Newspaper Page Text
I % I «r ir a I af political aitir General $Utos~^n gUbatait af igual gigjrts. VQL. ix._BATH, THURSDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER^), 1854. ho. 24. Cjje (Basttrn Ctmcs iIYuBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY MORNING, B GEO. E. NEWMAN, E <1 i I • r and Proprietor* O.Roe in north end of Pierce’s Block, third story, come of front and Bruad Streets. Terms If paid strictly in advance—per annum, If payment is delayed 6 mos., “ “ ' If not paid till the close of the year, Acl !CT No paper will be discontinued until all arrearage are paid, unless at the option of the publisher. TT Single copies, four cents—for sale at the office, and a Stearns’ Periodical Depot, Centre Stieet. Xr All letters and communications to be addressed posi fAiD, to the Publisher, Bath, Me. s. M. PfSTTENGU-L & Co., Newspaper Advertising Agents No. JO State Street, and V. B. Palmer, Scollity’s Building Court Street, Boston, are Agents for this paper, and art authorized to receive Advertisements and Subscriptions foi Mail the same rates as required at this office. Their re ^Tpts are regarded as payments. A THANKSGIVING STORY. Whoever happened in at the domicil of Farmer Hiehins, on the eve preceding a day appointed by the Governor of the New Eng land States, for ‘Public Thanksgiving and Praise,’ could not have avoided noticing that somebody more than the circle there assem bled was expected. As a large family sat about the capacious fire-place, the hearty hon est wood fire threw a cheerful light on their almost happy faces—almost happy, because as we have intimated there was a chair yet to fill. The premonitors of thanksgiving waited ■upon the table, in the cold antipatory chick en pie, manufactured more with an eye to quality than to quantity, the stout pitchers of cider, flanked with plates of shining pippins, walnuts cracked ready for the tooth, ‘fire cake’ yet smoking, and ‘dongh-nuts,’ in Manhattan called ‘crawlers,’ a bountiful supply. An other ‘platter’ contained a formidable brisket piece of cold boiled beef, with a garnish of pork, and no lack of cabbage and cold ‘garden sauce.’ Such was the repast, and the party only waited the arrival of some expected guest to fall upon it. Suspense, which always appears lung to those who endure it, is not half so long as it seems. At its usual hour of arrival the Hard scrabble mail coach drove into the village, and stopped before Farmer Ilinchins’ door, de posited the precious burden for which the fam ily had been waiting for three hours before it was due. Sisters, brothers, father and moth er crowded round a mass of shawl, handker chiefs, wraprascal, fur tippet and upper Ben jamin, and by industrious unrolling, a young gentleman was at length revealed,—father's hope and mother's joy, ‘in lengthened sweet ness long drawn out.’ All had naturally made up their minds to be delighted to see him ; but the mother started back from his lips as if she had encountered a shoe brush. The sis ters were frozen into formality by an appari tion so much unlike their mental portrait of brother Nahum, and the little brother ran grinning into a corner of the room. The old gentleman laid off his spectacles, and com menced a survey ot the nondescript, begin ning at his monkey face, coursing over his foppish waist, running a line of survey down his candle mould invested legs, and ending in a long stare at his stilt heeled boots. It was evident they had expected a natural blood re lation, but had found an unnatural curiosity The stranger tepaid the stare of curiosity with another, and putting his quizzing-glass to his eye, surveyed the room in which his child hood was spent, as if he had never seen it be fore, and was not sure it was habitable. His father frowned, his mother bit her lips, his sisters blushed before his gaze, and his broth ers, to use their expression, ‘snorted right out.’ Affection cannot, however, be lightly crushed, and fhe family could not forget they were receiving a long absent member. The j animal was led to the fire, and deposited him self in a chair with the air of a man who w as paying his inferiors an enormous compliment, and the usual commonplaces were passed be tween the guest and his entertainer. Novem ber's cold without was not half so chilling as the re-union within the walls, of Farmer Hinchins' dwelling. The city son diversified his conversation at table, with remarks upon city dishes, by way of teaching his father and mother, by no very ambiguous intimations, that people lived in the country very much ]iKe savages, fjvery aitempt to excite ms in terest in old familiar scenes and objects was parried by his careless gab to show his trav elled knowledge, and his acquaintance with scenes and people who were not for superiori ty to be mentioned in the same breath with any of the objects and persons which com posed the little happy rural world, to which N. Augustus Hinchins had once been a con tented resident. Or if that worthy vouch safed to hearliis friend speak, it was with such an expressive smile of condescension that the (rustic family began in spite of themselves to /eel some inferiority before Mr. Hinchins, as they now felt compelled to call him, whom ahey had counted on welcoming home with their whole hearts as brother Nahum. The cider and apples did, however, melt down a Sittle ot Nahum’s gentility before he went to bed, and the sisters actually ventured to offer their hands as they parted for the night.— ‘Awravwahr,’ drawled Nahum Augustus Hinchins, as he scuffed out of the room in embroidered slippers, holding the lamp with a (thumb and finger—‘Aw rayvwher mah mare eh mong pair.’ The matron looked up anxiously at her husband, as she raked up the fire—the hus band sat in mood contemplative. At last, as he rose, he broke out—‘The starch must be taken out of that youngster, ma’am.’ ‘He is cur own son, Mr. Hinchins.’ ‘Never mind, the starch must be taken out, and if it is not before to-morrow night I’ll be'— Mrs. II. ’s somewhat extensive hand clapped a stopper on the farmer’s mouth but not on his resolution. * Why don’t the boy come down?’ said the father the next morning. The mother went up to see. The tender lad complained bitter ly that there was no bell in the room—and that he had always been accustomed to have a fire in his ‘apartment,’ but as there was no servant, he would try once to rise without. So after a deal of fuss about water and towels, and a display of his dressing box to the aston ishment of his country mamma, he managed in an hour’s time to come down to breakfast in a flaunting dressing gown and slippers; the former article causing new amusement to the young natives, his brothers, who thought h< 1 might as well be a woman at once and dom with it. He exhausted the bastard French o the hotels in lamenting the absence of sundr} made dishes, but concluded at last to let a fu rious appetite have its way. He ate bounti fully of the wholesome food before him, cooked by his tidy mother and sisters; instead of bj greasy men in dirty nightcaps, with napkins tucked through their buttonholes, which an swer to dust a plate, or wipe the mouths ol the wearers. Getting ready for church was another aw ful difficulty. He inquired for a ‘bawber,’ al though he very well knew there was no such phenomenon in the village, and never had been. He asked his mother to send his boots to the boot-black's, another dignity that Hard scrabble never supported ; and the mother, as many a fooli h mother has, compromised the matter by taking his elegant and fashionable leathers to the kitchen fire and giving them a brilliant coat of first rate ‘black-ball,’ a stere otyped unction for leather, warranted to pre serve it and fill the poies. She, good lady, had beautified them to the best of her knowl edge and belief, but the shining coat of day & Martin, the remains of which had adorned them before, was not improved by this opera tion. ‘ 0 dem it,' cried the exquisite, as they were placed before him, ‘some miserable fuel has positively ruined my boots, and if I could find him 1 would kick him pawsitively.’ He looked up—his mother was hesitating between tears and astonishment, his father debating between a kick and a cuff, and his brothers and sisters standing in wonder and fear w hat should come next. The explosion was, how ever, spared for the present. Going to church was an awful bore to N. Augustus Hinchins, but he had seen some stormy indications in a certain quarter, which warned him that the next ounce of puppyism might break the camel's back. Besides he had a secret wish to show himself off to his old playfellows, the natives, and therefore ventured to let his eldest sister touch his arm, ana with her walked behind his lather and Ins mother. It was a curious procession. The mother would feel a little proud, and could not help feeling a little dubious of the im pression her boy was to make on the congre gation. The father looked as if though the animal was his son, he would gladly contra dict it ; the sister who had his arm, seemed kiuliclt how onitlJ olio ho!|) ifc ? N. .Augus tus minced along, quizzing the villagers with his glass, totally insensible while everybody was gaping and laughing—totally insensible to everything but his own pre-eminent im portance. Little Ned, the wag of the family, strutted behind him, ‘following in his foot steps,’ making stride for stride, straddle for straddle, and a swing of his coat for every swing of his brother's swallow-tail. It was glorious broad comedy, and as the procession passed, people did everything but cheer the young actor. Hinchins was not a bad fellow—were there none in the village to welcome him in real sincerity, and to remember on bis return one who bad really once been a favorite? Cer tainly there was one—the favorite schoolmate and playmate, the little girl, now a fine young woman, to whom three years previously, be fore his transportation to the city, he had plighted his word in all the sincerity of youth. Of course she was at once adopted at the farmer's house, as daughter -and sister, and union was counted on, as if it had already taken place. Ellen was an invited guest at every Sunday dinner, and on holidays, and as her future husband was expected this day to grace the board, an extraordinary invitation had been sent her, in addition to the usual standing order. N. Augustus, when the ser vice closed, posted himself in the porch out side the church, exchanging distant saluta tions with the young men wiio claimed his acquaintance, ilis sisters came out, and with them Ellen. With all the sympathy of a con ficling girl she came up, ready to give her hand when he offered his. He scanned her through his glass—and reached her two fin gers of his gloved left paw. ‘0, aw, child, 1 believe we have been acquainted—yes, I do remember—your name is—aw, eh and here he raised his head and brushed up his whis kers. Surprised that his two fingers were not taken, he looked around. Ellen had flown, and he saw her walking indignantly away, with head erect, and showing all the woman's token of an insult appreciated and resented. His father, mother and sisters had deserted him in disgust—his little brother Ned waited just long enough to cry out shame ! and ran, and the group about him set up an indignant hiss. In a few moments he was left almost alone, some few' hoys only waited to take a last look at the monkey. ‘ Well, this is really cutting it foine, the— —uncivilized clown,’ soliloquized our hero— ‘I shall pawsitively leave this hole at once— the ignorant savages.’ He strolled across the road, and for lack of human objects to bring within the range of his glass, commenced surveying a bluff hill, down which he had many times rolled in play, as if he had never seen such a curiosity before. From his reve rie a few snowballs soon disturbed him.— Humbled essentially in his pride and his pre tensions, he hurried to his father's house, with one eye bunged, and one-half his dickey spoiled, by the unerring aim of some village embryo Tell, whose missiles were readily gathered from the winter covered ground, and despatched with striking accuracy. A large dinner party had been invited to Farmer Hinchins’—and a large evening party. Right glad would the worthy people have been to have escaped from the dilemma, but in the counlry they had no ‘white lies' to turn away visitors with. The only way of proceeding was to face the matter out; as, after the oc currences of the morning, malice in some, cu riosity in othors, would be sure to bring all s who were asked, and more too. * The female ! members of the family were in agony, Ned f was in his element of mischief, and farmer Kinchins was—in the kitchen. Ke dared nol face the group of visitors in the dining-room. ! but chewed the cud of sweet and bitter fancj in the kitchen chimney corner. ‘They come to see an ape—but they don't make a menag erie of my house—I'll be d—d if they do.— The starch must come out of him.’ So say ing, he rosp as he heard the front door open, and proceeded to intercept his beautiful son, as he was about to enter the parlor. Leading him directly to the kitchen, Farmer Kinchins there borrowed his wife’s shears, and thence took h;s son above stairs to his room, seated him in a chair, and before the fop could guess what was coming, marred his w hiskers, destroyed his moustachios, and re duced his imperial to a plebian. Nahum ex postulated, but it was of no use ; he strug gled, and the old gentleman's shoulder of mut ton fist was shaken in his face. A razor com pleted the demolition of the Esau-crop, and N. Augustus Kinchins began to look like his father's son again. Ke turned disconsolate from the glass to go down stairs, when the old gentleman stopped between him and the door, and pointed to something which had before escaped his eye. Kis former country Sunday suit lay across the back of a chair. Even then, he could not conceive what his father meant, llis mind could not embrace so awful a degradation as that he must put on that suit and cast away his city integuments. Kis father readily explained the case to him, and intimating that lie should give a sledge-ham mer voucher for his sincerity of purpose, poor Nahum was forced to submit. They walked down together, and entered the dining-room. 1 here was an awkward pause. A child broke it, as children often do. Little Ned ran up, and seizing both hands, cried—‘Welcome home to Thanksgiving, brother Na'—we're all glad to see you.’ The whole party closed in, and in their honest greetings poor Nahum, melted to tears, reciprocated. There might L„__ __.e_ a_. ._ i . real contrition afterwards. All, however, was forgotten and forgiven by the time Na hum’s next neighbor had demanded the first ‘wish-bone,’ and challenged him to break it with her. ‘There, Nahum,’ roared little Ned, ‘you've got your wish, and I know what it is ! Don't you wish Ellen Smith was here now?’ ‘Faith,’ answered Nahum, taken oft' his I vlu.» There was a hearty taugh all round, and now began the festivities of Thanksgiving in earnest. For the rest, how Nahum went over and coaxed Ellen to forget his insult; how she relented, as she had made up her mind not to do, when she saw him coming ; how they went back together to the farm house, and how the party shouted as they entered arm-in arm ; how old Farmer Kinchins forgot his years and joined in the blind man's buff; how Ellen fought Nahum’s battles when anybody alluded to his past mishaps ; and how little Ned frolicked himself to sleep before midnight —is too long a story for us to tell now, but Mrs. Ellen Kinchins might tell you about it, some evening, as she rocks the cradle, if you should happen along her way. THE WORSTED STOCKING. A TRUE STORY. * Father will have done the great chimney tonight, won’t he mother?’ said little Tom Howard, as he stood waiting for his father’s breakfast, which be carried to him at his work every morning. * He said be hoped all the scaffolding would be down to-night,’ answered his mother, 4 and that’ll be a fine sight ; for I never like the en ding of those great chimneys—it’s so risky— ;ity fatbers’s to be the last up.’ ‘ Eh, then, but I'll go and see h:m and help 'em to give a shout afore he comes down,’ said Tom. • /miu men, continued ins momer, mi an goes right, we are to have a frolic to-morrow, and go into the country, and take our dinners, and spend all the day amongst the woods.’ 4 Hurrah !’ cried Tom, as he ran ofF to his father’s place of work, with a can of milk in one hand, and some bread in the other. His mother stood at the door watching him, as he went merrily whistling down the street, and then she thought of »he dear father he was go ing to, and the dangerous work he was engaged in, and then her heart sought its sure refuge, and she prayed to (Jod to protect and bless lier treasures. Tom, with light heart pursued his way to his father, and leaving him his breakfast, went to his own work, which was at some distance. In the evening, on his way home, he went round to see how his father was getting on. James Howard the father, and a number of other workmen, had been building one of those lofty chimneys which, in our great manufac turing towns, almost supply the place of other architectural beauty. This chimney was one of the highest and most tapering that had ever been erected, and as Tom shading his eyes from the slanting rays of the setting sun, looked up to the top in search of his father, his heart almost sunk within him at the appalling height. The scaffolding was almost all down; the men at the bottom were removing the last beams and poles. Tom’s father stood alone on the top. He looked all round to see that everything was , right and then waving his hat in the air the men below answered him with n long, loud, hearty cheer, little Tom shouting as heartily as any of them. As their voices died away, however they heard a very different sound—a cry of alarm and horror from above ! 4 The rope! The rope? The men looked Tound, and, coiled upon the ground lay the rope, which, before the scaffolding was removed, should have been fastened to the top of the I chimney, for Tom’B father to come down by ! j The scaffolding had been taken down, without their remembering to take the rope np. There was a dead silence. They all knew it was im possible to throw the rope up high enough, to reach the top of the chimney, or if it could, it would hardly have been safe. They stood in si lent dismay, unable to give any help, or think of any means of safety. And Tom's father. He walked round and round the little circle, the dizzy height seem ing every moment to grow more fearful, and the solid earth further and further from him.— In the sudden panic he lost presence of mind, and his senses almost failed him. lie shut his eyes; he fell as if, the next moment, he must bedashed to pieces on the ground below. 1 he day had passed as industriously and swiftly as usual, with Tom’s mother at home. She was always busily employed for her hus band and children is some way or oilier; and to-day she had been harder at work than usual, getting ready for the holiday to-morrow. She had just finished all her preparations, and her thoughts were silently thanking God for her happy home, and for all the blessings of life, when Torn ran in; his face was as white as ashes, and he could hardly get his words out. ‘ Mother ! Mother ? He eanna get down.’ * Who, lad ? Thy father?’ asked bis moth er. * They’ve forgotten to leave him thesrnpe,’ answered Tom, still scarcely able to speak.— His mother started np, horror-struck, and stood for n moment as if paralyzed; then pressing her hantls over her face, as if to shut out the terri ble picture, and breathing a prayer to God for help, she rushed out of the house. W hen she reached the place where her hus band was at work, a crowd had collected round the foot of the chimney, and stood there quite helpless, gazing up with faces full ofsorrow.— 1 He says he'll throw himself down,’ exclaimed they, as Mrs. Howard came up. ‘He’s going (o throw hitnself down.’ ‘ Thee munna do that, lad !’ cried the wife, with clear, hopeful voice; ‘thee munna do that. \\ ait a bit. Tak’ off thy stocking, lad, and unravel it, and let down the thread with a bit of mortar. Dost hear that, Jem?’ 1 he man made a sign of assent, for it seemed as if he could not speak, and taking off his stocking, unravelled the worsted thread, row after row. The people stood round in breath less silence and suspense, wondering what Tom’s mother could be thinking of, and why she sent him in such haste for the carpenter's ball of twine. ‘ Get down on- end uf ‘.bread with a of stone, and keep fast hold of the other,’ cried she lo her husband. The little thread came waving down the tall chimney, blown hither and thither hv the wind, but at last it reached the outstretched hands that were waiting for it. Torn held the ball of string, while his mother tied one end of it to the worsted thread.— ‘ Now pull it up slowly,’ cried she to her hus band, and she gradually unwound the string as the worsted drew it gently up. It stopped — the string had reached her husband. * Now hold the string fast, and pull it up,’ cried she, and the string grew heavy, and hard to pull for Tom anil his mother had fastened the thick rope to it. They watched it gradually and slowly uncoiling from the ground, as the string was drawn higher. There was but one coil left. It had reached the top. ‘Thank God! Thank God!’ ex claimed the wife. She hid her face in her hands in silent prayer, and trembling, rejoiced. The rope was up. The iron to which it should be fastened was there all right; but would her husband he able to make use of them?—would not the terror of the past hour have so unnerv ed him, as to prevent him from taking the nec essary measures for his safety? She did not know the magic influences which her few words had exercised over him. She did not know the strength that the sound of her voice, so calm and steadfast, had filled him with—as is the little thread that carried him hope of life once more, had conveyed to him some portion of that faith in God, which nothing ever des troyed or shook in her true heart. She did not know that, as lie waited there, the words catne over him, ‘ Why are thy cast down, O, my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God.1 She lifted up her heart to God for hope and strength. She could do nothing more for her husband, and her heart turned to God, and rested on him as or. a rock. There was a great shout. ‘ He’s safe, moth er, he’s ‘safe,’ cried little Tom. ‘ Thou’st i saved me, Mary,’ said her husband folding her in his arms. ‘But what ails thee? Thou i seemest more sorry than glad about it.’ But Mary could not speak; and if the strong arm of I tier husband had not held her tip, she would ! have fallen to the ground—the sudden joy, af ter such great fear, had overcome her. ‘Tom,’ said his father, ‘let thy mother lean on thy shoulder and we will take her home.’ And in their happy home they poured forth their thanks to God for his great goodness ; and j their happy lifetogether felt dearer and holier for the peril it had been in, and for the near ness that the danger had brought them unto God. And the holiday next day,—was it not | indeed a thanksgiving day?—English S. S. Magazine. The Masons of California.—According to the Masonic Register, the Grand Lodge of California has passed a resolution that the prac tice of duelling is repugnant to the principles of Freemasons, and it is the duty of the Lodges to expel those who may resort to this mode of settling their disputes ; and no brother who may fall in a duel shall be buried with Masonic honors. The Grand Lodge also passed a res olution that the use of Masonic emblems upon sign-boards is unmasonic, and in open violation of the spirit of Freemasonry. 52T The Portland Advertiser says “a dis tinguished lawyer recently come among us, has taken a former editorial sandum for his office, where he enjoys the benefit of the sign, Zion's Advocate Itlisfdlani). Jenny Lind’s Kindness of Heart. A STORY FROM BARNUM’s AUTOBIOGRAPHY. Mr. Barnum has furnished for publication in the Evening Po6t the following passage from his forthcoming literary work, which is i expected to make its appearance in December. We understand that, unlike other authors, the great showman has been chiefly embarrassed by the multiplicity of publishers who have of ; fered to issue his Autobiography :— i ‘ In Havana, the house occupied by Jenny Lind and those who accompanied her from Europe, as well as my daughter and myself, was pleasantly situated near the Tacon Thea tre, just outside the walls. Signor Yivalla, the little Italian juggler and plate dancer, who, in former years, had performed under my auspices, called on me frequently. He was in great distress, having lost the use of his limbs on the left side of his body from pa ralysis. He was thus unable to earn a liveli hood, although he still kept a performing dog, which turned a spinning wheel and performed some curious tricks. One day, as I was passing him out of the front gate, Miss Lind inquired of me who he was. I briefly re counted to her his history. She expressed deep interest in his case, and said something should be set apart for him in the ‘ benefit ’ which she was about to give for ‘charity.’ Accordingly, when the benefit came off, Miss Lind appropriated $500 to him, and 1 made the necessary arrangements to have him re turn to his friends in Italy. At the same ben efit $4,000 was distributed between two humane hospitals and a convent. A couple of morn ings after the benefit our bell was rung, and the servant announced that I was wanted. I went to the door and found a large procession of children, neatly dressed and beating ban ners, attended by ten or twelve priests dressed in their rich and flowing robes. I inquired their business, and was informed that they had come to see Miss Lind and thank her in per son for her benevolence. I took their message and informed Miss Lind that the leading priests of the convent had come in great state to see and tnanK her. • i will not see them, she replied ; * they have nothing to thank me for. If 1 have done good, it is no more than my duty, and it is my plpncnrp T Ho not de serve tliejr thanks, l wili not see them.’ I returned her answer, and the leaders of the grand procession turned away in disappoint ment. The same day Vivalla called and brought her a basket of the most luscious fruit that he could procure. The little fellow was very happy and extremely grateful. Miss Lind had gone out for a ride. 1 Uod bless me ! I am so happy ; she is such a good lady. I shall see my brothers and sisters again. Oh, she is a very good lady,’ said poor Vivalla, overcome by his feel ings. He begged me to thank» her for him and give her the fruit. As he was passing out of the door he hesitated a moment, and then said ; ‘ Mr. Jlarnum, I should like so much to have the good lady see my dog turn a wheel ; it is very nice; he can spin very good. Shall I bring the dog and wheel for herl She is such a good lady, 1 wish to please her very much.’ 1 smiled, and told him she would not care for the dog : that he was quite welcome to the money, and that she refused to see the priests from the convent that morning, because she never received thanks for favors. When Jenny came in I gave her tho fruit, and laughingly told her that Vivalla wished to show her how his performing dog could turn a spinning-wheel • Poor man, poor man, do let him come, it is all the good creature can do for me,’ ex claimed Jenny, and the tears flowed thick and fast down her cheeks. ‘ I like that, I like that, she continued, ‘ do let the poor creature come and bring his dog. It will make him so happy.’ I confess it made me happy, and 1 exclaimed, for my heart was full, ‘ God bless you, it will make him cry for joy ; he shall come tomorrow.’ I saw Yivalla the same evening, and delighted him with the intelligence that Jenny would see his dog perform the next day, at four o’clock precisely. 41 will be punctual,’ said Yivalla, in a voice trembling with emotion, 4 but I was sure she would like to see my dog perform. For full half an hour before the time ap pointed did Jenny Lind sit in her window on the second floor, and watch for Yivalla and his dog. A few minutes before the appointed hour she saw him coming. 4 Ah, here he comes,’ she exclaimed in delight, as she ran down stairs and opened the door to admit him. A negro boy was bringing the small spinning wheol, while Yivalla led the dog, and handing the boy a silver coin, she motioned him away, and taking the wheel in her arms she said : 4 This is very kind of you, to come with your dog ; follow me, 1 will carry the wheel up stairs her servant offered to take the wheel, but no, she would let no one carry it but her self ; she called us all up to her parlor, and for one hour did she devote herself to the hap py Italian. She went down on her knees to pet the dog and to ask the Yivalla all sorts of questions about his performances, his former course of life, his friends in Italy and his pres ent hopes and determinations. Then she sang and played for him, gave him refreshments, and Anally insisted on carrying his ,wheel to the door, from whence her servant accompa nied Yivalla to his boarding house. Poor Yivalla ! lie was probably never so happy before, but his enjoyment did not ex ceed that of Miss Lind. That scene alone would have paid me for all my labors during the whole musical campaign.’ The pig that fed out of the trough of the sea, got salted down, Theory of Artesian Wells. The fact that hy boring into the earth, wa ter can nearly alwaj'9 be obtained, is usually well understood. 13ut the cause of this is not so generally known. The curiosity on this subject, generated hy the Artesian well now being bored hy Dr. Jayne induces us to en deavor at an explanation of this phenomenon. The surface of the earth is composed, as eve ry observer can see for himself, of layers of rock, intermixed with gravel and other ma terials, and convered at lop with soil. These layers, or strata, finally repose on what are called primitive rocks, such as granite and porphyry. In the convulsions to which the globe has been subjected these strata have been frequently lifted out of their original positions, have been bent and contorted into various shapes, and have been left in this condition.— Sometimes they aro found alright angles *to the earth, sometimes at an angle of forty-five degrees, and sometimes curved into the seg ment of a circle, forming, as it were, a huge old fashioned pie dish. Not unfreqiienllv there are two stratas, one under the other, in this pie dish shape, with gravel, old marine shells, or soil between; and often the space between the two layers of rock, thus situated, is hundreds, nay, thousands of feet. Now, if we suppose a village, borough or city, built on ground which is enclosed within the dish formed hy the upper of two strata tints situated, it follows that it can have no springs except those fed by the rains falling within the dish, the rock being impervious to water. In such a case, if a well can be sunk through this first rock and into tlie ground or other soil be tween the two strata, the borer will have the advantage of the springs which are fed by the rains falling between where the two strata come to the surface. Suppose, for example, that there are two pie dishes, one smaller than the other ami set within it, with sand between. If water, which in this case represents the rain, is poured on this sand, where it appears be tween the edges of the dishes, it will penetrate downwards between the two dishes; and then, il a hole is drilled through the upper dish and a quill inserted, will rise through this quill to tlie level of the edges, by a familiar law of hy drostatics. That is an Artesian well. Conse quently, when strata underlie a district, in a manner at all like what we have supposed, a borer for water will he sure to obtain it if lie : decends deep enough. It is curious to know that Artesian wells ream hack to the remotest nutiqoiiy. We can not tell, at this clay, whether learned philoso phers divined, by the aid of the science, that boring for water would be rewarded with the pure element, or whether the fact was acciden tally found out; hut as it is now ascertained that many of the wells io the Arabian desert are Artesian, and that they are older than hu man history, it is impossible to deny the vast age of the discovery. The Chinese, who have authentic chronicles, extending backwards lon ger than other profane records, claim to have possessed Artesian wells for thousands of yeais. Aristotle was familiar with wells of this des cription; but supposed the waters were driven to the surface by the central heat of the globe. Artesian wells of great antiquity exist at vari ous places in Europe, but the one of oldest as certained date is at Lillors, in Artois, whence the name Artesian; and is supposed to have been dug A. D. 1126. This well is situated in the middle of a vast plain, where nothing like a hill is to be seen, and therefore its wa ters can originate only iri the way we have des cribed; that is, they come from rains, falling at a great distance, and return to the surlace, the strata acting as a syphon. Rivers frequently disappear and re appear in a manner somewhat similar. When a stream meets impervious rocks w hich prevents its flow ing on the surface, it is forced under ground, along the line of the strata, which it follows till the strata bends upwards again, or crops out, as it is called. Quite a considerable river sinks out of sight, in this way, near Bellefonte, in this State: and as an enormous spring bub bles up in the heart of the town, of about equal capacity, the probability is that this fountain is the stream re-appearing. In the mammoth cave, in Kentucky, miles away frum the mouth is a river three quarters of a mile long; it is probably a branch of Green river, which sud denly disappears from the surface in that vi cinity. — Philadelphia Ledger. Beecher’s Hens. Henry Ward Beecher, in a late Indqacudmt, has a capital article on “ Mid-October Days,” from which we make this extract: I love to sit just within the sunny edge of the south door, whose prospect is large and beautiful, with an unread book for company. For a book, like a whetstone to a scythe, is meant, not to feed, but to sharpen the appe tite. A wagon rolls past, rattling over the stones. From under the unthreshed straw mice squeak and quarrel; lonesome spiders are repairing their webs in the window that catch nothing but dust and chaff. Yet these bum-bailiffs have grown plump on something. I wonder what a spider is thinking about for hours together down in the dark throat of his : web, where he lies still as if he were dead. < Our old Shanghai steps up with a perl how do-ye-do-sir, cocking his eye one-sidodly at you, and uttering certain nondescript guttural . sounds, he walks off crooning to himself aqd his dames. It is still again. There are no flies here now to buzz in the air. There is not wind enough to quiver a hanging straw, or to pipe a leaf dance along the fence. You fall into some sweet fancy that inhabits si lence, when all at once, with a tremendous vociferation, out flies a hen from over your head, with an outrageous noise, clattering away as if you had been throwing stones at her, or abusing her beyond endurance. The old Shanghai takes up the case, and the whole mob of hens join the outcry. Nothing seems so aimless and simple as a ^^——■■A 38ook nnb M printing. Having recently made extensive additi'tions to otir formef variety erf PiaiH MB 2?AH6¥ J OB TYPE, The proprietor of the Eastern Times is now prepared to ex aUd e"r' ^cription of Cii-cnlnr*, Bill-h*n<1», Curd*, Cntnlog***, BIiiiiUm. Programm**, S|,»* Bill*, babels, Auction and 11 „ u,| Bill*, Ac., Ac. U- Particular attention paid to jehkdsjsis ipisnsrffssy©. All work entrusted to us will he performed in the bett manner, and at lou at can be afforded. Orders solicited and promptly answered GKO. E. NIAVMAN. hen. She usually goes about in a vague and straggling manner, articulating to horself cacophanous remarks upon various topics. Hie greatest event in a hen’s life is a com pound, being made up of an egg and a cackle, 1 hen only she shows enthusiasm, when sha descends from her nest of duty, and proclaims her achievement. If you chase her, she runs cackling all abroad till the impulse has run out, when she subsides into a silly gadding hen. Now and then an eccentric hen may be found, stepping quite beyond the limit* of hen propriety. One such has persisted in laying her daily egg in the house. She would steal noiselessly in at the open door, walk up stairs and leave a plump egg upon the children’s bed. The next day she would honor the sofa. On one occasion she selected’my writing table, and scratching my papers about, left her card, that I might not blame the children or servants for scattering my manuscripts. Her determi nation was amusing. One Sabbath morning we drove her out of the second-story window, then again from the front hall. In a few mo ments she was heard behind the house, and on looking out the window, she was disappearing into the bed-room window on the ground floor! Word was given, but before any one could reach the place, she had bolted out of the window with victorious cackle, and her white, warm egg lay upon the lounge. 1 proposed to open the pantry window, set the egg-dish within her reach, and let her put them up herself, but those in authority would not per mit such a deviation from propriety. Such a breed of hens would never be popular with the boys. It would spoil that glorious sport of hunting hen’s nests. The Home of two Hearts. The union of two kindred hearts in the bond of affection forms the purest, sweetest home of lu*e known on earth. Such a union is the appointment of God, and with his blessings ami his smiles, it forms a sanctuary of domes tic felicity almost akin to that of heaven. To form this home of two hearts, much is needful. The first inquiry of a woman after marriage should be—‘How shall I continue the love I have inspired 1 how shall I preserve the heart I have won ?’ 1. Endeavor to make your husbands habita tion alluring and pleasant to him. Let it be to him a sanctuary to which his heart may always turn from the troubles of life. Make it a re pose from his cares, a shelter from me world, a home not only for his person, but for his heart. He may meet with pleasure in other houses, but let him find pleasure in his own. Should he be dejected, soothe him ; should he be thoughtful and silent, do no*, heedlessly dis turb him ; should he he studious, favor him with all practical facilities ; or should he be peevish, make allowance for human nature, and by your gentleness and good humor, urge him to coniinhally think, though he may not say it. ‘This woman is indeed a comfort to mej I cannot hut love her.’ 2. Invariably adorn yourself with delicacy and modesty. These, to a man of refinement, are attractions the most highly captivating, while their opposites never fail to inspire dis gust. Let the modesty and delicacy of the bride be always in a greater degree supported by the wife. 3. If it he possible, let your husband sup pose you think him a good husband, and it will he strong stimulus to his being so. As long as he thinks he possesses the reputation, he will take pains to deserve it ; but when he has once lost the name, fie will he apt to abandon ihe reality. 4. Exhibit, with the greatest care and con stancy, cheerfulness and good humor. They give beauty to the finest face, and a charm to the whole character. On the contrary, a gloo my, dissatisfied manner is repulsive to the feel ings, and there is a danger that, when a hus band meets this at home, he wil] seek else where, for those smiles and that cheerfulness which he desires. 5. In the article of dress, study your hus band’s taste. The opinion of others is of less consequence than his. G. Particularly shun what the world calls in ridicule 4 curtain lectures.’ When you shut your door at night, endeavor to shut out all dis cord, and look on your chamber as a retreat from the vexations of the world, a shelter sa* creil to peace and affection. How indecorous and offensive it is for a wo man to exercise her authority over her huaband, and to say, 4 I will have it so ; it shall be at I like.’ 7. Be careful never to join in a jest and laugh against your husbaud. Conceal his faults and speak only of his merits. Shun ev* ery approach to extravagence. The want of economy has involved millions in misery. Be neat, tidy, orderly, methodical. Rise early, breakfast early : have a place for everything, and everything in its place. 8. Few things please a man more than see ing his wife notable and clever in the manage ment of her household. A knowlege of cook* ery, a3 well as every other hranch in house keeping, is indispensable to a female ; and a wife should always endeavor to support with applause the character of the lady and tbq housewife. 9. Let it be your empire—yonr world. Le| it he the scene of your wishes, your thoughts, your plans, your exertions. Let it be the stage on which, in the varied character of wife, pf mother, and of mistress, you atrive to shine. In its sober, quiet scenes let your heart cast its anchor, let your fellings and pursuits all be centered. Leave to your husband the task of distinguishing himself by his valor or his tal ents. Do you seek for fame at home, and let your applause bp that of your children, yo“r husband, nnd your God. No one can know what temptation is unless he has been in it.