Newspaper Page Text
51 Journal of political anb General Jttfos-^n 5Ubotatc of €pal Jligbts.
VOL. IX._BATH, THURSDAY MORNING, JUNE 29, 1854. no. 2. <£[u (Eastern (Sinus IS PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY MORNING, BY GEO. E. NEWMAN, Editor n u <1 Proprietor. Office in north end of Planet's Block, thit*) story^ corner of Front ilrtd Broad Streets Termo* If paid •trictly in atlvanct—per r J If payment is delayed 6 in<*., “ „ If not paid till the close of **« >’ear’ -’w Vn natter will lie dtacontinueil Until AtL ARKKARAUKS ure£ud,unl£s It th“ption of the publisher. O* Single copies, fottr cents—for sale at the office, and at Stearns’ Periodica) Depot, Centre Street. j-y in letters ami communications to be aililressed post PAID, to the Publisher, Batli, Me. 8. M. Pkttbscill & Co., Newspaper Advertising Agents, Na. 10 State Street, and V. B. I’almkk, Scollay’s Building, Court Street, Boston, are Agents for this paper, anil are authorised to receive Advertisements and Subscriptions for us at the same rates as required at this office. Their re ceipts are regarded as payments. From the New York Atlas. A STORY OF A CHILD. BY THE AUTHOR OF “ REBELS AND TORIES.” « Tlie birth of a child is the imprisonment of a soul.” It was a lovely boy—born in the bleak and barren months of winter, when the earth w as clothed in its garment of w hite, and the brandi es of the old forest trees—the hemlocks, the cedars and the pines—bowTed heavy headed to the earth, loaded down with a cumbrous weight of frozen rain. It was a low-roofed cottage in the country '—homely and homelike. Its windows were low and diminutive—the panes of glass old fashioned seven by nine, with frames weather beaten and brown, over which hung the pent eaves, dripping with icicles. Huge piles of wood were thrown up against the end of an outbuilding that stood but a few yards from the house, at the end of which a flock of sheep were browsing—nipping the tender buds from the tips of the white-maple branches, or eat ing the bark from the trunks. The old ham siood near at hand, crippled and decayed, but well stocked with hay and grain ; while ranged in stalls, stood about twenty head of cattle, the chief places being assigned to a noble pair of oxen, brindled, and with star foreheads. Next to these were stancheoned a fine yoke of three year old steers, then came Ihe cows, matronly and milk-eyed, with the heifers and younglings bringing up the line. As you stood in front looking at their meek faces, what perfume came from their breaths —what delicious odor pervaded the place, sweeter than new milk, or fresh trodden clo ver. In a stall opposite stood the horse—the faithful servant of the family for years, but now getting old and weary, and, withal, pos sessing a seeming consciousness that his la bors were almost at an end. Food lie took sparingly, and mashes had to be carefully pre pared for him. lie had been the family horse for seventeen years. He had drawn them to meeting every Sabbath for unnumbered sea sons ; he had been with them to many a holi day festival, and paraded his master on ‘train ing day,' over the mimic field of battle, and no war-horse ever felt prouder, or pranced more gaily to the notes of the bugle ; he had done many a good day's work upon the farm, ^ and load after load of produce had he taken to market, bringing holuc in return, i;jc essary articles as the farm would not produce. But his day now was well nigh spent; the sun was setting upon his long term of service, and as the veteran nibbled among his food, lie sighed heavily W ith occasional faint groans. Let not the reader smile. There are ani mals that seem to have a knowledge of what death is—an instinctive feeling of his approach many, many days before the last breath is drawn. The horse and the dog w ill serve for instances. They seem to feel the approach of the grim tyrant—to understand his presenoo in the death of companions—to he sensible ' that sucli is to be the inevitable fate of them selves. Thus felt poor old Jupiter in his stall. The night was drawing on apace. The fowls had gone to their roost, and the cattle began to lie down in their stalls ; they had been fed lor the last time. Twilight brooded over the scene, and lights began to glisten through the windjws of the cottage, and the shadows upon the walls of the old wainscotted kitchen, moving to and fro, indicated the prep arations that were going on inside for the far mer’s homely meal. Let us peep into the windows, however rude it may be, and study the scene that there may be presented. Seat ed nearly in front of the large, old-fashioned fire-place, sat the patriarch of the household —a stalwart, strongly built man, of three score and ten. His hair was scarcely tinged with gray, while his teeth, that glimmered occasionally in the fire-light, as his lips were were ever and anon parted to give expression to a thought or a passion, that flitted like cloud or sunshine over stern but classic features— were white and regular, almost as in youth. Pots and kettles were suspended from hooks and trammels that hung upon bars placed high up the chimney ; while before the fire were baking two or three cakes, one of which was made of Indian meal, flanked on each side by s short cakes,’ made of the whitest and sweet est of flour. With an iron baker, or shallow kettle, with live coals heaped well upon the cover, were baking and browning a score or so of the most delicious potatoes. In the cen tre of the floor stood the table, spread with its white linen cloth, set with dishes and brightly polished knives, huge platters, and the family silver—what there was of it—and all the re quisite paraphernalia of a farmer's supper ta ble. Busily attending to the preparations, ranged about ;he room the matron, in home spun dressed, while two young ladies—her daughters—were sitting at a side-table, busily employed with their needle-work. The wood was piled up bravely upon the hearth-dogs, and its bright and cheerful blaze cast grotesque figures upon the walls and ceilings from ob jects along the room. But we have not yet finished the picture. In one corner of the fire place, seated upon a low stool, was a blue-eyed, flaxen-haired boy, of about five years of age. His features had something soft and winning in their ex pression, and regular withal, and chiseled as finely and as classically as ever form sprang from the virgin marble at the inspiration of the poet. His lips were scarce parted, while his eyes, arched by faintly penciled brows, were fixed upon the fire, as though in deep thought, or making pictures in the glowing coals, llis hands were clasped upon his knees, and his whole attitude seemed one of intense thought or calm repose. The only perceptible motion about him, was at times when his thin and transparent nostril slightly expanded or con | traded, or tha pupil of his eye dilated, as it ! were with a thought of wonder. It was a I beautiful study for an artist—that figure and attitude, all so harmonized and beautiful.— One could scarcely believe but that an angel dwelt within, so sinless and harmless seemed that living creature—so pure and unearthly that shape of human mould. The supper is ready ; the family is seated at the table : but where is Willie* Unper ceived, and silently as creeps a shadow across a lawn, had he left the room. Hut Willie must have his supper, and so they call him about the house, and out at the door, but still no answer from Willie ; and so they search. Out by the wood-pile and in tiie shed ; at the kennel of the dog, and where the chickens roost; but still no Willie. ‘ Perhaps he has gone out to the barn,’ says one of the young women. ‘ You know that Jupiter is not well of late, and lie and Willie arc great friends ; and Willie is much worried about him.’ The lantern was lighted, and the master of the house, accompanied by his two daughters, wended their way to the barn. By this time the stars were shining, and the cold beams of the moon glittered over the snow-clad plains, and through the branches of the old apple or chard. As they approached the barn, their ears were saluted with groans and lamenta tion, and entering, and holding the lantern over into the stall of Jupiter, they beheld the faithful beast, flat upon his side, in the last throes of death, and little Willie upon his knees beside him, with his arms around his neck, sobbing most piteously. * Oh, don't die, Jupe, dear said the child, ‘don't die, Jupe, dear! What will poor \Y illie do if you go away and leave him? I shall die, too, if you go and leave me. Oh, don’t, don't die.’ And the poor dumb boast partly raised his head, and gazed affectionately and intelligent ly at the child, as though he would commii* nicate his thoughts and tell him all it suffered and felt, and bid him farewell forever. And then came such a piteous moan from his deep chest, and his flesh quivered in agony, and beads of froth began to gather round his mouth and the sweat to reek from his sides. It was a sad and piteous sight—enough to touch the stoutest heart; and yet poor Willie hung around his favorite's neck, and mourned for him, and wept as though his little heart would break, lit vain was all remonstrance ; the child would not be quieted, hut still persisted in his lamentation, using the Kindest terms of endearment, and pleading away death with all the eloquence ot childhood. Hut the struggle was brief; a few short convulsive twitches—a low moan or two, a brightened gleaming of the eye, one look of agonizing appeal, as though beseeching for relief, in his dire ex tremity, and Jupiter, for many years the tried and faithful servant, ceased to breatlio, and night and death spread over his eyes that dark, impenetrable veil, that never through all future time, shall again be lifted ! Thus fear tul is the gloomy king, even in his approach to animals. Poor Willie ! lie believed his first and only friend had gone from him, and it seemed as though there would be no end to his sorrow. Disconsolate and almost heart broken, lie threw himself upon the yet warm body of Jupiter, and burst forth into passionate exclamations ; nor for some time could all ar gument or coaxing induce him to come out of the stall, leave his dead friend, and go into the house ; and when he did so, it was still in tears, still talking and murmuring to himself. And thus lost he his appetite for supper, and he was soon put to bed unappeased, and still in tears, and it was long after midnight ere the poor child got to sleep, wherein, amid his sobs, he still dreamed of Jupiter, or enacted over again the scene of his death. W illie was an orphan. Never knew he father nor mother. Both died soon after he was born, and some distant relatives—those with whom we now see him with—had taken him to ‘ bring up.’ He scarcely knew the name of mother, only as he heard it from other children as he went forth to play with them ; and often on spring nights, when the frogs were singing in the neighboring brooks and swamps, would he lie awake and cry, and when questioned as to the cause, ashamed to confess a weakness which he himself did not understand, he wuuhl ascribe it to a headache, fortunate, indeed, if it were not the cause of his being dosed with medicine. And on long summer days it w’as his chief delight to roam over the fields alone, gathering wild flowers ; or sitting in the tall grass, beneath the over shadowing branches of trees, he would listen to the warbling of birds, or watch the white, fleecy clouds sail along the azure of the sky, picturing them as chariots in which he longed to be riding. Hut his favorite haunts were in the depths of the forest, which he could pene trate, solitary and alone, to its gloomiest re cesses, and sitting down upon a moss-grown log or half-decayed stump, he would listen to the strange and mystic music that came to him from every forest aisle and tree top. There was within him in instinctive sympathy for the surrounding solitude ; it possessed an awo like that with which a cloister inspires a devo tee. i rees to him were mysteries, anil the stones even, anil the moss which covered them and the little ponds, with grass still green up on their bottoms; and the trickling brook, and the smooth pebbles within, and the little in sects that skated briskly over its surface, and those ot every size, that swam in darker and deeper places, or crawled along on the bottom, or along the sedgy margin ; and the birds that flew over his head, or lie anear him, from the hoarse-throated crow, to the diminutive chir rup of the sparrow. All these, and every thing about him, was as full of mystery as the evening skies are full of stars ; and many a setting sun found him still lingering in the forest, far away from home in a blessed dream ot childhood, the sentiment of which was too profound for expression. Nor even did win tcr’s snow deter him. Summer or winter, most pleasant days were sure to find him amid the scenes so dearly familiar to him ; nor even seemed he cold, nor feeble, nor tired of roam ing. Satiety grew not upon him ; for day af ter day, month after month, he visited the same haunts with the same freshness of feel ing. Hut he had a sorrow—above all things he had one sorrow that never left him, night nor day—he had no mother ' lie had no mother. Boor Willie! How should he knowr of a parent he had never seen. Why should he mourn for what he never had possessed ? But he had companions, and he knew that they had mothers, who loved them and cared lor them ; but alas! he was an or phan in the world, without cither parent, and cast among strange kindred, who strove but little to understand the feelings of the child, and who oft times chided him for his strange fancies; and many a time, when for the love of rock or tree, he wandered away from home, blows and harsh words were sure to meet him on his return, yet still undaunted and uncheck cd, his passion thrived. He had often made many inquiries for his mother, and they told him that she was in Heaven. ‘ Ah,’ he would exclaim, ‘ I wish I knew the way, I would g^there in search of her, even though the roadies chocked with stories and briars ! And when out at times with his playmates amid the fields, he would question them of their mothers, and ask them if they were kind to them, and if they ever expected to lose them, as he had lost his. Oh, it is a hard tiling for a young child, be reft of his mother, to be taught the rude, harsh lessons of the world, and the wild, bad pas sions of unbridled thought, in place of prayers. And no one need doubt but that a mother’s eyes, wandering from the pure regions of the blest, beam like the stars in midnight skies, placid ami «alm on those they love ; and, if it were possible, would warn them from the paths of error and of danger ; for the heart of a child is so tender and full of trust, and so full also, of fear, that the simplest grief^vill wring its chords, and the simplest word as quickly bring the sunshine back again—just as a lute will render music as you touch the strings. Therefore, how much caution should be used in the training of a child. It was always a mystery to him why his mother died, when those of his companions lived. He could not conceive why she went away, as lie had been told, locked in the icy house of death. ‘ I don’t know,’ said he ond day to a few 61 his companions who were sitting around him, ‘ 1 don’t know what it is to die ; nor can I seo why it is that me, who can laugh out so mer rily, should not live always under this blue sky.’ And then it was an equal mystery to all the children about, and none could explain why it should be so. They only knew that they had mothers and Willie had none. ‘ Hut I shall see my mother,’ he would say. ; I know the way to heaven. I have seen its gates at sunset, gleaming with gold and pur ple, and I have seen angels standing there, dressed in dazzling robes ; and 1 certainly know that it must be the way to heaven, it looks so very beautiful ; and so some day, when I have been whipped for nothing and treated unkindly—for I am not a slave—I will take Tray, and start for the hills away yonder where the sun sets, and travel onward from there till I reach heaven, and there I know I shall find my mother, and we shall be happy forever ! Alas, for so sweet a boy ! He bad never known the holiness and beauty of a mother's love. lie had never known what it was to have such a being bend over his pillow at eventide, and join her tender tones with his in prayer—‘ Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name !’ He had never felt her warm breath upon his cheek, nor her soft kisses on his brow, yet in his orisons, when he laid his head upon his lonely pillow, and the pale, mellow light of the moon came streaming through the window of his room, throwing a halo around the apartment, and a radiance over his humble cot, illuminating his pure and placid features, he would breathe a prayer of trust and love, in which was blended his mother’s name, with a plaintive supplica tion, that she would come down to him from the blest realms above, to which he knew she had ascended, either a holy spirit or a dove ! This, dear reader, is no faint picture of the imagination. We have seen that boy in his solitary wanderings through the forest, sitting by bubbling springs, or musing by purling brooks, or sleeping in the sweet and fragrant grass, beneath the outspreading branches of the trees. We knaw him when he had no mother to watch over him, and guide him with her counsels. We knew him to be cradled by those who were unconscious that the rose had fragrance, and whose passions were as wild as the sea-scud that flies over some stor my strait of ocean ; and thus was he tutored iu a rude and hard school, without the solace of a tender tone, such as might throw a ra diance over the heart in grief’s most dreary mood, and light with joy a weary solitude ! What wonder, then, that his young heart bounded at the glad sound of happy voices, and gushed with love, like a young bird that rejoices in its first wild flight, or the young kid that gambols amid the sunshine, and over the flowery leas of spring time? What wonder that a shadow of gloom was cast over his young heart, when, midst the echos that flew past him in the forest or in the meadow, the name of Mother made him start —chilled, as it were, like a wanderer in a northern blast! What wonder, when he strayed through pleasant pathways, amid a gay throng of play mates, he begged them to tell him stories about their mothers, and their love, and the blest and pure affections that swell their bosoms ! What wonder! And when he learned from I them the story of a mother’s tender care, and the deep love she cherished for her children, he would raise to heaven his tearful eyes, as though to seek his mother where the purple tint of twilight fades, and the last rays of sun set deepen into night. ‘Oh !’ he would exclaim, * yc are all such happy lads ! Ye all have mothers ; but I only have mine in dreams, and then I see a face so fair and beautiful, bending above my pillow ; or, at times, I visit that lonely place, beneath the weeping willow, where she sleeps sweet and silent, and sometimes seek to trace her name on the cold, white marble at her head. Hut why she died, to me is all so wonderful and strange—and they say she was so beauti ful *’ ^ Thus often made lie a sad and mournful plaint, wlieu he found kindred hearts around him ; and it was a strange sight to see—this bright-haired boy so early tinged with melan choly ; and wearying the atmosphere with his doleful music. It was like the story of a soul imprisoned, to the chains, that hound it: or like the murmur of the sea-shell to the waves that roll! lie bad often said, as wc have stated, that be meant, on some pleasant afternoon, to start on a journey after his mother. He believed she was in heaven—lie had heard so; and when he asked the direction to heaven, he was always told, with hands pointed to the sky, that there lay the happy land—there the golden countrv —there the pleasant hills and happy valleys, and when his eyes scanned the space that lay between him and the rosy hues of even, the distance seemed but short, and the way but easy of travel, to gain the pnnab of that prom ised land of ever-blissful glory. And so, one afternoon, late in the autumn time, after having been chastised and chided for his dreaminess and wandering, lie hade farewell'to a few of his compaiions, and with a little stalT in company with his little dog Tray, he started for itie lull-tups—he started ! for the hill-tops far away disunt, over which ] was shining the golden light of an afternoon's sun. His companions smiled at the conceit, but concealed their laughter, for they loved the child, and they only thought he would go | but a little way, and return ajjain as usual.— And so tiiey watched him Mptft lingering eyes, i till he went over the crest of a little hill in the distance, on his way to the setting sun, and disappeared from their vision, then each one sought his home, thoughtful aid silent, won dering if Willie really was on his way to heaven, and if it was so blest ami happy a land as he had often told them. They were too wonder-stricken u» tell ih»’ir parents what Willie had done, and each that night went to his bed a dreamless, sleepless child. Yes: n illie was on hia way to heaven.— With a manful, brave heart, he travelled on, j through pleasant meadows and skirling forests, and as the last rays of the sun fell upon the landscape, he stood upon a mountain's top, and saw the sun go out of sight away in the far, far distance, over rich valleys and sombre woodlands, and tears filled his eyes when he saw lie was farther away from the goal of his hopes than when he started from the cottage of his kindred. So he sat him down and wept, and called upon his mother, and little Tray ; looked up in his face with wondering eyes, and kissed him, and whined, and little Willie threw his arms around the dog’s neck, and wept abundant tears, and made him a bed of leaves beneath the cedars, and sobbed himself, to sleep, while poor, poor Tray, as mystified as ever dog was, kept watch by. the side of his little master, close huddled up to his windward shoulder. Ah ! w hat dreams possessed that poor boy’s brain that long and solitary night; How many times came his mother down from her blissful home, to cheer him in his lonely slumbers! And the twinkling stars, and. the round full moon, cast their soft and placid beams over the j landscape, and shed as it were, a transient warmness over the spot whereon slept the un conscious Willie, guarded by his faithful Tray. But in the cottage—were there no anxious hearts at home for the absence of that dear child ? You may be sure there were. At first he had been seen to go homeward with some of his companions, and, as often before, he might spend the night with little Harry, and so they need not worry ; but then Harry Erving’s father came in in the course of the evening, and he said the boy was not at his house. And then they grew unquiet. The whole neighborhood turned out, and they searched the country about, and in the barn, and tinder the shed, and down in the well, and at the spring where the cattle went for their water, and at the brook in the meadew below, and down in the swamp, where tne old cow got mired in the summer, and where the bones of old Jupiter were taken to rot. The search was everywhere—everywhere but in the right place, and Willie ! Willie ! was shouted all the country round, to no effect; for still W illie slept, by the side of his little Tray, in his bed of leaves, dreaming all the night long of his mother. Was not Willie in Heaven? Not yet. He was very happy, but not in Heaven ! The next day—lowering and cold, he took up his line of march ; and from the old home stead parties started out in pursuit of the lost boy ; but fruitless was the search, and neither trace nor track of him could they find. But when the morning’s sun arose, and strived to struggle down through the sombre clouds, little Willie with a firm purpose, and never disheart ened, plodded on his weary way, with his little staff in hand, and Tray skipping along and sporting by his side. Horne was no longer home to him. There were no comforts—there was no mother. He believed that he could seek her in that distant realm, where the sun sets in rosy clouds at even ; and as confident as ever mariner ventured upon stormy seas in search of unknown lands, set he forth upon his | untravelled journey in search of his mother in I Heaven ! Hunger!—he knew not what that ( was ; or if his stomach craved, he silenced its appealing, 3iid pushed forward on his route toward the setting sun, hoping to be in Heaven, in the presence of his mother, ere the next night's gloom fell like a pall around him. All day long plodded he wearily. Thirst and hunger pressed upon him—the one he quenched at the half frozen brook, the other he appeased with the squirrel's store of nuts and acorns ; and Tray trotted along anxiously at his side, at times looking back and whining ; and anon darting forward in pursuit of birds or rabbit that darted across their path. Plodding thus onward wearily and wearily through the live-long day, he reached at even another hill, just in the edge of twilight. The sky was leaden-colored; the air was cold: the sun shone not, and poor Willie was disheartened, for hr had lost his sight of heaven, and he be gan to cry bitter tears, and call upon the name of his mother ; while Tray crouched shivering by his side. He could not pursue his journey farther. Weary, faint and hungry, he sat him self down upon the trunk of a fallen and de cayed tree, and wept himself almost to sleep, while his limbs grew chilly, and a stupor was fast creeping over his person. JNight came on—night, with its horrors of darkness and silence, and cold. Once more did Willie make a bed of leaves for himself and Tray, and covered himself over with branches, to keep olf the bleak night air.— Bitter were the tears he shed, and bold in his vision shone the comforts of home, the domestic fireside, and the warm and downy bed ; and Fray nestled closer and closer, and whined piteously as he laid his cold nose against the cheek of Willie, and fell into a calm slumber. But Willie slept. At last, after two days’ lonely travel, the poor boy slumbered upon his bed of leaves ; and this night neither moon nor stars vouchsafed to shine upon him, and the night passed away silent and solemn, and when the morning dawned, the snow was fall ing soft and down-like and Willie slumbered a quiet, quiet sleep, and all around was still and deaih-like, save the rustle of the snow flakes, through the brandies of the tress, and upon the leaves that covered the ground. Flie snow still fell. Plodding his way through the forest, came a traveler, toiling and way-worn. He tested himself upon the log by the side of which slept Willie, Tray still crouching beside him. The boy lay with face upturned, pale and marble-like, with his eyes closed, and his features set in stern and rigid beauty. There was a holy radiance settled on his features, and his little -hands were clasped upon his bosom,'and he slept—ot», so sweetly ami sounilty—as llftingli fumes and angel symphonies ! And the first snow of ilie season, lucent and pure, covered him as with a transparent shroud, a3 though aught else less material would be a profanation. Willie was in Heaven ! And the traveler—stern featured and tender hearted—lifted the rigid form in his arms, and pressed its cold cheek to his own, and breathed his living breath into its nostrils, but no sjgn, no sigh made response; and, so he laiJ it upon the earth again,' and covered his eyes with his broad, rough hands, and wept. They were tears of bitterness; for never, never before, had that solitary man seen so much beauty.— Acd so, after long, and long gazing, he dug the poor child a grave beneath a moaning pine — for the ground was not yet frozen—and he made him a bed of dried leaves and branches, such as he had slept upon, and covered him over with more leaves, and piled the fresh earth upon him, and set up a mark, and left him to sleep alone upon the hill top, in the midst of the forest, and wended his way, and was never heard of more, and the dog Tray watched by lint lonely grave for many and many a weary day and night, till, famished by starvation, he left his bones to bleach upon that little mound, and Willie was in Heaven! And this, dear reader, is the true story of a child. How sweeter thus in death, than that he should have lived to cotne in contact with the harsh, unfeeling world, where the purest receive taint, as certain as the mirror that is breathed upon becomes dim, and ceases to re flect the truthfulness of nature. And thus Willie found his way to Heaven, and found his mother he so long had sought. And no doubt hut at this day, his spirit rejoices in the glories of that golden land—that realm of bliss—that had so long been the dream and ambition of his childhood. HTisc edit itn. Fanatical Street Preachers. There are a parcel of restless fanatics in our country, w ho do a large amount of evil in the name of religion. Some of these are engaged in Sunday street preaching. They do not be long to the humble, earnest, conscientious class of men, w ho, for years, have been lifting their voices in the market'houses and in by-places w here the sound of Gospel truth, but for them, is never heard—who have assailed none for a different faith—who have never provoked any except to good works. No ; they belong not to these ; but to a far different class. As to religion, they know nothing of its pure, holy, unselfish aspirations. They are mere fanatics, intent on rousing, for some selfish ends, the evil passions of their fellow men. Such are the street preachers who have recently done so much harm in Boston, New York and Brook lyn—turning the peaceful Sabbath into a day for llte excitation of the most hellish passions. We cannot better express our view of the mat ter than by adopting the words of the Ledger: ‘Christianity leaches individuals to respect the I rights of others, but when we see them doin^ all they can to insult people, and provoke them to a fight, reckless of the public peace, we are | inclined to believe that the spirit which ani I mates the actors is the spirit of the devil, and that they but steal the livery of Heaven in which to do their mischievous work. Religion! fie ! True religion would weep tears of bitter ness at such a desecration of her holy name— such a sad perversion of her principles.’— Arthur's Home Gazette. Management of a Canard Steamer. The conducting of this magnificent vessel from port to port across the ocean, exhibits a remarkable triumph of human skill. A body of officers, dressed in a uniform like that of the royal navy, is charged with the manage ment of the ship. The chief command in the America, for the time being, was in the hands of Capt. Shannon, a .Scotchman of experienced seamanship, and most agreeable and obliging in his intercourse with the passengers. Un der him are three officer* The laborious duties of the ship are performed by a boat, swain and an efficient corps of mariners; there is likewise a head engineer with his as sistants ; having the special charge of the ma chinery. In the ordinary working of the ship, it seems to be a rule that two officers shall always be on the alert—one stationed on the gang way at the side of the paddle-box es, to look sharply ahead ; the other stationed at the binnacle, to communicate orders to the man at the wheel. When an order is issued by the captain or first officer on duty, it is re peated aloud by the second officer ; and you thus hear it rapidly echoed from point to point till acted upon by the helmsman. Orders to the engineer to slacken speed, to stop, or go on, are communicated by pulling the wire of a hell at the paddle-box; by which simple contrivance the movements of the ship are un der the most perfect control. The watches, as must be known to many, are four hours each, and are regulated by striking a bell placed near the wheel, the sounds being an swered by a bell at the forecastle. The bell is struck every half hour. Half past 12 o'clock is indicated by one blow ; one o’clock by two blows, and so on to 4 o’clock, which is marked by 8 blows. At half past four they begin again, and in this way the 24 hours of the day are divider!. Although ably asidsted by the officers, the commander ot a vessel of this class holds a situation requiring sleepless vigilance. 1 ob served that his light at night was kept cotv stantly burning, to illuminate the charts, compasses and barometers, with which the apartment is furnished ; and at various times a mariner came to report the progress of the ship, and the state of the winds. It is also noticeable, that any order despatched by the captain to the officer on duty, is given in writing, so as to avoid the mistakes incident al to verbal' messages, l.atterly, a tell-tale compass has been invented, for the purpose of checking irregularities in sailing. 13y means of an ingenious kind of mechanism attached to a compass, it’s dial-plate is punctured in the line of direction of the ship.—Should the ves sel ho kept unsteadily on its assigned course, the deviations will he marked on the dial like a cloud of zigzag punctures; but should the ves sel he kept steadily to its proper path, the punctures accordingly, will be in a straight line. French dials of paper are supplied daily. W ith one of these tell-tale compasses, the cap tain, on awakening in his berth, can discover whether his orders have been carefully attend ed to or otherwise. — Chambers' Journal. Man’s Uncharitableness. The New York Sun makes the following very just remarks,* which we beg all who sulfur themselves to get unduly excited be cause, in the progress of events, all does not move on according to their peculiar notions of things, to read, ponder, and digest: ‘ If the Sovereign of the universe were as uncharitable as llis human creatures who inhabit this earth, the whole human race would long since have been swept away in His wrath. Men who would rend this Union to pieces, because some real or imaginary evil enters into its Constitution, and has be come the object of their ungovernable hatred, might study with profit the long suffering forbearance of the Great Ruler. Hut poor, foolish man makes but a sad use of the lessons which the merciful Providence of the Supreme Lawgiver teaches. ‘ Instead of loving, he hates; instead of cul tivating charity, he harbors malice and gives the rein to his worst passions. Instead of patiently Endeavoring to reform evils, lie, too often, is ready to rush into the wildest ex tremes. He follows impulse, when sober reason should guide. * Strange, too, that the men who have the least charity, who are ready to proscribe, persecute, and destroy in the achievement of their purposes, claim to be the most zealous servants, the most loyal soldiers of the King of Heaven. Paul once thought he was doing God's service, when he was a persecuter and fighting against God. In this respect Paul has had many imitators. In his uncharitable ness he has many followers; in his labors of love but few out of the great human family of the present day.’ Turkish Honesty. A Christian, wander ing through tho bazaars, wished to buy an embroidered handkerchief of a Turkish shop keeper. He asked the price. * Seventy-five piasters.’ ‘ No,’ said he, aware iliat it was usual among all traders, whatever their creed, to ask at first more than the value, ‘ that is too much—I will givo you seventy ;’ and as the dealer seemed to nod assent, he counted out the money. But his surprise was great, when the bearded Osmanli, gravely pushing back ro him twenty piasters, observed : ‘ This is more than the just price. It is always thee p»tom here to bargain over a thing down^p Its just value ; and, as fifty piastejp Is my proper price, those twenty belopg I® you In a verv thip house, an actress spoke very low to her lover. The actor whose benefit it was, exclaimed with a face of woeful humor; My dear, you may speak out; there is nobody present to hear you. Soak (mb Sob printing. Haring recentiy made extensive munitions t» m 'mu variety of S-lLid® AH® PAH8Y JOB TYPES, The proprietor of the Eastern Timex is now prepared V) ex ectrte with skatykss xud DKSPATcu, every dexeriptfm ot Job Work, such as Cirrnlnrs, Bill-henri*. Cards, CalnUgarr, Blit it Its, I'rogranmirs, Shnp lfltU, Lnbrb) tudiou ami Hand Bills, kr., kr. Jj* Particular attention paid to wmavsTEM All work entrusted to us will t>e js-rfonned b» tic beet manner, and tu Imv a» can be qfforded. Orders solicited and promptly answered BCD. K. NEWMAN. The Greyhound of Afriea, Nothing evinces more the aristocratic tastes of the Arabs of Sahara, than their treatment of their greyhound. Here, as >•» all other Arab countries, the common dog, whatever the utili ty of his employment is protecting the tents and flocks, is still regarded as a contemptible and troublesome servant—a disagreeable necessity. The greyhound alone, as the companion of his chivalrous pastimes, is treated by the Arab with affectionate attention and respect. While, therefore, the faithful watchdog is driven forth from the tent, treated as a vulgar brute, and al lowed to seek his food among the oflbl and bones j that have been thrown out, the greyhound i sleeps in the men's apartment, mi a carpet be I side his master, or even on lib bed. He is abundantly hut carefully fed w ith kooskoos ; and in summer, cakes are made for him of milk au l stoned dates, which -are said to be highly tonic. If a thorough bred animal, lie w ill not drink out of a dirty vessel, nor w ill he taste milk in which any one has pul his hands. He is defended from the cold with coverlets like the horse, the Arabs having no object lo his being sensitive in this respect—it is an evi dence of high blood. They delight hi decking him with ornaments, and make fur him collars of cowry shells, to w hich they attach talismans to secure him from the blight wli an evil eye. At the age of forty days ihe- pups arc re moved from the mother, and fed with goats or camels' milk, mixed with dales and kooskooa. At the age of three or four months, the edu cation of the grayhound is begun by the chil dren starting jerboas, or small deer, and »4u cing him to give chase, lie swwu becomes so fond of this pastime, that he will bark round the holes, to induce the youngsters to renew the sport. The next game on which he is tried is the hare; the* the young gazelle. Al tho end of a year he has attained his full strength, and is advanced to he the companion of the master of the tent, who teaches him to hunt the full-sized gazelle. The Arab talks to him as a human being ; 1 Listen to me, friend ; thou must bring me some venison ; I am * tired of eating nothing but dates;’ w hereupon the dog leaps, wheels about, and intimates as j plainly as possible, that he understands his master's wish, and is abundantly willing to comply. When the dog perceives a herd of thirty of forty gazelles, he trembles with joy, and looks wisifully at his master. ‘Ha! young Jew,’ says the Arab, ‘thou wilt not say this time that thou Inst not seen them.’ He then unties an ox-skin, and refreshes the body of the dog with a sprinkling of water. The impatient animal turns on him an imploring eye; he is loosed on the game, and bounds away ; but yet ; conceals himself, crouches down if lie is per . ceived ; makes a zigzag course ; and it is not till fairly within reach that he da rts with all his strength, choosing the finest of the herd as his victim. When the hunter cuts up the ga | zelle, he gives the dog part of the loin ; if he were offered any refuse, he would reject it j with disdain.* A thorough bred hound will hunt with no one but his own master; ami he manifests duo self respect in his choice of a prey. If on bas ing him his master has pointed out a fine ga zelle, and he has succeeded only in taking a small and middling looking one/ he seems to | feel the reproach that attaches to the failure, and slinks away ashamed instead of claiming his accustomed share. He always accompanies his master when visiting, and shares whatever hospitalities he receives. By his extreme cleanliness, the kindliness of his manners, and his respect for the usages of society, he shows himself worthy of the attentions thus heslowed I on him. When the Arab returns home after a somewhat prolonged absence, his dog makes a single hound from the tent to the saddle, and welcomes him with carresses. The greyhound of Sahara is very superior to that of the const. He is tall and fawn-col ; ored, has a thin muzzle, black tongue and palate, large forehead, short ears, muscolar neck very soft hair, no paunch, dry limbs, and the muscles of the croup well marked. A pretty good one is considered worth a fine camel ; but those which take the largest gazelles will bring as much as a horse. A family hunter, how ever, is never 3old ; an Arab would almost as soon think of selling one of his sons. When he dies, it is a time of mourning in the tent; the women and children weep and lament as for » member of the family. A gentleman having a remarkably long vis age, was one day riding by the school, at the gate of which he overheard young Sheridan say to another lad, ‘That gentleman’s face is longer than his life.’ Struck by the strange ness of this rude observation, the man turned his horse’s head and asked an explanation. ‘ Sir,’ said the boy, ‘ I mean no offence in the world ; but 1 have read in the Bible at school, that a man's life is but a spr.n, and I am sure your face is twice that length.’ The gentle man could not help laughing, and threw the lad a sixpence for his wit. A Compliment.—When the celebrated Geo. Buchanan was in France, the King took him to view his picture gallery. At length they stopped before a picture representing the Cruci fixion. George requested an explanation,-— • That, sir,’ said the kitur * is our Saviour: the one on the right, is*he Pope,’ and the one on the left is ny*®elf-’ * 1 ant obliged to your majesty,’ replied George, ‘ for the information y„i» have given me, fur though I have often Tieard that our Saviour was orucificd between two thives, 1 never knew who they were be* j fore. ___ To Destroy the Smell op Pajnt.—A vea* scl of lighted charcoal, with two or three hand* fuls of juniper berries thrown on, and placed in a close room, is recommended as an affeo* I tusl expedient for destroying the smell of paint. Two or three shallow vessels, filled with cold water, will greatly assiat the operation,