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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.