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The weekly Portage sentinel. [volume] (Ravenna, Ohio) 1854-1861, May 30, 1855, Image 1

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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
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