The Southern Democrat. (Oglethorpe, Ga.) 1851-1853, November 06, 1851, Image 1
By P. L. J. MAY.3 THE SOUTHERN DEMOCRAT, ISPUBLISHED EVERY” THURSDAY MORNING iVo Dollars in advance, Two Dollars and Fifty rrs, within six months, or Three Dollars at the en<l: he veor. So subscription will be received for a time than six months, nor will any paper be dis tinued until all arrearayc s are paid, unless at the ion of the publisher. ldvertisewexts inserted at One Dollar per square twelve lines or less, for the first insertion, and Fifty f tfr each subsequent insertion. A liberal dis nt made to those who advertise by the year, and 0 to Sheriffs and Clerks of the Courts, who adver rezularly in this paper. Those sent without spe eation as to the number of insertions, will be pub ,,,l until ordered out, and charged accordingly. [on Work must be paid for on delivery. Letters on business must be cost raid to ensure nt- bjiee in Bartlett’s Building or J faeon Street POETRY. I Like an Open, Honest Heart. I like an opertf'honcst heart, Where frankness loves to dwell. Which has no place for base deceit, Nor hollow words can tell; Butin whose throbbing* plain are seen, The import of the mind, Whose gentle breathings utter naught, But accents true and kind. I scorn that one whose empty act And honeyed words of art, Betray the feelings of the soul, With perfidy’s keen dart; No more kind friends, in such confide. Nor in their kindness trust, For black ingratitude but turns Pure friendship to disgust. Contempt is but a gentle word, A feeling far too mild. For one who confidence betrays, And guilt has sore beguiled; The hate which hellish fiends evince, When in dark torments tossed, Is not more loathsome to the soul, Thun one to honor lost. Then give me one with heart as free And generous as the air; Whose ready hand and greeting kind Give proof that truth is there; Whose smiling countenance well shows Affection warm is found. And spring as pure as saints, whose notes Through Heaven’s vault resound. A pretty Little Maiden. A pretty little maiden had a pretty little dream. A pretty little wedding was its pretty little theme, A pretty little batehelor to win her tavor tried, And asked her hovv slic’d like to be a pretty little bride. With some pretty little blushes, and a pretty lit tle sigh, , And some’ pretty little glances from the pretty little eve, With a pretty little face behind a pretty little tan, She smiled on the proposals of this pretty little man. Some pretty little “loves,” and some pretty little “dears.” Some pretty little smiles, and some pretty little tears, Some pretty little present, and some pretty little Were the pretty preludes to some pretty little bliss. This pretty little lady and her pretty little spark Met the pretty little parson and his pretty little clerk; , A pretty little wedding-ring united them for hie, A pretty little husband nnd a pretty little w ile. lIIISCELIiANEOIJS. The Vicar’s Daughter. A SKETCH. “And this is love.”—X. X*. X. “Is not the coach very late this evening ?” cried Nora Hums, a3 she came skipping down the gar den walk of the secluded vicarage of D—“l in sure it must be past its time. 1 ’ “Nay, my dear Nora,” replied her elder sister, who was half hidden among the trees, “methinks it is your gay and bapyy disposition which has outrun even four fleet horses.” “I do not know what you mean, my dear sister, but forgive me, Mary, if I have vexed you, voti seem so melancholy.” “I am not melancholy, my dear Nora; but you always look at the bright side of a picture: and I, perhaps do so too much also to be sad. \on ate all smiles because Charles Driscoll is expected on a short fisit to the house which used to be his home. You know, dear, it is now five years ago. Time changes us all; besides, he, has mixed much in the gay world of fashion; and although the heart may be still the same, we must not look for the same exterior.” Thus were the two innocent daughters of the vicar of D—— employed, as the persoti alluded to in their discourse, seated upon the box of a London coach, was rapidly whirled onward to wards the village. Every turn in tho road pre sented to Driscoll some familiar object, or some new one which the practical might call an Im provement: but which, by the lover of nature, would be deemed any thing but picturesque. The tall spires of the church appeared in the distance, and he, too, thought of the playmates of bis youth. He recalled before his faney the pretty little laugh ing, blue eyed Nora, who, when he had left the vicarage, was but just sixteen ; and her more se date, but no lcsß beautiful, sister. Then came their pqpr kind mother, who had been gathered to her rest: and the old vicar witli his clerical hat, and his mild but impressive, manners. However, he had not much time for these sousings; the poach stopped; the ivy clad chimney peepedtoyer the trees as it did of old; and soon the welcoiiK ing hands were extended —he was once more in the house of hie childhood. “O, Charles, I am so glad to see you come again!” exclaimed Nora, as running into the room she heedlessly stumbled over a footstool, and al most fell into his arms; then, at the sight of an apparent stranger, she shrank back, and a crimson blush came over her delicate cheek. “Come, eome, Nora, though I am, perhaps, somewhat altered, you need not blush to welcome your fishing companion of by-gone days; I shall think it unkind of you if you do not treat me as you. did of old.” “I should think she need not look so much abashed, Mr. Driscoll,” replied her sister. “But you know Nora was always so thoughtless, so £1) t Bo tt 11) cxßPcmo c r at, cons ding. And you used to be such great friends,” she added, as 9he turned away her head to hide the tears that were gathering in her large dark eyes.” “Girls, girls !” exclaimed the vicar, as he enter ed from tlie garden; “do not give my old pupil such a dolorous reception; one would think you had set him a page of Homer to learn, as a pen ance for some misbehavior. Come, cheer up, we will save our tears till there is some sorrowful oc casion for them.” If Driscoll was changed from tho tall, spare youth of nineteen, to the elegant manhood of re fined life, so were the Misses Burns; but Mary the least so, if we might except a beautiful bloom upon her cheeks, which used to bo pale as the leaves of the lily. Nora had burst from the child into the woman—from the rose-bud to the open ing flower of summer! The two sisters were the very reverse of each other in point of beauty and manners. Mary, the elder, by tho death of her mother, had been early left in charge of her father’s household; and from the equanimity of her disposition, she was well fitted lor the task. She seemed to commune with other than the spirits of this world. The cursory ob-erver would have called her cold and unfeeling; but she had a warmth of affection, a firmness of purpose, which none could imagine but those brought into close and confined inter | course with her. It was a lovely’ scene to see those two maidens that evening ere they retired to rest, when talking over the improved appearance |of their old schoolmate. Mary was scatad at tho window, ever and anon looking out upon the landscape, revealed in its shadowy softness by the ! pale light of the moon; as her long white fingers , wandered amid the fair hair of her young sister, | reclining on a stool at her feet. And now Nora’s j laughing face, almost hidden by tho unbounded i curls, was raised, and her blue eyes from beneath | their silken veils, rested upon the pure Grecian I features of her sister; the dark eyes met that gaze, i and a kiss from the red lips was imparted to the ’ blushing check of the younger girl, i *>ev form jed the picture of affection. Their very difference j of disposition—the vivacity of the one, and the j beautiful pensiveness of the other, seemed to bind | them yet closer together. They could be said to !be rivals in no one sense; for Mary’s tall figure, j moulded with more elegance by nature than sculp- I tor’s hand could chisel, was but a delightful con trast to the round short form of tho mem - hearted Nora. They had no brother, and conse quently’ were all in ail with each other. A month passed over the vicarage of D , and although he had intended to have stayed but it few days, Driscoll was still there; as much the companion of the old clergyman in his parochial calls, as the loiterer on the steps of hisTair daugh- I ters. Some in the neighborhood even rumored that he was paying marked attention to one of them ; hut none could tell whether it was to the parson, to Mary or to Nora. It was therefore set down as village gossip, and he was allowed to ramble with the vicar, flirt with the one daugh ter, or make poetry tor the other, without its be ing considered as any very great harm. It was a beautiful autumn evening; the sun was slowly sinking, bathing the ivest in a deep j dyed glow, which faded and faded away until it ! merely tinged the soft blue of heaven with agen : tie stain. Tho song of the gleaners returning ! from their toil, floated tip the vale, and every here j and there the sides of the hills were decked with ! sheaves of golden corn. ! “Here is my nioUier’s grave, Charles,” said j Mary, as arm in arm they approached tho silent I city of tombs. “llow many changes happen in a few brief years.” “Truly, Mary. But God is always merciful; if he takes one away, he gives another to supply her place. You and Nora must be great comforts to your father. Do you not think he might be in duced to spare one of you ?” Mary replied not. llcr heart was full; and had there been any one by, the sudden paleness of her cheeks might have told the feelings of her heart. She withdrew her arm from Driscoll’s, and sat down upon her mother’s grave."*l“ “Nay, Mary, dear,” said the youth, tenderly, “do not lie offended at the abruptness of my ques tion ; I did not intend to wound your feelings.— But—but, you have not known what it is to love.” “Love!” ejaculated tho trembling girl, as per haps the moment she longed, tor, yet feared to ar ri.c, now hovered over her. That moment which must he fraught with the deepest interest to every female mind. That moment when the dream of woman’s solitary hour is to be released—when she is clasped to the heart of tho being she most loves on earth. “Yes, Mary, to love, for I have dared to do it! You can tell me if there be hope. Or—must I leave D vicarage for ever ?” “Hope is woman’s lot.” “You mean, then, there is none? 0 foolish, foolish heart, be still.” “I did not say so, Mr. Driscoll. There is hope given to us all. But woman hopes, and hopes for years. Hope feeds her soul with visions of earthly happiness; and hope teaches her to look to Heaven for richer and less fadingjoys.” “Do you then say’ that she loves me ? May I believe it?” “Who—who loves you ?” faltered the maiden, as she hid her face from his view. “Yottr sister, Nora!” continued Charles, heed less of the almost falling form of her whom lie had thoughtlessly made his confidante, “her image has been before me ever since I left D-; in the crowded ball, the opera, no where have I seen one like Nora Burns. But she is so light-hearted, so innocently beautiful, I dare not sully her happiness even by the sweet pains of love.” “It is so. My God enable me to bear it,” scarce ly articulated Mary in a voice so low that it was not heard by the lover, ns she slowly rose from her parent’s grave. “Mr. Driscoll, may you be hap py. Your secret is in good hands. Believe mo, you need not despair.” “Thank you. thank you, for ever, gentle Mary. Heaven alone knows how I can show my grati tude!” • - -A Charles Driscoll slept that night with a light heart. Who can tell its lightness, save he who has had its load of love, with which it was bunt ing, conveyed to some kindred object? Man is a being of affection, he was not meant to live alone. We are all miserable when we have not someone to whom to tell our little adventures —someone who will feel an interest in them however trifling —who M ill listen to us, And how delightful, in G WJWpHj9 KkOVEMBER 6, 1851. deed, to be able to commune over are not the mere fancies of time. It is then we-! feel the whole warmth of our dispositions, that wu know ourselves better than we ever did before. Now Mr. Burns, although a clergyman and an ornament to his cloth, %vas not one of those fana-, tics who pretended totally to despise all worldly good, while at the very same moment they have some private advantage in view. lie saw, as well as those around him, the advantages of Dris- * coil’s becoming a husband to one of his daughters; still he wished not to influence the affection of ei ther, by the slightest allusion on his part. Tims things proceeded at the vicarage in that quiet even sort of routine, which must be so en chanting to those who have no other ambition, than that of doing good in an unpretending way, | and making those happy who are around them.— Tho morning’s post, at length, brought a letter, re quiring Driscoll’s immediate attendance in Scot land. Nora had spent tho previous day with a family at some distance, and tho night proving rather stormy, had not returned home. Up to that moment he had never made an avowal to her of his love; something always came in tho way when be had made up his mind to do so. Eith er she was so full of mirth and girlish mischief, that ho feared being laughed at; some party of pleasure was in contemplation, and ho did not like to distract her thoughts; or else, perhaps,he thought that “tho question once popped” and be ing “acknowledged,” would be quito enough, from its very common-placeness, to dissipate all the de light of believing that the one sought was neees rary for tho other’s happiness ; so it was, howev er, and when lie was forced to quit the vicarage, the opportunity was gone. Procrastination, thou art the thief of time ! lie must depart without even knowing by one little word from “Nora’s ow n lips that he was beloved.” “But,” thought he to himself, after lie had bidden farewell to his worthy host, and had forced his horse to a gallop, “I will write to her and explain; and in a few ‘ays, | a fortnight at most, will come back mid claim her as my own.” “Well, my dears,” said the vicar “no mori'Mg'l at breakfast, as he settled comfortably into his easy chair, “what do you think of our late visiter?” “0 papa! he is such a nice voting man.” ex claimed Nora hi her gay manner, which often be trayed her into expressions which, had she but considered a moment, she would not have made use of: “I do wish he had not gone, or that I had been here to have wished him good-bye, I shall never forgive that tiresome storm. Don’t you think he will come back soon, papa ?” “Very probably he will,” replied tho elder sis ter. “lie seems,” she added in a half-interroga ting tone, “very fond of the vicarage.” “You mean of some of its inmates,” returned the old man. “For shame, papa!” exclaimed Nora. “Father!” ejactlated Mary, as she turned an im ploring gaze upon him. More than the period he had allotted himself had elapsed, and yet Driscoll returned not to the vicarage. He. had, just returned to his own inn from a walk on the barren const, vexed and wea ry at his protracted stay, when immediately on en tering, his eye glanced at a letter lying upon the tabic. It was in a hand-writing lie did not know. He hastily broke tho seal. Tho contents ran thus:— My dear sir, It is with the greatest pain I writo to inform you that my poor daughter was taken suddenly ill a fortnight ago, and since that hour she lias not quitted her bed. She is constantly asking if you have returned, or if we have heard from you. All desire kind remembrances; and hoping to see you as soon as possible, I remain, my dear Sir, yours faithfully, John Burns. I) Vicaraye, Oct. 20th, 1828. “Sho is indeed very ill. I hope your affairs will be arranged satisfactory. Pray come.” The appalling tidings came like the destructive flash of forked lightning upon Driscoll’s darkened, mind. llow little had he .been taught what waJ woman’s heart! Had lie then left hisbelbvM( pine and die, merely for a selfish regard to'lns own momentary feelings? “Poor Nora,” he ex? claimed, as folding the ictter up, ho placed it near his heart. “Poor Nora! I did not think it would end thus. So gay, so pure, so young, to be cut off thus by my hand. God forgive mo, if it be so!’’ The morning’s sun saw our hero on his way from Scotland. His business was not completed, but the voice of a dying girl sounded in his oars, urging him forward. In the silent shades of night he heard a gentle tone perpetually beside him, whispering, “Charles, Charles, why did you for sake me?’’ To a sensitive mind, the thought of having caused ill to any one, creates painfully acute sen sations ; but doubly so when it is to one we loVe, cnefor whom, perhaps, we would have laid down our life, and yet from mere carelessness, or folly, that one has been unintentionally injured. In clasping the butterfly, we have taken the beauti ful bloom from its wings, which we can never again restore. It is a lovely autumn twilight, not a breath of wind passes among the dark loaves, not a sound is heard in the fields, save the chirp of the grass hopper, or the rustling of a bird in its hidden cov ert. The sun has gone, and the glowing hues of autumn have nearly died away; many of the gar ments of the trees lie neglected around their roots; but there is still a yew tree, all covered with dark some foliage, and the ivy climbing even to the vicarage roof. “Emblem of affection,” thought Driscoll, as having passed through the shrubbery he paused for a moment, enjoying the calmness and tranquility of the hour; and how soft is the peacefulair, so unlike theclosebreathingsinabusy city. Look ! there is still a pale rose hanging o’er the lattice, perhaps the last beauty of the sea son, clinging yet to its supporter. There is a light at the casement, the white curtains are closely drawn —it may be the home of death.” Ho could hear his heart beat audibly, as he knocked at The vicarage door. There was no answer: he cowl sec no light. lie knocked-attain inoro^h his agitation; a soft foot fall beat ii|ti>n£h<i3H he heard it glide almost noislesslv along theljpH Surely it was a step he knew. The door openedJ and his own Nora, pale, but startled at his sudden j appearance, stood before him. “0 Charles ! Charles my poor sister!” she ex- ■ claimed, as endeavoring to stifle her sobs, she; gently withdrew from his half-unconscious embrace. J “I am so glad you have come, for Mary is dying, and slw r-''l>'forJProu Sometimes at midnight p'%willV Where is Charles? Do not hide “, ■ froii?he does not know it. Go—go; n.thnt llove him. Tell him my heart is ‘ct •‘king.’”’ ’ -r'scoll followed the weeping girl into the par lor . to -his cavii selfish hopes, the scene was like a resurrection from tho grave. Not a word had been said in the vicar’s letter, by which he could “have told which daughter it was that was ill ; and his own excited fancy could alone believe it was th£ one in which he was most interested, whom he imagined others knew as well as himself. He sat beside the youug creature of his hopes; but at such an hour he could not talk of love. As he gated upon her fair features, mellowed from their gaiety by sisterly affection into an interesting lan guor, ho could not avoid thinking that he had never before seen so beautiful a being. “Will you not come and see my sister ?” said Nora, “for I am sure sho is asking for you; and even stand ing upon the brink of the grave. llow she loves you, Charles; and love like hers were well Worth possessing; there arc few, I am certain, whose affec tions are like poor Mary’s;” and hand in hand, they quickly ascended to the room above. The apartment was nearly dark, save where the brigi.t moonbeams passed over the pillow of the young sufferer. At the foot of the bed knelt the aged parent, his hands clasped in prayer; and as the words fell from his lips, there was heard a low calm voico inurimiringly repeating them.— Nora and Charles stood hidden by the curtains of tho bod. They had entered noiselessly, and they now scarcely breathed; for it would indeed have been sacrilege to have disturbed the worshippers in this awful sanctuary. Tho voices of the living and the dying mingled before a throne of grace. Tho last words of prayer had sunk into a silence. “Father, may I not see yon pale moon which casts its sickly light over my bed : I should like to see itjVcUx-fore I die, for perhaps—however wrong it (■■Sib think of such things—perhaps it shines that he were hero, for I have Again there was silence, xnpiilt|7ou T gh Nora wished her sister to know that . . iscOll was there, yet sho feared the shock his presence might produce on her weakened frame would be too much for her. “She is sleeping now,” said a low voice beside the bed. “No, Nora, I am not,” replied her sister, “I shall never sleep again in this world, until I sleep the one long sleep. 1 thought you would not leave mo now that I have but one little hour to stay, but we shall meet, dear sister—do not let your hot tears fall upon my hand—we meet be yond tho grave. The Saviour has trod the dark sea; his arms will bear me safely o’er tho billows; wo shall meet, and love one another even as we have here, only more purely, more blissfully, where the weary are at rest. I wish I could be hold Charles before I die; —ah! me-thought I heard a sob. It was not that of my poor father; God will suppoit him. It is—it is my own Charles!” and the pale girl, grasping the hand of Him iffffKH't'efl, sank back upon tlm pillow. Driscoll gazed upon her marble beauty, which the deceitful bloom had left white as the palest flower. Little did lie think when lie confided to her the secret of his love, as she sat upon her mo ther’s grave, that he had planted a canker-worm in her heart, that would bring her to u low grass pillow. There was an awful moment of suspense; at length a happy smile passed over the features of the maiden, she moved slowly aside the long dark silken lashes from her brown eyes. “Thank God.” she murmured, “he has given me strength to die contented.” “Forgive me, Mary, forgive me,” ejaculated the young man. “Hush!” she exclaimed with more firmness, “it was a hard trial; but in you, Charles, I have no thing to forgive. I have kept your secret till now; .perhaps selfishly so, but God will pardon me. I IfanTtrow on the brink of the grave—it cannot be \ inmiMur—it will ease my heart to speak it.— ■■■HBtC'lilWcsp 1 have loved you fondly, but Had*! lived, you could not have been mmfisMt is but right that I should die. You puld not love me other than as a sister. God’s will be done ! Be it so. I am growing weaker— fainter. Nora—Nora, where is your hand ? You shall, Charles, love me as a sister even in death. I feel it, Nora, now, although I cannot see you — but you too had a secret, though you would not tell it even to me. Yes, you loved Driscoll even before he left ns, now nearly six years ago. 1 have seen it, though I did not believe it. Nay, Nora, do not tremble, your poor sister will never stand in the way of your earthly happiness ; but she hopes to share your happiness in heaven.— Nora 1 Nora! do not draw your hand away ! Take it—take it, Charles—it is yours. You have loved one another long, although the word has not yet been spoken. Take it, Charles—what God has joined together, let not man put asunder.— Keep it, Charles remember me. God—God bless you both! I— my Father —” The light of the moon rested on her pallid face—the lips had fal len—the voice was hushed. The hands of the lovers were clasped together in that of the dying girl. They felt the uniting pressure of the slight struggle as the soul burst from its earthly tene ment, 0 and soared away to heaven. They were joined by the cold fingers of the dead. A low sob was heard at Nora’s side; it came from her fath er’s heart. “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be tire name of the Lord,” half articulated the old man, as they slowly and sadlv left the room, that now contained nothing but tho cold corse of her who had fallen a victim to England’s bane, consumption. It was an awful scene for those two young be ings who had never told their loves, to have its full light thus burst in upon them as they knelt beneath a breathless sacrifice,Jto hear of affection f ro m lips that would in a few moments speak among the angels of heaven, to bo wedded o’er a sister’s death-bad. It would be impossible to Jes ml>. the sen ations of Nora and Charles. They that eeVLivere lielovcd. but what had been ■Wpf tfoiirTq.piness? It Was the sorrow every thing serene, and they betook themselves in prayer unto the prcsenco of Him “whose ways are not man’s ways.” That night the vicarage was a place of gloom; for our holy religion bids us to grieve for the depar ted, “but not as those without hope.” Nora had gained her heart’s desire, but —she had lost a sis tor! She vhotfid been the companion of her days, the sharer in herToiS and herj oys, who had loved her as a. sister can only love, could no longer fold her in her arms, and call her own dear little naughty pet. They could no longer read the j same book together, or sing the same song, or bend over the same spot in prayer! Poor girl! when site awoke in the morning, she turned to look for Mary’s smile answering the first glance ofher unclosing eyes—it was not there—Nora was alone! That winter was a dreary one to poor Nora; and even when the spring came, she had scarcely re covered from the dreadful shock. Time is the healer of all our painful thoughts, and it is mercifully’ so ordained. For were we forever to be wounded with the same fine poig nancy of regret, we could not fail being misera ble. One by one the friends of our youth depart —the children we have held in our arms, are now perhaps no more; tho aged to whom we looked for instruction have been gathered to their fathers! and some who may read this tale may in some brief space of time have passed onward. Flow ers fade. “All things around us preach of death !” A twelvemonth sped over the vicarage of D . Again was the solitary rose seen cling ing to the lattice—again were the withered leaves strewn over the gravel walk. It was the day on which Mary had breathed the inspired language of heaven. It was the day of Nora and Charles’s wedding. They had fondly wished it to take place on that awful anniversary, that they might through life remember what had been the price of their love; and therefore treasure it through storm and sunshine —through the clouds of woe and the light of joy; even when the last sigh of death should pass over their then rosy lips. Nora trem blingly faltered out, “I will;” the same words were pronounced by the clergyman as her poor sister had spoken; the same blessing was bestow ed. Sho was Driscoll’s wife. But it was not doomed that the last rose should be plucked from tho vicarage garden. After a short continental tour, for they deemed tho change would in a de gree alienate their minds from grief, the young pair returned to the vicarage to soothe the wa ning yea -s of the widowed parent by the presence of his only daughter, whose gaiety had now be come sobered by affliction into a beautiful calm ness; nor did they leave that peaceful home until anew incumbent was appointed to the living. In elegant Language. Coleridge was not tiie only one who labored under a sad mistake, wheti he mistook the com monest man for a philosopher, and was only un deceived when the apple dumplings were set up on tho table, by his exclamation, “them's the joek ies for me!” Not long since, a fashionable attir ed female, upon whom some devoted parents had lavished money on the fair exterior to pay for a year’s tuition where grammar was taught, seated “herself at the dinner table of a lar<re hotel. She was at the first glance pretty, decidedly so. Her eyes sparkled, her cheek glowed with a natural tinge, her neck was like alabaster, and upon it glittered n chain of uncommon richness; her band was delicate, and a brilliant ring shone upon the front finger; and I was about congratulating my self upon a short acquaintance during my stay, when suddenly the charm was dissolved by a gen tleman on the opposite side of tho table, who in terrogajpd the damsel by asking if the horse she had rode was not rather a fiery minimal ? and this brought out the vulgar reply, “Oh, yes, we put her right through!” Truly the appearances was all changed now. I saw only a coarse, ill bred girl, where a few moments before appeared, to my un sophisticated gaze, a lovely female I Certain I am, young ladies would study refine ment of spirit and manners, if they but fully un derstood the immense advantages which accrue from them. The golden lever, with the most massive chain, the diamond of unsurpassed bril liancy, sparkles in vain, where the mind is in a crude state, needing far more labor and care to refine it than has been expended upon those showy jewels. Nothing compensates for this loss; and it is sure to aim a fatal dart upon the vacant head and uncultivated heart Pardon mo if I relate an anecdote as my friend told it to me : “I was,” said he, “begginning to look around for a wife. Among my acquaintances was a young la dy upon whom much money had been lavished to give her a thorough education. She had read Vir gil, couldspeaksoM; Italian,was mistress ofFrench, and could warble like a foreign amatttef; at least, so said her mother. I had heard she knew some thing of household affairs, and, to tell the whole truth, I looked upon her with a keen eye. She certainly did appear well; but one evening I was rallying her upon some trifle I had forgotten when she suddenly turned round and gave me a slap, arid declared she did not care the first red cent about it .” “Heavens!” said thy friend, “how my love did cool! I never thought of marrying her a gain!” Thus one cant phrase spoiled a young lady’s prospects of wedlock, to our knowledge; and this is enough to causo all others who aspire to that state, to cultivate refinement of thought, which will invariably lead to a refined utterance. Olive Branch. The Hogs of St. Bernard. Avery clever foreign correspondent of the New Buffalo Mercury lately visited Mount St. Bernard, and gives the following account of his first visit, with his companions, to tho famous convent on its summit: We were to pass the night there, as travelers u sually do, but were in great doubt how to proceed to claim the hospitality of the-father. While standing at tho door in perplexed consultation, one of the monks appeared, and the cheerful, kindly tone of his welcome put an end to every doubt. We were shown at once to rooms, eve ry accommodation put in our reach, our wish es inquired after, and the dinner hour mentioned to us. We found tho dinner parlor already full. A little after seven dinner was served, two monks attending at the table to do the honors, tho super ior of the two near the head, next the only lady of the party —an American woman, byd.be by. Bet ter hosts I never wian to find, for they are cer tainly unrivalled in their art of exercising hospi tality and defusing general cheerfulness. All this too is gratuitous. Custom, it is ture, prescribes that you should leave an offering in the poor’s box of their chapel, but the amount rests with you, as no one sees you, and nothing is said or done to intimate that it is looked for. Thousands of poor travelers also pass there an VOL. I.—NO. 26. Tiimlly, whom they feed and even clothe without any payment in return. They spend their live* there. These monks, at an elevation of some thou sand feet, through dreary winters, at a serious risk of health and life, doing good to ail who ask it at their hands; and whatever you may feel to* wards the Catholic clergy generally, you cannot help honoring these men, as noble and heroic Christians, as well as admiring them for perfect and accomplished gentlemen. Only three or four of the famous dogs are at present at the Hospice. They are handsome with large intelligent looking heads, very gentle and familiar with strangers, seeming to be pleased with notice. Except in color (which is a yellow brown) they are very much like the Newfoundland dog in appearance. The paws are larger and heavier, however, and the eye not as small as in the pure Newfoundlander. Os course they are much noticed and admired. | and very many have been purchased in time past. One peculiarity of theirs is, that not only will they not go near the Morgue, but they whine and show great uneasiness when they sec any one approach it This Morgue, or dead-house, is one of the points of interest connected with the St Bernard, a very sad and fearful one it is too. Here aie de posited bodies of those who perish in the snows, “hen they are not known and claimed by friends. The great height of its situation prevents decom position, and the bodies dry Up like mummies and so remain for years. It is a dreadful sight to look upon, but every one does it For two years past no additions have been made, and the moul dering relics have been thus long undisturbed. Wo left the convent with regret, for the hours passed there had been Very pleasant, and it seem ed hard to turn baek at that particular spot and wend northward again. Counsels for the Young. Never be cast down oy trifles. If a spider break his web twenty times, twenty times will he mend it again. Make up your mind to do a thing, and you will do it. Fear not if a trouble come upon you; keep up your spirits, though the day be a dark one. Mind what you run after 3 Never lie content with a bubble that will burst; or firewood that will end in smoke and darkness, (let that which yott can keep, and which is Worth keepillgT’ Fight hard against a hasty temper. Anger will come, but resist it strongly. If yon have an enemy, act kindly to liim, and make him your friend. You may not win him over at once, but try again. Let one kindness ba followed by another, till yoll have compassed your end. By little and little great tilings are completed; f.nd so repeated kindness will soften the heart of stotitf. Whatever you do,doit willingly. A boy that is compelled, cares not hour badly it is performed, lie that pulls off his coat cheerfully, strips Up his sleevs in earnest, and slhgs while he works, is the boy for lue. Evil thoughts ate Worse enemies than lions and tigers; for we cah keep out of the Way of wild beasts, but bad thoughts win their way eVeCy where. The cup that is full will hold no more; keep in your heads ahd hearts good thoughts, that bad thoughts may find no rooln to ehtefi mountain Scenery. Os all the sights that nature offers to ihe eye and mind of man, mountains liaVe always stirred my strongest feelings. I have seen the ocean when it was turned tip froth the bottom by tetn pest, and noon was like night, with the cohflict of the billows and the storm, that tore and scattered them in the mist and foam across the sky. I have seen the desert rise around me; and calmly, in the midst of thousands, uttering cries of horror, and paralyzed by fear, have contemplated the sandy pillars, coming like the advance of some gigantic city of conflagration, flying across the wildere-ss, every column glowing with intense beat, and every blast, death; the sky Vaulted w ith gloofn, the earth a furnace. But with me, the moun tain, in tempest or in calm, the throne of tlnmdef, or with the evening sun painting its dells and declivities in colors dipped in heaven, has bech the source of the most absorbing sensations.- There stands magnitude, giving the instant im pression of a power above man; grandeur, that de fies decay; antiquity, that tells of ages unnumber ed; beauty, beauty, that the touch of tittle ttiakea only more beautiful; Use, eihaustlcss for the ser vice of man; imperishable as the globe; tho mo ment of eternity; the truest earthly emblem of that ever-living unchangeable, irresistible Majesty, by whom, and for whom, all things Were hlade Croty, Owe no man. It may bo bad poetry, but depend upon it, it's excellent sense. It is an old saying, that the deb tot is a slave to tho creditor, if so, half the world enter into voluntary servitude. The uni versal rage to buy on credit, Is a serious evil in this country. Many a married man is entirely ruined by it. Many a man goes into the store for a single article; looking around, twenty things strike his eye; he has no money—buys on a cre dit. Foolish man! BaV day must come, and ten chances to one, like death, it finds you unpre pared to meet it. Tell me, ye who have exper ienced it, did the pleasure of possessing tho arti cle bear any proportion to the pain of being call ed on to pay for it when you had it not in your power ? A few rules, well kept, will contribute much to your happiness and independence. Never buy what you really do not Want. Nev er buy on a credit “when you can do without.—■ Take a pride in being able to say, “I owo no man.” £*?“Let us never forget that every station in life is necessary; that each deserves our respect; that not tho station itself, but the worthy fulfil ment of its duties, does honor to a man. Suminerficld was on his death-bed, he exclaimed, “Oh, if I might be raised again, how I could preach ! I could preach as I never did be fore. I have had a look into eternity.” A good man is a friend to all the world j and he is not truly charitable that does not wish well and do good to all mankind in what he can. ££• Every heart has its secret sorrow, which the world knows not; and oftentimes we call a man cold when he i* only bad.