Ellsworth American. [volume], March 16, 1855, Image 1

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% (Bfaortl; Slmrrtrnn
IS PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING BY
WX. H. CHANEY,
Office la Osgsod’s Block, next door South of th<
Ellsworth Bank.
TE RMS .
§2,00 per ufnum ; If paid strictly in advene* 81 60.
IJi1 Apvaarisa>i«WT> inserted at reasonable rates.
^ortrij.
(Wriitsn for the Kllewoilh American.
The Ohost of. Jack Catholicism.
Addressed tn the Proprietor of the
Ellsworth Herald.
BY U. D. S.
At your request dear friend,
1 took in hand my pen.
One dismal stormy night,
A atnry to indite,
So drew me to the light,
And soon with all my might.
My tale began to write.
Soon as my pen began loplv.
So soon my thought began tO;fly;
1 soon had down in black and while,
A tale which paoisis'wouldn’t like,’
lint now, methouglil i heard a rumble;
My pen in hand began to tretnble;
And then it was a dreadful clatter;
Each window and each door did shatter—
My heart began to “pit t’ patter”—
My very teeth began to chatter—
Likewise my ink organ to spauer—
My ideas all began to scatter—
‘O dear’ cried I, ‘what is the matter!'
Then down the oaken door wassinashed
Headlong, into the room tlierc dashed,
A monster, hideous lo behold,
Like fabled dragon old,
Direct from lower world,
In Greacian slorv told.
II is pvp* lil<<* vivid lirduninf* uleaxicd
Ilis breath, like sulphurous vapor seemed
The specter strode up to the stand — •
A Douay Bible in Ins hand—
His name written on the book —
I knew him by his sneaking look.
The monster was that horrid ‘ism’
The ghost of Jack Catholistn !
Thai 'twas his ghost came from the dead
1 knew lor I had heard and read*
That iVr Chaney'd “kilt him dead,"
His ashes to the winds lia I spread,
Ti e earth of Ins vile presence rid.
But when his spirit stood before me,
A chilling sense of fear came o’er me,
When lire forth from his nostrils came,
Devoured my paper in the flame —
blxunguished was each -park of light—
'I lie specter vanished from my sight,
And led ine in a Woful plight—
So now a ‘story’ I can’t write.
JUisfrlliinrotis.
Ff‘»ro Household Words
One evening in the month of Marcl
-that dark time in Ireland's annals u lios
memory overlooking all minor subsequeu
rmtluts is still preserved among us, a
‘lie year of llie rebellion'—a lady am
gentleman were sealed near a blazin'
lire in the old-fashioned dining-room of
large, lonely mansion. They had jus
dined; wine and fruit were on the table
both untouched, while Mr. Hewson am
lus wife sat silently gazing at the tire
, watching its flickering light Lecoinin;
irraduallv more vivid as the short sprmi
twilight [added into darkness.
At length the husband poured out
glass of wine, drank it off, and thei
broke silence, by saving.
■Well, well, Charlotte, these are awfu
times; there were ten men taken up to
day for burning Cotter's house at Knock
ane; and Tom Dycob *»* that ever;
magistrate in the coMMy is a market
man.'
Mrs. Hewson cast a frightened glano
toward the windows, which opened neat
Iv to the ground, and gave a view of i
wide, tree-besprinkled lawn, throug
whose centre a long straight avenue lei
to the high road. There was also a foot
path at either sitle of the house, branch
ing off h nugh close thickets of trees, am
reaching the road by a circuitous route
'Listen, James!’ she said, after '
pause; ‘whal'noise is that ?’
‘Nothing but the sigh of wind amon|
the trees. Come, wife, you must no
give way to imaginary fears.’
’But really 1 heard something like foot
steps on the gravel, round the gahle-em
— I wish—1
A knock at the parlor door interrupt
ed her.
‘Cotne in.’
The door opened, and Tim Gahan, Mi
Hewsnn’s confidential steward and right
hand man, enterred, followed by a fair
haired, delicate-looking boy of six years
old. dressed in deep mourning.
’Well, Gahan, what do you want?’
‘I ask your honor's pardon for disturb
ing you and the mistress; but I thought i
right to come and teli you the bad news
heard.’
‘Something about the rebels, I suppose!
‘Yes, sir; I got a wisper just now tha
there's going to be a great rising entire
ly, to-morrow; thousands are to gathe
before daybreak at Kilcrean bog, wher
I’m told they've a power of pikes hiding
and then they’re to inarch on and sacl
every house in the cnuntry. I'll engage
when I heard it, I didn't let grass gro«
under my feet, but came off straight li
your honor, thinking maybe you'd like ti
walk over this fine evening to Mr War
ren'ii, and settle with him what's best to
be done.'
Oh, Janies! I beseech you, don't think
of going.'
‘Make your mind easy, Charlotte; I
don’t intend it: not that I suppose there
would be much risk; but, all tilings con
sidered, I think I'm just as comfortable
at home.’
The steward’s brow darkened, as he
glanced nervously toward the end window, i
which jutting out in the gable, formed a
deep angle in the outer wall.
'Of course, 'tis just as your honor
plases, but I'll warrant you there would
be no harm in going. Come. Billy,’ he
added, addressing the child, who by this
time was standing close to Mrs Hewsori,
‘make your how, and bid good-nigbt to
master and mistress.'
The hoy did not stir, and Mrs Hewsori
taking his little hand in hers, said.
'You need not go home for lialf-an
hour, Galian ; stay and have a chat w ith ^
the servants in the kitchen, and leave lit-'
tie Hi 11 v with me— and with the apples
and huts,' she added, smiling as she till
ed the child's hands with fruit.
‘ Thank you, ma’am,' said the steward,
hastily. 'I can't stop—I’m in a hurry
home, where I wauled to leave this brat
to-night ; but be kould follow me.— |
Come, Billy; come tins minute, you
young rogue.’
Si ill the child looking reluctant, and
Mr He wson said, peremptorily.
‘Don't go yet, Galiarn; i want to speak
to you by-and-hy ; and you know [he
mistress always likes to pet little Billy.' ;
Without'replymg, the steward left the
room; and the next moment his hasty
footsteps resounded through the long
flagged passage that led to the offices.
•There's something strange about !
Gahan, since Ins wife died,’ remarked
Mrs. II ewson. ‘I suppose ’tis grief for,
her that makes him look so darkly, am)
iscem aimosi jealous wnen anyone speaks
to his child. Poor lutle Hilly! your!
moiher was a sore loss to |ou.‘
The child's blue eyes filled with tears,
and pressing cluster to the lady's side, he
said.
‘Old Peggy doesn't wash and dress me
*s nicely as mammy used
‘But your lather is good to you ?'
‘Oil, yes, ma'am, but lie s out all day :
busy, and Pve no one to talk to me as j
manimv used; for Peggy is quite deaf,,
and besides she’s always busy with the j
pigs and chickens.'
T wish I had yon, Billy, to take care
of and to leach, for your poor mother’s
sake.’
•And so you may, Charlotte,' said her
husband. ‘Pin sure Gahan, with all his!
oddjways, is ton sensible a fellow not to
know bow much it would be for bis child’s
■ benefit to be brought up and edneatedbv j
us, and the boy would be an amusement
to us in this lonely house , I 'll speak to
him about it before be goes home. Billy,
my fine fellow, coine here,’ he continued,
‘jump up on my knee,and tell me ifyou’d
like to liveltere always and learn to read
■ and write.’
i! ‘I would, sir, if l could be with father,
, too.’
,! ‘So you shall; and what ubvut old
Peggy ?'
11 The child pused.
•I'd like to give her a peu'north of
' snuff and a piece of tobacco every week,
( for she said ilie other day that that would
make her quite happy.’
j! Mr. Hewson laughed, and Billy prat
tled on, still sealed on his knee; when a
\ noise of fooisieps on the ground, mingled
‘ with low snnoresseil lalkillir. was heard
’ outside.
'James, listen! there's the noise again.’
; ] It was now nearly dark, but Mr. Iiew
son, still bolding the boy in his arms,
i walked toward the window and looked
! ota.
_| ‘I can see nothing,’he said; ‘stay,there
. are figures moving off among the trees
and a man runing round to the back of
the house—very like Galian he is, too.’
, Seizing the bell-rope, lie rang it loud
ly, and said to the servant who answered
!: his summons.
I ‘Fasten the shutters and put up the
I bars, Cannell ; and then tell Galian 1
_ i want to see him.’
_! The man obeyedjcandles were brought,
I and Gahan entered tlie room.
I Mr. iiewson remarked that, though
{ his cheeks were very white, mid his bold
jdark eyes were cast on llie ground.
J ‘What took you round the house ju«l
|1 now, Tim?’ asked his master, in a careless
manner.
'What took me round the house, is ii?
II Why, then nothing m life, sir, hut that
i just as I went outside the kitchen door
intake a smoke, 1 saw the pigs, that;
Shauecn forgot to put up in their siye,
making right for the mistress’s flower
garden ; so I just put my dwlheen, light
| ed as it was, into my pocket, and ran af
ter them. I caught them or. the grand
, walk under the end window, and indeed,
ma’am, t had my own share of work
turning themdjack to their proper spear.’
Gahan spoke with unusual volubility,
t hut without raising his eyes from the
I ground.
‘Who were the people,’ asked his mas
, ter, ‘whom I saw moving through the
t western grove V
‘People! jour honor—not a sign of
any people moving (here, I’ll be bound,
barring the pig*.'
‘Then,’ said Mr Hewson, smiling, to
his wife, ‘the miracle of Circe must have
been reversed, and swine turned into
men; for, undoubtedly, the dark figures
I saw were human beings.’
‘Come, Billy.’said Galian, anxious to
turn the conversation, ‘will you come
home with me now? I am sure ’iwas
very goad of the mistress to give you all
them fine apples.’
Mrs Hewson was going to propose
Billy ’s remaining, hut her husband whis
pered, ‘wait till to-morrow.’ So Qahan
and his child were slowed to depart.
Next morning the magistrates of the
district were on the alert, and several
suspicious-looking men found lurking
about, were taken up. A hat which fitt
ed one of them was picked up in Mr
Hewson’s grove; the gravel under the
end window bore many signs of trampl
ing feet; and there were marks on the
wall as if guns bad rested aeainst it.—
Saltan’s information touching the intend
ed meeting at Ktlcrean bog proved to be
totally without foundation ; and after a
careful search, not a single pike or weap
on of any description could be found
there. All these circumstances combin
’d certainly looked suspicious; but, after
t prolonged investigation, as no guilt
could be actually brought home to Gahan,
ic was dismissed. One ofbis examiners,
lowever, said privately, ‘1 advise you
akecareof that fellow, Hewson. If 1
were in your place, I'd just trust him as
lar as I could throw him, and not an inch
beyond.’
A indolent, hospitable Irsili country
gentleman, such as Mr Hewson, is never
without an always shrewd and often rogu
ish prime minister, who saves his master
llie trouble of looking after bis own af
fairs, ami manages every tiling that is to
be done in both the home and foreign de
partments—from putting a new duor on
ihe mg stye, to letting a farm of an liun
kreil acres on lease. Now in this, or
rather these capacities, Gahan had long
served Mr. He wson ; and some seven
years previous to the evening on which
our story commences, he had strengthen
ed the tie and increased his influence
considerably by marrying Mrs Hewson’s j
favorite and faithful maid. One child
iitie lltA rpttnlf rtf I It is: union • ami VI • u
Hewson, who hail no family of her own.
took much interest in little Billy—more!
especially after the death of his mother,'
who, poor thing! the neighbors said, was
not very happy, and would gladly, if she
dared, have exchanged her lonely cottage
for the easy service of her forininer mis
tress.
Thus, though for a time Mr. and Mrs.
Ilewson regarded tiahan with somejdouht,
the feeling gradually wore away, and the
steward regained his.former influence.
After the lapse of a lew stormy months
the rebellion was quelled : all the prison
ers taken up were severally disposed of
by hanging, transportation, or acquittal,
according to the nature and amount of
the evidence brought against them ; and
the country became as peaceful as n is in
the volcanic nature ol our Irish sod ever
to be.
The llewsons’ kindness toward Ga
halt's child was steady and unchanged.
They took him into their house, and
gave Inin a plain hut solid education ; so
lint Will iam, while yet a boy, was ena
bled to be of some use to bis patron, and
daily enjoyed more and more of fits cou
ftdeucc.
Another evening, the twentieth anni
versary ut tiiat with which this narrative
commenced came round. Mr. and Mrs.
Hewson were still hale and active, dwell
ing in their hospitable home. About
eight o’clock at night, Tim Gahan, now
a stooping gray-haired man, entered Mr
Hewsuns kitchen, and took lus seat on
the corner of the settle next the fire.
The cook, directing a silent significant
glance of compassion toward her lellow
servant?, suiu —
“ Would you like a drink of cider,
Tim, or will you wa.t and lake a cup ol
lay with myself and Kitty ?”
1 he old man's eyes were fixed on the
fire, and a wrinkled hand was planted
firmly on each knee, as if to check their
involuntary trembling. “I’ll nut drink
anything this night, thank you kindly,
Nelly,” he said, in a slow musing man
ner, dwelling long on each word.
“ Where’s Billy V he asked, after a
pause, in a quick hurried tone, looking
up suddenly at the cook, with an expres
sion in his eyes which, as she afterward
said, took away her breath.
" Oil, never heed Billy! I suppose
lie’s busy with the muster."
“Where’s the use, Nelly,” said the
coachman, “ in hiding it from him ? Bure
sooner or later, lie must know it. Tun,”
lie continued, “(iod knows ’tis sorrow to
my heart this blessed night to make
yours sore; but the truth is, that William
has done wliat lie oughtn't to do to the
man lhat was all one as a father to him.”
“ What has he done ? wliat will you
dare say again my boy f”
“ Taken money, ihen,” replied the
coachman, ‘ that the master had marked
and put by in Ins desk, lor lie suspected
tins some time past lhat gold was miss
ing. This morning 'twas gone ; a search
was made, and the marked guineas were
found with your son William.”
The old man covered his face with his
hands, and rocked himself to and fro.
" Where is he now ?” at length lie
asked, in a hoarse voice.
” Locked up sale in the inner store
room; the master intends sending him
to jail early to-niorraw morning.”
” He will not," said Gahan, slowly.
“ Kill the boy that saved his life !—no,
no.”
“ Poor fellow ! the grief is setting his
mind astray—and sure no wonder!” said
the cook; compassionately.
‘I'm not astray!” cried the old man,
fiercely. “Where’s the master?—lake me
to him,”
“ Come with me," said the butler/
" and I'll ask him will he see you.”
With faltering steps the lather com
plied ; and when they reached the parlor
he trembled exceedingly, and leant against
the wall lor support, whde the butler
opened the door and said,
"Gahan is here, sir, and wants to know
will you let him speak to you for a min
ute."
"Tell him to come in,” said Mr. Hew
son, in ft solemn lone ol sorrow, very
different from his ordinary cheerful voice.
“ Sir,” said the steward, advancing,
“they tell me you are going to send my
boy to prison—ts it true ?”
"Too true, indeed, Gahnn. The lad
who was reayd in my liou^e, whom my
wife watched over in health, and nursed
in sickness—whom we loved almost as
if he were our own, has robbed us, and
that not once or twice, hut many times.
He is silent ar.d sullen too, and refuses
to tell why he stole the money, which
was never withheld from him when he
warned it. 1 can make nothing of him,
and must only give him up to justice m
the morning ”
" No, sir, no. The hoy saved your
life ; you can’t lake Ins.”
“ You're raving, Gahan.”
•* Listen to me, sir, and you won’t say
so. You remember tins night twenty
years ? I came here with my motherless
child, and yourself and tile mistress pin
ed us, and spoke loving words to him.
Well for us all you did sol That night
—little you thought it 1—1 was banded
with them that we'e sworn to lake your
life. They were watching you outside
the window, and 1 was sent to inveigle
you out, that they might vdioot you. A
hunt heart I had lor the bloody business,
for you were ever and always a good
master to me ; but 1 vas under an oath
to them that 1 darn’t break, supposing
they ordered me to shoot my own mo
ther 1 Well l^he hand ol God was over
you, and you wouldn’t come with me.
I ran out to them, and 1 said, ‘ lioys, il
you want to shoot him, you must do n
lurougii me wiiiuuw, rnmum^ uicjr u uc
afeard of that ; but they weren’t—they
were daring fellows, and one of them,
sheltered by the angle of the window,
w ok deadly aim at you. That very mo
ment you took Billy on your kViee, and I
saw his lair head m a line with the mus
ket. 1 don’t know exactly then w hat 1
said or did, hut I remember 1 caught the
man’s hand, threw it up, and pointed to
the child. Knowing 1 was a determined
man, I believe they didn't wish to pro
voke me ; so they watched you for awhile,
aud when you didn’t put him down, they
got daunted, hearing the sound of soldiers
riding hy the road, and they stole away
through the grove. .Most ut that gang
swung on the gallows, but the last oi
them died this morning quietly in bis
bed. L'p to yesterday be used to make
me give him money—sums of money to
buy Ins silence—and it was for that 1
made my boy a thief, h was wearing
out his very life. Often he went down
on his knees lo me and said, ‘Father,
I d die myself sooner than rob my mas
ter, hut 1 can't see you disgraced. Oh,
let us fly the country!’ Now sir, I have
told you all—do wiiat you like with me—
semi me lo jail, I deserve it, hut spare my
poor, deluded, innocent hoy I”
It would be dilTicult to describe Mr.
Hewson’s feelings, but his wife’s first im
pulse was to hasten to liberate the pri
soner. With a few incoherent words ol
explanation, she led him into the pres
ence of Ills master, who, looking at him
sorrowfully but kindly, said,
“William, you have erred deeply, but
not so deeply as 1 supposed. Your la
I lit I 11*13 tun* cici y tiling. * luigiii.
him freely, and you also.”
The young man covered his face with
his hands, and wept tears more bitter and
abundant than he had ever shed since
the day when he followed his mother to
the grave, lie could say little, but he
knelt on the ground, and clasping the
kind hand of her who had supplied to
him that mother's place, he murmured,
“Will you tell him 1 would rather die
than sin again ?”
Old Gahan died two .years afterward,
truly penitent, invoking blessings on his
son and on his benefactors; and the
young man’s conduct, now no longe;
under evil influence, was so steady and
so upright, that his adopted parents fell
that their pious work was rewarded, and
that, in William Gahan, they had indeed
a son,
THE WORSTED STOCKIHG.
A TRUE STORE.
‘Father will have done jhe great chim
ney to-night, won't lie mother.*’ said lit
lie Tom Howard, as lie stood waiting for
Ilia father’s breakfast, which he carried
to him at his work every morning.
‘He said lie Imped all the scaffolding
would be down tonight,' answered his
mother, ‘and that will he a fine sight;
for 1 never like the ending of those greal
chimneys—its so risky—thy father is to
he the last up.’
•Eh, then, but I'll go and see him, and
help 'em give a shout afore he cuuits
down,' said Tom.
‘And then,’ continued his mother, ‘it
all goes right, we are to have a frolic to
morrow, and go into the country, and
take our dinners, and spend all day a
moiigst the woods.'
•Hurrah,’ cried Tom, as he ran off to
his father’s place of work, with a can ol
milk in ene hand and some bread in the
other. His mother stood watching
him as he went merrily whistling down
the street, and then she thought of the
dear father he was going to, and tlie dan
gerous work he was engaged in, and
then her heart found its sure refuge, and
she piayed to God to protect and bless
her treasures.
Tom, with a light heart, pursued his
way to Ins father, and leaving Inin Ins
breakfast, went to Ins 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. Jamps
Howard, the father, and a number of
other workmen find been building one of
those lofty chimneys, which, in our
great manufacturing towns, almost sup
ply the place of our other architectural
beauty. This chimney was one of the
highest arid most tapering that has c\er
been erected ; and as Torn shading Ins
eyes from the raj'3 of the slanting sun,
looked up to the top of it in search of
his lather, his heart almost sank within
him at the appalling height. The scaf
folding was almost all down; the men
at the bottom were removing the last
beams and poles. Tom’s father stood
alone oil the top. He looked all around
10 see that everything was right, and
then waving his hat in the air, the men
below answered with a long, loud cheer,
little Torn shouting as loud as any of
them. As their voices died away how
ever, ihey heard a very different sound —
aery of alarm and horror from above /
■The rope ! the rope J' The men louk
ed around and coiled upon the ground
lay the rope, which before the scaffold
| mg was removed, should have been las
I tened to the chimney, for Tom's father
lo c une doivu by ! The scaffolding had
been taken down without their remem
bering to take tile rope up. There was
a dead silence. They all knew it was
impossible to throw the rope op high
enough to reach the top of the chimney ;
or if it could it would hardly have been
safe. They stood in silence and dismay,
unable to give any help or think of any
means of safety.
And Tom’s lather. He walked round
mwI paiiioI I lot I i t t I Cireln flio <{ i7/V
height seeming every moment to grow
I more (earful, and (he solid earth further
and further Irom him. In the sudden
I panic he lost his presence of mind, and
j his senses almost failed him. lie shut
I his eyes ; he felt, as if the next moment,
! lie must be dashed to pieces ou the
ground below.
The day had passed as industriously
and swiftly as usual with Tom’s mother
: at home. She was always busily eut
' ployed for Iter husband and children in
some way or other, and to-Jny she bail
; been harder at work than usual, getting
ready for the holiday to-inorro.v. She
had just finished all her preparations,and
her thoughts were silently thanking God
for Iter happy home and lor all the bless
ings of life, when Tom ran in ; his lace
was as white as ash<£ ; and he could
hardly get his words out. ‘Mother!
mother 1 He canna gel down.'
i ‘Who lad! Thy father?' asked his
' mother.
| ‘They’ve forgotten to leave hint the
rope,’ answered Torn, still scarcely able
to speak. His mother started up horror
1 struck, and stood tor a moment as it par
a'ized then pressing her hands over her
face, us if to shut out the horrible pic
ture, and breathing a prayer to God for
help, she rushed out of the house.
W hen she reached the place where
her husband was at work, a crowd had
collececd at the foot of the chimney,
land stood there quite helpless, gazing up
with faces full ol sorrow, ‘lie says lie’ll
throw himselt down,’ exclaimed they, as
Mrs Howard came up. ‘lie's going to
: tliriov himself down.’
‘Thee inunna do lhat lad.’ cried the
' wife, with clear hopeful voice: ‘lliee
inunna do lhat. Wait a bit. lake ufl
thy stocking l id, anil unravel it, and let
! down the thread with a bn of inoriar.—
Dost hear me Jem!’
The man made ft sign of assent for it
seemed as if he could not speak ; and
taking off his storking, unravelled the
worsted thread row after row. The peo
ple stood round in breathless silence and
suspense, wondering what Toin's mother
could be thinking of, and why she sent
him in such hnste for tlie carpenter’s ball
of twine.
‘Let down one end of the thread with
a hit of stone, and keep fast hold of the
other,' cried she to her husband. The
little thread came waving down the tall
chimney, blown hither and tluther by the
wind! hut at last it reached the outstretch
ed hands that were waiting for it. Tom
held the hall of string, while his mother
tied one end to the worsted thread.—
‘Now pull it up slowly,’ cried she to her
husband, and she gradually unwound the
string as the worsted gently drew it 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 ami Ins
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 !’ exclaimed the w ife. She hid her
face in her hands in silent prayer, and
tremblingly rejoiced. The rope was up.
The iron to which it should he fastened
was there all right; but would her hus
band be able tu make use of them?—
would not the terror of” the past hour
have so unnerved him, as to prevent him
taking the necessary measures for his
safety? She did not know the magic in
fluence which her few words had exeer
] cised over him. She did not know the
l strength that ilie sound of her voice, sc
; calm ami steadfast, had filled him with—
as if the little thread that carried him
the hope of life once more, had convey
ed to him some portion ol that taith in
God, which nothing ever shook or de
stroyed irt her true heart. She did not
know that as he waded there, the words
came orer him, ‘Why art thou east down
O my soul? and why art thou disquieted
within tne? Hope thou in God.’ She
lifted up her heart to God fur hope and
strength. She could do nothing inure
for her husband, and Iter bean turned to
God, and rested oh him as on a rock.
There was a great shod. ‘He’s safe
mother, he’s safe,’ cried little Tom.—
‘Thou’st saved me, Mary,’ said her hus
band, folding her in Ins arms. ‘But ails
tliee? Thou seein'st to be more sorry
than glad, about it.’ But Mary could
not speak, and if the strong arm of her
husband bad not held her up, she would
have fallen to the ground—the sudden
joy, alter such great fear, had overcome
her. ‘Tom,’ said the lather, ‘let thy
mother lean on thy shoulder, and we w ill
take her home.’
And in their happy home they poured
forth their thanks to God for His Good
ness ; and their happy life together felt
dearer and holier (or the peril it had been
m and lor tlte nearness that danger had
brought them unto God. And the holi
day next day—was it not indeed a tlianks
yivitig day?—Eng. S. S. Mug.
Mu Editor—Dkar Sir Perusing
the other night your valuable paper, my
eye caught sight of a few remarks by a
subscriber,, whose aim was to remind a
cert .in few to mind their own business.
It ought to be so, and fir the benefit of
ihe community will submit to your col
umns an examining society.
Examining Society*
Among tlte many societies established
in our country to extend the princip'es of
Christianity and to improve the morals
nf the peo pie at large, it is a subject ol
real regret, that while so laudable a zeal
is manifested, and so much pains taken
to remove the bolt out of our neighbors
eyes, there should he no society formed,
no pains taken to induce men first to casi
ihe beam out of their own ; or in other
woi ds, a society whose end and aim
should be to examine our own hears and
lives,'anti see if we, ourselres.are not
guilty of some habits and vices that need
reform, which are equally as bad as tho «
which we arc so ready to discover in
our neighbors. This society, itB would
seem, ought to take the lead of all otln
ers, and it should be the first object ol
our exertions to suppress the fillies ant!
vices of mankind. Physician, “Ilea
thyself,*’ i« an admonition coming from
the highest authority, and is as applicable
to the scribes and pharasecs now, as i
was l*fO years ago. Did the member
of our popular societies, as well as nth
ers, take half the pains to ex .mine
themselves, ami correct their own faults
that they do to bunt up and expose the
I faults of others, liotv much more like
christ inns would they act? How tnucf
more happy and peaceable would be the
condition of every community and neigh'
borliond ! —and were a society for .sell
examination line.' established in this ol
any other place, and made as popular ar
our temperance societies and many otic
t'IS ||«»W il'L, l|l»W llltll.ll ICOJ lUiiiinij
anii fro, or of numbers standing in tlir
corner of tire streets, thanking (i d thet
they are not like other men, sh< u.d wc
; then behold!
TI1B CONSTITUTION.
Art. I. This society shall be known
by the name of the Self-examining Socic
ty, and shall be composed of members
of both sexes, whose Heads and Hearts
are capable of moral improvement.
I Ait. '■!. The object of this society
shall be—while we see all others’ faults
and failings, to correct own own. Tc
supptf’ss all vice, deceit and hypocrisy,
slander and defamation, back-lining and
evil-speaking, with all that lends to in
jure or defraud our neighbors, either o
his property or character.
Art. 3. This society shall be inpe
pendant ol all other societies—each men.
ber shall be vested with lull power am
I privileges to attend to bis own concerns
and be shall make it bis duty, to mine
! his own business, and let others uloiie
and no presidents, vice presidents, score
tartes, spies, informers, committees m
delegates, shall ever lie cho-eti by (lit:
society to watch over the conduct of oth
ers, or make reports of their neighbors
misdoings, until such a work of uliarltj
shall have been begun at home.
Art. 4. There shall bu no public m
private meetings of this society on uny
appointed days, to manage their con
cents, or to hear lectures del.vered befur.
it, but it shall be the duty of every mem
ber to meet himself alone every day, am:
listen to the lectures of his own con
science.
Art. 5. No money shall be raised
j from time to time, f<* fund* to snpp.rt
j tins society, nor to cifculutc selfexainin
! ing tracts, or self-examining almanacs, or
j to pay mini-ters or lawyer* for deliver
ing addresses to convince us how much
easier it is 10 examine other*, than it is
to examine ourselves.
Art. 6. Every member of 4he society
shall pay due regard to temperance, in
eating ami drinking, and in everything
else. But he shall be his own judge
what he shall eat and what he shall
drink, and wherewithal he shall be cloth
ed — while glu tony, drukeimess end
tight-lacing, shall be left to the gnawings
ol conscience and the consumption, with
all that popular reproach they deserve.
Art. 7. Everything shall be called by
its right name—men shall not put bitter
lor sweet rtof sweet for bitter; nor call
for beer when they mean rum, nor eider
or wine when they mean brandy or gin ;
and no innkeeper shall put new wine into
|old bottles of French brandy, lor the use
of his temperance customers; and no
i grocer or merchant shall sell preparation
|of whisky (dr Malaga or Madeira vine,
nr St. f’roix rum.
i Art. 8. Every member of this socie
ty shall be allowed to drink tea or codes,
cold water or hot water, buttermilk or
lemonade, ns suits him best, or to chew
I and smoke tobacco, or take snuff, when
I not offensive to the company he is in,
' without being excommunicated from good
I society, or deliver* d bver to the bufficing
I of cold water phxrasees.
I . . n X'..I—. ski.
shall sit himself up above his fellow*, or
seek to establish, Ins own character and
consequence by blackening his neighbor'*
good name, thinking to make his own
•ppear ihe whiter; but it shall be the
duty of every one to examine their own
hearts and dispositions, and set a double
guard against ihe sin jtbat moat easily
besets il emselves. *
Art. 10. Tjtis cociety shall form no
Christian parly in politics, and no politi
cal party under the name ol the self-ex
umiiung society. It shall have nothing
to do with masonry or anti-iuae<>nry", col
onization or anti-slavery, missionary,
liible or tract societies, as being in any
maimer connected with it; nor shall any
religious creed, test or in )uisiiion, coun
cil or synod, ever he established or coun
tenanced by this society : but every mem
ber shall enjoy his own religion, and al
low to all others the same liberty he
claims for himself, without being pointed
at as a heretic, or branded as an infidel.
Art. II. Good society shall not bo
exclusively formed out,,of the siistocri
cy of wealth, or made out of the popu
larity of swindling speculators of civil
and religious professions. It shall in
clude the 'he poor who are honest, intel
ligent and industrious, as well as the
rich.
Art. I-. the memocrs ol tins socie
ly shall set k to do good slid not evil—
love and not hate each other—and when
reviled not revile again; hut they shall
bear with the faults and infir niii»s of
others, knowing that they themselves ara
men of like possessions and imperfec
tions. They shall respect the vitues and
talents of all men, nor shall that honor
and influence be overlooked which is
justly due to the working [part of Iho
community, to the fanners and mechan
ics, and to rill whose, honest labor ia a
public as well as a private benefit.
St ascuiaaa.
Terrible Retribution.
STORY OF A FAlTliFi 1. OCO.
About illty years ago, in the Western v
part ol lire Stale of New York, lived a
lonely widow, named Mosher. Her hua
1 baud had been dead many years; her on
ly daughter was grown up end married
living a: the distance of a mile or two
from the family mansion.
And thus the old lady lived alone in
her house hy day and hy night. Yit iu
her conscious mnoceiicy and trust in
Providence, she felt sale and cheerful;
did her work quietly during the dayiigl I
and at eventide lay down and slrpi attce'.*
1 iy
1 One morning, however, she awoke
with an extraordinary and uuwouled
; gloom upon her mind, w hich was impress
*'4 with the apprehension tlntl something
slrau.e was about to happen to her or
Iters, b'u full was she with this thought
that she could nut stay at home that day
but must go abroad to give veut to it, by
unbosoming herself to bur Irieirde espec
ially to tier daughter. With her she
spent the greater purl of thu duy; and iq
iier she several tfljpss repeated the recti
| ill of her upprvheAsmus. The daughter
as ohen repeated tier assurances that llw
good mother hud nerer done injury le
any person, and added, I cannot think
any one would hart you, fur jou here
not an enemy iu the World.
As the day teas declynue, Mrs Mae
i her sought her borne, but caproioad iM