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. By G. H. RUNDLETT.
THE GAZETTE & UNION...
: : 1S PUBLISHED WEEKLY, AT
g - No. 31 PANIEL STREET, e
] 1l PORTSMOUTH, N.'H. ' sty
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7 Advertisements inserted at liberal rates. ! :
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- "POETRY. -
R et
From the Boston Museum.
: The Banshee,
BY ELLEN ALICE MORIARTY. s
' «@The Banshee is the wildest and grandest of ‘all the Irish su
! perstitions, The spirit assumes the form 'of a° woman,’ some
. times young, but more generally very old; her long, ragged
locks float over her thin shoulders ; ':& is usually attired in
" white drapery, and her duty upon earthisto wariy -the family
upon which she attends of some approaching misforture.’’—
Hall’s Ireland. g ks
Mother, dear! my strength is failing,
- “All night long within my ear ;
Low I've heard the Baushee wailing,
Warning me that death is near.
‘When the sun was setting slowly,
‘On the path a shadow fell ;
Low, sweet music, calm and holy,
Bowed my soul beneath its spell.
At the sounds 6f mournful meaning,
Slow my drooping head I raised,
And. beside the window leaning,
Out upon the garden gazed. :
On the pathway stood a woman, \
Robed in white, with silver hair,
Bright with glory superhuman;
And my heart grew still with fear.
Nearer moving, bending o’er me,
Loud her Keen* she wildly screamed,
And upon the air before me
Loose her silvery tresses streamed.
They, like paths of light, were pointing
To the blessed home above ;
With a kiss my brow anointing,
Slowly from me did she move,.
Cold as ice, that kiss descending
Seemed to chill my weary heart,
With its touch my trials ending— ‘*
Mother, darling ! soon we’ll part.
Listen ! listen! faintly clearer
Sounds that wild, despairing cry ;
Closer, mother! closer—nearer—
_ Let me on thy bosom die!
*Death-cry.
From the Carpet Bag.
Our little Boy.
BY FINLEY JOHNSON.
When Spring’s green buds are putting forth
Their blossoms on each tree,
It always brings a saddened train
Qf solemn thoughts to me ;
For it was in an hour like this
Woe lost our little boy,
In whom was placed all of our hopes
And@entered every joy.
We laid him down within the tomb
When birds were singing gay ;
We gazed upon his fair young face, '
And sadly turned away ;
His funeral hymn was sofily sung,
We laid him down 1o rest,
With Lis hands so meekly folded
Upon his pulseless breast.
And as we took a long, last leok, :
And heard the sullen sod,
We, in our grief and sorrow’s might,
Reproached our chastening God ;
Bat better feelings now have come,
And eased our load of pain,
We would not if we had the power
Recall him back again.
' New York, 1851.
*“QOh, Sing me that Sweet Air again.”
BY ANNA WILMOT.
Thaus sued the youth, in accents low
“Qh, sing me that sweet air again!” ,
The maiden touched the quivering strings,
And warbled forth love’s thrilling strain.
“Qh, sing me that sweet air again !”
The lay once moer the maiden sung;
‘While on her words, \‘“ music given,
The kneeling lover fondly hung.
“@}4 sing that air again,” he said ;
“For ever I could bend to hear;
For ever drink the melody
_ Now falling oo my charmed ear.”
“Enough !” Thus spoke a sterner voice.
Quick sprung the lover to his feet :
No gentle maiden’s t-nder eyes
Are those his startled glances meet.
“Away I"—a hand impatient waved—
* “«Away! When deeds of valor prove
* Thy heart with manhood’s pulses strong,
Here kneel again and sue for love.”
:**** * * * * *
“QOh, sing me that sweet air again !”
"T'was thus the kneeling lover sued :
« Years had passed by, and now his hands
Were with his brother’s blood imbued.
More worthy he of woman’s love, —
: For deeds of daring he had done :
Green laurels decked his sterner brow,
: Amid the din of battle won.
Thank God ! thfi,;world is better now ;
. +And maiden’s heart may gently yield,
E’en though her lover have not proved (
+. ..+ His manhood on the battle-field. . :
o ;_MISI?.;ELLAN ¥
¥From Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal.
The Fool of Laboudie.
Some people ‘are all hand, and some are al
heart. The first do, and the others feel. The one
is always at work—laboring, creating, producing
the other spends his life in deploring the miserie:
of homanity, its wrongs—but there he stops. The
same in private life : A man of hand supports his
family, gives them good beef and mutton, dresses
them well, and proves that he loves them by wak
;ing them baypv ; the man of heart feels intensely
“if they. are sick, has tears for the slightest ills thai
bappen, deplores their want of luxuries und neces
saries, sits b{v his chimuey-corner and talks—prov
ing, after all, that he lovés but himself. ~He is the
most amiable man in the world; & general favorite
‘in society, an: outwardly affectionate father and
- husband ; 'but his children are half starved, and hi
i wife goes about in an old gown which the man of
- band’s wife would. give away to some beggar tc
.-whom it would be useful and welcome. Not that we
%fi:fity&f from it.’ A man eannot have toc
% g,if he allies with it'the. head 10 ¢onceive
and the hand to execute. = A man wholly withon
a heart-is a monster ; and the great defect of Na.
» poléon’ss chardcter was, that /with-a mighty ‘bead
. avid .a' ' stopendous hand; .be ‘had. scarcely any
‘hesrt. 51t is the unionof the hand and heart
R e !
fond of the country, aspired to something better
than the peasantry around bim. He lived .in a
.E“,"A of France where ignorance prevailed over
knowlddge, where 'bad roads and dimpenetrable
bogs.retarded the progress. of . civilization, and:
' where ‘the people were in that happy state of igno+
'mnce which prevailed over most - parts: of, Europe
-some two hundred years ago; where agriculture:
cost twice: the labor and gave half the returns
‘which it afforded to the more enlightened ; and
‘where no one' had ‘éver yet attempted'to penetrate
‘the crust of barbarism’ which ‘generally " prevailed.
Ernest bhad been educated at' a town, school,, and’
when a young man, completed his education at a
‘provineial college. * Though acquiring all the. gen
eral knowledge which was conveyed by .'thé profes
sor, he devoted himself particuldrlyto chemistry as
applied to agriculture, and to the formation of new
agricaltural implements, : .
He returned home at twenty-one, full of magnifi
cent projects. ' He would effect a revolutior: in the
land ;be .would open a cgume:_éfez‘eqwresz;aw
would teach tge advantage of all the, new instru
ments of draining, of manaring § and above all, he:
would effect a complete alteration in! the dwellings
«ulose; dirty, unwholesome and comfortless now.
Admirable and praseworthy mnotion 'was' that of
Ernest Delavigne. We shall see how it was car
ried out, PTI
Ernest had, as he thought, a very plain’ way be
fore him. He set up a lecturer, with the honest
design of instructing his less intelligent: neighbors.
Unfortunately, however, nobody went'to’ his lec
tures ; and all his solicitations met with a polite but
peremptory rebuff. The people, in fact, liked
their own way best, and believed nothing to the
contrary on mere hearsay. He was generally
spoken of as a fool, for his pretensions—the “Fool
of Laboudie.” .
The manner in which Earnest ‘was treated, at
length induced bim to abandon all attempts at ref
ormation, and be betook himself to Paris, a some
what wiser man. Experience had cooled his ar
dor for improving mankind. Arrived at Paris, he
took up his lodgings in the Quartier Latin, and
went to see M. Benolt, a notary in high repate
with the old aristucracy—who confided to him the
management of their pecuniary affairs, with a con
fidence and security which spoke volumes for his
honesty and honorable character.
M. Benolt received Ernest kindly, listened pa
tiently to what he had to say, and then gave him
advice. He approved of his selecting medicine as
a profession ; and promised that if it pleased Er
nest, he would introduce him into good society,
that the intervals of time between his studies might
be well spent. Ernest accepted gladly, and at
once begun the study of his new profession. It
suited his character, his feeling for suffering hu
manity, to be the healer of the sick ; and the pros
pect of associating as a student with the upper
classes of society was pleasant and agreeable. He
went to public lectures, he read bard : and in the
evenings he visited one or two salons, which were
freely opened to him on the recommendation of M.
Benolt. He found this way of passing his time
vastly agreeable. He liked the conversation of la
dies—for they, as he abstained from politics, sym
pathized with his views, approved of his humanita
rian principles, and proved always an attentive
audience.
One evening he was speaking of his old and fa
vorite topic—the introduction of agricultural im
provements in the country—when a young girl
jomned in the debate 3
“0, monsieur !” she cried warmly, “I am happy
to meet with some one of my way of thinking. 1
live in a country district which is very much be
hind the age, and having been some years in Eng
land, which enjoys such a vast superiority in this
particular over any other part of the world, 1 am
deeply anxious to see the example of our ncighbors
followed.” .
Ernest was delighted, and after a few minutes he
addressed his whole conversation to. Mlle. Louise
de Redonte. He found her, to his astonishment,
learned in all farming details = though a year
younger than himself; aware of more improve
ments in machinery than he had ever known of,
and deeply conversant with all that was necessary
to the comfort and well being of both men and ani
mals employed in agriculture. Before the end of
the evening. Ernest was in love. A French novel
ist would tell us that he had met his destiny. At
all events, he considered himself fortunate to have
fallen in with so charming a person—who joined to
great beauty and accomplishment, a taste for his fa
vorite subjects of thought and talk.
Ernest and Louise met continuallv, and each
day they renewed their intimacy, They talked
together, they danced together ; and before the
end of three months, the young man scarcely
missed an evening at the house of Mme. de Las
tange, where Louise resided when in town. Peo
ple at last began to ifsinuate tothe old lady. that
the friendship.of the young people was rather warm
er than should properly exist between a student
in: medicine and a rich heiress,
A few days after this, Ernest missed Mlile. Louise
de Re‘lonte from the evenings of Mme. de Las
trange ; who, without the least change in her man
ner towards him. informed him that she had gone
to the country, to her uncle, where indeed she
spent the greater part of the year. She wasa
kind-hearted woman, and by this separation simply
wished to spare both the pain which she thought
must ensne if their affectiofs became engaged —
Ernest felt very dull. The charm of the soirees
was gone. He did not cease to go, however, be
cause it was probable that he might again see her
there ; but his visits became less frequent—aud
thus the season ended. ¢ 3
During the last summer months that ensued, Er- ]
nest continued the study.of bis profession. He |
wrote to his mother that -he should not come home l
that year to the country, because his disgust, at his |
neighbors was so great that he could not bear so
meet with them, ~ Besides, he wished to .continue |
his studies,which would suffer by interruption. But |
‘he did not now devote himself to his books with half |
!lhe zest with which he had begun. ' His thoughts’
~were far away in the country region—wherever it
was—where Louise resided ; and he thought the
‘summer would never end. To distract his atten
tion, he varied his reading—added novels, poetry
and history to his scientific books ;. and thus, with
many a yawn, and many a longing, and many ‘a
weary hour, the time passed.
When Mme. de Lastrange again opened, Ernest
presented himself the very first evening. . Louis de
Redonte was there, more lovely than ever; and
she welcomed the young man; as he eagerly ad-|
vaneed to greet her, with a smile which filled : him
with rapture. Mme. de’Lastrange looked on in
some alarm. Lonise was in mourning—she ' had
lost her nnele nearly six months before. and was
rich in the extreme, _She was surrounded at once
by a perfect host of suitors, but she gave encour
agement to none: paadh et ¥ 50l N h
Ernest still continued ber favorite;companion—to
the great -annoyance of the mampf_.zyo?nd men.
about town,” who would hBW;‘--bfififl'rtde’.’flhM~ Ao
‘have given her their n#me and to have spent bher
hundred thousand francs of annual income. : Still
no one looked upon m_infia:? of Eouise and Er
nest a 8 flflz;‘;p ‘end’ 'serio ¢flfl The ‘crowds of
suitors who fiiled the salons of Wg%fi'flifie.
supposed tha the youne 1y wab & lever parscn.
and showed a ;br?%.r; nce for th izeflm!fflafim of the
medival styent—an ndoidual she 00l vot mar,
rz;g;mx?'rf;;‘zsf She mikhy Jopk droupd meibrchved
her, “how muc h-mzmwfl e the
PORTSMOUTH, N. H., TUESDAY MORNING, FEBRUARY 3, 1852,
dying of love.” i
- “Of my chateau and cash,” replied Louise,
laughing, ‘but I aw quite sure that 1 shall see them
all as rosy as ever, nextseason.” = . .
»“Da-yourot, then, mean to select your future
bhusband before you again bury yotreelf ifi'your
gloomy castle ?” said Mme. de Lastrange, in an
‘ajarmed tone. ol
%My dear madame, T am rich, I am young; I
have time and independerice. I shall not choose. a
‘busband until T bave¥ound a lover whose affection
is real, und whem I myself can like,” Lo
. .Madame Lastrange mentioned several of her
suitors.with high praise, but Louise shook her head
and. found faufi; with all; i t
“I+have no patience with you,” - eried the good
lady. . ““You éncourage that young student’so.much
that you have lio time to judge of the merits of oth
ers. ,I bave a great mind to close my doors against.
you.” ; ! b
,y “My dear de Lastrange,” replied Louise gravely,
‘4f you'cesse to receive my protege, you w'll make
my evehings very dull. Ishall run to the country
‘e month sooner.”
Mume. de Lastrange sighed ‘and turned away ;
bat she studiously avoided letting Ernest notice
her annoyance, Still, when the friends were to
gether she looked annoyed, and almost began to
agree with those who supposed Louise to bave some
f‘ecret object in thus encouraging the medical stu
ent. .
_ “Where do you intend settling, on the. comple.
tion of your studies ?” said Louise, one evening.
~ *“ln Paris or some other large town,” replied Er- i
‘nest. |
" “In town | I thought you preferred country life,” |
‘,cominued she, as if somewhat disappointed. |
~_*l did once, hut I have changed my mind. I
originally intended devoting myself to agriculture, ‘
‘but now that I have a profession, I prefer living in
cities.” ”
“But why ?”
“In the first place, to live in the country I should
require a wife ; but I despair of finding one suited
to me,” replied Ernest, unaffectedly. {
“But what kind of a wife would you like ?”
asked Louise, looking at him curiously.
“May I tell you ?”” said he timidly, looked up at
her like a child at his mother, when asking a
favor. o 3
Of course he was allowed to speak his mind ; and’
need we add, that there was in almost no time a
thorough mutual understanding. Mademoiselle
was a French woman, and as such, was not bur
dened with diffidence.
Next evening it was generally known that Er
nest Delavigne and Louise de }{edonte were affi
anced—to the great consternation of all fortune
hunters, and the great joy of all those who sympa
thized with truthful, feeling and sincere affection.
But the salons of Mme. de Lastrange were no lon
ger crowded—the host of interested suitors van
ished.
“Do you know,” said Louise one evening, as
they were talking of the future, *that 1 mean to
m+ke a regular patriarch of you ? I have deter
mined to introduce among all my farmers and their
neighbors the latest improvements, and to give l
them the benefit of all agricultural discoveries of
England and France.
“It is useless making such attempts,” replied Er- '
nest, gravely,—*“you will but lose your temper and
your time.” ’
“Monsieur | why, you are as bad as the ‘Fog} ofl
Laboudie.” ”
“Hah!” said Ernest, turning very pale.
“Why,” continued the merry girl, without no
ticing his uneaisiness, “you must know that my
castle is close to Laboudie. My uncle was the
Count de Plouvieres,”
Oh!” replied Ernest.
“*Well, there came from a neighboring town,
come two years back, a young man belonging to
our place, who had studied agriculture ; and who
desired, it appears, {0 do so—who told the ignorant
farmers of what they might do, but did not attempt
to demonstrate his theories. People, naturally
enough, laughed at his lectures—his disqnisitions s
especially, as I am told he had land himself, and
never thought of trying the sensible experiment of
showing his neighbors by practice, the advantages
he believed but did not know to exist. Such well
meaning men are worse than useless—they stand
more in the way of real progress than the most ob
stinate devotee of antiquity—they are mere senti
mental, and not practical reformers.
“But why so gloomy, Ernest ? Surely I have
not offended you? 1 see you are a little unwell.
Good night. Go home, 1o bed, and tell your old
concierge to make you some tisane. It will soon be
my office to take care of Monsieur, when he thinks
proper to be ill.”
Ernest_took her proffered hand, shook it even
more heartily than usual, and went away. It was
earlv,—Just before midnight, and when the other
guests were about to cepart, the bonne of Mme: de
Lastrance gave a letter to Louise—who, alone in
a little boudoir where she had retired, since none
but card-players remained, at once opened and
read it :
“I write not in anger, but with deep sorrow. I
love youn too much to expose you to a life of misery.
You have expressed too much contempt for a per
son of my character, not to be very unhappy when
vou know me better. You will doubtless find,
however, one worthy of you. I shall seek, after
that severe lesson which T have now received, to
win your esteem, now that your love is impossible.
Remember me kindly, if it be only because I have
suffiéient sense left me to save thee, in time, from
everlasting unhappiness, This night, at eleven, T
start for home.” :
What have I done ?” eried 'Louise. “Poor Er
nest ! how generons! how mnoble ! how good !—
‘Poor ‘fellow ! how those' thoughtless bitter words
must have gone to his heart ! % must stop him—
but no, he is gone ! What_a night he will pass,
inavplling! How cruel he must. think me !”' "And
‘dway. she ~hurried to bed, as if by so doing: the
morrow would sooner come. -
» {Meanwhile Ernest, whose mind had been. en
larged and ¢lévated by more extensive studies, went
awny on ‘his roid home, suhdned,dejected, and:
yet not “wholly "cast down. He saw. directly the‘
ltrnth of all that. Louise had said; he perceived
where his own errors lay, and determined to profit
by the lesson.. -lfip».arrived,at home after a_long
journey, calm, serions and full of strong corviction
;0f his own former pride; which made ‘'his' present
humility.all-the more: pleasing. ' His mother was'
delighted to see’him; and when *he declared 'his
‘intention of devoting.himself in future to the farm,
she was' doubly "pleased. He took up his former
quarters; and then, after a day’s rest, started for a-
Tong walk to récrait his body, somewhat enervated
by stody and town life. He followed the high road
which led to the Chateau de Plonyieres, along
which were several.small farms and one or '“!9., P
ry. extensive ones: -He walked along, his eyes
fixed on;the grounil; in rdoa‘tprmulimibn, until he
was sutldenly afoused by a loud voice s ~ ~
»n"f:lflo%, chc:o‘rt -;h;oafier a%n}:m ‘T want ;:o
speak with you,” said the very old farmer whom -he:
iit e ' kemp apa, nexrly two.year
i 1 el young Dl g o
little haoghtily-—*what,can_ you want.of the Fool
Qfl‘aw’e :\’J" LML 5,7‘&4":;?% 5?,%5%!2:;1-‘:}‘{;’"&@ b .
o '\Ssil','.’wrm{:’i‘” %hhfléhfl; PPt = DeY ,‘ hi
ather, “I.beg your pardon, and we sl beg “your
what we did not see. But then Mlle. Lonise, our
guardian angel, had just finished her model farm,
and there she had all the improvements of which
you told us, 'Well, wheén we saw that really'there
[were better ways than we knew of, you' see we
~agreed totry ; and I've bought a. new plough—
here it'is—and it ’s a littlé out of order, and. it ’s
Just 'to ask your advice about ‘mending it, that I
called you.” I 318 3 ;
“'With pleasure,” said Ernest, who had listened
19 the other’s words with deep interest, “O, itis
-nothing—a couple of nails and a screw isall that is
wanted.” 3 R .
"Half an hour'later the defect was remedied; and
the two were at breakfast fogether. "Thé' old man
said that'if Ernest would now opea his lectures,
they would be well attended, of an evening ; and
if confined to despriptions. referring to:ithings ‘the
farmers began to understand, would. continue so;
The young man replied that he would makehim
self acquainted “with what had been _done, and.
would deliver his firat lecture on the following
Sunday—the only day when a ruval “gopulation in
France could be collécted rogether for such a’ pur
pose. oo S g,
Next day Ernest visited the model farm of ‘the
Chateau de Plouvieres. He found. a considerable
tract of land under cultivation, , The head was an
Englishman, who had resided some years in_ Nor
mandy, and his assistants were French. He had,,
moreover, fourteen pupils; sons of the neighboring
farmers. ! b
Mr. ' Wilson informed Ernest that it was only the
powerful influence of the Count de Plouvieres, and
the affection of the people for Louise, his niece,
which bad enabled him to obtain their youth to
bring up in improved rotions. But now, ‘he said,
all went along easily—the farmers and their fami
lies felt and saw the great benefits which lay with
in_their grasp, and as their patrons gave them facil
ities for paying for all new instruments by instul
ments, few refused to avail themselves of the op
portunity. On fete days and holidays the whole
neighborhood came to the model farm, to amuse
themselves by looking around ; and a change, he
said, was perceptible. One kouse, which had been
burnt down, close by, had been rebuilt upon new
principles—with regard to comfort and cleanliness;
and all were anxious to follow the example.
Ernest was more than ever convinced of the wis
dom of the practical course adopred by the Count
(e Plouvieres and Louise de Redonte. He saw
clearly that if we would induce men to belive in our
precepts, we must practice them oursclves; and
that one example is worth a hundred expositions.
He went away filled with admiration at the nobility
‘of character, the sound sense and wisdom of the
young reformer ; and with bis heart more deeply
imbued with love for the beautiful girl.
He prepared his lecture in his mind during the
whole three days which intervened, and when the
hour came, entered the barn amid loud applause.
The place was full. The whole neighborhood,male
and female, was there, with Mr. Wilson and his as
sistants and pupils. Everybody understood now
that the object of Ernest Delavigne had been good;
and all blamed themselves for not comprehending
him—though in reality the fault was with him, who
had not understood the right way to proceed.
Ernest began. In" eloquent words, with deep
and strong feeling, he drew a picture of Laboudie
before and after the return of Louise from Eng
land. He compared, in a humorous way, the dif
erent lines pursued by the young lady and by the
‘Fool of Laboudie’ (great laughter and applause) ;
he acknowledged her means to be greater—but al
so allowed that he might have made his own land
the model furm, by industriously devoting himself
to the very course of improvement which he recom
mended ; he called down the blessings of heaven
on the lovely patroness of the locality—~hardly able
to restrain his tears as he spoke—and then opened
with his subject,
He used simple and plain language. He spoke
of things which all began to understand, and was
listenesl to with deep interest and respectful atten
tion.. When bhe was done the barn almost seemed
about to full, so violently did they shake it with
their bravos and clapping of hands, It was late,
and most had a long way to go ; so the assemblage
dispersed, afier receiving gratefully the promise of
a continuation on that day week.
But one person lingered behind and stood within
the barn, when they had all left it save Ervest and
his mother. They bad reached the door before
they made the discovery :
“Mile. la Comteste,” said Mme. Delavigne, re
spectfully.
“Ernest I” replied she, holding out her hand, .
“Louise ! exclaimed he, for be sawin the smile
which accompanied the offer of ber hand, that she
was unchanged.
“ And so Monsieur runs away, and I must run
after him 1” said Louise, taking his arm.
“What think you, madame,” she continued,—
“your son, a month ago, asked me to marry him ;
I consented—and a week ago heYan away, declar
ing he would not marry me |" Am I not'very good,,
to come and fetch him ?”
*Louise | Louise I” replied Ernest passionately,
“I'did not think you could marry the ‘Fool of La
boudie.” ” ¥
“My dear friend, my speech of the other evening
only shows how wrong people are to judge from
appearances. I bhad only heard a'description of
you under that name, from an old servant, whose
gossips I have been sufficiently punished for retail
lng.”
*But my son,” cried the amazed mother, “what
is the meaning of all this ?” @
“My dear madame, that we are to be married,
according to previous agreement, to-morrow three
weeks,” said Louise, taking, her hand; “and that
my husband is about to complete the work which I
have so imperfectly begun.”
The whole affair was the most off-hand thing im
aginable. - The marriage of these two clever people
—each clever in a partiéular way, the very dif
ference of character being’ useful—created no lit
‘tle surprise. - Previous to the old revolution, M. de
| Lavigne (a'name Ernest resumed)—now holding a
social position which ceased to make the aristocratie
de assuminf—-‘-had: held as high a. position_as ' the
l Count de, Plonvieres, . But he had not emigrated-—
preferring to fall into the position of a.farmer, to a
wandering exile in a foreign land. At the restora
‘tion, his property,~sold during the two years he
passed in- prison as a Bsuspect,—remained in the
bands of the ward purchaser ;' buthe hud still a re
spectable gst;xte,j{P he farmed it himself—and he
continued to do 80 : and Monsieur Delavigne, de
spite'of his plebian looks, was quite as hidppy. as
when'he'had 'been M.dé Lavigne. 'But'his son,
for the:sake of his wife and her relatives, ‘resumed
the name of his right—to which he wodestly avoid
‘ed all allusion until a few days before their mar-
IR L e AR o 2300
" And now it was difficult to say which was. the
‘hand’ “and which was the heart, Ernest bad
learned ' that mere personal’ sympathy with :the ig
noranice or misery of our fellow oreatures.is of little
‘e, if we do not raise our hands and arms 'to do
‘something'y’ l‘c(?v\fit the tl‘d; friends ‘of ‘humanity
i » who do their utmos *t&‘%i‘fiififfiu&edp,
to widen the circle of man's utility, and who by “g;,-'_
‘ample ard practice lead the duad}fokiht* ton,
BYOcT Bapmay shoarla hja,pastoin the ge t:work
mm& All that is wanted 13 the will
to blatiefl, -~ sl aitaodeds 6 0 OPR fugn g
& g;“ and Louise de Lavigne were @ blessing
b W St ol ST B g ey .; Y
PPRSm, w 2 ffi?’ s v
[ONe SRy i, %&“? bl Bk BB e iuad 24 éf*kx%fl
M“ffi?’*fif**fi y‘i&,"“d‘!'* i?va o 4 1;1 it
which makes the richest proprietaire of Laboudie
consider all around him as bis children, to whom
he owes a fair share of his time and thoughts. They
are intensely beloved, and there are many yet un
born who will ‘live to bless ithe pleasing union in
Ernest and Louise, of the hand and the heart.
Tie CoMet.~—The Washington Globe, noticing
the re-appeuranceof Encke's comet, say 3 thet its
period of revolution is about three yeurs and fotrr
months. It bas neither magunitude nor brilliancy,
nor ary other characteristic to attract any particu
lar attention ; still, by astronowmers it is regarded
as one of the most remarkable and most interesting,
of all ‘tlie cosmical bodies yet discovered—the rea
son for which'is'this ¢~ ' )
i It bas been' demonstrated by careful observation,
thatthe periods of . its return to its peribelion, have
beeu constantly and, regularly diminishing from
yt_he,,ume of its discovery. That is, every revolu
‘tioni has been ‘performed in less time, by some
"hotirs, than the one that preceded it’; so that from
'I7BB 10 1887 the diminufion bad smounted to one
and eight-tenths.days, and must now be more.
.. This.very remarkable and vers unexpected fact
has caused astronomers to adopt a theory, which
Humboldt says is & very. ‘probable hypothesis”—
that there exisis in space some kind of substance
of extreme tenuity, that acts as a resisting medinm}
which, although it may slightly affect the velocity
‘'of a planet, does not lengthen the period of its rev
olution, but shortens it, by diminishing the tangen
tial force, and consequently the major axis of its
orbit, The consequence of this is, that if there be
no ‘error in the observation or in the hypothesis,
Encke’s comet must, one day or other, be merged
into the Sun, and no longer be known among the
planetary bodies. 'But this catastrophe is tolerably
remote, and need not cause the inhabitants of the
earth at the present day, any sort of apprehension
as to the consequences. At the present rate of
diminution of the period of revolution, it will re
quire between thirty and forty thousand years to
wind up, finally and forever, the affairs of that
comet—which is a long adjournment of the ques
tion. .
DeATH or CriLbrßEN.—Death, at any period
of life before the ripest olt! age, is more or less un
natural. This seems plain to us, that the Creator
of man made bim with capacities for living until
the machinery of his body is worn out with age,und
when the art of life is understood perfectly, and
the physiological laws of nature are obeyed ~strict.
ly, instances of death before the full term of human
existence is fulfilled will be as rare as extreme old
age is now. With our present imperfect knowledge
of the art of life, and our disregard of the laws of
health, we are compelled to witness the terrible
fact that a large proportion of all the mortality of
our race occurs with children of a tender age. It
is the buds and blossoms that death tramples to
dust, when the sturdier and maturer plant escapes;
and if his shafts are aimed alike ac all, they tell
with greatest effect upon the little ones. And if
his blows fall thickest and hardest upon the core of
the family circle—nearest the heart of the parent
—the wounds inflicted there are most deep and
lasting.
There is in all this checkered world no' sorrow
like that of the parent bereft of children. David
of old said—*l am distressed for thee, my brother
Jonathan ;” but over the dead body of his rebel
lious child, he cried—“ Would God I had died for
thee, J Absalom, my son, my son!” Only those
who have drank this cup can realize its bitterness,
The sympathy of friends, though grateful to those
who are bereaved, falls far short of the object for
which it is kindly intended. There is no consola
tion to be derived from earth, and the power of re
ligion itself only enables us to bear the wound
which even it cannot heal.
How many mothers there are, whose thoughts
under all the circumstances of their lives are évery
moment flying to the graves where sleep their little
ones. How many afi is there, who, since he
first rose from the du*;vhich he was prostrated
by the blow which struek from his side a darling
little son, has covered the bleeding wound from
sight, and whose very life depends upon hiding it
from himself and the world—who is obliged, with
resolute nerve, to hold the grief that would wrestle
with his spirit at arm’s length, lest it should hourly
prostrate him in the dust—who must constantly
drive from the windows of his soul a little pleading
face which would come back to commune with its
earthly father—-must ever unclasp those little fin
gers from the casement, that the too dearly loved
form may drop into the darkness without; or must
else turn and flee from himself, and strive in the
outer ‘world to escape the haunting vision with
which he ever longs to commune, but dares not—
who prays and waits for the time to come when he
can bear an interview with the little lost one, and
yield himself up fully to the sweet memories of the
past, when they lived and were bappy together.—
How many go about with smiling faces, and plunge
fiercely irfo excitements, while the parental feeling
is dammed in their bosoms, readyto overwhelm
them with agony. :
There are griefs, and this is one of the mightiest,
too deep for tears, too heavy to bear, and from
which we must fly when possible—with which we
must struggle as best we may when they come upon
us in the lone watches of the night, and for which
our best consolation is, thatsome time death will
cure them, by bringing us into the presence of those
who have *‘gone before”—R. H. Tracy.
‘A REMARKABLE PHENOMENON.— In the Mail of
Thursday morning, was published a telegraphic dis
patch from Newport, announcing that “a large steam
ship, with side-wheels and three masts, apparently one
of the Collins line, was plainly seen at 3 o’clock, in the
previous afternoon, off the beach. standing westward.”
A communication from Capt. Luce, of the Arctie
gives the following exxfaord&rj statement : |
“The ;steamship Arctic, ®n- Tnesday, the 20th of
January, at 38 P. M passed the harhor of Newport.—
Beavertail licht off the harbor was distant 62 miles,
and the town of Newport was con<equently 65 miles
away. At the time a vapor, like that arising from hot
water wag floating over the sea, arising from one to
four feet above the surface. Several of my passengers
expressing their surprise at this appearance inguired
the probable eanse.. The lights, on the same night ap
peared double, one above the other, the lower. or what,
seemed to be the reflecting light, becoming visible sev.
eral minutes before the upper. or' actual light. The
phenomenon, therefore, of the' Arctic being seen with
the naked eye, at a distance of 65 miles. is clearly the
effcet of mirage.”--Boston Mail, Jan 26th.
Tlie following ‘is said to be' a correct invoice of al
cargo’on board a ship. which sailed recently from San
Franriqcz\f«)r an Atlantic port. It is what California
merchan® call *"an assorted cargo.”
Seventy five tons’ California soil; sundry cases of
‘merchandise, returned for the benefit of shippers; fifty
trunks, contents belonging to deceased persons; one
Califorhia wild ‘cat; one “dead head” passenger; one
‘hypocondriac; one crazy mwan ; one sick lady; oune
sick man'; two human bodies.
""ReApine.—Of all the amusements that can possibly
be imugined for'a working man. after daily toils, or'in
the intervals, there is nothing like reading a newspaper,
or a book. It calls for no bodily exertion, of which the
‘mind fifi-'hi%ffiopgh;‘-ét‘ieibapb'tbo %dc‘h.' It relieves
his home'of dalfiess and sameness a'g‘it‘ accompa- |
nies him to-his next:day’s work, and gives him some
mmh%:gw« the son echaplenl drydgrory:
0 ey occapation ; something he can enjoy.
e ATR Tobedld b bmicre. TEY
‘Weggto pray fora‘tabte which winld stand by me under
BYEEY, WAFiy nfwmma{;?m SR
‘againdt its ills, however ‘-‘g& £0 amiss, and the.
VOIC XCVIII-"-NO- 6 .
“ ONE oF T DEBTORS.— Col. C. 6f Mansfield;
Ohio,was a lawyer and merchant in the place some
fwenty-five years since. Col. C. wasa tall, muscu
lar man, noble and high minded in all his transac
tions in life, He purchased goods at Pittsburg,and
hud oceasion so repair to that place, ata certain
time, and fork over, and*buy more goods. On his
arrival at P, he called his creditors together, and
told them he would not be able_to pay them bLut
fifty cents on a dollar, and if they woold accept of
that proposition he was ready to doit; if not, they
wight disj.ose of bim as they pleased. They would
not accept of hLis offer, but had him immediately
arrested-and: putin prison. On arriving at the
jail he found thrée hearty ‘looking men, who were
confined for debt, sitting on their blocks or stoels,
in rather a deésponding attitude.
“Well,” said” the Col. to the one nearest himy
“what are you here for ?”
“For debt, sir;” replied the prisoner.
“How much is it ?” asked Col. C.
‘“Three or four dollurs,” was the reply.
(The Sveriff being present,) “how much is ity
Mr. Sheriff”
“Four dollars and seventy-five.”
- “Well,” said the Col, *here is the money, but
don’t let me cateh you here again for that amount.”
. “The Col. addressing the next one; “Well, sir,
what are you here for 7’
“For debt, sir.’ ’
“How much is it ?” .
' “Twenty-five dollars or more.”
“Yes, said the Sheriff, “twenty-five doliars ané
seventy-five.” |
*Well,” said the Col., “here is the money, ant
now, clear yourself, and do not let me se¢ you here
again.” .
gThe Colonel put the same question to the third
one. and paid twenty-five doliars for his liberation
“I have now.” said the Col., “vacated the coop.
and am ¢ock of the walk. Now, M. Sheriff, lock
me in, and go and engage me a good, trusty servani
man, at a good price, I've got the money to pay
him and you also, for your trouble, and one with
whom you can entrust the keys of the prison.
“Very well,” said the Sheriff,; I will do so.”—
Accordingly the man appeared with the key of the'
prison-in his hand,
~ “Well.” said the Co., “yon have come, suppose,
to work for me while I remain in this solitary abede
of jns:ice Lrics ; X
“Yes, sir,” was the reply. A ; :
- “Now,” said the Col, *get all the hélp you want,
to renovate this room by washing, white-washing,
&c., and in the meantime, purchase one table, six
chairs, one bedstead, and' bedding, one washbowl,
stand, pitcher, tumbler, and all that is convenient
and comfortable for a gentleman to keep house
with, aml put them in as soon as the room is clean
ed,” and thé Col. farnishad the necessary funds.—
All' these requisitions being complied with, his
hired man was employed from day to day in at
tending to visiting gentlemen, and also to see the
Col. furnished with all the luxuries of life.
Gentlemen and ladies, and creditors, came to
vixit the Colonel ; the latter were surprised to see
the expense incurred in fitting up the room, aud
furnishing it with such costly furniture.
“Well,” said the Col. to his creditors, 1 was
raised to live decently and comfortably, and when’
vou had me conveyed to this horrible place of jns
tice, I found it in a filthy, uncomfortable condition}
and I was determived to make it more comfortable
during my stay in this unholy abode. And farth
er, said Col. C,, call on me tomorrow, at 8 P. M.,
and dine with me on fine roast turkey, and although
my conveniences to entertain strangers are not
very good, as I am confined to this room alone, I
will endeavor to make you as comfortable as cire
cumstances will permit.”
“Very well,”” said his creditors, “we will dine
with you on the morrow.”
At chinner, Col. C.’s creditors said they did not
feel disposed tp keep him in prison: if he could
not pay but fifty cents on a dollar, they would take
it amd give him a discharge.
“But,” said the C 01.,, “I have incurred some neg
essary expenses that must be deducted out of that
fifty cents.”
“What are they ?” asked one of his creditors.
“One hundred ard five dollars and fifty cents,”
said Col. C., “for the liberation of three prisoners,
which I eonceive to be an act of charity and hu
manity © and then again my expenses in fitting up
the prison room, a duty I owed to myself, treating
friends, hired help, &c., and six days imprisonment
at $3 per day, will amount in all te %181, and I
will pay the balance after deducting this.”
“Very well,” said his creditors, “we will do jt.—
We do not want to see you absent from your fami
ly for the paltry sum of $4,000, when you say hon
estly that you are unable to pay the whole.”
“Very well,” said the Col. ' “I" have fold you
what T would do, and T will do nothing else. Let
me make out an estimate of the amount Jou are to
have.”
All being done, Col. C. purchased a lot of goods,
and returned again tobis residence in Mansfield,
QOhigi
PoL{¢r STRATAGKM —Strange stratagems sre
often resorted to by creditors in pursuit of dishon
est debtors. At a meeting at Leeds, of a Society
for the protéction of trade, one of the speakers rc
lated an instance in point ¢ s
A poor fellow arrived in Liverpool from the
West Riding, in pursuit of a fugitive who had car
ried off £3OO of lis money. He applied to an attor
ney, to the magistrate, and to the chief of police, in
vain. Turning sorrowfully away, a police oflicer
offered him a bit of advice :
* *Go you to the ship's side to-morrow, at ten
o’clock—the ship sails at twelve—and ask your
debtor, civilly, to' come ashore. Will he come,
do you think ?” 2
#O, yes, be'lf come, for be says I cannot touch
him.” :
“Well, that ’s all right. Ask him to come to you
on the quay. As soon us he comes, knock {;im
down. I will be ¢lose at hand, and take you both
into custody for a breach of the. peace. Youu wili
get to the police office just as the magistrates are
gone. The next day is Sunday, and he 'l Lave to
stop till Monday. You’'ll bave time to force him to
give up your money.”
“'P'he man took the policeman’s advice—knocked
the runaway rogue down ; both were taken to the
station-housey and the fellow in the end was glad to
disgorge the whole,
Lire.—ln any adversity that happens to us in the
world, we ought to.consider that misery and affliction
are not less natural than snow or hail, storm and tem
pest; and that it is as reasonable to hope fora year
without a winter, as for a life without trouble.- The
huuble current of little kindnesses. which like a creep
ing streamlet, incessantly flows—although it glides in
silence within the domestic walls, and along the paths
ol private life, and makes neither noise nor appearance
in the world—pours, in the end, & more hountiful
stream of human comfort and felicity, than any sudden
and transient flood of detached bounty, howevet ample,
that may rush into it witha mighty sound.
Ovr CountrY.—On no country, more than on our
e hor mighiy Tabo, ke poraoy of Doutd ik
: her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid bilver—h
mountains, with their bright. srial fi her valleys,
mmflngw ‘tremendous cetaracts, than-
S i ittt Sl oot ads e e
;5 Wil Eoonty tet the Siblis and bt {n petars!
{; joonery, ”’-;K R 1;,;"‘ o