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mm——————MW—MMiMmiWiIMPWWWiW——Wii—MMH AMERICANS CAN GOVERN AMERICA WITHOUT THE AID OP POPISH INFLUENCE. , VOL. 2. NO. 20. ELLSWORTH, MAINE, FRIDAY JUNE 13, 1856. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR. ! MISCliLAXl-OI.'!?. ' FEOI>; OK WOMAN'S HEROISM AW IWOIDEW* IW THE WAU OF 1812. In the last war with England, I was, S3 yon know, a very little girl. I was old enough however, to remotnb ir dis tinctly the preparations made at one time at our house for a substantial baking The supper things were removed, and on the taolc stood brown loaves, their tops made glistening smooth with Peg gy's wot hand, the potefpork and beans the little white loaves rising as fast as they could, a cake of ginger bread, and turnovers for the chilbren. It was dark, for the brown bread and beans were destined to remain in their l-.ot quarters all night, and serve us with a steaming breakfast on the morrow The logs in the large kitchen lire-plaee > burned merrily, the great oven was all a glow; and mother, who was superintend ing, said it only needed to burn to em bers, which it was fast approaching, to be ready for the first inst ilment of our 1 baking. •lust then the door opened, and l’col entered. He was an Indian of notori ously bad character, hut had always be haved himself with propriety in his fre quent visits to our house. It was so much a matter of course for an Indian to i come in without ceremony, that by the time he was fairly appropriating the sup per Peggy placed before him, we had al most forggotten his presence. * l’eol finished his repast, and then came and stood with bis back to tbe fire. Phsiycallr, he was a noble specimen id hu nullity—more thin six feet high, and in figure between Hercules and Apollo. 11 wore a blatk sanl nps cap,turned up an inch or so in front; a Map fell upon ■ his neck behind. Outlie top two round p aks tan up, something like the mitre. H uf a bishop ; it was covered with heavy fl embrodiery of heads, gaily dy d p uvu I p :ie quills and moss-hair, wrought with E singular skill and neatness, f Hi- lightly fitted searletsack was om B broidered in a border an inch deep, with I| white heads, and fastened a1 the b.-ll \ r. as large as a breakfast plate. | In his open hr a.-d appeared a chintz shirt of larg° figure ami gay colors ;—t.i. ho ruffles w re fasten «l with brooch • ot burnished silver, from the size of u d diar to that of a saucer. | li low Ins short skirts appeared conn r . b *red tights of nat ure's fim -* work nan bhip : •‘>tiH low r. leggings of brouleloth. 3-v. i to lit his 1-gs 1 » )> • y, tb" flaps uiit-id • the seam being richly embroidcr i ; to match t’n * c ip. \ Heuitiful soft moccasins of cmbroi d-red buckskin covered hi- hmdsoui' t. Around nis waist was wrapped tw > or thiv times a wampun >ash in a iaumboidal pattern of black and white beads; from this depend d tw. undre.s'd skins of the musk-rat. I think, from the scent. One contained a knit *, the other money and tobacco. There was nothing like foliage, or, in d i. the likeness of anything in heaven or < irth, or under the earth, so fir as 1 mu acquainted, in his patterns, or thos of his tribe, with which 1 was twenty v. irs familiar. Their design, were grot s.ju.\ geomejtrieal figures, alw.iy svmetrical, ami oltcn quite be mtitul. | l here he stood in the red tire-light hug-, brawny, clastic, lightly balane «>n his pretty moccasins, with to -s a iittb introverted, and the look altogether ut . ‘ sl.- k panther, ready to spring. 1 ii survey * 1 us avM.l- in sil •nv . am then h sdd: *M >tay h re all night.— M sb- p here.* p •: .ting to the kitche: floor. i *N », Pool,’ said mother kindly, *'•' camu>t keep you.' .. ; ii rep at d with ti *r 'e author‘*t- ’ Slav here to-night. M >ih r know, bv sul <"P"r! ,hu , , * nice to tli ■ cop c >ns qucnce ol bene\t» , , ‘ * . .she kne-v tint I ; i e uoiod v egaoo’ . , ,. ti. i col, if ;. • remain t r we w re a-, 1 . i , , the door to Mime ol hi « ai wer; alwivs ioungilia brethren. . * . «groc *r: -s, and usua Iv inor * or • .utoxicated. I le y would light, lin ing night hideous with their grunts, veils and curses ; twisting their hands into the unshorn 1 >ck of hair upon each ole r’s he.ids, they would crack the v r t.iu-jc with a sound tint could he heart » :n ' tin '-a ii'ti m/r , imsi* .w i--* ji. i furniuuce. She r nicmbercd that th< snow in our yard, as in those ol mi; le ghburs. had o:t n h cn hard-pr‘ssei l-y the rolling acuities ofthes.' scrcccnin, , serenad is, whil ■ th ■ p :m>! ■ wham w 1 passing a wretch d night. She w.-l knew the danger o*’off-tiding them, am ir iasin ' 11 :ir r;v Mg.\ While deciding upon her course, m )t:i tr w is stirring the Out embers, and draw ing them to the mouth of the o cu will th lung haudl ;d iron shovel. lYul stooi at her left hand, nearly half w ay from tli ov..a to the door where he had entered and which remained pen His face wa turned towards hi r as if waiting her an swer Her decision being m ide. she said firm ly. 'l’eol, I cannot and will not let yu stay here to-night.’ ^ instantly lie bared his kuife. It glit tered, hut not so terribly as the wit ke green light that shot out from under th •haggy brow of its enraged ow ner. ‘It is war time,’ lie growled. ‘1 woul j |iscalp you fur a niucpence. The instant the knife dashed in tli fire light, mother, with a dexterous move fflent, drew out the red hot shovel, fu °f glow ing coals, and without moving step suddenly calling out— ‘Hun ! run, I’eol ! or 1 will put thei in your bosom! I will burn you t death!’ He hesitated and stepped back. Sli , followed. He could n .t teuh the shovi without being burned. It was tisclei to dodge, for he had watched from infanc >he little swaying form before him ; sle' t or and graceful, but tough as a whil oak sapling—his equal in agility, if ni in strength.—Ho knew the power an passion in that light form, which no ntido her ebooks erimsoD, and made h' eyes glow and sparkle almost like the ! burning coals before him. He watered a moment, and sprung in I to the entry. In the same instant the j shovel and its contents flew into the ■ fire-place, and mother, braced against the door, was holding the savage at bay j alone, pressing down the latch with both ; hands. Peggy, with quick wit, caught . a fork from the table, and pushed it over i | the latch. Mother held it, while Peggy | placed her stout shoulder against the | door. The Iindian tugged, grunted, and swore fearfully, but the door was true to ! its trust. i Silence reigned within. Frank was 1 asleep in the cradle; Ann?, too frighten ed to cry, and I, with eyes wide open, ( was watching to s?c how it would en i. Mother whispered to Peggy: * What if the latch breaks ?' As she spoke. Pool ran out of doors to a win | dow that was fastened. Mother had i been hoping for this, ami drawing the i fork, she darted into the entry and bolt 'd the outside door. II r castle was 1 barely s-cured, when back c .me the In ; than, desperately furious et finding hi;u I self foiled. | Mother returned to the Kitchen and poured a pail of water on the lire. Pcg ' gy at the sain? time blew out the 1 mp and shut the oven door. The darkness j of th? room enabled us to see the great j black Pool at the window, making frightful gestures, and uttering wild im pre -tions in his brok -n lung mge. Meanwhile, mother, aware that an In dian and his gun were never i' r separ ate 1. t >ok us noiseless y into the parlor, and s-ated us on th-• door beneath the only window looking up n the street.— . i rUr. >>in r , in r limbs she I > 1 l C •«1 till* ' j era. lie ov r them, close to us, and whis-' ‘ pered. *\ow sit still as mi' e. Il 1* >1 ' should Iir.■ into this window, the hull fs will go over your he ids and strike the ceiling—do cannot hurt you here.’ Young as l was, 1 !;n *a train m >thcr s I manner that our trouble were nut cud- j i iu. Our house was situated upon a hill m 1 >. l’t.c kitchen had its entrance up m the gro in 1, though really in the .>ci «.»:ui story, having a basc*incnt beneath. l h narlor window, where we were sitting, was inacce>s'.hl \ while in tao kitchen , there was no escape from Pool s ohser vation. Father's place of business was several rods opposite ours, tlu* light sent its ray-, across the yard, partially illumining the pailur. Bv this 1 could see mother, u it's clasp.-d hands, and pale as mar.-ie, ! c .utii.- islv peering from the window. I),: tl) sh< clasp . • - 1 claiming, 'll is sal 1 Oh children, ' vour father is alive and sate! 1 thought p .tl would go and murder him. 1 <-*ould s' > him sitting then s » calmly posting ; his hooks, whil Pool went >traigh* ^ j ward* him. Uml went past up';; tow ,r Is |*fttne s. (>h. I’ ■ r have ru> and given .... c,s";.n. , ' but ! kn " P ol 1 "< ,, return.-' ' butchered you all-— It was * driadiul choice to make, hut 1 | would not sacrifice so many UvtsTor om . though that one is dearest to me. And i she sat down by the door, lean u her i h -ad upon the ciadlo. and cried heartily. P o_ry now- relighted up. r kin.ll il : the !ir- s, and made mother comfortable, s}. • was or paring to put Anni ■ u:ul in t11 b 1, when lather, much agitat d. cam ■ la me to tell us th it l’eol ha t jusi killed Wane at the hot 1. 11 had gone there int-mliag to pass the nieht. lie was mil' a - v it d and vc y ins dent. Mr. Wane order 1 him t . leave th'- house.— Peul refused, and lie struck him a light blow with a light stick. Strange that ur. litaiH' sa >uiu » un-, •» ** »» " ; so w 11 th it an Indian will not hear ai blow—that Peul, Last of all. would nut, hr »k such an indi gnity. Pi ol r tr ;at d' „ut uf the door—Mr. Blanc followed him. Binding the sivugv disposed to leave th premiseh • attemote l to re-enter, i’eol dr \v that bright knit . and plunged it to the hundl in Mr. Blake s hack* I he ' w.niade l m in stagg-i'd. and groan -1 out . - Oh Sarah, I’m a dean man. Draw nit the knite.’ With honor and des nur sh ■ oueved ; lie*- husband fell dead ' .it h r feet. 1 Pool was apprehended, and escort 'd hv a strong guard to the old fort. Att.-r hi.s tLal lie was imprison'd there t i aw .it his execution. B tore th 1 day arrived ’ the British captured the fort, and iind.r ' pretuns r of exchanging prisoners, th y ’ set l’eol at liberty. I \\'e never saw Pool again. What tinally became of him I do not know. . i "Wife, why, in the name ot good ; ness, did you not make the washerwo II man put starch in my shirt collar | "Why, my dear. I though- it an use L. 1 ss waste of the article, for 1 can get . | vour choler up so easy without it. » Eliot Smith was, and may be is, a celebrated upliolstcr, and good natured a ’ auctioneer at Cambridge, England.whose o body exceeded in dimensions the proper corporation standard; on him a Iriuity e wag wrote the following lines : •1 If flesh be gra'S, as some folks say, s j Then Eliot .Smith's a l .ad of Kay. - Cheese 1’kess.—There is a paper e printed in Arkausai on a cheese press. ,t It is hardly necessary to say that it does d not throw off sheets quite as fast as a w fleabitten lodger in a cheap hotel, or one ir1 of Hoe's six cylinder pressee. THIN SHOES 07 E J. 1IALE. 'You arc not going out to walk in those thin gait t bools, Kate?' asked Mary Adams of her friend Kate Durgin, as they met for a morning walk. ‘And why not, pray ? they arc thick soled, I’m sure. Indeed, I called them very thick and clumsy when I bough' them, and c.une near taking anothei piir instead. Thin, forsooth! Why what would you have me wear, Mary ?' ‘Something 10 protect your feet, Kate, not merely a emir, in« fur them. You will not have gone half way down tin street, before these will he perfectly saturated. Do you know how bad it i: out ?' ‘Not worse, I pr sumc, than it n yesterday—tlnn it lus been a hundred limes when I have been out thus. 1 shall not wet my l'e t, Mary; or, if I do, it will not hurt me. 1 am strong and can bear it. I do no' wish to become so tend r n-id delicate as half the young ladies are.' ‘lint, my dear girl, you arc taking the very means to do t'lis. You cannot al ways hear it. depend upon it, you can not. Sooner or l iter t!i re will come a time wrn-ii the overtaxed frame will yield—believe me there will; and it may C"in ■ -uddenly. With strong constitu tions lik" yours, it is often thus. The lithe and d bc ite willow will sway and belli in tlie strong breeze, where the ill'll'- rugged and hardy oak or pine would break at once. O. Kate! do be advised—do be warned! My very heart aches to see von go cut tHil-'.’ •W iiy, Mtry, you have g.ven me quit ■ a lecture. But I assure- y,»u it is not at all n tied. What I always have • lone, I I'd that 1 alw .ys can do. It i all in habit, Mary—ill in habit. Kui com?. 1 h .vc only my furs to put > —t u n I am ready.’ •Would that your furs would nrotcci your f’' t. Mghed Mary, as, drawing o: her nicelitting rub!) r boots, which were i:: l - "l a piot vtlou, and throwing her thibit sc nf about her m :k, she wenl Ibrth with Ikr i'ri ad. •Ready to walk again, Kotor* asked Mary, hounding into her friend's room a. brighi and happy as a bird, a lew morn ing-, after this conversation. But start ing, when she saw K ite s pile and hag gard count.mine< . she cxclui nod feeling ly— •Why, my friend, whit is t:.e nutter' vou are not sick, are vou* •Only a ,li-lit co1"’.' M..rv. t> •' >» • *'• II will soon b-- b'uut’. for co***s mver last long »p 4r 1 i in»!ol walk t* -dav, 1 Ivan so v, .* will have to go witliout me,’ she adi-l w ith a faint smiie. *N •, I will remain with you awhile.— I have my work in my packet, so I can stay as w ell as not. But pray, how did you tak • your cold, Kate Slightly blushing, and moving un •aslily in her chair, she replh d : •Some how in our walk the other morning. I believe your were half right, alter all But there ! it will 1k soon over—it is nothing serious, ln d d it is not,* continued she, observ ing Mary's troubled face. •Well. K .t -, if it only teaches you a lesson for the future, and it Ik* not al ien uy too late, all may yet be well.— But 1 o't n fear for tli -so ‘slight colds.' l'uey do n• • t always prove >ueh in the en d.’ •But vou shall see that mine will,’ re •1 Imp.' so—1 U .pe so, my friend, bul promise m ■ you will never, nrver ex pos • yours ll thus again.’ •1 do promis'. M ry,' a:iswcr"d Kat •, a ba 1 eaitg!) racking her whole Irame. •Oil ! il we all c ml 1 only feel til ■ im p irt in ■ of tiiis m itt'-r,’ continued Mary, earn’stly. ‘how miny precious lives might be saved I This going with feel unpiotect -d. With ankles exp s'.1, gives phy-h tans half t!i -ir fees.the grave-yards half their ten mts. I may speak strong ly, for 1 fe d deeply. We cannot gc out in the snow at all. whether it be wet or wheth r it be dry, without being expos 'I more or less. l*’or if it be not so wet as to saturate our boots, it will then adhere to our cloths, thus wetting the ankles, which is nearly as bad. In deed, of the two, 1 would quite as soor wet *he former. 1 be consequence! would not be more serious. • This practice of robing the neck am wrists in furs, it seems to me, is rathe: injurious than otherwise. It keep: them too warm, unless iu the most ex tremc cold. And the wearing of then has become such a fashion, such a man ia, that cold or warm, they must go oi all tiie s»me. Why, 1 have actually sa in church this very season, with m; i thibet scarf thr-wn back, my cloak uu 1 fastened at the neck, and using a fan a that, when half the ladies in the housi were robed in furs, which but few evci threw luck. 1 could not bear it at all 1 should quite suffocate. And, more over, bundled up so in the house— 'should be sure oi a cold taken whin! ! went out. And yet I'll be safe iu saying I that mu one-half of them had their fee I aud ankles protected as they ought.— But forgive me, Kate; I did uot mean ti give you another ‘lecture.’ ’ i *1 need it, Mary, dear; so no apology my friend ;’ and tho conversation tool a different turn. A few week* later, and Mary »tOfH by the bedside of her friend. Day and I night she had been with her for a week; 1 for the mother had other cares, a large family to attend to, and readily accept ed M irv’s proffered assistance. The ‘slight cold' had not disappeared, 1 as had been hoped, it had remained, | first bringing a cough, then pain in the I side, and at last severe pneumonia.— | This had now abated its severity some ' wh it, hut there following no recovery, (dn the contrary, it was evident that the strong frame was vanquished at last, i Tlio poor girl turned uneasily upon her I pillow. Instantly Mary was bending over her. | ‘What is it, Kate? wfcut would you say?’ she asked, seeing the lips trembled and the words would hardly come. *0, my friend ! if only I had heeded 1 | you, I should not now be here,’ she an- j s wo red forcing back the tears that wore j well-nigh choking her. *God knows 1 . did not mean thus to trifle with what he had given. Hut I was thoughtless, \ wrongly counting on my strength. It has failed at la^t. Mary, I shall never get up again. And once more let me; ( J th ink you for all you have done and are j still doing for one so unworthy.’ Mary strove to cheer her, though h< r own heart was hopeless. Kate siw to effort all; was making, and smiling sad ly, she said: ‘Xo, Mary, it cannot be. 1 know I sh ill not live long—perhaps not till th * morrow. An 1 oh, my mother I How she will miss me! and the little ones, too ! I could have been her help and their companion. Xu’.v 1 must go—and through mv own carelessness and folly! O. Mary, tell mv mother, tell them to ; bo wiser than I have been. He to them . a friend a counsellor, even as you have been to me. Vnd God grant they may he *• i veil i> urm -i 1 i. u'hiu . Mil* s - m; • die listed; a::d admin! s tciing a re,-.»nig draught, Mary left the room in search A' her mother. The dent!, change come rapidly; and soon they were all summoned to receive her last farewell. Long ere the morrow's sun had risen, K ite Durgin was no mor •. The strong frame \vh eh but a few months before was full ol life and health, _ How* lay in the cold embrace of deatu. ;Thc parents mourned for their first l>orn —the little ones for a kind and loving elder sister. One more grave was filled in the \'d-j lage churchyard. One more -tone mark ed the place of the dear departed; and i alas ! •«- ~ * a '.>• ' ♦ , thj - who have di 1 from their ov»\. carel'.ssness. May (i > l and man deal gently wi'.hj the erring ! V t Ui-: Kil.swoah American. IN MEMORIAH Intelligence often reaches our ears of the death ot smile dear loved one; often has our circle been broken by the cruel baIui of death, yet as often have our I hearts been cheered by the assurance of, their delightful exchange of a world of care and sorrow for the home of the re deemed with God. On the fourth of May, in Algama Win. Co. Wis., Mrs. Julia A. wife of Henry . C. Millikan, was called to try the reali ties of the etenul world. A few months onlv have elapsed since they left their home and friends here, to try the for tunes of a western home. In justice to the bereaved friends we can say their loss is irreparable. In her was combined all • that is ami dole and lovely. None knew uri mu Lhi iuh; n.;i. In the Spring of 18jd she made a pub-, lie profession of her faith in the Savior, anil united with the people of God, among whom she continued to walk in harmony, adorning her profession with consistent, earnest pictv. For a long time her health had been declining, but the hope that the more in vigorating air of the western climate might restore her wasting strength, in-j duced her to join her husband, in seek- ! ing a western home. l!ut disease must finish its work. Vain are the hopes and plans of man, when this dread monster takes his seat. No matter how loved! the object, human skill can avail noth-] iin"- . Her health continued to decline and ■ death approached, yet her trust was in Him who doeth all things well. She spoke of meeting the grim messenger of death as a friend. No terror, but joy ' unspeakable filled her soul. She re-, : marked a few hours befote her death, that she knew in whom she had trusted ; that Ho was able to save to the utter- ! ' most. Her bodily suffering was extreme, yot her faith was strong, and praise wait ed upon her lips. Who would not rather live the life of ' the righteous, that their death might be like hers? Husband! mourn not, for surely thy • loss is her infinite gain ; for as a beauti 1 ous flower, she has been transplanted to the Paradise of God. Think not of her | a* 9he was. thy companion worn and watted by disease ; subject to the temp tation* and trial* of this sinful world. but, as she is, released from earthly suf fering, the companion of the redeemed. Behold her already united with that heavenly choir singing praises to the Lamb who was slain on Calvary, yet lives again to intercede for fellow man ! See her with that Savior whom she so | much loved on earth, an heir of immor :al glory. Mourn no longer, but rather j rejoice that she has gone to her eternal reward, and strive so to live that when thy summons comes, thou wilt be pre pared to meet her where disease will no) more invade, and death no more sever] kindred hearts, but where thou mayst .‘vcr drink at the fountain of unalloyed] bliss. Mother! dry thy fulling tears, for,! though thou wilt no more cl isp the hand bf thy once noble daughter, yet, remem ber, now thou art mother of a saint, a ‘joint heir with Christ to an inheritance 1 rot made wi*h hands, Eternal in the j Heave ns." i-et th • hope of ag .in meet ing h r vi .bin the portals of the New \ h m-alem, tluer thy lonely way. Br.-thcr m l Si-ter! though \ou wore lot p.rniitted to stand by the bedside of rour thing sister, to hear her last fare-1 well, nor behold her countenance made oyi'ul by the assurance of pardon and ac- i :*.'*p:.j!e .• with God, yet you arc assured j 'i t the angelic choir lias welcomed her j is an heir ol Eternal life. II r sorrows :i caith are ended, her work is finished .'11 she iias gone to give an account to ! h -• dodge of all tha earth. God was ’ r guide in life and support in death, i v her last praver in vour behalf be ■> ■ '. reel, and Bethany’s chief mourner he \ our comforter. In urd'cp affliction may we all be u'.-.'d'-d to say, N«>t mine bur Thy will nr thou doest *.11 things well! Thou gh h r body lies far from the home of her < ii: inuood, in a land of strangers, yet *• '• !s watch tin slccj>iiig'lu*!. -x . lu'.-i ti-u.-'- ia the in\ iritla Guar •iiuti Ijf thr i .'tub !” A Fnu:nD. X . Ilanco-k, May 2Oh. .800. n -wthay Clean House where Doesticks juuarus. ! 'i .. his “Letters to the New Yorker.” • 1 h y begin at the top of the ho use.! uijv:. g all the clumber furniture into he c liar, and give the bedrooms into lie keeping of amphibious Grecian mai ie ns. with the skir* pinned to the lank M their necks—these modern mermaids joak the room for two days in hot water md lather the Hours with soap, amusing themselves uv an while getting roaring drunk on the private brand) of the boar ders. These latter unfortunates pervade the establishment in all directions, seek ing for something to cat, which they lon’t get, and searching for their beds, which they never find. I remember the house-cleaning season as a time when wu always had picked-up codfish for breakfast, b*. cause it is easy to cook,and a dash of bln !i p -pper hides all the extiu dirt—when \\ c drank our eofTe .* out of tin basins and poured the milk out of gravy boats—when a pie dish did the duty as a sugar b *si:i — when we cat our broiled mackerel off of pickle plates with kitchen forks, the silver being all locked •' j» <■ ' rv [» * >< u-'iu »'uiiu-itasiiu? — when, instead of n-ipkins, wo had night caps and pocket handkerchiefs in about equal proportions — aha a wo burnt our lingers making our own toast, and then couldn’t get anything to grease it with but nit'h/1" butler, which ‘p e.iily re td'cd itself into its original elements, lard oil and cheap salt. In my last place the lan lludy always drank herself lull of beer immediately after breakfast, and then staggered about the house making insane efforts to sweep cob-webs off the walls with a case-knife 1 slept that night on a lounge in tnc hack parlor, from which 1 rolled orf four tiiu -s, on the last occasion making an < xtra revolution, which brought my head over the furn tee register, so that when 1 awoke i' was done through, and camped out on the carp >t till in iming. Got up early with a stilt' neck, and went to my room to perform iny daily lathering penance with the brush and la sir. I volunteered a clean shirt, went to mv drawer to get it. On top of the spotless linen ther-in bestowed. 1 dis covered that the motherly care of Mrs. had placed four pair of old boots, a lluid lajfcp, and a bottle of cologne. The top of !(j limp had come off—so had the cork of the bottle—the shirt was fra grant with camphcue, but the collar was llrongly scented with cologne, so the aver age smell was fair. During these days Potpie and the gen tle Desdemona did not neglect their op portunities. As soon as they could steal the key of the book-case they took a set of the Waverly novels iu seventy-eight volumes, made a house thereon in the back yard, on the roots of the grape vine, and built a fire in it for a Fourth of July celebration. The comtiagration was only stayed when Rob Ro; aud Ivanhoe were quite consumed. The Bride of Laramermoor was ruiued and nothing left of Kenilworth hut the revers That sam« day th» young man nearly cut his sister's nose ofT, trying to shave her with my razor. They, of course searched every drawer in the house—and once they had a desperate quarrel about the ownership of my cigar case, he claim ing by right of discovery, as she had found it in the pocket of my Sunday coat. The; brother was furious—at last Potpie seem- I ingly yielded, but only to ultimately tri umph by treachery. In the course of j the afternoon he entrapped her into aj whiskey barrel, under the pretence of I playing “circus”—when he once bad her I safely inside, he headed her up by nail-j ing a board across the top with a hatchet,' and made deliberate preparations to drown her into submission by adminis-j tering dirty soap suds in four quart do- i s.-i—fat man heard her cries for mercy, ■ and arrived at the spot as the exultant! victor was poising a pailful of the delect-1 able fluid above her head, and she was! humbly suing for peace through the bung- j hole—fat man delivered a short lecture! as lie liberated the besieged heroine, while the baffled Potpie stoned him from a ills' nice. I On the list day of this memorable j time. I was turned over to the tender j mercies of a strmge cook, Mr. C. and nil, the regular “help” being engaged in a' sanguinary war of extermination upstair.-; with a multitude of enterlopers who had colonized the bedsteads, and who were' strong enough in numbers and otherwise! to have offered an effective resistance had they been united, but not being unani- : mous in their opposition, they were over-, come and sacrificed in detail. Hid ly the strange girl, is probaly a good girl at heart, but she has her little eccentricities. She fried my potatoes, with the skins on, and the eggs without. taking off the shells. She boiled my I steak in the tea kettle, and in trying to i fish it out with the broom stick .she drop ped it into the ashes. I asked for a gla -s of water, she brought me some in a la dle and presented it at me like a musket. From this latter lnanrpuvrc I suspected that she had been drinking—this impres sion was strengthened when, on my re plying in the affirmative to her inquiry j whether 1 w mid have some ‘’apple dump- ! iins,’' she brouga* me a piece of rice pie , on a gridiron—but I did not consider j her absolutely drunk until she attempt- j ed to pour my s. eoml cup of tea out oi’ the roiling pin. Upon this I immediate ly withdrew from h r presence, leaving Iliddy propped up against the dresser. ■ singing ••liock-a-by-baby” and trying to nurse a fb-.t-b-nri i.vw5. ;mpn s-mn t■ iitt ;t was her own mlant off-mring. She did not discover her iliu-1 sion even when her maternal instinct led 1 her to turn it bo tom side tip and spank it Ur making smell a noise, but she sank into a calm repose with her head-in a handle box, hugging her cast iron baby j to In r oleaginous bosom, with true pa rental solicitude. ; F-• r f A'nit' '*rf The Lementations ofBluehilb _ll'-:irke:i unto me, all yo people, and listen un'o the voice of my Lainenta-! tion. j In my youth. I nourished and brought up children, who feared the name of the , Lord and strove to keep his command- ; nvnts, who loved hi* statutes, not fur-j getting the assembling of themselves to gether, as the manner of some is, at the present time; who received the word from the lips of (he man of God, who j sought to divide it rightly, giving to1 every one his portion in due season. Then I rejoiced, and said, I shall i never !>e nun e l; in , mountain staudetli i firm. >,' >w after many years,this man of1 God was gather! d to his fathers, and all the people mourned, but another had I arisen among thorn who was meek and; lowly in heart. And to him, were given; many souls as seals of his ministry. liut God - ' tli not as man seoeth, and • tliis servant was not, for God took liim. j Then there arose other servants to same x of whom,the people would not hearken, . hut drove th to out, and others arose' after them who provoked the people to . anger and left them t i hardness of heart and blindness of mind, lire the hoary j frost and fleecy snow clothed the ground tiie cry of my people went up, “How long wilt thou hide thy face from us?" ; Set thou a watchman up in the walls ol ! our Town ; then wore they as an oak j whose leaf faileih, and as a garden that hath no water, for many pastors had de stroyed ray vineyard and trodon my portion under foot. They had made my pleasant portion a desolate wilderness, they have mado it desolate, and being desolate it mourneth unto me. Lo the jyiuter i3 over and gone, tho flowers ap pear n the earth, the time of the sing ing of the birds is come and still the mourners go about the streets and Zion languisheth. ‘‘Wo to the lands shadowing with wings'' which Is upon the river of Pe nobsoot. That sendeth ambassadors, by land, “Saying, go, ye swift messengers, to a nation meted out, and trodden down" bnt the messenger, turned aside, and tarried in th* town ofOrlaad. HI? soul <S ftdated vritM* him, b/ MM at Km mire, T And again, another mcsaag* m scat forth, and ho alto tarried by the way, even at Ilucksport, at the import unitus of the people there, whose pastor was journeying, for a few days, even though in th‘ir midst were found, many “preach ers of righteousness,"—their eye* urs never satisfied with seeing, nor their ears with hearing. Howl ye shepherds, and cry. and wallow yourselves in ashes, ye principal of the flock, “lest the days of your slaughtered your dispersion bo or complished, and the shepherds shall have no way to flee, nor the principal of the flock to escape” “Assemble yourselves and come all ye heathen, and gather yourselves together, round about,” and in compost ion send us from your land, beyond the sea, one from among these we have scut to you, “to break unto ua the bread of life,” for it is a day of troubl >; and of treading down, and of perplexity. There is no "arm af flesh” to help us.— For this our heart is faint ; for these things, our eves are dim, but our souls wait on the Lord, lie is our shield.— Who is that wise man, that can under stand these tbiugs. ‘DIRT.” “ Dirt! Jacob, wlmt ia Uir ?”—iournvr. The dictionary tells us that dirt, is ■‘whatever adhering to any thing, rend ers it foul or unclean.” Our eyes till us that it takes away the beauty of whatev er it t ruches. Our noses tell us that it is exttemely disgusting, and our feelings tell us that it is repugnant to health and comfort, and purity and social enjoyment. Jdirt is not part of our nature : it is a rararite thriving on our heart’s blood .ike a vampire. They say the vampire sucks away the life, without the poor patient’s knowing inv thing about it. It is just the same with dirt. Four fifths of mankind live iu dirt, and los a large part of their icalth and comfort in consequence.— K 'i ♦ ie if flmf l-nlie f i i ii n«fiii]»iri.» nliiasnu in many of our largo towns, of nearly ialf their natural term of life : Dirt, lirt on tlie person, in the* houses, in the streets, ari l in the air. What is it that makes the ehii ire i i ret ini, impatient, and bad tempered } Durr, again. Wnat i» it that keeps rich people from associating with the poor, from sitting by them at meetings, or lotting th*in cornu to their houses? Often, not so much prid - a Diht. Wii.it is it that destroys self-re spect, makes me t c iicb.'.i and degraded, and weakens the natural restraints of modesty*/ i) 1 rt ag in. What is it that makes the prettiest ihuj ugly, the finest clothes tawdry, the cleverest man disc greeabh, and the mu*l splendid hours uninhabitable ? 1.'r nr, again. away, rrir.v. with ihiit 1 Welcome water and air, sand and soap even besoms and scrubbing-brusho.* ! — The child who fetches a pail of wat.r in to the house is an angnj of mercy, whib the man that brings in a jug of ala is b * ginning the work of a demon. The men ..a,.. * • i • *i*« .: i • a i'—a *i.«* C-..U r1 nds for our support, turns it into pois onous spirit, amt after mixing it *. :,.h corrupted water; oders it to his brother to drink, gives pleasure to fiends. But the poor mechanic who takes the putrid tallow an 1 the dirty ashes, an i changes thorn into dirt-destroying soap, is doing a noble work. It is like what the Divine Being does in nature. He takes the filthy pirticle* that nauseate us, and the bad air thnt robs us of our health ; and with this he nourishes the plants, and forms a new .'tore of food to support, ami of herbage and flowers that d oiyht US. j.oat m: i.»ri;rl You cun not help it at work ; but when your work is over, taste no food till you have cleaned yourself. Wash your whole body over every morning, and put on clean clothes as often as ever you can. \ou could soon afford plenty of clean shirts and sheets, if the publican gave you back your money, and you gave him back his ale. Don't take those dirty drinks : cool yourself with the fresh, clear water that -Nature niters so beauti fully for you in the bowels of the earth. WOk* .• K ... _ . windows. Don't grudge cither time or money that is spent in cleanliness ; an i try to live where your neighbors are clean also ; lest you su.Ter from their dirt, for DIM IS POISON ! It gets into the body through tit's pores ot tho skin, and the dirty gases en ter with the air into tho lungs.’ It mixes with the blood, and makes it corrupt; and often levers, cholera, consumption, and other fatal diseases arc the result. All slops, middens, and undrained places help to poison the air, and wo should wash them away as fast as wo c>n.— 't here ought to tic a drain and water closet in every house, a sewer in every street, and, above all, a plentiful supply of water lj flush tho dirt a war. Xho places w here many of t h^ poor reside are only fit for drunkards; they are too bad for beasts. If working men spent part of their drinking money in house-rent, such places would be deserted and soon pulled down. A clean man respects him-i If, and edu cates his eyes ami nose to the observance of decency, lie is not afraid of going anywhere, or ashamed of being iu the company af any on.. The dirty man cares for nobody, and yet slinks away from respectable people. CLEANLINESS IS si,XT TO ftODLlVESV An habitually dirty m ■n can h irdly be religious. He is breaking one of tli« first of nature's laws 11’auliuess in person prepares for purity rf heart-, and for a reception of the life-giving princi ples of tho Gospel. rRESII AIR, Fl'RE WAX 1,8, AND C.OOU SOAF rellEVER ! DOWN WITH MR?! Reader ! if you h ive not done so al ready, go and wash v 'ursoifnow. Throw the tobacco-box imo tho fire; leave in toxicating drinks at tbs public house, and never go there, and become a close. 1 sober ©an.