Cilrallt 'N IBIWPII /IVAN . - i alffla.::._.-...
17 ) 1Y2,0 X3O--.) - Pbo 410
Office of the Star & Banner
_ausTv nuicouva, ABOVE THE °mei: OF
TalE REGITTER AND RECORDER.
I. Th. grin & ItsruntlCAN BAXNEII in pub
lished at r ‘vo voLLARB per annum (or Vol
urn! of 52 nu nhers.) pa . pthle half -yearly in ad
vance: or T‘vo DOLLARS & FIFTY CENTS,
if nit paid anti! after the expiration of the
. year.
N i 3abicription will be received I.r a shorter
period than sit months; nor will the paper be dis
continued until all arrearages are paid, unless at
the option of the Editor. A failure to notify a dia
continuanca will be cons;dered a new engagement
and the paper forwarded accordingly.
111. An v ItT I cx-rs not exceeding n square
will be inserted react; times for $l, and 25 cents
for each subs.tquent insertion—the number of in
sertion to be 'nuked, or they will be published till
forbid and charged accordingly ; longer ones in
the same proportion. A reasonable deduction will
be made to those who advertise by the year.
IV. MI Letters and Communications addressed
to the Editor by mail must be post-paid, or they
will not be attended to.
TDB GARLAND.
7
..„...A.4- :......,..„.,:......- a ,....,,...,
<- I '4 - .- fYr'''' .7 - " ,- ' , ."
.- -.. .T,,A!:--, - -_,=7--... -- ' --7
—"With sweetest flowers enrich'd
From various gardens cull'd with care."
THE BRIDE.
II 1r CHARLES Jrrrnarrl
Oh, tnke her, but be faithful still,
And may the bridal vow
Be sacred hold in after years,
And warmly breathed as now.
Remember, 'tie no common tie,
That binds your youthful hearts,
'Tie one that only truth should weave,
And only death can part.
rho joy of childhood's happy hours,
Tho !ionic of riper years,
Tho treasured scones of early youth,
In sunshine and in tears;
The purest hopes her bosom knew,
When her young heart was free,
All these and more she now resigns,
To bravo the world with thee.
Her lot in life is fixed with thine,
Ita good and ill to share,
And well I know 'twill be her pride
To sooth each sorrow there:
Then take her, and mny fleeting time
Make all thy joys increase,
And may your days glide swiftly on
In happiness and peace.
rEAUTIr• AND W. .VT.
Ijr MRS. CORNWALL H. WILSON.
Beauty eat tracing, with sportive finger,
Names on the ocean sand ono day;
Watching how long each wave would linger,
Ere it has wasted the print away.
First hope she sketch'il—the wave just kiss'd it,
Then sank to ocean's breast again,
As half regretful to have miss'd it,
And with the maid let hope remain,
Next friendship's name, ho fond yet fleeting,
The Indian on the sand enshrined;
The wave flowed on—hut soon retreating,
No trace of friendship left behind !
Love's then uppeared—`twas deeply graven
On that frail page, by Ileabty's hand;
The wave returned-3h ! silly maiden,
Love's vows are ever writ on sand.
IVlren ono 11 ono, each name had perished,
Beauty grew wearied of her play;
Finding that all most prized and cherished,
Some passing wave will sweep away !
raiaa.lll,arsial , wcg.
From the Saturday- Evening Post
HENRY MILIVIAN.
UY ALVILEII lIAS\VILL
"The rose is fairest when 'tic building new,
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears;
The rose is sweetest wash'd by morning dew,
And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears."
SCOTT.
On the banks of the Delaware, some ten
or twenty miles from Philadelphia on the
Pennsylvania pile, stands n large white
mansion surrounded by extensive and taste
ful grounds. To the right of it stands a
large cluster of American forest trees, and
to the left a fine peach orchard. In front,a
beautiful lawn slopes gradually to the river's
edge, where it terminates in a terrace, with
a Chinese pavilion in the centre, producing
a handsome and picturesque effect, as seen
by travellers on the river.
The occupants of this mansion, at the
time our tale commences, consisted of Mr.
Drummond, his wife and daughter Emily,
and Mr. f'*ix Drummond, a very eccentric
gentleman, in his tittv-sixth year, and with
al an old bachelor. Beside• these individ
uals, there resided, occasionally, a young
person, Delay Milman, an orphan, with
whose future history,nnd that of Miss Emily
we have principally to do.
Mr. Drummond was several years the
junior of his brother Felix, and had mar
ried at an early age. By some fortunate
speculations, he cleared a sufficient sum, .in
the commencement of his life. to render
him, with a moderate jointure of his wife,in
dependently rich. Of a suspicious and cau
tious habit,lie had accumulated and increas
ed that wealth to a great extent: and, at the
time our narrative oomniencea, was consid
ered by all who knew him, to he a very
wealthy man, and received, of course, his
full meed of tho world's praise, and admir.
alien therefor. Mrs. Drummond,a woman
au naturally generous and amiable dispo.
mitten, prized less the world, and the world's
opinions than did her husband. She thought
more of the happiness of the immediate cir
cle 'comprising her household than of the
empty worldly show which influenced him
in all his actions, —conscrrently all who
knee' her, admired and esteemed. Mr.
Felix (or as he was usually known in the
' Uncle Felix,") had likewise ac
quired a moderate fortune by his industry in
his yout h;and though it was neither so large,
nor so highly valued by him as his brother's
wns, yet was he more happy and contented
in the enjoyment of it. From a disappoint.
ment in his mntrimnninl plans in }out!), he
had lived a single life; and on the demise of
their parents, with whom he had before re.
sided in the city, had accepted the invita
tion of his brother to make his home with
him and his family. His occupations
consisted principally of rending, walking
with his niece and taking snuff; and ns his
clothes had been cut 20 years before so were
they now. An anecdote wns told by the
individual who had served him in the capa
city of tailor, that because he had ventured
to curtail the flowing skirt of his coat, he
had been threatened with a dismissal,should
the like again occur.
Of tho characters and dispositions of the
other twopersonnges prom tale, the render
w;11 know more anon, and let this slight
' sketch of the past history of Henry Milman
- suffice for the present.
At the age of fourteen he had been left
an orphan, his parents dying within a few
weeks of each other, and it was owing to
the kindness and protection of Uncle Felix,
who loud him educated and placed Oa re
spectable profession,that Ile became acquain
ted with the other portion of the Drummond
family; and such a general favorite was he,
and particularly with Mrs. Drummond, that
he was considered as almost belonging to
the fitmily, and scarcely a Sunday passed
without seeing him at their house. The
excellent education he had received, and
his gentlemanly, unassuming deportment,
fitted him as an associate for any society
which he chanced to meet there. And Ins
handsome and ingenious countenance made
him a general object of favor with those
who knew him, especially the young ladies. I
Affairs continued on in this manner for
several years. From a pretty, interesting
child, Emily grew up a beautiful girl, ac•
comphahed and artless, and, like her moth
er, possessed of qualities that endeared her
to every heart. Of a middling stature and
full form, with light golden hair, and eyes
of deepest blue, with a complexion purely
white and red, she was indeed beautiful.
Her high arched brow, and exquisitely
moulded features, bore the stamp or Intel.
lect; and the gentle lingering. glance spoke
a soul of feeling.
.Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye
n every gesture dignity and lova.
and to consumste all,
Greatest of mind.
Such 5 -being was Eniily,in her seventeenth
spring.
It is most likely, that the opinions and re
!miens of the family would not have been
disturbed, or their general harmony and
peace broken up, and rendered discordant,
for a time,had it not been for a circumstance
which took place, and which rendered the
feelings of the young people more suscepti
ble of the machinations of the insinuating
and insiduous God—Cupid. A pic-nic par
ty wet to be held at the mansion, to be fol.
lowed by a ball in the evening in honor of
Emily's birthday. The day came, and
the party were assembled on the lawn, en
joying themselves with the eagerness of
youth in pursuit of hominess. 'Even Uncle
Felix deserted the study, or, rather curiosity
shop, and drew forth his best snuff box,
walking about cracking his old-fiishioned
jokes; calling forth many a hear ty laugh by
their ori g inality and wit. Mr. Drummond,
too, had fell opportunity of showing his
pompous love of self, and gratifying his
passions for display. And his wile, ever
busy in making all happy and attending to
her guests, found herself pleased and de
lighted with all around.
The night closed in, and the consonance '
of the party was undisturbed. The ball
room was lighted up and the music arrived.
Henry claimed Emily's hand for the lead,
and the first quadrilles was danced. After
it was over, the party strolled about the
grounds enjoying the balmly softness and
sweet fragrance of one of the last eveninos
ofspring. Several of the company, inclu
ding Henry and Emily, sauntered to the
pavilion. The full moon was just rising
over the pines of New Jersey, and as it
rose above their level, it shed a stream of
light like molten silver on the ebbing tide.
Emily rose from her seat, and advancing
to the front of the pavilion, gazed on the
tranquil and beautiful scene before her. A
number of small sail-boats were gliding
listlessly along with the tide—their white
sails scarcely fluttering in the occasional
night-breeze. appearing in strong contest
with the dark line of trees on the opposite
shore.. Emily intimated a wish for a glass
of water, and Henry hastened to procure
it from a small fountain, which threw its
sparkling jet over a marble basin a short
distance from the pavilion. While stoo
ping, a shriek from the party whom he had
left, and a heavy plunge in the water, called
him hastily back to lies spot. The railing
against which Emily had been leaning was
gone. The truth flashed upon his mind,
and throwing off his coat ho sprang into the
river. A few yards below him, still bat
mg on the water, lay the form of Emily—
her light dress supporting her on the water.
A few vigorous strokes brought him to her
side, end grasping her round the waist.. he
G. '77.6.13Z1NGT011 BOWEN, EnITOR & PP.OPPZETO.S.
~ The liberty to know, to utter, and to argue, freely, is above all other fiberties."—MELros.
Tiouiwzraalwamee IPcao o wwaziodazro aztagPtrazia . se nacho
!swam toward the shore. The tide had
hurried them out some distance, and ere he
reached the shore, he was cx•
lhatisted; but collecting his strength,lie made
a powerful exertion, and succeeded in gain
ing the bank.
Meanwhile the party in the paviilion had
alarmed the company, and the father,rush
ing to the water's edge, franticly. implored
those around him to save his daughter,—
while the agonized and affrighted mother
and guests stood paralysed with fear and
horror at the catastrophe. Henry gained
the hank, and straggering, yielded his bur
den to her friends, and fell to the ground
from exhaustion.
The accident broke up the party. Un
cle Felix ordered Henry to be carried to
his own chamber, and put to bed, when he
insisted upon sitting up all night with him,
and making him drink a large glass of his
favorite beverage, gin and water. Emily
soon recovered, under judicious treatment,
and was carefully attended to. And in the
morning they both were sufficiently recov
ered to be able to see each other. Mrs.
Drummond caught Henry in her arms as
ho entered the room, and embracing him
with a mother's affection, led him to her
(laughter, who, seated in a cushioned chair,
sweetly smiled on him as ho took and pres
sed her extended hand. As he gazed on
her pale, beautiful face, a new emotion fil
led his bosom.—lio had never thought of
Emily, other than the child of his protector
and benefactor; but the accident of the pre
vious evening, had opened his eyes as to
the true stnte of his feeling toward her.--
lie thought her beautiful before, but now
she seemed to out rival her former self in
loveliness• lie loved! Mrs. Drummond,
perceiving, we suppose, the truth of the old
adage, "two is company, three is none,"
pleaded sonic excuse, and left them to ex
press their heart-felt congratulations to each
other.
. 'Henry,' said Emily, as the door closed
on her mother, 'how shall I express the
gratitude I owe you. flow shall I repay
the kindness of lnst evening?' as she uttered
this laet sentence, the tears suffused her
eyes, and after a momentary struggle, tad,
gently down her cheeks.
'lndeed, Miss Emily, I am more than
repaid,' he answered, drawing his chair to
her side. 'Each ono of those tears cancels
forever the trifling serviee . l have rendered.
I am, indeed, too happy in having been the
humble instrument."
'You are too generous, Harry!' eh© said,
n a low musical tone.
'Nay, how else can I pay all the kind.
news your family have shown me. Your
approbation of my action is the best, the
greatest reward I can claim.'
As ha said this, her 'kerchief dropped
from her hand to the footstool, on which
her small and delicately shaped foot rested.
They both inclined to reach it, and as they
did so, Henry's lips slightly pressed her
classic-brow. Both relinquished their pur•
pose; and Emily, recovering herself, cast a
timid, but not offended look at him. We
know not what expression beamed forth
from that eye, bet • the cheek and counte•
nonce of Emily instantly colored with its
deepest dye.
'Forgive me!' exclaimed he. 'I love you,
Emily—dearest Emily. I love you!'
'Henry!' was all that the agitated maiden
could reply. Her bead dropped on his
Shoulder, and the happy youth stealing his
arm round her wrist, pressed her to his ex
ulting heart.
At this very critical moment the door
open• d, and Mr. Drummond entered. A
look of mingled surprise and astonishment
at the scene before hirn, was depicted in his
features. The lovers, however, were so
wrapt in their emotions, that they saw him
not. Perceiving that he was unnoticed, he
secretly withdrew from the room, and left
them undisturbed in their happiness.
There is something connected with the
associations of arm-chairs and lovers' dec
larations, that few think of them jointly,
without a smile and a sigh for by-gone brurs.
An old arm-chair is mostly a family heir
loom, and though in their days, it is more
generally consigned to the care of the nurse,
than to be comfort of the boudoir, yet to me
it always presents an object of curiosity and
wonderment. How many a tale of love has
been whispered by our antiquated forefa
thers of the lnstfcentury, in their youth.—
And in their old age, how often has the
sharp shooting pains oft he gout, made them
reflect on what they had been thirty or for
ty years before! The agonizing doubts,
the half-realized suspicions, and the waver
ing confidence in the faith ofothets. Alas!
how often—how harshly have they grated
on the better and kinder feelings of our na
ture, and how often have we buried our
selves in its unchanging embraces,to forget,
if but for n moment, the sad realities of the
present, when compared
,with what had
been our expectations of it in pnst hours!
But a few minutes elapsed, after the un
seen departure of Mr. Drummond, before a
servant entered with a message to 'Mr.
Milman, requesting his presence in the
brary, as soon as he was disengaged.' Hen
ry immediately signified his intention of
waiting on him, and imprinting a kiss on
her rosy lip, left the room. On entering
the library, he found Mr. Drummond seated
at a stroll table, with a package of papers,
and an esctitoir open before him. • He
looked up to Henry, as he advanced toward
where he was seated, and coldly asked him
to 'be seated.'
'Mr. 141ilinen,' ho commenced, (he had
always called him Henry previously,) '1
have sent for you, to discharge the debt I
conscientiously owo you, for your attentions
lo my daughter last evening. And let me
say sir, that the action reflects much credi:
on y our character. Accept this : then, as a
trifling remuneration for the danger you un
derwent.'
As ho finished, ho extended a note of
$5OO to him.
'Sir,' replied Henry, 'there are some ac
tions that money will not recompense. This
slight service of mine, is such an one.'
'You are a young man, I hero donbt
who wishes to enter into business for him
self,' continued Mr. Drummond, without
heeding his obsei vutions. shall be pleas
ed to hear from you whenever an opportu
nity oilers; and shall always seo yca with
plensui e.'
thank you for your kindness, sir; I am
poor, but all the wealth you possess, mild
not buy the feelings which actuated me last
evening.'
'Let me understand you, sir!' said Mr.
Drummond, raising his eyes, without mov
ing his head, to Henry's.
'Mr. Drummond, I have had the honor of
knowing your family since a boy of four
teen; nor am I insensible to the kindness I
have ever experienced from them. I am
now a man; capable of acting and providing
for myself. I have grownup from a child,
with Bliss Drummond—but until this morn
ing. I did not think I entertained a 5-cling
higher than friendship for her. I was airs
taken.'
'Well, sir,' interrupted his listener; •go
ou!' •
'This morning I presumed eo much as to
acknowledge my love for herr
'You did, eh? And what have you to
support your pretension to my daughter's
hand and fortune.'
'An honest name, and a strong, undying
love!'
'Very good qualities, for the hero of a
novel, 1 must confess;' answered sir. Drum
mond, with a slight sneer. 'But the inten
ded husband of my daughter, must have
more and greater influence in society than
these.'
'When you were of my age, err—what
had you, but that which you esteem in me.,
so lightly?'
'Here, Mr. %Imam is your note. But
you must think of my daughter as of s heinz
far above your rank in society.' And ta
king his hat up, and placing the papers in
the escricoir, he added. ‘Ferhaps it would
be better if you called not to see us again,
for the present, at any rate,' and bowing be
left the room
Henry was left in a state of mind not eas
ily to be described. A feeling of contempt
for his sordid and avaricious passions, was
perhaps partly allayed by the reflection,
that he was also Emily's father; and this
too, aided him in soothing his own irritated
and exc;ted mind. To accept the money
he had in ()tiered to him, he was not to do.
He resolved to seek Uncle Felix, and state
to him what had passed; he rose for that
purpose and proceeded to his study.
'Why, how now Henry! What has hap
pened with you my boy?' said be, as he en
tered hie room—lone would think you had
been signing yolir own death warrant.'
fear I have sir, in one respect, button
certainly,' he answered. He then related
the incidents of the morning to him, and hi=
interview with Mr. Drummond. During
the narration, the snuff box came several
times into use. and the large pinches of
.black-rappe,' evinced the strong interes2 he
took in its details; and once o••twice he had
recourse to his 'kerchief. When Henry
had concluded, he took off his 0:d-fashioned
spectacles, and wiping, re-placed them awl
said,
'Henry, I have been thinking myself, this
morning on the probabilities of your fallinff
in love with the girl, and if she was likely
to fall in love with you, I don't see why
money should be a hindrance to you.—
There is nothing like getting married at
once. I will speak to brother about it.—
Are you sure she loves you boy?. But she
must wait till my return—but don't touch
that fowling piece,' and with two or three
more injunctions to the like effect, he left
the room.
Henry had full time for thought,—and
taking up a large quarto, he listlessly turn
ed over the leaves in deep abstraction. He
began to hope, that the reasonings, or rath
er the wealth of Uncle Felix, would base its
due effect on the mind of his brother.—
hi le he was thus arguing with his convic
tions and conjectures what would be the
pro'iable result of the interview of tbe broth
ers, Mrs. Drummond sought her daughter.
She was looking anxiously for the return cf
Henry, —for she instinctively feared her
father would object to a marriage with Hen
ry. As her mother entered, she discovered
the traces of emotion and anxiety on her
countenance.
'Mother!' was all aho could say, as she
threw herself,weeping, in her mother's arm.
'My child!' said Mrs. Drummond, tend.
erly kissing her. 'What has disturbed you
so?'
'He, oves me, mother!' and she told all
that had passed between Henry and hermit.
'And do you love him, my dear child!' in
quired her mother, in an effectior.ate tone.
Emily threw her arm annosd her moth
er's neck, and hiding her blushing face in
her bosom, scarcely whispering, •I do, in
deed dear mother.'
'You have done well, my dear. daughter
in telling me; for I fear your father will be
angry. But you have my consent and Ides
'Thank you, thlnk you! mother,' and she
eagerly kissed ha mother's cheeks. 'And
do you think father will he angryr she tim
idly asked.
fear he will; but hero is Uncle Felix.'
And as she spok., he enter ed.
'Listen' he said, 'brother is getting fool
ish, go talk to him. The young folks must
have their own way in this matter.' And
pulling the hell he told the servant to ask
Mr. Henry down to the drawing-room.
After a few momenta conversation with his
niece, and affectionately bidding them to
keep their spirits up, he left them with an
injunction on Henry not to steal any more
For two hours they were left to the un
disturbed interchange of feeling and love.
It is a singular trait in tho character of lay
, ens, that they can talk n whole day without
intermission on their future prospects, and
present transitory happiness, without their
minds being sated, or their imaginations
cloyed. Poor frail human "nature! That
which is entirely uninteresting to others, is
of more import to them than the rise and
fall of nations to the world. In those two
hours the first affections of the 'happy two'
were plighted to each other. The first con
fessions of a woman's love is like the first
bouquet of spring, a rich and rare present.
Happy is he who gains them, and thrice hap
py is he who 'wins and wears them.'
Uncle Felix on leaving the young people,
hastened to join Mr. and Mrs. Drummond
in the library, and to 'settle the matter in
hand' as he quaintly expressed himself.
'Madam,' said Mr. Drummond, as Unitle
Felix 'entered, have made up my mind
that the young man must henceforth be a
stranger to my house and family.'
'Nay, my dear husband, consider that
they are both attached to each other, and'—
'And,' interrupted Uncle Felix, 'they
must be married. Come brother,' said he,
turning to Mr. Drummond, 'it is no use to
talk after that fashion. i shall settle the
whole of my property on my adopted eon,
and that I trust will remove all scruples on
that score, and if not, all interference on
our part will be useless for I left them to.
gether talking over their future prospects at
a rate that will prevent any thing but a taco
horse overtaking them.'
'Well, Felix, you have out-genera-IPd me,
and as Henry is a worthy young mail I can
not now object to it.'
'l'm glad that you have changed your
mind, brother,' said Uncle Felix, 'for I wait
going to propose to them to run off! But
tat us go and see them!' and ho led the way
to the setting room.
Three months after, a bridal party was
collected at the mansion; never was a hap
pier one assembled under the face of day, or
with brighter auspices. Uncle Felix actu
ally danced at the wedding, and cracked
more jokes than he had over been known to
do before. And it is said that the deacon
clams of that happy pair still reside in the
'white house with the Chinese pavilion.'
MEDICAL PRECEPTS
Health may be as much injured by inter
rupted and insufficient sleep, as by luxuri
ous indulgence.
The debilitated require much more rest
than the robust; nothing is so restorative to
the nerves as sound and uninterrupted sleep.
The studious need a full portion of sleep;
which seems to be as necessary a nutriment
to the brain, as food is to, the stomach.
Our strength and spirits are infinitely
more exhausted by the exercise of our men.
tat, than by the labour of our corporeal lac. 4
allies; let any person try the effects of ire='
tense application for a few hours, he will
soon find how much his body Is fatigued
thereby. although ho has not stirred from
the chair eat upon. .
Those who are candidates for health,
must be as circumspect in the tusk they set
their mind, as in the exercise they give
their bodies. The grand secret seems to be
to contrive that the exercise of the mind and
that of the body may serve as relaxation to
each other. Over exertion and anxiety of
mind disturbs digestion infinitely more than
any fatigue of the body. The brain demands
a much more abundant supply of the ani
mal spirits than is required for the excite.
meat of mere legs and arms.
Those who possess and employ the pow
ers of the mind most seldom attain to a great
age; see "Brunoud do !'Hygiene des Gens
de Lettresa, Paris," Bvo. 181 P; the envy
their talents excite, the disappointment they
often meet in their expectations of receiving
the utmost attentions and respect, which the
world has seldom the gratitude to pay them
while they live, keep them in a perpetual
state of irritation and disquiet, which frets
them prematurely to their graves.
To rest alivhole day after fatigue of either
body or mind, is occasionally extremely
beneficial.
All-healing sleep soon neutralizes the
corroding weight of care, and blunts even
the barbed arrow of the marble•hearted
fiend, ingratitude.
Child of woe, lay thy head on the pillow,
instead of thy mouth to the bottle.
The loss of our first and best friends, our
parents; regret for the past, and anxiety
about the future, prevent the enjoyment of
the present; and are the cause of those ner
vous and bilious disorders which attack most
of ns at the commencement of the third pe.
nod of life; these precursors of palsy and
gout, may generally be traced to disappoint.
meats and anxiety of mind.
Some cannot sleep if they eat any supper;
and certainly, the lighter the meal is the
better. Others need not put on their night
cap, if they do not first bribe their stomachs
to good behaviour, by a certain quantity of
bread, and cheese, dm., and go to bed its•
mediately after.
The best bed is a well stuffed and well
ended horse hair mattress, end six inches
tcz
thick at the head, gradually ditnioiAtaz,s;
three; on thi m noollo.r tri I live or six
inchem in thichnetet; these thould be tin
picked and exposed to the nir once n %ear.
An elastic borne hair muttras4 in incnm•
parably the most plt.atialit, as well as the
most wholesome bc(l.
Bed Tunics slu•ald lie thoroughly ventila
ted, by leaving both the eindow end the
door open every day when the weather is
et cold or dump, during which the !Ad
• could remit) unmade, cud the dollies ho
token nil and spread out for an hour ut least
before the bed is made.
A fire in the bed room is som e times in
dispensable, but not as usually made; it is
commonly lighted only just before bed
time, and prevents sleep by the noise it
makes.
A fire should be lighted about three or
four hours before, and 5o managed that it
may burn entirely out, hall an hour belbro
you go to bed; then the air of the room will
he'comfortably warmed; and certainly more
fit to receive an invalid who has bo:n sitting
all day in a
,parlor as hot as an oven, than a
damp chamber that is cold as a well.
From the Philadelphia North American
REMOVALS FROM OFFICE.—WO I.opo
among the removals front cffice, which the
ins seem to apprehend,und tho oats to elai to,
one man in particular will bo spared. He
is a postmaster in Maine, near the A roes
took line, who, when COI. BARRE tools com
mand of the Post Oflico Dcpartnemt, and
was sweeping all before him in the shape of
reform, addressed him a letter which run
in the following vein:
"MY DEAR COLONEL: The sound of your
broom which is now sweeping the Aegean
stables is echoing among these distant hills;
village and forest are alike filled with dis
may; the birds forsake the woods, the trent.;
bling flies to its mother's arms, and even
strong men find their joints give way--they
shake like Belshazzar a: the visionary kind
that wrote his denth•doom. I tremble for
my have eleven smell children,and
nine of them are girls—it yields mo now
three dollars and thirty seven and a half
cents a year—thls enables me to bay them
sugar-plums, jewsharps, piccantnies,bettides
a"thanksgiven' goose. I cast myself on
your clemency. Ever faithfully, yours."
SHORT BUT Goon.—%V hen a man MIN
Inmselite be in un error he does hut toll you
in other words, that ho is wiser than he was,
A man that do7s the best he 70, does all
that he should do.
If a man cannot find ease within himself,
it is to little purpose to seek it ekowhore.
Choose the course of life which is the
most excellent, and custom will render it
the most delightful.
Be always at leisuril to do good; never
make business an excuse to decline the offi
ces of hurnanity.
Defer not charities till denth;lie that loth
so, is liberal rather of another man's went.th
than of his own.
In the morr.init, think what thou host .to
do; and at night ipit thYself what thou bast
dune. 4;
Spend the dayw.e..ll, and thou wilt rejuice
at night.
Avoid as much as you can 'the company
of an vicious persons whatever; fur no vice
is alone, anel all are intectiouti.
There ate but few who know how to be
idle' and innocent. By doing nothing we
learn to do ill.
A PPETITE9 i c COLD CLIMATE 3..- In the
frozen regions of the Not th, the appetito for
food, and the power of digestion, are com
monly excessive.„ Capt. Cochran, in his
account of a joi*,y threugh IlitsAa and
Siberian Taitary; . lgiveik:*ituo reroarlcible
illustrations of this fact. ' - il4;tnirill ri !chef
states that a Yanku!..informed him; that one
of their men was accustomed to Colwlime nt
home in the spaceof 24 hours,the hind quer.
terof a large ox, 20 pounds of fitt,nnd a pro
portionate quantity of melted laittiir for his
drink. The appearances of the min nut
justifying the assertion, the admiral had a
mind to try his gormandizing powers, and
for this purpose he had a thick porridge of
rite boiled down with three pounds of but
ter, weighing together 29 m] a l.
though the glutton had aheady
he eat down to it with the greatest eit:er
ness and consumed the whole without Lae
ing the spot. Capt. Cochran L.:vs, "f
have repeatedly seen a Yatiktit or a Ten , -
ouse devour 48 pounds of meet in a day; nrid
1 have seen three of these gluttons con unto
a reindeer at one meal." Ile adds-- , • I my
'self have finished a whole fish in a frozen
state, that might have weiiihed two or three
pounds' and with black biscuit and a glass
of rye brandy, have defied either n a ture or
art to make a better meal."--11Ied. Jour.
A Locofoco orator, who wished to gnm
mon some Germans just p.pvions to an der.-
lion, in order to obtain their voteo; otrerv
ed that he was not a German hitns , li, hut
he had a brother who wus remarkably fora
of German sausages.
The Van Burenitus apply the term ',Gran
ny" to Harrison. Gov. AV Ken
tucky in commenting upon this epithet
sometime ago, remarked that Flarritindwas
the most efficient Gunny he ON e r knew; for,
said he, I saw him (Wirer General Proctor
of fiat hundred children in abot4t forty min
utes."
WOIOS OF "Lo STAxnuso."---Tliere
is a family of six brothers Indiat).l, all of
whom voted for Gen. Elsrrison. og
gregato length is forty three feet/
14V"filefri044 , 14potr A ,A