy cone is Sir array,
But love bewails thee yet —
For dace the heart-wrung sigh is breathed,
And lovely eyes are wet:
And she, thy young anf.l . l branteens WO' e„
Her thoughts are hovering by thy side,
As oft she turns to view with tsars
The Eden of departed yeass.
0 lit G :Ira S 5.9 P.
Mn. EDITOTS:—Tb.e fallowing Essay. deliver
ed, by one of the Members of the .-FIIASIG.LI3I
ILLIIMONT SOCILTI." of Gettysburg, at its meet
ing held on the Evening of the 25th climo, ie
submitted, in compliance with a Tow of Society,
for publication. Should you dean it worthy of
publication, please insert it in your paper.
Respectfully, your's,
THE COMMITTEE.
--We take tin mate of time
But from its loss. To pro it thew a tonne.
Is wise in man. As if an And make
I feel the solemn wood. Inward aright
It is the knell of my departed hoots.
W here are they? With the years knead tt.e Bond.
roosn.
This, Mr. President, is the language used
by the poet Young. Never was a semi
meat uttered by human lips,which embodies
in it more truth, or more ground forserious
reflection. than does the single expression
—" We take no note of Time but from its
loss." Often, owing to our own listlessness
and inactivity, we pass the few and fleeting
hours assigned to us in our present exis
tence, in a manner totally unbecoming ra
tional and immortal beings. That time,
which it is the hounded duty of man to im
prove, instead of being spent in vain and
frivolous amusements, should be conSAer
ed too valuable, too preeiLus, to be thus
thrown away and lost. Instead el permit
ting ourselves to engage in useless and im
proper avocet should always be care
ful to select such engagements as will prove
themselves beneficial tons.
. The reflection that vie Lave sufferect a
portion of our time to pass away; and that,
too, for ever, without sink imaa, it in a prop
er manner, is very often a s. nice of dtepand
lasting regret; which, if we had taken the
proper steps when it was in ear power to do
tile, might easily have been avoided. If for
no other reason than to prevent all such re
flections,this should be eons" oa-red so Tolent,
to prompt us to renewed alai continued ex
ertion. in order to extend cur sphere of in
formation, and, to enable us to look Open
our past life with approbation. Deep as the
regret connected with the recollection of
misimproted and lost time is. Car greater is
the pleasure which is inseparably connected
with the recollection of proper a poi ea .
lien; Nothing is more gratifying, or were
capable of afToiding a source of sincere and
lasting pleasure to man, than the reflection
that the moments of his existence, which
have been in mercy lengthened out to him
by a bountiful Providence, have been appli•
ed in such a manner, and passed in such en•
gagements, as to meet with the approval
untie still, small voice of his own conscience.
Memory, so long as we retain our men
tal and intellectual endowments, will always
take us back and bring before us, scenes
which have transpired long since. The
scenes of early life ere we had learned to
duly appreciate our being, are often referred
to in after years, as the happiest moments of
our existence. The occurrences connected
with our youthful days, although separated
by the lapse of many years, are often trea
sured up and spoken of in terms of the high
est commendation. Then. do we say, were
our happy days, the remembrance of which
is dwelt upon with delight Then we were
not required to employ our time and atten
tion in any art or profession in order to ac
quire the means of subsistence. Our every
want was supplied by kind and affectionate
parents, who often took more pleasure in
bestowing their favors upon us, than we did
in receiving them from their hands. W hen
sickness seized upon us with a ruthless hand,
and deprived us of our physical power, our
sick bed was attended by the same affec
tionate
. liand. Then did no worldly care
annoy us in the least—all was joy and glad•
ness; and nothing bet the choice of innocent
amusements, by means of which to pass
our days away, was ever allowed to disturb
our tranquility.
By a proper distribution of our time we
can accomplish much, and will be enabled
to turn our days to a good account. It has
been, doubtless, rendered apparent to the
mind of each individual here present—tho'
in cases of an entirely different nature,—that
where order and system reigned, there was
prosperity and contentment presented to
their view; and, on the other hand, where
no course of conduct was marked out,i but
~ every thing proceeded as chance or accident
directed, confusion and discontent predom
inated, and ruin was sure to follow. Much,
then, depends upon our own exec lions. And
where is the individual, who, aware that his
happiness, in a great measure, depends upon
his own conduct, will disregard his own wet.
fare,and disappoint the anticipations of near
and dear friends? May we justly suppose,
that every reasonable exertion will be made
in order to acquire a proper return for the
few, fleeting years of this existence; and
that a just value will be placed upon the im
portance of limo.
If, instead of calling up the events of past
years, we contemplate for a moment the fu
ture,—when we look forward to the close
of fife, many are the serious considerations
which crowd themselves upon the imagine
den. We always sustain our expectations
of temporal happiness with the hope that the
succeeding day, or year, will be to us a time
of more delightful and pleasing enjoyment;
and that the vicissi'udes incident to, and in
separable from human existence, will be of
a lighter and less afflicting nature. And
when our cont;nued anticipations of coming
happiness have all been disappointed, then
it is that man looks forward to an eternal
existence, and there expects fully to realize
his oft disappointed hopes. To him, and
only to him, who . can review his past life
and in it beheld nothing which the voice of
conscience within him does not approve of,
is the last closing scene of his earthly being,
a pleasure. Supported and strengthend by
a firm and well founded hope, that so soon
as the short struggle of death is over, he
will enter upon an existence, the happiness
of which eye hath not seen, ear bath not
beard, nor the heart of man ever conceived
of, his end is characterized by peace and
joy.
Thus it is that he who has made a proper
ass of his time, bids this earth adieu. He
leaves it without a single regret—all his
thoughts are concentrated in the expectation
of future bliss. But he, whose conscience
is continually reproaching him with his for
mer actions, leaves the earth with feelings
of the deepest sorrow. Ho has no good
reason to hope that he will enter on a better
state of being; but, struggling with his ex
piring nature, he dies, stung by the remorse
of his own conscience, and sorry that it is
impossible for him to live his life over again,
in order that he might apply his hours in
such a manner, as to insure peace and com
fort in his dying moments.
AN HONORABLE OPPONENT.
The Cincinnati Advertiser and Western Jour
nal, a very decided Van Buren paper, says :
Gen. HARRISON is not a very rich man.
He has been honest in his dealings—he has
been faithful in all the public offices he has
held—and ho has not taken those advanta
ges he might have done, without the viola
tion ofany duty, but by too much confidence
in those he trusted, has lost much valuable
property.
This placing too much confidence in others, is
characteristic of the whole life of the man—his
native goodness of heart has ever prompted him
to be-friend all who claimed his uid. This is one
among many other reasons, why ho is personally
so popular in the west; every body could claim
Gen. Hanarsos as a friend. This editor in
speaking further of General, says that he has
known him long, and had considerable intercourse
with him, and that he saw nothirig which was not
amiable and honorable in his demeanor and char
at-tyre—Harrisburg Chronicle.
Wear your learning like ynur watch, in
a private pocket, and don't pull it out to
show that you have ono, but if you aro asked
%bat o'clock it is, tell it.
G. 77.8.ESEINGTON SOWN, EZITOR 4% PROPRIETOR.
44 The liberty to know, to utter, and to argue, freely, G 9 above all other liberties."—Matron.
sanewlratztwate. Lpa.o aitineax•areo 210 LB 21 lUP cia t 9 a, 460
It may not he known. to all the admirers
of the genius Albrecut Durez, that the fa
mous engraver was cursed with a better
half so zantippical in temper, that she was
the torment, not only of his life, but those
of his pupils and domestics. Some of the
former were cunning enough to purchase
peace fur themselves by conciliating the
common tyrant —but woe to those unwil
ling or unable to offer aught in propitiation.
Even the wiser ones were sparcd,by having
their offences visited upon a scape-gnat.—
This unfortunate individual was Samuel
Duhobret a disciple whom Durez had admit
ted into his school out of charity. Ile was
employed in painting signs, and the course
tapestry then used in Germany. He was
about forty years of ago, little, ugly, and
hump-backed. What wonder that ho was
the butt of every ill joke among his fellow
disciples, and that lie was picked out as a
special object of dislike by Madame Durez"!
but ho bore all with patience, and ate,with
out complaint, the scanty crusts given him
every day for
,dinner, while his companions
fared sumptuously. Poor Samuel had not
a spite of envy or malice in his heart. He
would at any time have toiled hall the night
to assist or servo those were wont, ottenest,
to !aught at him, or abuse him loudest for
his stupidity. True—he had not the quali
ties of social humor or wit; but he was an
example of indefatigable industry. lie '
came to his studies every morning at day
break; and remained at work until sunset.
Then he retired into his lonely chamber
and wrought for his own amusement.
Duhobret labored three years in this way,
giving himselfno time for exercise or recre•
ation. He said nothing to a single human
being, of the painting he produced in the
solitude of his cell, by the light of his lamp.
But his bodily energies wasted and ("reli
ned under incessant toil. There were none
sufficiently interested in the poor artist to
murk the feverish hue ot his wrinkled cheek,
or the increasing attenuation of his missha
pen frame. None observed that the unin•
viting pittance set aside for his midday re•
past, remained for several days untouched.
Samuel made his appearance regularly as
ever, and bore, with the same r.ieckness,
the gibes of his fellow pupils ; or the taunts
of Madame Durez; and worked with the
same untiring assiduity, though has hands
would sometimes tremble, and his eyes be
come suffused—a weakness probably owing
to the excessive use ho had made of them.
Ono morning Duhobret was missing at
the scene of his daily labors. His absence
created much remai k—and many were the
jokes passed upon the occasion. One sur•
mised this—another that, as the cause of
the phenomenon; and it was finally agreed
that the poor fellow must have worked him
self into an absolute skeleton and taken his
stand in the glass frame of some apotheca•
ry; or been blown away by n puff of wind,
while his door happened to stand open. No
one thought of going to his lodgings to look
after him or his remains. Meanwhile the
object of their fun was tossing on a bed of
sickness. Disease which had been slowly
sapping the foundations of his strengill,bur.
ned in every vein; his eyes rolled and flash—
ed in delirium; his lips, usually so silent
muttered wild and incoherent words. In
days of health, poor Duhobret had had his
dreams, ns all artists, poor or rich, will
sometimes have. He had thought that
the fruit of many years' labor, disposed of
to advantage, might procure him enough to
live, in an economical way, the rest of his
life. He never anticipated fame or fortune;
die height of his ambition or hope was to
possess a tenement large enough to shelter
his form - from the inclemencics of the wea•
thor, with means to purchase one comforta
ble meal per day. Now—alas! however,
even that hope hnd deserted him. Ho
thought himself dying, and thought it hard
to die without one to look kindly upon him;
without the . words of comfort that might
smooth his passage to another world. lie
fancied his bed surrounded by devilish faces;
Brining nt his sufferings, and taunting him
with his inability to summon n priest to ex
ercise them.
At length the apparitions faded away,
and the patient sank into an exhausted slum
ber. He awoke unrefreshed; it was the
fifth day he was neglected. His mouth was
parched; he turned over,and feebly stretch
ed out his hand to the earthen pitcher,from
which, since the first day of his illness, he
had quenched his thirst. Alas! it was
empty! Samuel lay a fow moments think
ing what ho should do. He knew he mu; t
die of want ifhe remained there alone; but
to whom could he apply for aid in procuring
sustenance? An idea seemed at last to strike
him. Ho arose slowly, and with difficulty
from the bed, went to the other end of the
rooin,and took up the picture he had painted
last. He resolved to carry it to the shop
of a salesman, and hoped to obtain for n i sei
ficient to furnish him with the necessaries of
life a week longer.
Despair lent him strength to walk and
carry his burthen. On his way ho passed
a house about which there was a crowd.—
He drew nigh—asked what was going on,
and received for an answer, that there was
to be a sale of 'Many specimens of art col•
lected by an amcteur in the course of thir
ty years. It often happened that collections
made with infinite pains by the proprietor,
wore sold without mercy or discrimination
alter his death.
Something whispered the wearied Duho•
bret, that hero would be a market for his
3.lll2:t32LtVa&MoollLlo
From the Ladies' Companion
The Artist Surprised...A Real Incident.
I M M=E!
picture. It was a long way yot to the
house of the picture dealer, and ho made up
his mind at once. Ho worked his way
through the crowd, dragged himself up the
steps, and after many inquiries found the
auctioneer. That personage was a busy,
important little man with a handful of pa
pers; ho was inclined to notice somewhat
roughly the interruption of the lean, sallow
hunchback imploring as wore his gestures
and language.
.W but do you call your picture?' at length
said ho carefully looking at it.
'lt is a view of the Abbey of Newburg—
with its village—arid the surrounding land
scape,' replied the eager and trembling art
ist.
The auctioneer again scanned it contempt.
uously, and asked what it was worth.
'Oh, that is what you please—whatever
it will bring,' answered Duhobret.
'Hens! it is odd to please, I should think
—1 can promise you no more than three
thalers.'
Poor Samuel sighed deeply. lie had
spent on that piece, the nights of many
months. But he was starving now; and
the pitiful sum ofFered,would give him bread
for a few days. He nodded his head to the
auctioneer and retiring, took his seat in a
corner.
The sale began. After some paintings
and engravings had been disposed of, Sam
uel's was exhibited.
'Who bids? at three (balers? Who bids?'
was the cry. Duhobret listened eagerly,
but none answered. 'Will it find a purcha
ser?' said he, despondingly, to himself.—
Still there was a dead silence. Ho dared
not look up, fir it seemed to him that all
the people were laughing at the folly of the
artist who could be insane enoegh to offer
so worthless a piece at public 'What
wil! become of me!' was his mental inqui•
ry. 'That work is certainly my best;' and
he ventured to steal another glance. 'Does
it not seem that the wind actually stirs those
bouglig,and moves those leaves? How trans
parent is the water! what life breathes in
the animals that quench their thirst at that
spring? How that steeple shines? How
beautiful are those clustering trees!' That
was the last expiring throb of an artist's
vanity. The ominous silence continued,
and Samuel, sick at heart, buried his face
in his hands.
'Twenty-one dialers!' murmered a faint
voice, just as the auctioneer was about to
knock down the picture The stupid paint
er gave h start of j•iy.' Ho raised hie head
and looked to see from whose lips those
blessed words had come. It was the pic
ture dealer to whom lie had at first thought
of applying.
'Fifty dialers!' cried a sonorous voice.—
This time a tall man in black was the spew
r.
There was silence of hushed expectation.
'Ono hundred thalers,' at length thundered
the picture dealer.
erWo hundred.'
'Three hundred.'
'Four hundred.'
'One thousand.'
Another profound silence; and the crowd
pressed around the two opponents, who
stood opposite each other with eager and
an g ry looks.
'Two thousand thalers!' cried the picture
dealer and glanced around him triumphant
ly when he saw his adversary hesitate.
'Ten thousand!' vociferated the tall man,
his face crimson with rage, and his hands
clenched conclusively.
The dealer grew paler; his frame shook
with agitation; he made two or three efforts,
and at last cried out—
'Twenty thousand!'
His tall opponent was not to be vanquish
ed. He bid forty thousand. The dealer
stopped; the other laughed a low laugh of
insolent triumph, and a murmur of admira
tion was heard in the crowd. It was too
much for the dealer; he felt his peace at
stake. 'Fifty thousand!' exclaimed be, in
desperation.
It was the tall man's turn to hesitate.—
Again the whole crowd were breathless.
At length, tossing his arms in defiance, he
shouted, 'One hundred thousand and the de
vil take the dog of a salesman!'
The chest fallen picture dealer withdrew;
the tall man victoriously bore away the
prize. How was it, meanwhile, with Du
hobret, while this exciting scene was going
on? lie was hardly master of hie senses.
He rubbed his eyes repeatedly, and mur
mured to himself, 'After such a dream my
misery will seem more cruel!'
When the contest ceased, ho rose up
bewildered, and went about asking first
one, then another, the price of the picture
just sold. It seemed that his apprehensions
could not at once be enlarged to so vast a
conception.
'rh© possessor was proceeding homeward,
when a decrepit, lame,humpbacked wretch,
tottering along by the aid of a stick,presen•
ted himself before him. He threw him a
piece of money, and waved his hand as die.
pensing with his thanks.
'May it please your honor,' said the sup
posed beggar—'l am the painter of that
picture!' and he again rubbed his eyes.
The tall man was Count Dunkelsback,
one of the richest nobleman in Germany.—
He stopped—took out his pocket book, tore
out a leaf, and wrote on it a tew lines.
'Take it friend,' said he; 'it is the check
for your money. Adieu.'
Duhoinet finally persuaded himself that
it was not a dream. Ho became the mas
ter of a castle; sold it and resolved to live
luxuriously for the rest of his life, and to
cultivate painting ns a pastime. Alas for
the vanity of human expectations? He had
borne privation and toil; prosperity was
too much for him, when an indigestion car
ried him off- His picture remained long in
the cabinet of Count Dunkelsback; and af
terwards passed into the possession of the
King of Bavaria.
PATRIOTISM.
Patrick Henry was one of those "who
gave the first impulse to the ball of the rev
olution." A Virginian by birth, the first
years of his life were marked by no event,
which gave the slightest indication of his
future eminence. Books were his aversion.
He was to all intents and purposes an idler.
His mind was indeed active; but it seemed
to loathe all profitable pursuits; and his
time was divided between the uproar of the
chase and the languor of inaction. He mar
ried at eighteen; commenced business as a
merchant; became a bankrupt, and in mis
ery and distress turned his attention to the
bar, and began the study of law. About
the time ho commenced practising in his
new profession, the famous contest concern
ing the stipends of the clergy commenced
in Virginia, between Church and State, or
the clergy on one hand, and the people and
the Legislature on the other. The dispute
was popularly termed, the "parson's cause;"
and young Henry, with all his feelings
warmly enlisted, engaged in it. When
the day of trial arrived,the court was crowd.
ed almost to suffocation, and a breathless
silence marked the commencement of Hen.
ry's speech. His manner, and his matter
were, at first, both awkward and unpre
possessing, and his friends wera fast becom
ing dispirited, when, warming with his sub.
ject, his figure gradually became erect, his
gesture graceful and imposing, his tones
clear and emphatic, and his confused and in
elegant style was changed into a flow °fel°•
quince, which bore along with it the minds
of men, astounded his opponents, drew from
his friends reiterated marks of applause,
and at once established his fame upon the
high ground,which it ever afterwards main
tained. From that day Henry, now called
the orator of nature, rose into political dis
tinction, and became mainly instrumental
in the republican movements of the times,
The great question of the revolution, the
right of taxation without representation,
came before the people of Virginia, and
found them in a great measure, unprepared
for its free and liberal discussion. Many
hung back, who, it was thought, would have
been foremost in opposition to the illegal as
sertion of British prerogative; and many
others were inclined to yield, rather than
discuss the question, with Great Britain to
oppose them. Henry was it this time, a
member of the House of Burgesses of ir
ginia; and three days before its adjourn
ment, he brought forward and carried his
resolutions in opposition to the Stamp Act,
which was the first resistance offered in
America to the scheme of taxation proposed
by the British Parliament.
1774, Henry was a member of the Con
tinental Congress, when that venerable body
met for the first time. It was he, who first
broke the silence, which hung over their
meeting, with strains of eloquence that bore
down all opposition, and imparted his own
spirit and firmness to the most irresolute and
desponding. "This," said he, "is not the
time for ceremony; the question before the
house is one of awful moment to the coma
' try. It is nothing less than freedom or sla
very. If we wish to be free, we must fight.
I repeat it, sir, we must fight. An appeal
to arms, and to the god of host, is all that
is left to us." "It is in vain, sir, to exten
uate the matter. Gentlemen may cry,
peace! peace! but there is no peace. The
war is actually begun. The next gale that
sweeps from the north will bring to our ears
the clash of resounding arms: our brethren
are already in the field; why stand we hero
idle? What is it that gentlemen wish?—
W hat would they have? is life so dear, and
peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the
price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Al
mighty God! I know not what course oth
ers may take, but as for me," he continued,
with both his arms extended upwards, his
brows knit, every feature marked with the
resolute purpose of his soul, and his voice
swelled to its coldest note of exclamation,
"give me liberty, or give me death!" He
took his seat, and the cry "to arms," seem
ed to quiver upon every lip and gleam from
every eye.
Henry lived to witness the glorious issue
of that revolution, which his genius had set
in motion, and, to use his own prophetic
language, before its commencement "to see
America take her station among the nations
of the earth."
.-..e. 0w...
Editing a Newspaper is no Easy Task.
—Many people estimate the ability of a
"newspaper, and the industry and talent of
its editor, by the variety and quantity of
editorial matter it contains. Nothing can
be more fallacious. It is comparatively an
easy task for a writer to pour out daily col
urns of words upon all subjects, his ideas
may flow freely and his command of lan
guage may enable him to string them to.
gether like a bunch of onions, and yet his
paPer may be,a meagre, poor concern after
all. But a judicious, well informed editor,
who exercises his avocation with a full con
viction and consciousness of the responsible
duty he has to perform, will conduct his pa-
per with the same care and assiduity that a
clever lawyer bestows upon a' suit, or an
humble physician upon a patient. Indeed
the mere writing part of editing a paper is
but a small portion of the work. The in
dustry, even, is not shown here. The care,
the taste, the time employed in selocting is
fur more important, for the fact of a good
LLP/122)1111B ePi'Ock
editor is shown more by his selections.—But
an editor 6tight to be estimated and his la
bor appreciated by the general conduct of
his paper—lts tone, its tempar,its manners,
its uniform consistent course, Its principles,
its arms, its manliness, its courtesy, its dig
nity, its propriety. To preserve all these as
they should be preserved, is enough to oc
cupy fully the time and attention of a man.
But if to this be added the general supervi
sion of the establishment, which most edi
tors have to do, it will appear that editing
newspaper is, indeed, no very easy task.
A SHOCKING TRANSACTION:
The Baltimore Sun says: "We are pain
ed to learn that a shocking transacting took'
place a few days since,in St. Mary's county,
in this state, which has involved the peace
of a most respectable circle of relatives
and friends. The circumstances, as they
have reached us, are substantially as fol
lows: Two gentlemen, brothers of Ex-
Governor Thomas, have contiguous farms.
One of them sent hie servant to a black
smith,for the purpose of having some work
done. The blacksmith, from some cause,
refused to perform the labor,and the servant
returned without having it accomplished.
Ho then ordered his carriage to be got
ready, and, arming himself, proceeded
towards the smith's shop. On the way he
was intercepted by his brother, who had
been informed of his actions, who endeav
ored to persuade him to return, and carri
ed his endeavors so far as perhaps to take
hold of the carriage horses,se as to prevent
them from proceeding. This still further
exasperated the brother who was in the
carriage, and he ordered the driver to go
on, regardless oft he entreaties of his brother.
Finding that it was impossible to stop him,
the brother outside pushed ahead to the
shop, to warn the smith to be out of the
way; just,as he was entering the door, the
carriage drove up, and the brother in the
carriage perceiving the other's object, dis
charged the contents of a double barrel
gun at him, wounding him severely, and
afterwards sprung from the carriage and
inflicted several wounds upon him with a
dirk.' He was not dead, according to our
account, but was in a very precarious situa
tion. We give these circumstances as we
yesterday heard them, but trust, for the
honor of human nature, that they may be'
highly exaggerated. We were unable to
obtain the christian names of either of the
brothers."
One hundred houses swept of.—The
Rev. Mr. Coen, of the Sandwich Is.
lands, in a letter to his brother, published
in the Evangelist, describes a scene of ter..
ror, witnessed one evening at Hilo, during
the progress of a protracted meeting, held
there in November, as follows—"I opened
the meeting with a sermon from the text :
'Prepare ye the way of the Lord' God
wrought for us. Hundreds gave evidence
of conversion. On the second day, at eve
ning, God came in terror I The sea rose
suddenly to the perpendicular height of 15
or 20 feet, and fell in one mountain wave
on the shore, sweeping away nearly 100
houses, their tenants and effects. All was
sudden as a peal of thunder. No premo
nitions were given. None had time to
flee. There was no earthquake,
and no vi
sible cause of the phenomena. The scene
was awful. In a moment hundreds were
engulphed. The roar of the raging sea
was deafening, and the loud piercing• cries
of distress were heartrending ! Only elev
en were drowned—but five have died since,
by injuries received in the Mater. Had
the catastrophe been at midnight, or had
the people been less emphibious, hundreds
must have perished. To drown a native
of these islands, is almost like drowning a
whale—so much are they at home in the
water."
LEAP YEAR.
The year 1840 is leap year, and as we
have been requested by more than one lady
to notice that fact, we, of course take plea
sure in complying. 1840, then, is leap year,
be it known to every body, old bachelors
and young, old maids and misses. —Young
men, take care, stay at home more the
common, and don't be caught out in the
evenings or you'll be caught in some other
way, fur certain; it being a rule in the
game, we believe, that no gentleman pos
sessing the least spark of gallantry, dare
refuse an offer under any circumstances.—
As for ourself, don't know what we shall do,
it such a misfortune should happen to come
upon us. We asked a bachelor friend his
opinion as tp the matter. He only ejacula
ted a lass! a-lass! Our fair readers will
bear in mind, however, that we have no
time to go to market, Arc. until after Harri
son is elected President,and until that time,
if the knot is to be tied at all, we must mere
go into the "union for the sake of the union."
Steubenville Gazelle.
Tight Lacing.—"l think this practice
is a great public benefit," said a gentleman.
"A great public benefit," exclaimed a
friend, "how can that be; do you not see
that a great many of our young ladies aro
ruining their health& and losing their lives
by it." •
"Yes, yes," returned the other, "but my
dear fellow, dont you see that it kills °lron.
ly the fools, and we shall have all wise ones
by and by!"
Desetting of Synipathy.--The editor of
the Illanhatten Advertiser says his devil is
sick enough—his journeyman is us sick as
the devil—his wife out of humor—children
cross, ragged and saucy—and he himself
feels bad at the 'stomach.