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Office of the Star & Banner
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THE GARLAND.
With sweetest !lowers enrich'd
From various gardens cull'd with care."
BUCKWHEAT CAKES.
The bards of Now England may sing in their
glory,
Of dumplings, and puddings, and rich
leT, pie,"
And thoio Of the South may sulijoin to tho story,
Of bak'd beans and melons that with them can
vie;
The sons of the West have but little to boast of,
Save their mountains and cataracts, valleys and
hikes;
But such as they have they con well make the
most of,
A elico of fry'd bacon, and hot buckwheat cakes!
Oh hot buckwheat cakes! in a cold frosty morning,
When smoking and light from the griddlo they
With fresh molting butter their surface adorning,
Would strike all the praise of an epicure dumb!
And behold, too, nt ovo, by the fuesldo bright
beaming, '
Where beauty prepares what Industry partakes,
In honey and cream so deliciously swimming,
A full plate of light, smoking Lot buckwheat
cakes !
Ilow sweet thus to feast on the fruits of one's
labour,
The oferings of peace and the viands of health!
To share the rich treat with a friend or a neighbor,
And to feel and to know that "contentment is
wealth."
Like tho boos who prepar'd while thi; blossoms
wore blowing,
Our sons still enjoy while the summer forsakes;
On the , cheeks of our daughters the rose is still
glowing,
At least when preparing our hot buckwheat
Then, yo polo race of Gotham! on hot rolls and
spice-cake .
By Humbert, and Whitlock, and Somerun
dike fed,
Since laalc is your umpire, fur once good advice
take,
And draw mumd the board so invitingly spread,
And, ye cold critics, say not my strain is a
wrong ono,
But unite is good cheer with the hale of the
lakes,
Who'll onvy no groat man, or bend to no strong
Whilo thoy oat thetr own bacon awl hot buck•
, wheat cakes !
MU2C318 5 11124`12ri - -',TC3o
From the Philadolphio . Seturday Courier
STORY Or REAL LIFE.
"Father, shan't I be a carpenter when I
got old enough?"
"Why, my eon?" asked Mr. Ilield.
"0; because I should like to bo one.—
Ned Cameron is going to be, and I want to."
"A carpenter!" exclaimed Mrs. Hield, in
astonishment; "why, Douglass, you must
be crazy. No you shall not!"
"Why not, mother?"
"Because it i 3 vulgar, like all other
trades; and only fit for poor people's eons."
"But, mother, Ned Cameron's parents
are not poor, and they aro willing thr him
to be ono."
"Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Cameron's fathers
were mechanics, and that accounts : for their
vulgarity of taste."
"Well;mother, I have often hoard lath.
er say that yourgrand father was a me.,
chanic, and —"
"Silence! child. Once for all, I tell you
that you shall not be• a mechanic.. You
must either bo a doctor or lawyer, or some•
thing else that is genteel."
"Yes, my son," joined in Mr. Meld
."wouldn't you sooner be a doctor, and ride
.
about in your carriage, or a lavvver, and
become a distinguished orator, thim to be
always attending to the trimming out of
wood, or the raising of houses?"
"Well, I don't know, father. I should
like very'vnuch to ho a carpenter, but if
you think I could not be a gentleman at the
same lime, why I shall give up the idea."
Mc. and Mrs. field, between whom, and
their only child, the above conversation
took place,were people of moderate fortune,
residing in a comfortable mansion in the ci
ty of Philadelphia. Like too many others,
they had imbibed the senseless opinion—
!f we may be allowed so to express our
selves—that of all things, a mechanical
trade was the most vulgar, and that if they
wished their son to be a gentleman, he must
earn his livelihood, not by hie hands, or by
his hands and brains, but by his brains a
lone. It is a curious notion this, that pa
rents have, and yet what is still more curi
ous, when they come to this conclusion, they
never concern themselves to know whether
or not ho possesses enough of the latter
article to support him in life. And ninety
times out of a hundred, the child has not;
though it was not so in the present case, for
Douglass field, who was now fourteen
yenrs of ago, gave indications of possessing
a quick and powerful intellect. Yes! we
say it is a curious notion parents , have, that
a mechanic cannot bo a gentleman. Why
the most perfect gentleman that ever lived
on earth, was He who came to 'die that we
might live,' and tie was a mechanic. Yes!
he who died on Calvery, deemed it not be
neath his dignity to 'earn his bread by the
sweat of his brow,' and he, it is declared in
holy writ, was gentleness itself. In his life
on earth, he set to man a true example of
the character of a gentleman, and he who
does his best to imitate , it, be he rich or
poor, is owner of the title. Why then, do
parent& withhold their sons from trades?—
Why do they sneer at the appellation of
mechanic? Is it one to bo ashamed of,
when He who is greater than all on earth
was not? Besides let such parents look up
on the history of this, the most enlightened
country in the world, and mark upon its pa
ges its greatest men. What were they?
The greater majority of them were mechan
ics and almost all of them have labored for
their support with their hands. Nay, look
at the great men of other nations —the truly
great—trace their histories back, crud you
will find the same result. But to our story.
Mr. and Mrs.,' Cameron's conduct was
different from the fields. When their son
expressed a wish to become a mechanic,
they did not oppose him in that wish, and
endeavour to force him into a profession for
which he had no inclination. They were
as well to do in the world as the fields, and
could with as much ease, have supported
their child through the course of studies
requisite for a lawyer, or physician—but
they deemed neither more respectable than
a trade. Besides, they knew that whatev.
er tho young mind is boot upon, that it will
pursue with avidity, and raise its owner or
at least maintain him in life.
Three years rolled by since the conver
sation recorded above between the field
family, during which time Douglass field
was preparing for college—for he had de.
termined upon becoming a lawyer—and
Edward Cameron was receiving an cdu
cation suitable for making him a learned
and distinguished mechanic, At the expira
tion of that time, the former took his depar
ture for ono of the learned institutions of
our country, and the latter became nppren
ticod to ono of the best carpenters of Phila.
delphia.
* * *
Six years have passed since the period at
which our gory commenced.
In the parlor of a plain, though cornier.
tably furnished house, in a pleasant part of
the city, sat two beings, both young and
handsome, a gentleman and lady. The for
mer possessed a high and lofty brow that
told of intellect and intelligence; a fine con•
tour of features, and a somewhat slight, yet
manly form- We have said he was young,
yet in his countenance there seemed to
dwell a slight shade of care and inelanchol
ly. Whilst conversing with the lady his
dark hazel eyes beamed with a sparkling
brightness, but soon again it would flee, and
a troubled, anxious expression take its
place.
The lady was a being of loveliness and
beauty. Light and fq►ry was her form
—exquisite the outline of hor features—and
soft and mild, her eves of Heaven's blue.
Tho hues of the rose and lily were blended
upon her cheeks, and the raven's plume
wore no darker shade than the curls that
clustered around her snowy forehead.—
Her voice was clear and thrilling as the
wildwood bird, and when she spoke to him
it seemed to wear a still more witching tone.
For some moments they sat in silence, his
arm encircling her waist, and his eyes bent
affectionately upon her. At length he
spoke as if continuing a conversation,
"Yes, Marten, I long for the day when
I may call you my own—my own dear wife;
but I fear it must be long hence."
"Why, Douglass? why do you talk thus?
My mother would not withhold her consent,
for she loves you as it mother does her son."
"I know it—l know it. 'Tis not that,
Marian. lam too poor!"
"Poor! then I will share your poverty."'
"No, no; talk not of it," said ho with e
motion; "I could not dare subject you to it.
Besides, I swore, when first 1 started in
life, that never would I call a woman wife'
until 1 could give her a worthy. home. I
love you, Marian, and I would not see you
live in poverty—perhaps in want. But 1
mast to my office," he added "some lucky
God-send may come to me yet."
Ile imprinted a kiss upon her cheek, and
then putting on hie gloves and hat, he de-
parted.
lie walked slowly along after quitting
the house, for it• was a beautiful moonlight
evening in Spring, meditating upon his
&unsettle prospects. A deep sigh QM and
G. W.A./SZINC-TOll :BOWEN, azziron, & PROPMIZITOP..
"The liberty to know, to utter, and to argue, freely, is above all other libertiee.”—MlLTON
6.waluixazarata...pcno. wunee Dais o e110P.1201.122ZU sa,aada.
anon arose from his bosom, and hiiAnnd
was raised at intervals as if to dasli ) away
a tear. He heeded not the gay throng that
passed him by, but strode moodily onward,
wrapped in his gloomy reflections.
"Yes! I am poor--a poor gentleman—a
poor lawyer!" he muttered bittterly.—
Li Would to God I wore but a poor mechan
ic, then could I work, and earn my daily
broad nt least. But lam &gentleman law
yer! My parents—peace to their ashes
—scorned to make me an honest workman
and made me choose one of the professions,
all of which are already overstocked. I
went through college triumphantly, through
all, my studies—l was admitted to practice,
but I have had little practice—very little!
The little money my parents left me at
their death, has now wasted away, and I
am almost penniless. Good God! what
shall I do? I cannot work—l know not
how. The playmates of my youth aro
tact rising around me. Edmund Cameron,
who my mother taught me to shun, because
he was a mechanic, has long ago taken a
bride to a comfortable house, but me—l
have none for myself
Thus he walked on for several squares,
when suddenly he was startled,by hearing
his name pronounced. Ho looked up.—
A gentlemanly looking young man with a
fine open countenance, stood before him.
He immediately recognised him, and
stretched forth his hand.
ing?" said the other, grasping it; "I have
not seen you for several weeks. Why
don't you come to see us oftener? Come,
go home with me now, and spend the even
ing with me—will you,"
"I'd rather not, Ned," said Douglass,
hesitatingly."
"Yes, but you must. Come!" and he put
his arm through that of his friend, end
they walked on.
• "How is your business, Ned?" said
Douglass, as they proceeded. • •
"It is very brisk at present. I . have con
tracted to put up twenty houses this sum•
fuer, and 1 expect to realize a handsome
profit. HoW is it with you?" •
"Bnd enough in all conscience. I was
just contemplating my prospects when you .
Met me, and came very near cursing my
parents for making me what I am, instead
of a good mechanic, like yourself. What
I shall do I know not."
"I feel for you, indeed," said Cameron,
warmly; but you should not despair—:still
hope on."
"Aye, I have hoped, till I have grown
sick upon it. Day after day passes, and
still no clients. God knows what I shall
du!"
They walked on in silence, for Cameron
felt too much sorrow to speak comfort.
In a short time they arrived before a
neat, three story brick dwelling, and
entered. It was the house of Ed
mund Cameron. They proceeded along a
neat furnished entry, to a comfortable draw.
ing-room, where sat a female engaged with
her needle. It was Cameron's wife.• She
was a fine looking woman, with - a pair of
bright black eyes, and a countenance full
of sweetness and mildness. She arose as
they entered, and the manner in which
she greeted them, showed that her breed
ing had been good. She welComed Doug
lass with a winning smile, and sincere
warmth. Laying aside her sewing when
they were seated, she sat down and joined
them in conversation, for she was as intel
ligent as she was gentle.
The evening was well advanced when
Douglass started fur his boarding house.
Cameron put on his hat, and walked with
him to the corner of the square in which ho
resided. As they were about to part he
said—
"Now, Douglass, if there is any way in
which I can help you, do not tail to call up
on me. If you aro in want of money at
any time, come to me, and I will lend yon
what I can. Do not think this impertinent
in me; I take the privilege of an old friend,
and J speak to you as it you wore my broth.
or. Do not let any feelings of false pride
hinder you from applying to me in your
need, but come as you would to one of your
nearest kin."
"You are kind, Ned—you are a true
friend, indeed. But—"
"Your pride will not allow you to accept
kindness at my hands. There—those are
not perhaps the very words you were going
to use, but it is what you meant to say. I.
tell you throw such feelings aside, and come
to me without reserve."
"Perhaps so. Many thanks to you.—
Good night."
"Good night."
It was a cold, stormy, blustering night,
some three years subsequent to the date
last spoken of. The wind howled in shilling
gusts through the almost deserted streets of
Philadelphia. The rain and sleet fell fast
and thick. No stars wore to be seen in
the firmament, but ono thick impenetrable
pall of gloom shut its beauties from the
Bight. It was a dismal night—such an
one as makes the poor feel the pain of pov.
erty, and the rich the worth of wealth.
It was on snch a night, that a wietched
being was thrust rudely forth from one of
the many low rum shops that infest the low
er part of the oity. He lay for some mo•
meats afterwards upon the pavement, and
then slowly raised himself upon his feet.
The rays of a street lamp near by, that fell
upon him, shc,wed
. a wan, emaciated
figure, half clothed, and that iu filthy rag.
gednoss, disgusting to behold. An old bro
ken hat was slouched over - his face, and
"Ah, Douglass, how are you this ' oven-
4 ♦ *
the remaining portions of what bad once
been boots scarce hung to his feet. After
raising himself up, he muttered some deep
and fearful curses upon the inmates of the
house, and then staggered elf.
_Threugh tho raviiigs of the pitiless
storm, he proceeded i on for many squares,
at a brisk rate; but as he approached the
heart of the city, his gate became more
and more feeble, until from cold and intox•
ication he sank upon the stoop of a large
now house in a state of insensibility. For
the space of half an hour, or more, ho lay
there, exposed to the inclemency of the win
try blast. At first, a groan would ever and
anon arise from his bosom, but gradually it
grew weaker and weaker, until eventually
it ceased and ho became as noiseless as
'the marble whereon his body Teeter!. .
At length, through the darkness and
gloom that in spite of the street lamps pre
vailed, two men carrying lanterns,approach
ed the spot whore the wretched being lay.
Tho badges they wore upon their hats, and
the slew pace at which they walked, showed
them to Lo city watchmen, who were going
their hourly rounds. They were convers•
ing as they came along, but tho noise of
the storm almost drowned what they
uttered.
"God take care of the poor this night!"
eatd one, as they arrived nearly opposite the
house.
"Yes, so say I," responded the other;
"'faith, it's a hard evening."
They pulled their hats closer upon their
brows, and were passing on, when a ray of
light from ono of their lanterns fell upon
the stoop, and discovered to them its occu
pant.
"Good God!" exclaimed the one who had
spoken first before; "hero's a poor devil,
stiff enough. Come, wake up. Aro you
asleep?" said he, as he shook the inanimate
form.
4.lche's boon lying there long in this
cold, he'll not be easily vrakened,"remark.
ed the other.
!‘That's a fat!, Peter. Poor fellow!
what'll we do with him? Jr he's not dead
now, ho would be against we'd got him• to
the wateh•house."
"That he would. S'pose wo ring up the
people of tho house, and have him taken in,
so that we can see if there's any life in him
yetV'
“Yes, but it seems to be a mighty grand
house, and maybe they wouldn't be very
ready to trouble themselves for a poor fel-
low creature.”
"Don't you believe that, Charley. Sure,
theie's not a kinder hearted man in the
ward nor Mr. Cameron. He's a perfect
gintlemen; and as for his wifo, there's never
a more rale lady living. No 'poor fellow
creature,' as ye sny, 'is over turned away
from their door."
"Rouse them, then, for the sooner we
Rot him in the better, if there's any life in
him yet. which I much doubt."
His companion ascended the steps and
rang the bell, besides which ho gave sever
al lusty raps upon the door. In a few
moments a window was hoisted overhead,
and a voice inquired who was there, and
what was wanted:
"Here's a poor sowl, here, Mr. Came
ron," said he whom his comrade called Pe
ter, who's freezing to death on your steps,
and we want to know it you'd be kind
enough to let us bring him in to the fire.
sir?"
"Certainly. Wait n moment, and I will
come down and open the door."
Soon after, the door was opened, and our
old friend, Edmund Cameron, now the
inhabitant and owner of the "grand house,"
as the watchman called it, appeared in a
morning gown and slippers.
"Bring him in, friends," said he to the
watchmen, who lifting tho stiffened body
from the steps, bore it in.
"Follow me," said Cameron, when ho
had shut the door; and he led the way into
the dining room, where a warm fire was
burning in the grate. Wheeling a so fa
near it, he bade them lay their burden down,
and each speed away for a physician.
At this moment, Mrs. Cameron and
female servant entered, with restoratives—
cordials, dic. They removed some of his
ragged habiliments, pulled his toots from
his feet, and took his ,hat front qla head.—
Having done so, they proceeded to use all
the means they knew of, to restore him.—
All their efforts, however, were in vain: no
signs of animation cheered their exertions.
At length, almost at the same instant,t he
two doctors sent for, arrived. They pro
ceeded immediately to operations; all their
fertile minds could suggest, they tried. All,
however, was useless, and they at last pro
nounced him beyond the roach of their skill.
During the lime they were engaged in
trying to restore him, Mr. Cameron had
been intently occupied in surveying the
features of their patient.
"Is it then so!" he exclaimed, as the
physicians gave their opinions, the tears
streaming down his manly cheeks.
" Tim even so!" responded one - of the
physicians. "But, Mr. Cameron, you weep
for him as if he were a friend."
"lie once was, sir E and one whom I dear
ly loved," answored he. "During your
operations, I have been scanning his well
known features, and they cannot be mista
ken. • Yes, he who lies before you, was not
always thus degraded. You may have
known him too, air. His name was Dou
glass Hield."
"I did indeed know Douglass
We passed through college together. But
this cannot be him!"
"Would it were not true! But that face
(was too deeply engraven on my memory darts of unkindness? Memory presents it.
when we were schoolmates, to ,be forgot I Have we performed netlons of generosity?
ton. It is a painful fact.' I Have the desolation of the widow been
"But how came ho to this condition?" ; cheered and the low !Mess oldie orphan
inquired the doctor. ""He
Suns
law, if ; been relieved by IA Has t h e path of one
I recollect aright, and ho %Vn9 intelligent ; helividual lost a thorn by our instrumental.'
and learned." i ity, or• the wreath of love had one rose ad•
"I will tell your how it war," said Mr. !dad by our hands! Delighted with the oc-
Cameron. "Ile did, as you say, study ; curronce, rnoniory repe n t s it i n ~treine, of
law, and he was indeed intelligent, and a, exultation. Crowded into this narrow pe•
learned and a finished scholar. Just before i tied, the moments resemble the waves that
lie was admitted to the bar, his parents both , how dance in the sunlight to the nsusic of.
died of a fever then prevalent. His father ! the breeze, and now flow on in solemn si
had been thought to have been in good cir.i-lenee beneath the shade of over banging
cumstances, and I believe was until with- I boughs. But does the past alone employ
in a short time of his death; when by the i the fugitive hour? That hour, inngination
failure of some speculation in which he was also makes her own. Whatever may have
engaged, he lost very nearly his all; so that hindered its operation is now retrieved.
when he died, his legacy to his son was but !Loftier and freer than ever soars its wing.
scanty. Well, Douglass, as I have said,loVer the highest summit it easily rises,
was admitted to practice. You know,' borrowing life from death itself.
Doctor, the trials of a young profeesional The ds lug hour! It is then that time
man—of a new beginner :n any of them— and we are parted. Though he may have
I dare say, by experience?" led us over a, diversified way, we then for
"I do, indeed, sir,"
responded Dr. S—. sake him; he continuos to travel on in his
"How day after day, and night after own course but.we are ushered into a new
night, he sits in his office idle, praying and I condition. Cares ceass to distress- . The
hoping that the next hour, or the next day, ' last, tear falls troni the eye, the last . sigh
may bring some employment with it: bow escapes from the bosom. Darkness. with.
that hour or that day passes, and still leaves ers upon the earth, relieved only. _by thet
him as did those that preceded it; how his pure light which, proceeding from Heaven,
heart sickens, and he grows almost mad bath power to gild the closing scene.—
with disappointment, and his bosom tills Mortality, shrink not from this hour? Bur
with despair—and poverty stares him in sue virtue—let religion be thy study. 0
the face. "Well, so it was with him.— man, and whenever and wherever the event
The little he had from hiS father soon west. occurs, it shall find thee happily prepared.
ed away, and ho was left without a dollar. Whether death meet thee at the door when
I offered to loan him some if ho were in midnight reigneth, or mid-day pours its
need, at any time, but his proud spirit tide of glory on the world—whether it meet
would not let him accept it. He loved a thee amid the consolations of home, or the
lovely girl, and he would have made her privations of a stranger's country—whethee
his wife, but he was too noble to lot her it meet thee on the uprising billow, or in
share his poverty. Strange a soul so noble the fruitful plain, its stern brow shall bear
can thus become debased! He struggled a soft and holy expressiOn, and its angry
on for Some time manfully, but at length voice shall speak uo tones but those of peace
ono day he was arrested, and thrown 'into and love.
jail for debt which he had been compelled
to contract. I heard ea, and immediate•
y obtained hie released. Ho thanked me
warmly for my generosity, but _from that
day he was lost. His proud spirit had
received a fatal stab. He forgot his love,
his former respectability, and all, and plung•
ed headlong into destruction. In gadibhng
and drinking, he sought to forget the past,
and, oh! Doctor, too surely he forgot the
future. For the last year I had heard
nothing of him. A few months ngo, she
whom he dearly loved--but alas! whose
heart he broko—was laid in
,the grave; he
will lay beside her in a few days• Poor
fellow! what a wreck—a shattered wreck!"
•Reader! our tale is ended, and we have
but a little more to say. It is this: we hope
you will ponder well upon what we have
written. You may say it is an overdrawn
picture. We tell you it is not, for it is not
only taken from real lite, but from real
facts. You may also, say that professions
are as profitable as trades. We grant it.
To those few who are so fortunsie as to
rise in them, they perhaps aro more so; but
they are so overstocked, that two•thirds of
heir members can scarce obtain a living;
whilst all who are masters of a mechanical
trade can, if they are sobor and industrious,
always oThnin a comfortable one and moro
often than in professions, a wealthy inde
pendence.
e...--
TH E DYING HOUR.
If the experience of the dying hour could
be faithfully written, the thoughts that then
till the brain, like the last inhabitants of a
crumbling temple, and the feelings that
then occupy the chilled heart, be revealed
to the eye of sense, what a view would be
displayed! The period of dissolution brings
with it emotions of a peculiar character.
There are at that time operations through
which the soul never before passed. Noth
ing appears in its old aspect. Like a
splendid hall hung in new drapery, each
object wears a different dress. Opinions,
that the strongest force of argument could
not repeal or Withdraw from the mind, then
hastily depart; prejudices that rooted them
selves more and more deeply at every at
tack, then bend before the blast; cherish.
ed feelings, that the bosom had ever clung
to, then are hated; and desires that had
ever found a home beside affection's altar,
then are banished. What fearful change
is this,'that then befalleth the spirit? Are
the faculties then eo weakened as to pre
vent it from thinking and feeling aright?—
No, it now sees things as they are. False
hood has ceased to obscure its, vision.—
Truth, long deprived of her authorit), long
forced to crouch like a slave,obtains her
rightful station, and shows that the preten
ded nature of the world is Verr unlike its
real character. 0 what an hour is this!
When the soul is aroused to the true rola-
lions of objects—when mistakes are seen,
but alas, too late for correction—when eter
nity's importance and awe enter into the
decisions, wishes, and feelings of the mind!
The hour of death! In this brief space
the past is reviewed. However treacher
ous memory may. have been on a thousand
occasions, she now acquits herself with fi
eelity. Omits she new to unroll the rec
ord, which her hands had so often clasped?
Is she like the trumpet that bloweth
an 'uncertain sound?' Life's history her
tongue now repeats—scenes, forgotten
scenes are recalled, and buried events are
brought up before the eye. Over the lout;
path which we have made, she leads Us /
hero she stops to meditate on seine dark
deed; here she shows another way into
which passion. hurried us. Have we inji.t•
red friends? Have the true and fund bosoms
on which wo rented been pierced by the
c`i-(!)0 Clleo
TUE EFFECT OF POVERTY ON TILE MIND.
—Dr. Charming thus sensibly doscribes the
narrowing and depressing effect of poverty
on the intellectual powers:
"The condition of the poor is unfriendly
to the action and unfdding of the intellect,
and a sore calamity to a rational being.—
In most men, indeed, the intellect is nar
rowed by exclusive cares for the body. In
most, the consciousness, of its excellence
is crushed by the low uses to which It is
perpetually doomed. But' still in most, a
degree of activity is gtven to the mind, 'by
the variety and exteat of their Aiketior.
wealth or substance: The bodily %Q MS of
most carry them in a measureinto ; thefu,
ture, engage them in enterprisca*, , requiring
invention, sagacity and
It is the unhappiness of the:POOr that.
they are absorbed in immediate wants in
providing for the passing day, in obtaining
the next meal, or throwing off a present
burden. Accordingly their faculties 'live
and move, or rather pine and parish,' in
the present moment. Hope and imagina
tion, the wings of the soul, carrying it for
ward and upward, languish in the :nor; for
tho future is uninviting. The darkness of
the p...lient breeds over coming years. The
great idea, which stirs up in other mon a
world of thought, the idea of a better lot,
has almost faded from the poor man's mind.
Ile almost ceases to hope for his children
as well as himself.
Even parental love, to many the chief
quickener of the intellect, stagnates through
despair. This poverty starves the mind.—
And there is another way in which it pro
duces this ('ffect, particularly worthy , the
notice of this assembly. The poor have no
society beyond their own class; that is, be.
yond those who are inclined to their own
narrow field of thought. We all know that
it is contact with the more tictive and soa
ring, from which intellect receives its chief
impulse. Few of us could escape the para
lyzing influence •of perpetual intercourse
.with the uncultivated, sluggish, and nar
row minded; and here we soo what I wan
particularly to bring to view how very poor
is the boasted civilization ufnur times which
is built so much upon the idea of property.
in communities little Advanced in opulence,
no impassable barrier separates different
classes as among ourselves. The least im
proved are not thrown to a , distance from
those who through natural endOWtnent or
peculiar excitement, think more strongly
than the rest; and why should such division •
exisi any where? flow cruel and unchris
tian are the pride - Mid prejudice which form
the enlightened into a caste, and leave the
ignorant and depressed to strengtheo and
propagate prejudice and error without end."
--...00 %.,.._
A pailful of lye, with'a piece of copper
as halt as big.as n ben's egg, boiled in it,
will produce a fine nankeen color, which
will not wash out. This ie very useful for
the linings of bedquilts, comforters W.
Farrier.
11 1 / a uxo nu m' Tittins.-11'hon .
.you
wish to procure
. 7,4.1111 g t 1 iTS of a particular
kind off , nit for tree-planting, dig around'
the old tree until ou roam to a healthy,
growing rer,t, which cut ad', and
.turn the
end of the detached per tion out of. the
ground. It will produce
.shoots the , first
Beason, and in a few yearn bear fruit of the
Berne kind as the parent tree . . . ,
CONVICiED OF MunDtl2.-... - NiellUlas Ri
enhardt has been enr.victed of murder in
the first degree for taking the life of Coorid
R• Crist, in, Berke county,_E'u• v± hen re,
mended to pri:Am, he bled pergiated in bite
innocence.