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nm.-3 t-CS l" "' '" , " L nn A::'Pi nil A.HART EDITOR AND PROPRIETORS THE UNION-IT MUST BE PRESERVED. OFFICE IN pHENIX BLOCK, THIRD STORY .OTSERIES.- VOL. 1; AT0.43; RAVEpA.WEDN ESDAT.-MAY 30, ; 1855. WHOLE NUMBER 517. it. i 2: IUUSOrtS FOR BISIBILITV. Ci.i - - . ' - ' ' 1 (. , T - - 0. W. HUM. . IwMttotl I'm happy when I ran, I'm mtrrjr whlla t rosy, For life's it most narrow if to, "At bast winter's day. t ! '- tfifar could make aannbeam wearj " A brighter, warmer hue, . . Tb vanlng atir shine onl mora fair, - Thebluasky look mors blua, Taqn I wonld t sa grarar man r,l. Bui ainco Msnot tbe way, -i'i I twtolcozl I'm happy when I can, -- "frry when I may. If sighs could make at (In the less, Perchance I Want not glad ' -- If mourning were the sage's dress, '.. ,( rty. garb should then be ead; . ' Bo lYcee 'h aegel'a wluga ar white, And eren youug suttAs siolte-. State virtue woars a brow of light, '.; And vice robe of guile . . Since Uughtor la not under ban, K0r gudneaa clad In gray , . . Sweet anal I'm happy beu I can, ; And merry when 1 may! I'ro aeon a bishop dance and reel, ',' .. Andaa.niierfintandpruy, -o ..-'a knare at topof Fortune' wheel, - A good man cnt awavl ?.'",' ' . Wine I have aeon your grave ones qnuff, , ' " Might sot your feet afloat ; But I never nerfrd a hearty laugh . ".',',,".. From out vlllalu'a throat; :.'! And I never know a mirthful man . - . 3Iake sad a young inaid'a day So, coal I'm happy when I can, And merry when I may. - SOULSNOT STATIONS. ..... ,halIJudgo a man from manner Who shall know him by his dresaT Paupers may be lit lor princes; Princes fit for something loss. Crumpled alitrt and dirty jacket ; ; . May beclotbo the golden ore . -. - '- ot ,n0 d0(pa8( thoughll and foolinga- Satin vesta could do no more. There are springs of crystal nectar Ever welling out of atone: , . There are purple buds and golden ' Hidden crushed and overgrown. ! ' , Cod, who counts by aonls, not presses, Loves and prospers you and me, y-"'"' WfcHe ho values thrones the highest, . But as pebbles in the sea. Interesting dale. THE JIGHTOF LIFE, t JLinds Walden was art orphan; not one who walked through poverty' durk valley, 'deaolate and alone; not one of those ead aauli who dwell face to face with care and want,"aDd misery, who despairingly go on through life, toiling, suffering, and enduring; who by withered hopes, and blighted joys. and crushing labor, lose all faith; whose life is a very weariness, and who long, but tons In vain, to die. Wealth had ever gladdened her pathway, and smiles ever greeted her; and she hud grown in ' child hood's freshness to the deeper beauty Of maidenhood, the admired and lovely. Yet there was void in Linda s heart which wealth, with its gilts could not fill; lorging for a love more deep, more beauti ful, than she had ever known a yearning for a fount of affection as yet undiscovered, for words and accents of endearment, which had never sounded in her ears. She found no sympathy with her cold, stem aunt, the only relative site had ever known; none with the villagers in their business and ex citement; and with a yearing, passionate de sire for some object, to be loved, her life went slowly on. ,: So sho made friends with the quiet rivers and mountain crags; ami a on the faces of old fiiends, she gaz ed upon the holy stars: but no heart from them gave back the affection which whehad banished; and her soul was still unsatisfied. : Of the mother of her childhood there lin gered no remembrance, save in quiet twi light there would rise up before her a sunni rand fairer land, where no cold enow fell, nor blighting frost, but the air was still and balmy. Then as a forgotten vdrpam would come a face surpassingly lovely, with deep Italian eyes like her own; and would 'tieera to hear a soft and thrilling voice warble some simple strain, and by her side a young mistress gazing musingly on the glorious Jace: and Words of love were mingled with the mother's song, as sho lulled her child to -retty and an was diissiui ana. nappy. . neu proud, and quick step, which blanched the .beautiful cheek and mada the other clasp ' his hand on his sword and seek to fly, , but 'It was unavailing, and there stood a man in Jthemidst,, with cold, calm eyes, wondrous M like those of her aunt. There were bit- ' pi words and passionate breathings, and "quick! movements there, and the sharp ' stiletto did double vengeance, and the warm 31ife-blood flowed, and the child was alone with the dead. . ,,Itj her earlier Jife, this had been to Linda but as s dream) with her years it had deep ened its impression, add she now felt it as dark reality. .Once, on a calm starry ev. ?nSjig, ahe ventured to ask her aunt of 'her . .fcthftr and mother. ' bo loiig gone, but she iiar reoeated the question; for a dark I frown rested on Mrs. Clinton's-forehead.and her cold trrav eves were fixed on Linda; and iinncA that seemed the lapse of yeare, she eald. Speak of them noi'more! 4 The nasi 1 sealed up nook! Know, child, I' ftere is agony In that : bitter past Which I ' Vould close from you foreverr Ana so Jilnda dared to talk no more of that vuion .''whicn had interwoven itself . into her own - nflhiir: of which she, tbohgHt , first . at, clear , worning, an last at atilly evening. . But "hnntfht did itt office all the more perfectly how that the tongue was fettered, and. it .Ju ffttierad all herlife:' "Moth- er. eentle mother. she murmured, "was thy dark fate a prophecy of mine!" . It was one of those calm, balmy autumn days, when dethroned summer seems to come back to regain her crown, that Linda wan dered forth in the solitude of her aunt's wide domains. The day went on, and the holy sunset came, and long shadows from the slarins tree-tops fell on the leaf-strewn ground; but still she lingered, watching na ture's fading glory. "Green, green hills, and quiet woodlands, cannot ye speak back tome!' said Linda, "I am lonely, very lonely, and thero is nought to love me but mother' Natye!" But a sudden sound of rustling among' the leaves made the maiden's cheek grow ' pale; and : when, raising those deep eyes, she saw a stranger. she screamed with shame and alarm. But the stranger bowing, apologized for the fright he had given her, and so gracefully, 'that she looked at him blushingly and inter eatedly. His was a high and noble brow, from which the dark hair was carelessly thrown back, a proudly raised lip, and a flash ing eye, from whose defiance even the strong might shrink. His voice had a rich foreign accent, which told of sunnier climes and brighter skies. One word led to another. The stranger was so deferential that Linda found herself very perfectly at ease with him; and insen sibly continued to converse ti.ll she came in sight of her home. After this they often met. , The stranger, now a stranger no longer, was a frequent visitor at Mrs. Clinton's; but more often he and Linda passed the morning together in. the fields and woods- At last our heroine had found something to love. Now she was supremely happy; so happy was she, thut she did not observe the growing aversion of her aunt to love. Yet, wildly, passionate ly she loved, as the heart loves only once, and fully and wholly was that love recipro cated. But as days went on, the hour came when he might no more linger in. those qui et shades, and with true manliness of a spirit that displayed no concealment, he consult ed Mrs. Clinton. He spoke of his far away home, in sunny Italy, of his profession, that of an artist, which must ere long bring him fume; be spoke of his temporary sojourn in ihe quiet village; and his voice grew loud and thrilling as he spoke of Linda, and his heartfelt adoration. Linda, too raised her fteautiftil face imploringly and murmur ed, "For my sake, deuraunt!" But Mrs. Clinton's brow contracted, and her tall figilrewas drawn up to its utmost height, and the blossoms of hope went out ip Linda's heart. ..Pull well she kuew the language of thut haughty look, and that proud glance, and ehraftk back dreading the words, that as a lava tide must overwhelm them. But her aunt spoke in tones low, though firm and cold, which showed her . stroug resent ment. "Go, young man," said Mrs. Clinton, "claim not the love of my child: a name of honort wealth and distinction, shall be her's when the proud name of Walden shall be no longer. Think not thut in after years, a few laurels, which you may win., will ren der you Worthy of her hand; for there can be no hope, and no expectation for you. As for Linda, she will soon forget her child ish attachment, and think of you no more. So farewells may your life be crowned with success. This is what I desiro for you, and what6he desires for you and no more. This was what the calm voice said, not the proud liPi nor the stern cold eye. Madam, I go from your presence forev er!' said the proud man. I bid you farewell!' Many thunks for your kind wishes! We shall not meet ncain'. And Linds but here the composure gave wyt and there was a mighty conflict in the strong breast 'you will pot quite forget me, dearest, though we meet on earth no morel There is more than the bitterness of death in this furewel). My idolized, you will not quite forgetl' No answer came from Linda; but the fair head lay on his breast, and amid the low sobs, he heard her whisper 'never, never!' It was but a moment, and he was gone. . . '.. . .r : , ... Days went on, and long weeks, but the glow on Linda's cheek faded, and the dark eye lost its lusture day by day. Evermore at quiet evening there rose up that noble form; and, as in days pust, she heard that firm voice! yet so soft and thrilling to her ears. ' Mrs. Clinton saw how sorrow was do ing its work on that fair face and thatyouug heart: but it stirred not the smothered fires ofaffection in her, hard soul. .'I'.. It was a clear winter morningV and the sun shone gladly on- tho virgin-robed earth. Linda was called by her aunt to her room, where she sat cold as ever, yet evidently re joiced by some recent inteligence. . She sat for some minutes gazing on that pale, thin face, and assuming: a forced gaiety, she drew the. shrinking maiden nearer, and told her of a friend of hers, and bid friend, many kyeara older than herself, who had died and left his son sole heir to all his wealth; and this son, now' a rich East India merchant. came as I suited for Linda's heart. ' :r.; And newi my child,' said the lady, you of course Cannot hesitate' or linger in your acceptance of this proposal. Think for a few daysj and then give me your answer. am' convinced t will be avorable,1 . .Linda spoke not a word: but there came over her face such a. look of despairing ago ny as would move the coldest heart. Days went and came, the sun rose and set, and life went on calm as ever during that weary week; but the fever was burning at her vi tals; despair spreading her raven wing over her heart, crashing the melting of . hope and joy, to make place for her own aad offspring. At last, worn and weary by sleepiest nights, " -: ' and days of agony, by entreaties and adjura tions, she came to tbe room of her aunt, and there signed ss with her own heart's blood the compact which banished forever hope and love, and left instead burning misery and long, long despair! Then, as she-put her name to the death warrant of all her happiness, came back old Visions of the past; visions of that high brow and artist eye, so well known, and loved but a little while a-! go; and then came rolling across her soul such a tide of agony, such a mighty torrent of desolation, as well nigh bowed her to the earth. . ''" ; ' K ' ' ." 'Yet there is joy even for me,' said she; 'a low grave, and' tall waving grass rustling over it.' ' ; - The were wedded; he, the rich merchant, with his soul formed but for gain; and she, the crushed and desolate. How mournful was the bridal! The heartless service was ended; and they who had solemnly', vowed love, undying love, went forth unknowing and unloving. In his princely mansion Linda found all that wealth could give, or admiration lavish- for her enjoyment; ' for with all tlio heart he possessed, ' Tre mont loved and admired his beautiful bride; but there was a want of congeniality, a lack of sympathy between her finely woven, sensitive nature, and his coarser essence. In short, he stirred no chord in her heart.! Day by day she lived on, at first striving outwardly to love and honor him, but soon sunk into a resistless apathy, like the sleep of the benumbed traveler in Alpline ati tudes. So years weut on such years as time gives only to the sad and weary; so long, so enless! But at last there came a shock, which for ever roused her from her liijtless slumber. . - It was a fair summer, day, when Tremont came to his home distressed and weary, full of care and anxiety. Linda saw the cloud gather on his brow; yet she heeded it not, for it is only lovo ihat burns, that can share sorrow with the loved; and that was not a guest in Linda's soul. Tremont rose, cast one long, wild glance upon his once lovely bride, and was gone. It was but a moment, and a loud sound shook the dwelling to its foundations. They went to seo whence the report issued; and there lay the proud man weltering in blood! Linda did not weep for him as for a husband; ho hud filled no place in that lonely heart. Yet with remorse she thought of her broken vows and her sunder ed plighting, and repentingly she wept the bitter past. Then in tho rain of sorrow came the bow of hope, and lighted the horizon not nn earthly hope, for all such were for ever ended, but a better and more enduring, becnuse a heavenly one. A short epace of time, and the cause of Tremont's death was made known to hie young, though desolale wife. A sudden revolution in property had made the .wealthy speculator a bank rupt. He could not live to endure the dis grace, and wis the secret was disclosed. Linda went back to the proud mansion o; ner aum, trom wnicn, six , years oe- fore, she had gono put, still pale, and sad, and desolate. Mrs. Clinton mads her hap py in her own stern way, and strove to make her happy; but all her efforts were unavail ing.. Year 8 had left their mark on the proud, stately woman, years of care. ' So with a shadow on their souls, a deep, a black ehad- ow, they both went 6n; and all was drear and desolate. . So years went on, till at last the hour came when the proud woman must die. Mrs. Clinton died as she had lived, cold, stern and unforgiving, with no word of the distant shore towards which. her bark was sailing; no messago of love and mercy for the living, no sign of repentanco for the dead; and when the last solemn rites were over, and she lay at rest in the solemn tomb, Lin da went back to the chill dweling, and alone trod those halls. Yet it wan but a short, a Very short time that she dwelt mistress of that home, for other evil tidings came, and she found that the estate of her bunt had al so passed from her hands to those of others, swallowed up in the great vortex of specu lation. So she left the fair fields and the hill-top she had so much loved, and the low peaceft 1 valley where she had first met him, the unforgotton, the yearningly remember ed: ':. :; . " ; '' Now Linda was free, no marriage VOWi no chains of. property bound her to one whom she could not love. "But he,' she thought sadly, 'he has ere this loved another, and their lot is blest, and bright, and beautiful! Had ho not forgntton me, he would have surely written; love will find means to meet the loved. Oh, misery! can he call another his beloved! Can he all forget met' " She was alone now, no home, no wealth, naught to support her. ' But here her accom plishments came in place, and she became a daily music teacher, a weary toiler for the bread which kept her from that death, for which she daily prayed. . But ere she left sho gathered up around the richly furnished house small relics of the past, among which she took an old box full of papers of tri fling value. But as, she turned over the ap parently, rubbish, she found one package that made her breath come short and quick, and her heart beat , with feverish violence. There ther were burning letters of his love to her which her eyes had never seen What a tale was there of hopes long de ferred, of wishes disappointed, of love seem ingly " unrequited? l! There hatf Seen' many, many dark hours . in .Linda Tremont's , life; but never had so dark a sky, to dreary a pro spect been her'i. M'OhYwbjr dhf iSve unite to firmly with destiny, must seperate "far ever!", aiked Linda. , 'Xet I will , go to the city; 1 will go whence hit last letter came I will seek him through the world i On lire's weary sea we may jet meet in gladness." So she went, (saving all behind her, travel ing alone, she knew not whether. There wis a courage in tht pile face, tnd firm resolution that no earthly power could break, and as she silently and uncarlngly gazed upon the joys and pleasures of those around her, they called her cold and heartless. Oh, could they have known half of the ago ny of that bruised heart could they have seen the thin hands clasped in her lonely retirement iu such devotion as the loving and the sensitive only can know, thet would never have deemed her proud and unloving. But man sees' only outward seeming, not the inmost heart, and by this he judges, sternly, "and often unjustly. Oh, who shall tell of the beating of the closed and anguish ed heart,. worn out by unrequited love, and withered hope, and d.irk" depuir, which to muti's eye is unseen, and to his soul forever unknown? . . , Thus it was with Linda. Thus ifwas that she was 'so calm' and so silent, yet in wardly so tossed and so restless. The star of her life was sinking low, and was soon to fadeaway, yet there was one hope daily striving with the lion grasp of despair which nerv ed her for exertion. In that far away city she might meet him, and there migh bo a bliss as of yore. ' It was a clear, pure day. and the sky was cloudless, and the sun brilliantly rode on in his burning chariot, shedding light on all around, when Linda entered the dwelling in the midst of the city where last her lover had resided, and from whence he had writ ten the last letter, which more than all the rest had thrilled her soul. A women, with a quiet friendly face received her and trem bling Linda murmured his name, and asked if his home was still under her roof. 'He is gone lady ,' said the calm face, gone from earth's shadows to the ' light of the clear sky. For two years the grass has waved over his pillow. He was glad when the dark messenger came and with a smile he passed the death cold river for earth was very dark to him. There was some great sorrow which seemed to cloud all his lile; what it was I never knew, for he never spoke of himself. I used to lor.g for him to tell me something of the night which ever seem ed to overshadow him; but it was all in vain! He used to watch whenever we brought in his letters,' she continued, with moistened eyes and trembling voice, 'and look them over carefully; and then I have seen him fold his hands and give a look of untold misery, and say, 'forgotten and by her!' At last, one morning he did not come down at tho usual hour, and after a long time I went up to his room, where he lay calmly and peacefully as if in blessed slumber. I spoke to him, ho answered nut; I touched him but he moved not, I laid my hand on his forehead, and it was cold as marble. and then I knew that.he was dead. Well, thank God, he is over the rough sea now, and he knows not what sorrow is, nor dis appointment, but it's all right there. But you look so strangely, lady! You did net know him!' . . Linda Tremont did hot die in anguish of the hour. It is sudden grief that kills, not long despair. She did not weep, she did not even faint; she sat a long time tearless, cold and still. No word escaped her lips as she went away after a long time rrom the dwelling. She went hack, back to her daily toils, back to her weary mis ery. Yet calm and more placid was her face, as she moved on day by day, and within all was quiet, for the stillness of despair was (here. They found her one morning sitting by her lonely window, with her head restingon' the thin transparent hand; but the brow was icy cold, and the hand Wa9 rigid and still. There were tears on her wasted cheek,' such as had not rested there for many years, and a smile on her worn face; for the long night of life was past, and the bright morning had arisen. The Buy aud the man. A celebrated artist in one of his rambles, met with the most beautiful and interesting child he had ever, seen,., ; . "I will paint the portrait of this child," he suid, "and keep it for my own, for I may never look on its like again. He painted it and when trouble came, and evil passion moved his spirit to rebel, he gazed Upon the boy, and passion fled, and holy thoughts en tranced his soul. He said: 'If I can find a being who is a perfect contrast to this child one in. whom is concentrated every thing vile and ugly of which I can imagine, I w il 1 paint his portrait also.", . Years passed away, and be saw no person sufficiently hideous to answer his design. At length,' while traveling in a distant land, he, went within a prison's wall) and there he saw. stretched upon the floor, of , stone, the object which his fancy had portrayed. . A man whose soul was 'stained with blood, with glaring eyes and haggard face, and de moniac rage, cursing himself, his fellow be ings and blaspneming God, lay chained with in that miserable abode, and waiting for tbe uiuiuBut ui uis execuuuu.. v.,, ; . ,.lThe artist transferred bis likeness to the canvass, and placed it opposite to tbe child's How striking! how complete the contrast The angel boy the man fiend l, ' " " ' . What must have been the feelings of the artist, when upon inquiry, , he ascertained that both the portraits he had made were of tbe tame Individual being?' The beautiful, the innocent child, had grown into the hid eous, the ilnful man! "i'-'j - l It i gentleman is; troubled , with a I bad temper, let him kiss his wife three timet a day, and put on a clean shirt every morn ing and will wort a perfect ear. ' f-1 ; Burr and Hamilton's Duel. It was hot at all in the spirit of a pro fessed duelist, it was not upon any paltry point of honor, that Hamilton had except ed, this extraordinary challenge, by which it was attempted to hold him answerable for the numerous imputations on Bnrr's character banded about in conversation and the newspapers for two or three years past. The practice of those dueling ne utterly condemned; indeed, he had himself been a victim to It in the los of his eldest son, a boy of twenty, in t political duel some years previously. , As a private citizen, at a man under the influence of moral and religious sentiments, as a husband loving, and loved, and the father of a numerous and depend ent family, as a debtor honorably disposed, whose creditors might suffer by bis death, he had every reason to avoid the meeting. So he stated in a paper which under t pre monition of his fale, he took care to leave behind him. It was in the character of a public nan. It was in that lofty spirit of patriotism, of which examples are so rare, rising high above all personal and private considerations a spirit magnanimous and self-sacrificing to the last, however in this instance uncalled for and mistaken that he accepted the fatal challenge. "The ability to be in future useful," such was his own statement of his motives, "whether in re sisting mischief or effecting good in those crises of our public affairs which seem like ly to happen, would probably be insepara ble from a confiermity with prejudice in this particular." With that candor towards his opponent by which Hamilton was ever so nobly dis tinguished, but which so very seldom, in deed, did he ever experience any return, he disavowed in this paper, the last he ever wrote, any disposition to affix odium to Burr's conduct in this particular case. He denied feeling towards Burr any personal ill-will, while he admitted that Burr might naturally be influenced against him by hearing of strong animadversions in which he had indulged, and which, as usually hap pens, might probably havb been aggravated in the report. Those animadversions, in some caees, might have been ocaasioned by mis construction or misinformation; yet his cen sures had not proceeded on light grounds nor from unworthy motives. From the possibility, however, that he might have in jured Burr, as well as from his general principles and temper in relation to such affairs, he had come to the resolution which he left on record, and communicated to his second, to withhold and throw away his first fire, and perhaps his second, in order to give Burr a double opportunity to pause and reflect. . . . The grounds of Wehawk, on tho Jersey shore, opposite New York, were at that time the Usual field of .these sinsrle com bats, then, chiefly by reason of the inflam ed state of political feeling, of frequent oc currence, and Very seldom ending without bloodshed. The day having been fixed, and the hour appointed at seven o'clock in the morning, the parties met, accompanied on ly by their seconds. The barge men, as well as Dr. Hosack, the surgeon, mutually agreed upon, remained, as usual, at a dis tance, in order, if any fatal result should occur, not to be witnesses. The parties having exchanged saluta tions, the seconds measured the distance of ten paces; loaded the pistols, made the oth er parliminary arrangements, and placed the combatants. At the appointed eiznal. Burr took deliberate aim, and fired. The ball entered Hamilton sie and as' he fell his pistol too was unconsciously discharg ed. Burr approached him apparently some what moved; but on the suggestion of his second, the surgeon and barge-men already approaching, he turned and hastened awayi Van Ness coolly covering him from their sight by opening an umbrella The surgeon found Hamilton half lying, half sitting on the ground, supported in the arms of his second. The pallor of death was On his, face. "Doctor," he said "this is a mortal wound;" and as if overcome by the effort of speaking, he immediately fain ted. As he' was carried across the river the freeh breeze revived him. His own house being in the couutry, he was con veyed at once to the house of a friend, where he lingered for twenty-four hours in great agony, but preserving his composure and self-command to the hat.--HildretVs History - -- - . - in Aristocracy of Birth. ' The meanest aristocracy is that of birth. It is that which ignores intellect, energy, courage, and great deeds." It is that which loads down the people of other countries with taxation. It is that which demoral tzes governments, defeats armies, ahd dis graces manhood. If there Were no aristoc racy of birth in England, long ago a great man would have risen from the ranks of the masses to lead the British forces to tri umph; and,' in that event, troops would have followed a leader, and volunteered to aid him, because they., would be inspired to feel that the road to fame wat not blocked up by aristocratic dunces. How much bet ter than this,' oh, Enow Nothing, is your standard of birth ' place? How much lets culpable you than .the tyrant who rejects the pariah because he it a pariah? who ex tinguithet the holy fire of ambition in the heart of A poor- mad because he ts poor? Who repels the hid' of .intelligent meaf. they should not be able to boast of, a long line of gloriout ancestors? ; Of all aristo crats yours is the meanest and the worst! ; -Wot'.' KtiWr - '" " " ' ' What Fatally Government im - . . : '.- - - I...-- .,! It is not to watch children with a auspi cious eye, to frown at their merry outbursts of innocent hilarity, to suppress their joy ous laughter, and to mould them into little models of octogenarian gravity. -. And when they have been in fault it is not to punish them simply on occonnt of tbt personal injury that yon have chanced to suffer in consequence of their fault t while disobedience unattended by Inconvenience te yourself, passes without a rebuke. Nor it it to overwhelm the little culprit with a deafening noise; to call him by hard names, which do hot express his misdeeds; to load him with epithets which would be extravagant if applied to a fault of ten fold enormity; or. to declare with passionate ve hemence that be is the worst child in tbe world, and destined to the gallows. But it is to watch anxiously for the first rising of sin, and to repress them; to .coun teract the earliest workings of selfishness; to suppress the first beginnings of rebellion against rightful authority; to teach an im plicit and unquestioning and cheerful obedi ence to the will of the parent, as the best preparation for a future allegiance to the requirements of civil magistrates, and to the laws of the great Ruler and Father in heav en. It is to punish a fault because it Is a fault. because It is sinful and contrary to the com mands of God; without reference to wheth? er it may or may not have been productive of immediate injury to the parent or to oth ers, .i .' It is to reprove with calmness and com posure, and not with angry irritation; in a few words fitly chosen, and not with a tor rent of abuse; to punish as often as you threaten, and threaten only when you intend and can remember to perform; to say what you mean, and infallibly to do what you say. It is to govern your fimily as in the sight of Him who gave you your authority; who will regard your strict fidellity with such blessings as he bestowed on Abraham, or punish your criminal neglect with such cur ses as he visited on Eli. Religious Herald. The way to Pay Old DcBts. A circumstance transpired a few days ago, worthy a passing notice, and especially so, as such instances of justice are rare at the present day. During the late war with Great Britain, a young man contracted a small debt with the wife of the commanding officer of the company to which he was at tached, and which at the time he was unable to pay. It was for the making of a uniform in which to fight the battles of his country. After the war, still left in a condition of pov erty, the time passed Until the parties lost sight of each other. 1 The young man for whom the uniform was made obtained a sit uation, and by frugality and industry, iii a few years accumulated a sufficiency to estab lish himself in a small business. He pros pered, and has now retired upon a compe tency with a hsppy family around him. Du ring the time of hi prosperity he frequently made inquiries after his captain, but until within a few days be could hot obtain any clue to his residence. He discovered that he resided in the north-western section of the city and with his old age had come the presence of limited circumstances. He found an old friend, now tottering on the verge of the grave, having passed more than four score years, but he did not find her who, in the days of his early manhood, had made his garments of war, and in her patri otism had urged hira to duty to his country. She was long ago gathered to her fathers, and the old patriarch still lingered in the world, but nearly at the end of the journey of life. The fact of the transaction of early life was related, but it had long since passed from the memory of the old man.. That however did not cancel the debt and he vol untariuly paid it four-fold. Both of these lire now numbered amongst 'the little band of old defenders, but with tnem the circum stances of life are changed. In those days the now octogenarian had sufficiency of this world's goods and the other penniless, while now the old soldier has grown into the afflu ent merchant, and his captain into tbe poor and helpless old man. The interview was very interesting, and it was mutually agreed to renew the friendship of former years; Baltimore American'. ' ' , Independence. . We like independence. We like to hear a man express his honest convictions on any and every subject on which he may have oc casion to sneak. A man who. is a mere echo of some leading politician, some die- tinguished divine or seme shrewd financier whose religious sentiments are the' senti ments of his church his political views a fac simile of hit party organ wbb listens with open mouth and glaring eyes to those whom accident had elevated pecuniarialy, a little above himself not daring tb titter an opinion which does not fully coincide with that coming from such a source, may find appropriate spheres in this world; but the moral and intellectual condition of tbe com munity will not be jrreatJy improved by any thing he dares to 4o or ty.. 't' baytpi-. K OSTThere it nothing that takee (B itarcn out of an aristocrat to toon at to nominate him to some oflipe' that "comes before the people, "i He'e at ft woing at a ' dog, 'and ., as polite and neigbhorly as a French .dancirig matter. JSlectiona by tho people do more to take the starch but of the rufilej ahirt gentry than anythiaf alia. - Humorous,; lie Fat.' a oHosr iToxr. One of the most remarkable , cases of sudden cure of disease of Jong standing', wse : that of a rheumatic Invalid, with' wbVcb la connected an amusing ghost story. ' There were a-couple of men, in some oM settled -part of the country, who were in the habit ': of stealing1 sheep and robbing church yarda of the burial clothes . of the dead. There was t public road; leading by a meetingd " house where there wat a grave yard, an ' hot far off" on the road a tavern. Early ' one moonlight night, while one of the thievea wtt engaged in robbing a grave, the , other went off to steal a sheep. Tbt first one having, accomplished hit business, '", wrapped the shroud around him, and took bis seat in the meeting-house door, await ing the coming of his companion. ' A man on foot, passing along the road towards tbe tavern, took him for a ghost, and; alarmed almost to death, ran as fast as his feet, could carry him, to the tavern, which he reached out of breath. As soon as he could speak be declared that he had seen a ghost, a real ghost, robed in white, and sitting in the church door. But nobody would be lleve him. He then declared that if any ' of them would go with him, he would go back, and they might be convinced. But, incredulous as all were, no one. could be found . who had the courage to go. At length a man, who was so afflicted with rheumatism that be could not walk, declar ed he would go with him if he could only walk or get there. Tbe man then propos ed to carry him' on his back, took him up, and off they went. When they got in sight, sure enough there it was, as he had said. Wishing to satisfy themselves well, and to get as near a view of his ghostship as they could in the dim. light, they kept venturing Up nearer and nearer. The man with the shroud round him, took them to be his com panion with a sheep on his back; ahd ask ed, in a low tone of voice. . 'Is he fat?" ' - ) Meeting with no reply, he repeated hit question, raising his voice higher. , , "Is he fat!" No reply again, when he exclaimed in a vehement tone. "Is he fat!" i This Was enough. The man with the other on his back replied. - ; "Fat or lean, you may have him j" anil dropping the invalid, traveled back to the tavern as fast ss his feet could carry him. But he had scarcely gotton there, when here came the invalid, on foot too! The sudden freight had cured him of his rheumatism; ahd from that time lorward he was a well man! - ' .:... '? . This is said to have been a real occur rence. And it is not the only ease of such cures of which I Have heard, I once heard of an old woman, who had been bed ridden, I think, for twenty years; and who, upon the house taking fire, made her escape upon her feet, and was never so confined by the dis ease afterwards. OT 'Wife, Wife, our cow's dead chok ed with a turnip.', . I told you so. - I always said she'd choke herself with them turnips.' . But it was with a pumkin ' . ,.f 'Well, it's all the same I knowd all along how it would be. Nc body but a ninny like you, would ever feed a cow on pumkins that was never chopped. . , v. 'The pumkins was chopped, and, 'twant the pumkins that choked her. It was the tray and the end on't is sticking out of her . mouth now.' - . Ugh! Ugh! , There goes rriy bread-tray No longer ago than yesterday, I told you that the cow would swallow that tray.' , Practical Pbeachiko. We have heard of various specimens of negro eloquence in our time' but never actuall) listened to an Illustration till yesterday. ' ' " ' ' Dropping into an African meeting house in the ohtskirts of the city, we found the ser mon just commenced. The topic seemed be the depravity of the human heart, ahd the - sable divirie thus illustrated his argument; ' Bredren, when I was in Virginia one day de ole woman, s kitchen table got broke, an' - I wa& sent into de woods to cut a tree to ' make a new leg for it. 1 So I took de axe on on de shoulder; and I wander into the depths of de forest. "-;",.,, AH nature was as beautiful as a lady go- ing to the wedding. De leaves glistened de maple tree like neW quatter-dbllars in de missionary box, de tun ehohe tli brlllint ahd nature looked as gay as a buck rabbit in a parsley garden, undde little .bell round ,def . old sheep's hecS tincled softly and musically in de distance. 'V-!rM t.x-.y.' -.j-j I spide a tree suitable for de purpose.and I raised.dte.'eut la'tobuglwj It wat ; a beautiful tree! De branches reached to de : four corners of the earth, and rise up high to : the air above,' and' de squir'ls hop abotit,ja . de limbs Jike Jittle angels flopping der wings ?.'' in de kingdom of heaven. D at tree was full of propis,etJike a fery great " mahyef .. 'Den I cut into, de trunk, and made ue : chips fly like de mighty scales drooping frpm Ptul't eyes? j Two three cutT gave dat tree . and alas, it wat'hollow in the bull '; t Dat tree was much like JOU my friends-- . full of promise outside, !miA&rA'fe''!, , Ciffhe groans from the amen corner f ;tbe room were truly contriteuuid afiuc ting, but w will venture i small wagef that thiiwat the most practical sermon preached in the city,' on that day at least iV. T. Exchange I It I ! ;- 35 If- II . .' i 1ST II m if . v tr'