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THE COWARD UNMASKED.
A GERMAN STUDENT’S STORY.
I have witnessed many duds, but we are
not so blood-thirsty generally, as your moral
Americans. We usually settled these matters
with a sword; a better method, by the way,
and more worthy of the soldier than your cold,
murderous pistol-firing. Any poltroon may
pull a trigger, but it requires the firm hand
and steady eye of the man to manage the
steel. However, when Iw as at Jenna, they
called each other out as merrily as a beau and
a belle to a dance. It was but the treading
of a toe—the bruising of an elbow'; nay, an
accidental look that fell on them when they
wished not observation, and the next day, or
by St. Andrew, the next hour, there was a
clash of steel, and the stamping of feet on
the greensward, and the kindling and Hash
ing of fiery eyes—and plunged and parry,
and cut and thrust, till one or both lay
stretched at length—a pass through the body
—a gash upon the cheek—the skull cleft
down, or the hand off—and the blood bub
bling and gushing forth like a rill of moun
tain waiters. There were more than one of
these fellows— devils I must say —who, when
they found among them some strange stu
dent, timid or retired, whose character they
were unacquainted with, or whose courage
they doubted, w r ould pass the hint of mere
sport —brush his skirt—charge the offence
upon him—demand an apology too humble
for a hare, and dismiss him from the adven
ture only w ith an opened shoulder, or w ith
daylight through his body. But to the story.
There was ono fellow among us, named
Mentz, who assumed, and wore w ith impuni
ty, the character of head bully. He was
foremost in all the deviltry. His pistol was
death, arid his broad sword cut like the scis
sors of fate. It was curious to see the fine
fellow fire—one, two, three, and, goodbye to
his antagonist. His friendship was courted
by all; for to be his enemy was to lie in a
bloody grave. At length, grown fearless of
being called to account, he took pride in in
sulting strangers, and even women. His ap
pearance was formidable; a groat bully gi
ant, w ith shaggy black hair, huge whiskers,
and grim moustaches, three inches long, twis
ted under his nose. A sort of beauty he had
too ; and among women—Lord help us—
whenever those moustaches showed them
selves, every opponent abandoned the ground.
It was at last dangerous to have a sweetheart,
for out of pure bravado, Mentz would push
forward, make love to the lady, frighten her
swain, and either terrify or fascinate herself.
Should the doomed lover offer resistance, all :
lie had to do was to call a surgeon ; and hap
py enough lie considered himself if he escap
ed w ithout the loss of his teeth or an eye. lie
killed four men who never injured him—
w ounded seventeen, and fought twenty duels,
lie once challenged a whole club, who had
black-balled him unanimously, and was pac
ified only by being readmitted, though all the
members immediately resigned and the club
w as broken up.
At last there came a youth into the Univer
sity—slender, quiet, and boyish-looking, with
a handsome face, though somewhat pale,
iI is demeanor, though shy, was noble and
self-possessed. He had been but a short
time among us, before he was set down as a
cowardly creature, and prime game for the
‘devil’s broke loose,’ as the gang of Mentz
termed themselves. The boy youth shunned
ail the riots and revels of the University—in
sulted no one: and if bis mantle brushed
against that of another, he apologized so im
mediately, so gracefully, so gently, that the
devil himself could not have fixed a quarrel
upon him. It soon appeared, too, that Ger
trude, the lovely daughter of the Baron dc
Saale —the toast of all the country —upon
whom the most of us looked as on something
quite above us—it soon appeared that the
girl loved this youthful stranger. Now
Mentz had singled out Gertrude for himself,
and avowed his preference publicly. Arnold,
for this the new student w as called, was rare
ly, if ever, tempted by our leasts; but he once
came unexpectedly on a casual invitation.
To the great surprise and interest of the .com
pany, Mentz was there, and seated himself un
abashed at the table, though an unbidden
guest. The strongest curiosity at once arose
to witness the result, for Mentz had sworn
that he would compel Arnold, at their first
meeting, to bog pardon on his knees for the
audacity of having addressed his mistress.
It had not appeared that Arnold knew any <
thing of Mentz’s character, for he sat cheer
fully 7 and gayly at the board, w ith so much
the manner of a high-born gentleman, that
every one admitted at once his goodness, his
intelligence, his grace, and his beauty, and re
gretted the abyss on the brink of which he
stood.
‘What ho! at length shouted Mentz, as the
evening had a little advanced and the w ine ;
began to mount; ‘a toast!—Come, diink it
all: and he who refuses is a paltroon and
coward; I quaff this goblet—filled to the
brim—to the health and happiness of Ger
trude do Saale—the fairest of the fair! Who
says lie knows a fairer is a black liar! and I
will'write the w ords with a red hot brand on
bis forehead!’
Never before had even Mentz betrayed his
brutal soul so grossly in words; but the
guests, who knew that lie was heated with ,
wine, passed over the coarse insult with i
shouts of laughter, and drank w ith riotous
confusion, to the health of Gertrude, the fair
est of the fair. As the gleaming goblets were
emptied and dashed rattling on the table,
Mentz arose, anil with the bloated importance
of a despot, gazed around to see that all pre
sent had fulfilled his orders. Every goblet
was emptied but one, which stood untasted—
untouched. On perceiving this, the ruffian
leaning forward fixed his eyes on the cup,
struck his brawny hand down fiercely on the
table, which returned a thundering clatter,
and said in a voice husky w ith rage—
‘There is a cup full; by St. Anthony! I
will make the owner swallow its measure of
molten lead if it remain tints one instant lon
ger.’
‘Drink it Arnold—drink it boy; keep thy
hand out of useless broils,’ whispered a stu
dent near him rather advanced in age.
‘Drink friend !’ muttered another dryly, ‘or
he will not be slow in doipg his threat, I pro
mise thee—”
‘Empty the cup, man!’ cried a third, ‘nev
er frown or turn pale, or thy young head will
lie lower than thy feet ere to-morrow 7 sunset,’
‘lt is Mentz, the duellist,’ said a fourth.
‘Dost thou not know his wonderful skill ?
He will kill thee as if thou vert a deer, if
thou wilt oppose him in his wine. He is
more merciless than a wild boar. Drink
man, drink **
These good natured suggestions were mut
tered in hasty and vehement whispers; „and
while the students were endeavoring to palli
ate the dreadful catastrophe, the furious
beast again struck his giant hand on the ta
ble violently, without speaking, as if words
were too feeble to utter his rage.
.. During this interesting scene, tlie youth
bod remained motionless, cOol and silent. A
ehght-paUor, but evidently more of indigna
'“tioh ♦h'Air fe'ftr, big handsome sea-
j tures,*and his eyes dilated w ith emotion, res
! ted full and firm on Mentz.
‘Bv Jhe mass, gentlemen/ cried he at
length, ‘I am a stranger here, and ignorant
i of the manners prevalent in the universities ;
but if yon person be sane and this no joke —’
‘Joke,’ thundered Mentz, foaming at the
j ip
‘l must tell you that I come from a part of
the country 7 , where we neither give nor take
such jokes or such insults.’
‘Hast thou taken leave.of thy friendsf
said Mentz, partly hushed by astonishment,
and art thou tired of life that thou hurriest so
blindly to a bloody pillow! Boy! drink, as
I have told thee, to Gertrude, the fairest of
the fair!’ And his huge eyes opened and
gazed like those of a bull on a daring victim.
‘That Gertrude may be the fairest of the
fair may not be denied by me. But—l de
mand by what mischance l find her name this
night common at a board of rioters, and pol
luted by the lips of a drunkard and coward.’
‘By the bones of my father,’ said Mentz, in
a tone of-deep and dire anger, which had ere
then appalled many a stout heart; ‘by the
bones of my father, your doom is sealed! Be
j your blood on your own head. But/ said he,
observing that the youth instead of lowering,
bore himself more loftily, ‘what folly is this!
drink, lad, drink! and I hurt thee not! I love
thy gallant bearing, and my game is not such
as thou.’
He added this with such a wavering of
manner as had never before been w itnessed in
him, for never before had he been so calmly
and fiercely opposed ; and, for a moment, he
quailed before the fiery glances darted at him
from one he supposed meeker than a dove.
But ashamed of his transient fear he said,
‘Come to me, poor cLild! Bring with thee
thy goblet —bend at my foot and quaff it as
l have said, and—out of pity—l spare thy
! young head.’
What was the astonishment of the compa
ny on beholding Arnold, as if effectually aw
! ed by a moment’s reflection, and tlie fero
cious enmity of so deadly and celebrated a
i foe, actually do as he was commanded. He
arose, took the cup and slowly approached
the seat of the insulter —knelt, and raised the
rim to his lips. Murmurs of ‘shame/ ‘pol
troon/ ‘coward/ came hot and thick from the
group of the spectators, who had arisen in
the excitement of their curiosity, and stood
eagerly bending forward with every eye fixed
; upon the object of their contempt. A grim
j smile distorted the features of Mentz, who
shouted with a hoarse and drunken laugh—
i ‘Drink deep—down with it—to the dregs.’
Arnold, however, only touched the rim to his
lips, and waited a moment’s silence, with an
! expression so scornful and composed that tlie
hisses and exclamations w 7 ere again quelled;
when every sound had ceased to a dead si
! lence—
‘Never/ said lie, ‘shall I refuse to drink to
the glory of a name that once I loved and hon
ored —Gertrude, fairest of the fair! But/ he
added, suddenly rising, and drew up his fig
’ ure, with a dignity that silenced every breath,
i ‘for thee, drunken, bragging, foolish beast. I
| scorn—l spit upon —I defy thee! and—thus
I be punished thy base, brutal insolence, and
! thy stupid presumption.’
j As he spoke he dashed the contents of the
; ample goblet full in the face of Mentz, and
J then, with all his strength, hurled the massy
j goblet itself at the same mark. The giant
reeled and staggered a few paces back ; and
| and amid the shining liquor on his drenched
clothes and dripping features, a stream of
blood was seen to trickle down his forehead.
Never before was popular feeling more
suddenly and violently reversed. A loud and
irrepressible burst of applause broke from ev
ery lip, till the broad and heavy rafters above
their heads, and the very foundation of the
: floor shook and trembled. But the peal of
: joy and approbation soon ceased ; for though
; this inspiring drama had so nobly commonc
| ed, it was uncertain how it might end. Be
! fore the tyrant had recovered from the stun
| ned and bewildered trance into which the
blow, combined with grief, shame, astonish
j ment and drunkenness, had thrown him, sev
! eral voices, after the obstreperous calls for si
lence usual on such occasions, addressed the
youth, who stood cool and erect, with folded
j arms, waiting the course of events.
‘Brave Arnold! Noble Arnold! A gal
-1 lant deed ! The blood of a true gentleman
I in his veins!’
I ‘But can’st thou fight?’ cried one.
‘1 am only a simple student, and an artist
by profession ; 1 have devoted myself to the
pencil, and not the sword/ answered Arnold.
‘But thou can’st use it a little, can’st thou
not ?’ asked another.
‘But indifferently/ answered the youth.
; ‘And how art thou with a pistol?’ deman
ded the third.
‘My hand is unpracticed,’ replied Arnold;
‘I have not skill in shedding human blood.’
‘ForeGod! then, rash boy, what has
tempted thee to this fatal extremity ?*
‘Hatred of oppression in all its forms/ re
plied the youth, ‘and a willingness to die rath
er than submit to an insult.’
‘Die then thou shalt, and that ere to-mor
row’s sun shall set!’ thundered Mentz, start
ing up in a plirenzy, and with a hoarse and
! broken voice that made the hearts of the
i hearers shudder as if at the howl of a demon, j
i ‘I challenge thee to mortal combat.’
‘And l accept the challenge.’
‘lt is for thee to name time, place, and
weapons, but as thou lovest me, let it not be 1
longer than to-morrow night, or I shall burst I
with impatience and rage.’
‘I love thee not, base dog!’ replied Arnold;
j ‘but thou shalt not die so inglorious a death,
I will fight with thee therefore to-night,
j ‘By the mother of Heaven, boy!’ cried
Mentz, more and more surprised, ‘thou art in
haste to sup in hell!’ and the ruffian lowered
his voice, ‘art thou mad V
‘Be that my chance/ answered Arnold, ‘I
shall not be likely to meet, even in hell, a
, companion so brutal as thou, unless, which I
mean shall be the case, thou bear mo compa
ny.’ . /
‘To-night then be it/ said‘Mentz, ‘though
my hand is unsteady; lor wine and segars
are no friends to the nerves.’
‘Dost thou refuse me then?’ demanded the
youth with a sneer.
‘By the mass, no! but to-night is dark, the
moon is down ; tlie stars are clouded ; and
the wind goes by in heavy gusts and puffs.
Hear it even now.’
‘Therefore/ said the youth, apparently
more coldly composed, as his fierce rival
grew more perceptibly agitated—‘therefore
we will lay down our lives here—in this hall
—on this spot —at this instant—even as thou
standest now.’
‘There is no ono here who will be my
friend/ said Mentz, so evidently sobered and
subdued by the singular composure and self
possession of bis antagonist, that all present
held him in contempt, and no one stirred.
‘No matter/ cried Arnold, ‘I will myself
i forego the same privilege.’
‘And your weapons/ said Mentz.
‘Are here/ cried Arnold, drawing them
from his bosom, ‘a surer pair never drew
blood. The choice is yours.’
The company now began to fancy that Ar
nold had equivocated in disclaiming skill as a
duellist; and from his invincible composure,
thought him a more fatal master of the wea
pon than the bully himself. The latter also
partook of the same opinion.
‘Young man/ he cried, in a voice clouded
and low, and said no farther.
‘Your choice !’ said Arnold, presenting the
pistols. Mentz seized one desperately, and
said, ‘Now name your distance.’
‘Blood-thirsty wolf, there shall be no dis
tance/ said Arnold.
He then turned and addressed the compa
ny.
’ ‘Gentlemen/ he said, “deem me not sav
age or insane, that I sacrifice myself and this
brutal wretch, thus before your eyes, and to
certain and instant destruction. For me, I
confess I have no value in life. For her
whom I loved, I have sworn to furget; and if
I existed a thousand years, should never pro
bably see again. This ruffian is a coward
and fears to die, though he does not fear dai
ly to merit death. I have long heard of his
baseness, and regarded him as an assassin—
the enemy of the human race and of God—
a dangerous beast—whom it will be a mercy
and n virtue to destroy. My own life I would
well be rid of, but would not fling it away
idly, when its loss may be made subservient
to the destruction of vice and relief of human
ity. Here, then, I yield my breath; and
here too this trembling and shrinking craven
shall close his course of debauchery and mur
der. My companions, farewell! Should any
of you hereafter chance to meet with Ger
trude de Salle, tell her I nobly flung away a
life which her falsehood made me despise.
And now, recreant!’ turning fiercely to
Mentz, ‘plant thy pistol to my bosom, as I
will plant mine to thee. Let one of the com
pany cry three, and the third number be the
signal to fire.’
With an increased paleness in his counte
nance, but even with more firmness, Arnold
threw off his cap, displayed his fair forehead
and glossy ringlets. His lips were closed
and firm, and his eyes which glistened with
deadly glare, were fixed on Mentz. He then
placed himself in an attitude of firing; broad
ened his exposed chest full before his foe, and
with a stamp of impatience raised his weapon.
The brow-beaten bully attempted to do the
same; but the pistol held loosely in his grasp,
whether by accident or intention, went off be
fore the signal. Its contents passed through
the garments of Arnold, who leveling the
muzzle of his own, cried calmly—‘On your
knees, slave! Vile dog! Down !or you die!’
Unable any longer to support his frame,
the unmasked coward sunk on both knees
and prayed for life. Again wild shouts of
applause and delight, and peals of riotous
laughter stunned his ears. I shall never for
get the shouts when Mentz’s knees touched
the floor. It seemes to me that the echoes
may yet be scarcely quiet in the woods of
Saxony. As he rose from his humiljtatiug
posture, Arnold touched him contemptously
with his foot. Groans and hisses now began
to be mingled with several missiles. Mentz
covered his face with his hands and rushed
from the room, and was never more seen a
mong us. Arnold had been jilted like many
a good fellow before him, and like most men
who have to do with women. He was but a
poor artist, after all: and though my pretty
mistress encouraged him at first, taken by his
person and manners, yet lie was not high e
nough for the daughter of a Barron.
How the “Cardinal” took the Starch out
of the Deputy Sheriff.
What admirer of the sports of the Turf, or
connoisseur of horse flesh, is not acquainted
with our friend Richelieu, whom the irrev
erent have dubbed “Cardinal.” If their should
be an} 7 such, I assure them, the matter can be
easily arranged, by seeking Joe out and
offering to bet on the speed of his Saratoga
horse, in match against time, and my word
for it, the acquaintance will commence and
contiuue through life. A good liver and a
good fellow is Joe, who still retains all the
vigor and elasticity of youth, although the
frosts of forty odd winters have left their
traces upon his head, and a reasonable a
mount of “crow’s feet” arc mingled with the
lines of good humor at the coruers of his eyes.
Aside from tlie impediment in his speech, (an
agreeable kind of stammer,) Joe is one of the
most vivacious of companions, and tells a sto
ry in a style so peculiar his own, that it would
be vain to attempt to repeat it on paper with
the same effect. But I will do the best I can
with one of Joe’s yarns, and trust to luck for
his approval.
Joe and I were, one cold night, sitting over
glasses of steaming whiskey punch, and cosi
ly whiffing away at our segars, each having
taken positions of any easy character—Joe
watching the fantastic figures formed dy his
imagination in the glowing coal fire, and I in
a dreamy state of listlessness, giving a sleepy
ear to the howling of a December wind, as it
fiercely shook the blinds and sashes of our
comfortable little crib of a room. After a
long pause, Joe broke the silence by saying
“l’ll tell you ab-b-bout a d-d-deputy Sh-sh
sherift’, that had all t-t-the st-starch ta-taken
out of him one d-d-d-devilish e-c-cold day, up
in Ca-Ca-Cnuada.”
“Do, Joe,” said I, “but first let us light a
fresh segar, and put more coals on the fire.”
This done, Joe commenced his “twister,”
but as it is utterly impossible to give it ver
batim et literatim, you must be satisfied with
it second-handed, and in his language as
near as I can give it, barring the impediment.
“Thirty-five years ago this present month,”
said Joe, “I was living in Canada, about 12
miles from the St. Lawrence, and nearly op
posite Ogdensburg. I had made arrange
ments for a visit to N. York, and on an in
tensely cold morning, threw my legs across
one of the best blood nags in the Providence,
intending to ride down to St. Lawrence, and
so cross over on the ice. On my way down
I stopped at a puhlic house, kept by an old
friend of my father’s, to take leave, and, at
the same time, fortify myself against the cold
wind, by imbibing a reasonable quantity of
good fourth proof! While there one of the
deputy Sheriffs of the County rode up on a
common country horse, which was duly shed
ded, and in a few minutes the landlord, the
deput}-, and I, were taking our brandy and
water, “as thick as pickpockets,” at my ex
pense. The landlord wished me a pleasant
journey, and gave me one or two trifling com
missions to execute on my arrival. Not so
said the deputy. He commenced speaking
of the painful duties which his office entailed
upon him, and regretted very much that he
sometimes was forced, against his inclination
to incommode bis best friends, and wound up
by gravely informing me that he then had in
his pocket a capias, issued against me at the
suit of a rascally tailor, who had the temeri
ty to bow to me at a ball, and whom I had
cut on tlie spot, I was surprised, of course,
and stated that tho action was merely to an
noy me. I would have paid the amount on
the instant, but I very muck disliked giving
tlie scoundrel of a tailor any satisfaction
whatever. 1 therefore determined to extri
cates myself by a coup de main, and giving
tlie landlord the wink, after a little circumlo
cution I introduced the subject of politics; it
was like fire and gunpowder, and the landlord
and deputy, being on opposite sides, rattled
away in perfect broadsides of argumentive el
oquence. Taking advantage of this position
of affairs I quietly slipped out of the house,
went rapidly to the shed, and in less than ten
winks had the blanket off my horse and was
on his back, taking the road to St. Lawrence.
But the enemy had discovered my escape, and
in less time than it takes me to tell it the Sher
off was on the road, Ia half mile in advance
iof him, and the landlord standing in the door
hailing the Sheriff’ to “come back for his
change.” The Sheriff was a chuckle-headed
Hibernian, about five feet eight in height, and
must have weighed over one hundred and
eighty, and, as I said before, indifferently
mounted, while I weighed about one hundred
and thirty, and backed a blood.”
“Such a horse as your Saratoga nag ?”
said I.
“N n-nothing li-like him. D-d-d-amn it,
d-don’t inter-r-rupt me I sh-shant get through
t-t-to-night,” and aside from the stutter, Joe
continued as follows:
“Then commenced the tug of war, on the
poor sheriff. I had tlie heels of him, but did’nt
like to get so far ahead as to be ought of
sight of him, for fear he might cut me off by
going “across lots.” And so we had it, hip
and thigh, for about forty minutes, until I saw
the river, frozen “stiff as a bridge.” I rode
up to the tavern on the shore, hastily threw
my reins to the ostler. After giving him di
rections as to the care of the horse, and where
to send him, I took the ice. As I reached
the brink of the river the Sheriff hove in sight
just turning the brow of a hill, bout a quarter
of a mile off’, his horse sweating under his
heavy burthen, and smoking like Vesuvius in
in an attack of cholic.
“In a sort of a dog trot, I started for Og
densburg, having a good five hundred yard’s
start of the Sheriff'. And here I had about
the same advantage as I had ashore. The
wind was high, and the Sheriff and I had it
directly in our teeth ; but he presented more
surface than I did, and consequently had the
most of it. The ice was very smooth, indeed
—what the boys call glib—except in spots
where the snow drifted. These rough spots
I avoided for fear of air holes, and kept on
the smooth ice. I was going steadily into
the wind’s eye, but the Sheriff had to “beat
up,” so as to take the wind obliquely, or else
he would not have got along at all, and in
deed sometimes a gust took him with a slide
t wenty yards out of his course before he could
stop himself. At last I heard a shriek, and
looked around. The Sheriff had disappeared
with the exception of a quantity of carroty
hair, which was just above the surface of the
frozen stream. The poor devil had broken
through the ice. Humanity dictated that I
should extricate him, but safety said, “let him
extricate himself.” But humanity had the
best of it, and back I went to the rescue of the
representative of his majesty.
“For God’s sake, Misther Richilieu, help
me out!” cried the poor deputy. “Oeh!
murther! I’m full of wather intirely, and the
cowld is takin’ the life of me.”
“If I get you out you will arrest me,”
said I.
“Divil arrist” said he.
“Now,” I replied, “I’ll get you out on one
condition, and that is. that you must give me
the same start I had when you fell in.”
“How ly Virgin! Yis I’ll do it.”
“And you will promise not to run after me
until I get to the place where I w 7 as ?
“On the honor of a man and a gentleman,”
said he, between his chattering teeth.
“No, that won’t do ; j 7 ou must promise
on the honor of a deputy and a Sheriff',” said I.
“I promise—och! release me.”
“By dint of hard labor, the shivering devil
stood upon the brink of the hole that came
near being his grave, tlie water slowly drip
ping from the capacious capes of his great
coat, his sleeves, and the bottom of his panta
loons. But it did’nt drip long, for the cold
air almost immediately froze around him an
armor as strong as iron. I deliberately start
ed for the spot agreed upon.
“Why you didn’t hurry yourself, Joe? the
poor devil might have frozen to death.”
“Oh, I was no d-d-d and fool—l wanted
to s-s-save my wind.”
“Well, Joe, did he follow you?”
“F-f-foliow! —he d-d-didn’t move a p-p-p-p
----peg, and I t-t-chink he’s s-s-st-standing t-t
----there yet.”
The Nobleness of a True Life.
BY HON. HORACE MANN.
Whoever yields a temptation debases himself
with a debasement from which lie can never a
rise. This, indeed, is the calamity of calamities
the bitterest dreg in the cup of bitterness. Eve
ry unrighteous act tells with a thousand fold
more force upon the actor than upon the suffer
er. The false man is more false to himself than
to any one else. lie may despoil others, but
himself is the chief loser. The world’s scorn he
might sometimes forget, but the knowledge of
his own perfidy is undying. The fire of guilty
passions may torment whatever lies within the
circle of its radiations; but fire is always hottest
at the center, and that centre is the proflifigate’s
own heart.
A man can be wronged and live; but the un
resisted, unchecked impulse to do wrong is the
first and second death. The moment any one
of the glorious faculties with which God has en
dowed us is abused or misused, that faculty
loses, for ever, a portion of its delicacy and its
energy. Every injury which we inflict upon our
moral nature in this life, must dull, tor ever and
ever, our keen capacities of enjoyment, though
in the midst of infinite bliss, and weaken our
power of ascension, where virtuous spirits are
ever ascending,
It must send us forward into the next stage of
existence maimed and crippled, so that, howev
er high we may soar, our flight will always be
less lofty than it would otherwise have been; J
and however exquisite our bliss, it will always
be less exquisitely blissful than it was capable of j
being.
Every instance of violated concience. like eve- j
ry broken string in a harp, limit the compass of j
its music, and mar its harmonies for ever.— ;
Tremble,then, and forbear, oh man! when thou j
wouldst forget the dignity of thy nature and the !
immortal glories of thy destiny; for if thou dost :
cast down thine eyes to look with complacency !
upon the temper, or lend thine ear to listen to !
his seductions, thou dost doom thyself to move j
for ever and ever through inferior spheres of be- I
ing; thou dost wound and dim the very or- J
gan with which alone thou canst behold’ the \
splendors of eternity.
The world is entering upon anew moral cycle.
The great heart of humanity is heaving with
hopes of brighter day. All the higher instincts
of our nature prophesy its approach; and the
best intellects of the race are struggling to turn i
that prophecy to fulfillment. Thoughts of free
dom, duty, benevolence, equality, and human
brotherhood agitate the nations; and neither the
pope v T ith his cardinals nor the czar Avith his I
Cossacks, can repress them.
Were these thoughts imprisoned in the cen- !
tre of the earth, they w T ould burst its granite
folds, speed onward in their career, and fulfill
their destiny. They are imbued with a death
less vigor. They must prevail, or the idea of
a Moral Governor of the universe is an impos
ture, and the divine truths of the Gospel a fasle. j
Here, then, is opened anew and noble career I
for the ambition of emulous youth; not the am
bition for subduing men into slaves, but the holy !
ambition of elevating them into peers; not for
usurping principality and kingdom, but for
building himself up into principality and king
dom; not merely lor gathering renown, as it
were, star, by star, to be woven into a glittering
robe for his person, or to make a crown of glory
for his head; but to expand his own soul into
grander proportions, to give it angelic and arch
angelic loftiness of statue, and to fill it perpetu
ally with that song of joy which even the morn
ing stars could not but sing when they beheld
the splendor of the Godhead reflected from the
new creation.
Here are opportunities, means, incitements,
through which the young man may build him
self up more and more into a likeness of the uni
verse in which he dwells, and configure himself
more and more to the infinite Perfection that
governs it.
In a physical and in a spiritual sense, the uni
verse around us is full; and, as we can not go
beyond the circumference of present physical
discoveries without discovering new theaters of
being, so we can not go beyond the circumfer
ence of existing spiritual relations without find
ing new spiritual relation.
Columbus was devoted to the study of geog
raphy. As the result of that study, he felt that
there was a continent to be discovered; and he
discovered it. The mind of Newton pondered
on astronomical truths. His contemplations en
gendered the belief that some cohesive principle
bound together the worlds on high; and he de
monstrated the law of gravitation. Washing
ton was a patriot. He yearned for liberty ; and
by his valor and his wisdom our republic was
established.
So new moral blessings and beauties are cer
tain to reward the efforts of new moral power,
whatever direction that power may take. Gran
der discoveries than any which have yet been
made, revelations that lay beyond the ken of
Bacon’s far-seeing vision, and beauties that shone
outside the imagination of the vast-minded
Shakspeare, await the evoking power of philan
thropic genius.
Benevolence is a world of itself, a world which
mankind, as yet, have hardly begun to explore.
We have, as it were, only skirted along its coasts
for a few leagues, without penetrating the recess
es, or gathering the riches of its vast interior.
Hostile nations and repugnant races of men are
wayward and devious orbs, yet to be brought in
to a system of brotherhood by the attractions of
love. Justice, honor, love and truth, are the
corner-stones of the holy government which is
yet to be organized upon earth.
For all the true-hearted adventurers into these
new realms of enterprise, there are moral Edens
to be planted, such as Milton with his celestial
verse could never describe, and there are heights
of moral sublimity to be attained, such as Rosse
with his telescope could never descry.
Glowing with a vivid conception of these
truths, so wonderful indisputable, let me ask,
whether, among all the spectacles which earth
presents, and which angels might look down up
on with an ecstacy too deep for utterance, is
there one fairer and more enrapturing to the
sight than that of a young man, just fresh from
the Creator’s hands, and with the unspent ener
gies of the coming eternity wrapped up in his
bosom, surveying and recounting, in the solitude
of his closet or in the darkness of midnight, the
mighty gifts with which he has been endowed,
and the magnificent career of usefulness and of
blessedness which has been opened before him ;
and resolving, with one all-concentrating and all
hallowing vow, that lie will lire, true to the noblest
capacities of his being, and in obedience to the high
est law of Ins nature!
If aught can be nobler or sublimer than this,
it is the life that fulfills the vov . Such a young
man reverences the divine skill and wisdom by
which his physical frame has been so fearfully
and wonderfully made; and he keeps it pure and
clean, as a fit temple for the living God. For
every indulgence of appetite that would enervate
the body, or dull the keen sense, or cloud the
luminous brain, he has a “Get thee behind me!”
so stern and deep, that the balked satans of temp
tation slink from before him in shame and des
pair.
Hypocracy and pharasaical pride are loath
some to the young man of a true heart, yet he
rejoices to be known, at all times and everywhere
as a religicus man; for, not less in the marts of
business and the hiiiaritics of social intercourse,
than in the sanctuary or on the death-bed, he
feels how infinitely unmanly it is to be ashamed
of the noblest and divinest attribute in all h s na
ture.
And when, in the fullness of patriarchal years,
crowned with clustering honors, and covered
with thebeaulitudes, as with a garment, he brings
his heroic life to a triumphant close, the celestial
light that bursts from the opened and welcom
ing gates of heaven, breaking upon his upturned
countenance, is reflected into the paths of all
surviving men ; and the wings of his spirit, as it
ascends, fan the earth with orders from the up
per paradise.
NewSermonto an old Text. —“ Whoso find
elh a wife, findeth a good thing.” A ‘wife’—
none of your sly, smiling, simpering backbiters,
who can “sha” or wink away a neighbor’s rep
utation with more pleasure than she sweeps
down cobwebs; but one of your neat, kind, af
fectionate home ladies—who keeps her children
neat and tidy, and teaches them, from the least
to the largest, to behave with modesty and pro
priety—who mingles the house-wife’s labor with
intellectual improvements; and while she makes
home, by her neatness and good nature, a place
where her husband delights to sit, renders her
self, by the improvement of her mind, a fit gov
erness for her children, and an amiabele compan
ion to her spouse. She is not merely a woman
bound to man, but a wife; and whosoever find
eth such a one, certainly lindeth a good thing.
But there is Dorothy Slow, who sleeps till eight
in the spring mornings. “Dorothy—Dorothy!
do you know how everything is put out of sorts
by your loving your pillow so much better than
your duty ?” What then? shall we never mar
ry, lest we find a woman only, not a wife ? Not
so; but permit an old friend to give a few of the
indications which the experence of three thou
sand years since Solomons’ time Las pointed out,
which may lead you in the right way to find a
good wife.
1. Observe that the girl is neat in dress and
person. A slatternly maid will make a sluggish
wife. 2. Mark that she be affectionate and obe
dient to her parents, and that she treat elderly
people with respect. A girl who neglects the
wishes of her parents, and is rude to vener
able age, will neglect you whatever selfish mo
tives may prompt, howover solemn may have
been her vows. 3. She should be fond enough
of dress to wish to appear well among her com
panions. This is laudable; but when a fondness
for gay things leads to>s*Xtravagance —beware —
your purse will have to pay for it—she is selfish.
4. An ignorant wife will necessarily be self-will
ed, or stupid ; and however beautiful, will soon
cease to interest. Look, therefore, not for beau
ty, but for correct principles and an amiable dis
position; these combined with industry and in
telligence will wear well, and love will grow as
the freshness of youth decays.
The following incident occurred, as we learn
from good authority, in one of our stores the oth
er day:
“Buy any butter here ?” saida country cus
tomer, who walked into a dry goods store, and
looked much like a character who knew a vast
deal more about himself than he cared to tell.
“No sir,” replied the merchant, we dont wish
to buy any.”
“YVant to buy any eggs ?”
“No sir, we keep a dry goods store here.”
“So ! Wal then may be you would like to buy
some chickens—fat as pigs and a mighty sight
nicer.
“No, sir, I tell you we don’t deal in anything 1
but dry goods.
“Couldn’t I sell you a nice quarter o’pork?”
“I tell you sir, we deal in dry goods exclusive
ly here.
“Wal, what’ll you give for dried peaches ?”
What is your Name.
Three wild mud-larks, were recently captured i
by a young divine and brought into Sunday-
School in New York.
•What is your name, my boy V
‘Dan,’ replied the untought one, who was first
interrogated.
‘Oh no, your name is Daniel, say it now.’
‘Daniel.’
‘Yes; well, Daniel, take your seat.’
And w hat is your name.’ was interrogated of
number two.
‘Sam,’ ejaculated the urchin.
‘Oh dear, no; it is Samuel; sit down, Samuel,
and let us hear what your name is, mv bright
little fellow V said he, turning to the third.
With a grin of self-satisfaction, and a shake
of the head that would have done honor to Lord
Burleigh, the young catechumen, boldly replied :
‘Jimuel bejabers!’— N. Y. Spirit of the Times.
At a very excellent hotel, not a hundred miles
from our parts, they were one day short of a
waiter, when a newly arrived Hibernian was
hastily made to supply the place of a more ex
pert hand.
Now, Barney,” says mine host, “mind you
serve every man with soup, any how.”
“Be dad'l’ll do the same,” said the alert Bar
neys Soup came on the start, and Barney after
helping all but one guest, came upon the last
one.
“Soup,sir?” said Barney.
“No soup for me,” said the gent.
“But you must have it,” said Barney, “it is the
rules of the house.”
“D—n the house,” exclaimed the guest, high
ly exasperated; “when I don’t want soup, I wont
eat it—get along with you.”
“Well,” said Barney, with solemnity, “all I
can say is just this: its the regulations of the
house and damn the drop else yell get till ye fin
ish the soup”
The traveller gave in, and the soup was gob
bled.
Honors Extraordinary. —At a meeting of
cullud pussums held at Mislur Coxes Selek
Coatery, it was resolbed, upon de moshun of Mis
tur Sam Jonsin, dat—
Whereas, neberdeless, and in considerashun
oh de mentle andfizikle altituted of Mister John
Van Buren, and for de support lent by him to de
cause ob sufferin brack humanity, dat he be
hereafter known to our ancesta and posterity,
bose in by-gone edges and future generashuns
as “Pompey’s Filler,” and may hisshadder neb
ber be nothin shorter.
And also, on de moshun ob Miss Philisee Cruk
shin, it was resolbed, dat—
Miss Abby Kelly, fer her lub ob our culler,
and her terminashun to sow up the Southern
Tirints, shall in future hensforth figger in sakrid
and profane culled histery as “Cleopatrx’s
Needle,” and dat de female poshum ob our
community shall look up to her as dar univer
sal mudder.
Den it was finally resolbed, on de moshun ob
Mistur Downin, dat—
We consider Frederick Douglass, our grate
Pier of de Relm, and to him we shall hitch de
painter ob de ship of Liberty, and dat we hereby
nominate him for de “President of dese United
S TATES.”
Aberlishun papers please copy.
Pompey Blubburlip, Pres.
Chloe Wooly, Sec.— Spirit of the Times.
A Good Appetite. —‘Mv dear,’ said an affec
tionate wife to her husband, who had been sick
for several days ‘when you were well, you were
in the habit of eating twelve apple dumplings—
now that you are sick, how many shall I make
you V
‘Well,’replied the husband,‘l reckon you may
make eleven to-day : but be particular and make
them a little larger than usual.’
The wife obeyed.
When the husband had eaten the eleven, with
the exception of a half a one, his little son, a lad
of some six summers, came up to him and
said.
‘Daddy.give me a little piece.’
‘Go away, sonney,’ replied the father, ‘your
poor dad’s sick.’
I’m thinking of the Time. —The following
clever paraphrase of “We Wandered by the
Brook-Side,” is clipped from the Boston Daily
Mail
“l’m thinking of the time, Kate, when sitting
by thy side, and picking beans, I gazed on thee,
and felt a peacock’s pride. In silence leaned
we o’er the pan, and neither spokg a word, and
the rattling of the beans. Kate, was all the
sound we heard. Thy auburn curls hung down.
Kate, and kissed thy lilly cheeks ; the asure eyes
half filled with tears, be-spoke a spirit meek.—
To be so charmed as I was then had ne’er be
fore occurred, when the rattling of the beans,
Kate, was all the sound we heard. I thought it
was not wrong, Kate, so, leaning o’er the dish,
as you snatched a lot of beans, I snatched a Dec
lar'd kiss. A sudden shower made blind my
eyes. I neither saw r nor stirred, but the rattling
of the beans, Kate, was all the sound I heard.”
Scf.ne in a California Court. —The fol
lowing rich scene in a Court House of the
gold diggings, we extract from an interesting
letter to the Delta:
California Courts. —Sometime in De
cember last, whilst Judge was giving his
decision upon the admissibility of some evi
dence one of the lawyers rose, and said:—
“Your decision is perfectly ridiculous. You
just decided the question the other way.”
Judge. 1 line you ten dollars, for imperti
nence.
Counsel. Here is the ten dollars—(at the
same time throwing over a gold piece of that
denomination, which lodged in his honor’s bo
som, and caused him to unbutton before he
could get his fine.)
Some other question soon after arose, and
whilst the Judge was giving his tlecjsion with
becoming gravity, the following scene occur
red:
Juror. “Sheriff—(not wishing to interrupt
the Judge)—go up to the City Hotel, and
bring me down a brandy cock-tail, and one
of the best cigars.
Judge. “Sir, hadn't you better wait until I
am through?”
Juror. “Certainly, I’ll wait; but I’m most
confoundedly thirsty.”
The juror then turned around to Col. Wel
ler who was associate counsel for the defence
when the following dialogue ensued:
Juror. “Colonel, don’t you know me? I’m
from Warren county, Ohio, and was introdu
ced to you two years ago, by Tom Corwin, at
the Pearl street Hotel, CincinnattL I used to
associate with gentlemen when at home, but
here they put me on their infernal juries.”
Col. IT. “Well, we will soon be through
withthe case and you will be relieved.”
Juror. “You used to be counted some in the
way of a bare-tight, in Ohio; and I hope you
will give the lawyers, on the other side, par
ticular hell—they deserve it.”
Col. W: “Oh no! we get along very peace- j
ably, I’ve just come into the case, and have !
not yet been able to determine under what laic
we are trying it.”
Juror: “Why, the law of common sense
—the only law worth a d—n anywhere.”
The Colonel’s reply was lost to our infor- i
mant, his attention having been attracted by
something else equally interesting.
In arguing the case before the jury, one of
the counsel for the defence, after speaking of |
the manner in which California had been ac
quired, &c., alluded to the vast number ot
Spanish law-books produced on the other
side, and exclaimed—“his eye, in fine, frenzy
rolling”—“Here, sir, upon the virgin soil of j
California, with the meredian sun ol the nine- j
teenth century shining upon us, are we to be ,
governed by authorities, printed at Madrid,
two hundred years ago, and recently dug up |
bv some legal antiquarian, from the ruins of
the Spanish Inquisition? Will you, gentle
men of the jury, recognise this as law?”
Juror: ‘No-sir-ee—not by a d——d sight.’
It is scarcely neeessary to say that the coun
sel soon closed, and the defendant gained his
suit.
The Grape Culture.
In establishing a Vineyard, it is a matter’
of much importance to select the right
Position and Soil.—A hill side with a
Southern aspect is preferred, although an
Eastern or Western exposure is nearly as
good. Some have recommended the North
on account of safety from late Spring frosts
but it will scarcely afford sun enough to ripen
the grapes in cold wet seasons, (if the declivi
ty is steep,) and may perhaps be more subject
to “the rot.”
The soil best suited for a vineyard, is a dry
calcarious loam—with a porous subsoil—not
retentive of moisture; if mixed with some gra
vel or small stones, so much the better.—
Some prefer a sandy soil with a gravelly- sub
stratum; as in this the grapes are less subject
to rot; the juice, however, is not so rich,—’
lacking in saccharine matter —and in dry
seasons the vines will suffer from the drought,
shedding their leaves prematurely-, and pre
venting the grapes from ripening well. In
warm, sandy, and gravelly soils, the fruit
buds on the vines are sometimes killed by the
frosts of a severe winter.
Any soil underlaid, by- a stiff wet clay, is to
be avoided, as also wet or spongy Lands.—-
No trees should be allowed to grow within
one hundred feet of the Vineyard.
Preparing the ground. —ln autum or early
winter, dig or trench the ground all over 2 to*
2 1-2 feet deep, with the spade—this is far”
better than ploughing—turn the top soil un
der; the surface will be mellowed by- the frosts
of winter.
Wet spots in the Vineyard maybe drained
by small stone culverts, or by what is termed
a French drain, a ditch, with some loose
stones thrown into it edgewise, covered with
flat ones, and filled up with the earth again.
Surface draining may be obtained by concave
sodded avenues of 10 feet wide, and intersect
ing each other at 100 or 120 feet, thus throw
the Vineyard into squares of that size. This
will do for gentle declivities; but steep
ones must be terraced, or benched with sod
or stone, which is more expensive. These
benches should be as broad as they- can be
made conveniently, and with a slight incli
nation to the hill, that they may be drained
by stone or wood gutters, running into the
main trunks, to carry- off the water without
washing away the soil. This is important,
and requires good judgement and skill.
Planting. —Much diversity of opinion, ex
ists as to the proper distance of planting the
vines apart in the rows. Our native varieties
with their long joints, large foilage and luxu
riant growth, certainly require more room to
grow than the short jointed vines of the Rhine.
Hence it is supposed, that our German vine
dressers have sometimes erred, in planting
too close in this country —3 1-2 by 4; 4by 4;
4by 4 1-2 &c. For steep hill sides, 3 1-2
by 4 1-2 or 3 by 5 may answer, but for gen
tle slopes 3 1-2 by 6 is close enough, and for
level land 4by 7. This will admit sun and
air to mature the fruit, and leave a liberal
space for the roots to grow.
Lay oft’ the vineyard carefully- with a line
and put down a stick some 15 inches long
where each vine is to grow. Dig a hole about
a foot deep, and plant two cuttings to each
stick, in a slanting position, separated 6 or 8
inches at the bottom, and one inch at the top
of the hole, throw in a shovel full of rich veg
etable mould, from the woods, to make the
roots strike freely; let the top eye of the cut
tings be even with the surface of the ground
and cover with half an inch of light mould,
if the weather is dry.
If both the cuttings grow, take up one of
them the following spring, or cut it off under
the ground, as but one vine should be left to
each stake.
To prepare the cuttings for planting, bury
them in the earth when pruned from the vines
and by the latter end of March, or early- in
April, which is the time for planting, the buds
will be so swelled, as to make them strike
root with great certainty.
Each cutting should contain at least four
joints, and be taken from the wood well rip
ened ; if a small part of the’old wood is left on .
the lower end, so much the better; cut thenn
oft close below tho lower joint, and about an
inch above the upper. Set out some elxtra
cuttings in a nursery to replace failures in
the vineyard.
Some good vine dressers have recommend
ed planting with roots two years old, but tho
experience of others is in favor of planting at
once with cuttings in the vineyards, the vine
being never disturbed by removal makes tho
more thrifty and permanent plant.
01 course the planting should only be made
when the ground is warm > and dry, or mel
low.
Sweet Potato Seed from tiie Bloom.
—The undersigned has raised for three years
past, sweet potatoes, of better quality than
usual, in the following way, viz:
The yam potato vine blooms in August; in
about a month thereafter they form a pod; the
seed are then formed of about the size of sage
seed, and of the same color. The pod should
be noticed and gathered w hen ripe, or else
they will soon drop. In the spring, at the
| usual time of sowing seed, I sow them in the
I same way I sow cabbage seed. They will
not come up quite as soon, hut will continue
doing so through the spring. The plant is
small and delicate in appearance, and should
be drawn, in a wet season, with a little dirt
attached to it, and transplanted. The leaf
and vine have a different appearance from the
potato usually, and the potato will be found
i to grow larger and smoother than ever.
I prefer this method, after satisfactory prac
-1 tice, to raise the potato, to any other what
; e y cr. Collin Wood.
j
In a certain bathing-house, not a thousand
miles from Phillips Beach, w r as this notice:—
| “People are requested not to use anything
j that are in the bathing-house except the boar
ders.” The grammer of the above is eqnal
; to that of the menagerie man :
“This, ladies and gentlemen, is the celebra
; ted baboon, which picks nuts with its tail*,
| which is its natural food.”
A few days since a faithless spouse return
ed to her husband, who resides at Tutbury.-
As soon as the villagers heard of her return-,
they surrounded the house, and commenced 5
the confused din created by blowing cow’s
horns, beating kettles, <kc., and then seized
her, dragged her by a rope round her waist
to a pond, where they ducked her several-,
times in the presence of her husband, after
which they marched herbaek to her residence.
It appears that at Tutbury all wives who for
got their marriage vows are similarly treat
ed.
Some slandering bachelors says it is “much
joy,” when you get married, but it is more
jaicy, after a year or so.
“Cut my straps and let me go to glory!’*
as Dow Jr. exclaimed when he took his first
favorite kiss.
The lady whose dress was too dirty to
wear, and not dirty enough to be washed,
had a matter of serious import to decide.