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volume 1.1 : DrDotcfc to mterature, &flrtaUture, JHecftauCcs, S&ucation, iFotelan ana domestic EuteUifience, Kc. | number 40.
BY C, R. HANLEITER.
IP @ & T G3 Y □
“ Much yet remains unsung .”
For the “ Southern Miscellany.”
ALBUM STANZAS.
Lady, when the gay are wreathing
Fairest flowers to deck thy brow;
And fond lips are lightly breathing
Love's own vows in accents low —
Listen to each burning measure ;
Hearken to each half breathed sigh :
Yielding every thought to pleasure,
Cast this page neglected by!
Lady! when each dream ofgladness
Fades, as did that wreath of flowers,
And when only thoughts of sadness
Steal upon thy lonely hours—
• Should Tilts meet thy glance of sorrow,
Think of one who wishes thee,
Evermore, a bright to-morrow,
However dark to-day may be !
TT A 3L H g)
“the unexpected return.
BY WILLIAM COMSTOCK.
Having been detained by a loquacious
friend who held me hy the button until the
clock struck one, I knew that I could not
reach home in time to save my credit; and
as there were those in my father’s family,
who were both ready and willing to put the
-worst construction upon my words and ac
tions, l thought it better to seek a shelter
for the night, and go home early in the morn
ing—when no one need know that I had
iteen absent —than to arouse the family by
thundering at the doors in the dead of night.
Accordingly, I surveyed the doors and win
dows of a little tavern that stood by the way
side, and whose lofty sign as it creaked in
the wind, seemed to offer benighted travel
lers an asylum. In vain, I looked for a light;
not the least glimmer was visible. Even
the crescent shaped hole in the shutter was
darkened. I had seen at the door of this
tavern, a one-eyed, stout, and red faced man,
who, I made no doubt officiated as landlord,
and although I had never spoken to him in
my life, yet such was the impression which
his hard features had made upon me, that 1
felt no disposition to arouse him from his lair
at that late hour; for should my reception
l>e ungracious, the amount of wrath which I
should encounter, would far outweigh every
advantage which I was likely to derive from
his hospitality.
I might have gone to the Black Swan, but
there I slibuld he likely to encounter some
person who knew me. As I stook looking
at the darkened windows of the little tavern,
I became sensible, that a shower was com
ing up, and I even felt the big drops of rain
upon my hand, and heard them ever and
anon; like angel’s visits, pattering on the top
of my hat.
I looked about me for some shelter, and
my eyes fell upon an ancient wooden edifice
bail! by, which was certainly large enough
to contain me; but there had been ceitain
stories circulated about the building which
did not render it a very desirable retreat
during the darkness of night, when “all the
world was hushed in sleep.” Stories which
I had laughed at in broad daylight, exercis
ed an influence over me at that hour which
all my philosophy could not counteract. —
Within a stone’s throw of this venerable
building was a grave yard, and it had been
reported that the decayed inhabitants of that
grassy recepticle of the dead had been heard,
at the solemn hour of midnight, careering
through the numberless apartments of the
deserted mansion, and making noises most
uncouth to mortal ears.
I blamed myself for thinking at all of such
absurd recitals; but my nerves rebelled, and
it was not until the rain came down in good
earnest, that I could persuade myself to en
ter the house. I passed through the porch
and entered the first room ; but I found lit
tle protection here from the storm. The
rain descended in torrents, and the wind
blew gusts; and as the boys had pelted the
dusty windows, the sashes were broken and
the rain drove in like an editor with a free
pass. The chill air found its way to my ve
ry bones, and I trembled more with cold
than fear. As one nail drives out another,
s<> the cold chased away my cowardice; ami
I ascended the stairs, passing into the third
story, where I found a room not only dry
but also warm. The situ had laid upon the
roof all day, and this room was quite com
fortable.
I paced backwards and forwards in this
room until I became sensible that there were
strange noises on the premises. The wind
that shrieked and roared about this old man
sion made strange music. It found its way
into crevices, through which it moaned and
squeaked, and then a loose clapboard would
imitate the step of a human being, and, in
short, the various strange noises that 1 heard,
although easily accounted for, had such an
effect apon my imagination, that I was ill at
ease in the reputed abode of apparitions.—
At length, wholly overcome by my fears, I
was about making a rush for the staircase,
when I was certain that I heard the light
foot fall of someone in the entry. It con
tinued to approach as 1 retreated into the
farthest corner of the room, keeping my
eyes fixed on the door. For a moment
longer the footsteps approached, and then
hey grew more and more distant. All this
time my heart beat audibly, and my hair
rose as if alive.
My desire now was to be safely out of the
house. But in order to do that, I must pass
through the whole length of the entry to the
staircase at the other end. How could this
be done without encountering the being
whose footsteps I had heard. Oh ! reader!
there is no joke in terror. Fear hath tor
ment in it; and never was I more sensible
of that fact, than when I stood in one-corn
er of the room, pressing my back against the
wall, as if I could have sought egress through
it—afraid to move forward, yet in agony
while I tarried, and expecting every mo
ment to hear the returning footsteps of the
spectre. At length I resolved to lie down
upon the floor, and endeavor to sleep until
the approach ofday light. Under these cir
cumstances this may seem like a singular
resolution, yet in what way could I escaDe
the torment of my fears.
I lay down, with my elbow resting on the
floor and my head on my palm, and closed
my eyes. Just then I heard approaching
footsteps. I determined to maintain my
position, as it was least likely to attract no
tice. I just opened tny eyes as the strang
er entered my apartment, and then beheld
it’, shround aud winding sheet, the attenua
ted form of a young woman. I closed my
eyes again to shut out the horrid sight, and
hoped that my violent trembling would not
betray me. I had been a despiserof ghosts
and hobgoblins. What an instantaneous
change did one glance at the sheeted and
shrouded apparition effect! My eyes were
closed, but my sense of hearing seemed to
be rendered doubly acute. 1 heard the spec
tre pause in the middle of the room. 1 felt
sensible that her eyes were upon me. I
heard her approach the spot where I lay !
Large drops of sweat stood on my temples.
1 thought of my relations—my happy home.
Did my friends know my perilous condition!
In another moment the spectre was by my
side. She bent over me. I felt her warm
breath on my cheek. •* I think I may trust
him,” muttered she. She gently shook me
by the arm. The touch seemed natural. I
looked up.
“ Matvei not, young gentleman,” said she
“at the plight in which you see me.”
“First tell me,”cried I, gasping for bieath
—“ are you mortal, or are you”
“ I know what you would ask,” said she,
—“ I had almost foigotteu that my habili
ments had been unchanged since my escape
from the tomb.”
“ From the tomb !” cried I, now certain
that I held conference with a ghost.
“ Alas! sit 1” said she, “ I seek aid and
consolation from you, while you seem to
need them from nie. Hear me then—l have
been put in the tomb while still living, I
probably fell into a swoon and was suppos
ed to be dead by my relatives, who gave me
prematurely to the charnel, and now weep
for me as for one dead.”
“ Pardon me,” said I, rising and taking
her hand ; “ I now understand your condi
tion, and my fears are all vanquished. When
did you make your escape from the tomb]”
“ Last night,” said she, “ and ever since
that time I have remained secluded here,
looking all day from the windows in the hope
of seeing some lady my acquaintance,
whom 1 could entmst with my secret and
from whom I could procure suitable laiment
to go forth in. In the meantime, my moth
er is old and nervous, and I must not ap
pear in her presence until the fact of toy
existence has been gradually broken to her
—and there is one other person —how I long
to tell him that 1 live; yet this must not be
done hastily.”
“ All that you require, I will undertake
in person to perform,” said I. “You shall
have a dress at daylight from my sister’s
wardrobe, and you shall make my father's
house your home, until I have prepared
your relatives for your reception ; a:ul now
tell me, have you eaten nothing since last
night 1”
She confessed that she was hungry and
faint. Ino longer hesitated to rouse the
one-eyed landlord, but descended to the
street, and thundered at the door of the lit
tle tavern until a sleepy hostler came gaping
to the door, sideways like a crab, aud sulki
ly asked my will. I put a piece of silver
into his hand—“ That’s for your trouble,”
and a prompt “ thank’ee sir” was returned.
I procured a good supply of refreshments,
and hastened hack to the tomb. The streaks
of dawn appeared on the eastern sky soon
afterwards. I hastened home and procured
suitable clothing for the lady, and then I es
corted her to niy father’s house, where she
was received with the most unbounded hos
pitality, and her story was listened to with
intense interest.
I lost no time in calling upon the bereav
ed family. I found in the room which I en
tered, the father and mother of the young
woman, two sisters and a brother, together
with the particular friend mentioned by the
lady herself. The last appeared to be fair
ly overpowered with sorrow. He sat in one
corner with his eyes fixed on the floor. He
scarcely raised them as I was ushered into
the apartment.
As I seated myself in their midst, I said
to those around me—"l have called to see
you on very important business—such busi
ness as warrants a stranger in thus rudely
eutering your circle.”
They all looked up, and I continued—
“ You nave recently met with a severe mis
fortune.”
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 31, 1842.
“ We have, sir,” replied the father, while
the tears came fast into the eyes of the mo
ther and sisters. *
“ Such changes, though painful to us,”
said I “ may bo to the advantage of the de
parted, and there is reason to believe that
she has made a glorious exchange.”
“ There is, young man,” said the father.
“ As 1 stood by the coffin, looking upon the
cold remains of my daughter, I felt a bless
ed assurance that she was, at that moment,
one of the angels of heaven, and enjoying
the fruition of all her religious hopes.”
“ Do you believe that these inward as
surances are to be depended upon ?” In
quired I.
“ Most assuredly. It would be little less
than blasphemy to doubt it. I know, from
what I felt on that occasion, that my child is
in heaven.”
“ Though dead, she yet liveth,” said one
of the sisters.
“ No doubt she is yet alive,” said I.
The mother looked at me a moment, and
then a brief pause ensued.
“ Your daughter was buried in a tomb.—
I approve of lhat custom, as in case of being
buried alive, there is a way of escape.”
The young lady’s lover here fixed his
eyes upon me, with a keen wildness that
made me almost believe that he penetrated
my secret.
“ Cases of the kind are very rare, how
ever,” said the father.
“ Yet they occur sometimes, sir,” said I
emphatically. The old gentleman looked
very serious and thoughtful.
“ But when, by some kind Providence,
the sufferer has found a way to escape from
the noisome prison,” said I, “ and is impa
tient to meet her friends—to dry the tears
of her fond mother and sisters—to lift her
lover from the depth of despondency to the
pinnacle ofjoy”
“ You said you came on important busi
ness,” cried the father, wheeling around to
ward me —“for God’s sake, sir, what do
your words import!” and he grasped me by
the arm so earnestly that my finger ends
tingled. In the mean time the lover utter
ed a wild cry, and fainted. The mother
now began to understand the story, and she
wept aloud.
“ Your daughter is alive—she is well—
she is at my father’s house !” said J,
I then related the whole story. The fa
ther and lover could not restrain their impa
tience, but arose to accompany me home.
I was present at the meeting between the
“ lost and found,” and her female relatives.
It was a wonderful scene. By turns, doubt
ing the evidence of their senses, and indulg
ing in the most fervent embraces, the moth
er and sisters seemed overwhelmed with
rapture and amazement.
Pass we on. Jane—that was her name
—became reinstated in the family. I was,
after that, a frequent visiter. A few days
went hy, and it was perceived that the re
turn of the voting lady was likely to put the
family to much inconvenience. Many atti
des of her wearing appatel had been dispo
sed of, and arrangements had been made
which must now be broken up. The kitch
en maid had purchased at a low price, two
of Jane’s frocks, which wonderfully suited
her fancy, and she could with difficulty be
persuaded to part, with them again at a fair
valuation. This reluctance arose from the
fact that her beau had seen and admired
them both. Indeed, she had given them up,
hut continued to pout; ami one Jay, when
discharging some greasy water into the ken
nel, she was heard by one of the family at
the front window to mutter, “ I wish that
when folks were once laid in their graves
they would be quiet like decent folks, and
not come back to torment honest people.”
It also happened that Jane’s excellent
qualities, which had recently been the theme
of every member of the family, were gradu
ally lost sight of, the longer she lived after
her resurrection ; and I was witness to ma
ny little bickerings that were in sad keep
ing with the fine things that were said of
the young lady she lay in the tomb.
The mother, whose temper was none of the
best, declared she would be glad when Jane
was married—she wanted her away, and
she wondered how any one could live who
was so lazy and good-for-nothing.
The wedding day at length arrived, and
Jane was buried a second time—dying in
her maiden rights, to be resuscitated more
gloriously as a wife. Business called me
from the town. In about three months after
the wedding, I returned. I called to see
Jane at her house. The door stood ajar,
and I was witness to the following conver
sation:
Jane. —Then you may do it yourself.
Husband. —You are very impudent—you
do not know how to behave like a lady.
Jane. —Nor you like a gentleman.
Husband. —Well, madam, I have only one
\|jsh and that is, that I may be rid of you
before another three months are at an end.
Jane. —Oh yes—that you may cry your
eyes out, as you did when you thought I
was really dead, but—
Hero I heard a missile strike the wall,
which proved to be a boot jack, that her
husband had hurled at her head !
I walked quietly away, resolving to defer
my visit -until tho “ storm was hushed and
the tempest past.”
Here, then, was the mourned and lament
ed lady of the tomb. A few short months
had sufficed to convince her friends, that
her restoration to society was no such mar
vellous blessing after all. Every thing went
on as it had gone previous to Iter interment.
She had her faults and they had theirs.—
Her presence was not necessary to their
happiness, although, when seen through lens
of the grave, her virtues grew to mountains,
while her frailties were hidden in the dark
recesses of the tomb. They could mourn
for her when dead, but they could not treat
her with consideration while living. Then
I came to the conclusion, that it is, while
life remains to our friends, that our charity
should be exercised. Although now walk
ing among us in health and beauty, they
must one day die ; and now is the time to
so conduct ourselves towards them, that not
one regret may be felt, when it is too late
for us to do them good, or to make repara
tion for the injury which they may have suf
fered at our hands. One good deed perform
ed to the living, is worth more than an ocean
of tears shedfur the dead !
THE FISHERMAN.
A THRILLING INCIDENT.
It was as calm an evening as ever came
from Heaven—the sky and the earth were
as tranquil as if no storm from the one had
ever disturbed the repose of the other : and
even the ocean—that great highway of the
world—lay as gentle as if its bosom had
never betrayed—as if no traveler had ever
sunk to death in its embrace. The sun had
gone down, and the pensive twilight would
have reigned over nature, but for the moon
which rose in full orbed beauty, the queen
of an illimitable world, to smile upon the
goodly things of ours, and to give a radiance
and a glory to all she shone upon. It was
an hour and a scene that led the soul to the
contemplation of [lim who never ceases to
watch over the works he has made and
whose protecting care displays itself alike
upon the solid land and the trackless wastes
of the deceitful sea.
On the western coast of the county of
Devon, which has been termed, and, it may
be added, justly “the garden of England,”
upon such an evening a group had assem
bled around one of the fishermen’s cottages.
The habitation was built in the style of
olden time, when comfort was the principal
object of the projector. At either side of
the door were scattered the lines and nets
and baskets that betokened the calling of
the owner, and the fisherman was taking
his farewell for the night, of his happy lov
ing family, who were bidding him “ God
speed” on his voyage. A fine old man was
leaning his arms on the railing, and talking
to an interesting girl whose hand lay upon
the shoulder of a younger sister. The stout
fisherman, dressed in his rough jerkin, and
large boots that reached far above the knees,
was in the act of kissing a little cherub, who
seemed half terrified at being elevated so
high as his father’s lips; while the wife and
mother, with her infant nursling on her lap,
was looking anxiously upon her husband as
she breathed the parting blessing, and the
prayer for his safe return. A little boy, the
miniature of his father in countenance and
in dress, hearing a huge boat cloak across
his shoulders, and the lantern that was to
give light when the moon departed, com
pleted the group —if we except a noble
Newfoundland dog, some steps in advance
of the party, watching for the nod to com
mand his march to a kind of pier where the
fisherman and his hoy were to embark.—
“Good luck, good luck!” exclaimed the
old man, “ good luck and safe home again,
John : ye want no more but God’s blessing,
and that ye may have for asking; but ye
may as well take mine too —God bless ye,
anti good bye to ye.”
The blessing was heartily echoed by his
kind partner and his children, and whistling
as lie went, with his boat hook on his shoul
der, his dog Neptune before him, and his
boy following, he trudged along to the
beach.
With the earliest dawn of morning the
fisherman’s family were astir; the elder
girl was busily arranging their little parlor,
while the younger was preparing the break
fast table, and the mother spreading before
the fire the clothes of her husband and her
boy. An hour passed, and she grew some
what uneasy that he had remained abroad
beyond the usual period of his return. An
other hour had elapsed, when she said to
her father, “ Father, go out to the hillock
and try if you can sec his sail upon the wa
ter; he seldom stays out so long when the
sea is calm and the weather fair; my little
boy was not quite well last night, and this
alone should have hastened him home.”
The old man went forth, and one by one
of his grand children followed him, until
the mother was left alone, rocking the cra
dle of her unconscious babe. After the
lapse of another hour, her daughter entered
with news that a neighbor had spoken to
her father in the night, and that he would
certainly he soon home.
“ God grant it!” said she, and she spoke
in a tone of deep anxiety—“ he never was
away so long but once, and that was when
he saved the crew of the ship, Mary ; and
then the whirl of tho sinking vessel well
nigh made his grave.”
Again she stirred the fire, again arranged
the clothes before it, and poured some hot
water into the tea cups. Still the breakfast
remained untouched.
Tho sun was now soaring to his meridian
height, when once more tho family assem-
bled in their humble dwelling, the prop of
the whole was yet wanting. They sat down
to a cheerless meal, the seats at either side
of the wife remained vacant. The old man
was the only individual who appeared to an
ticipate no evil; but be hastily finished his
breakfast and went forth.
The noon was rapidly passing, and the
sun had already given tokens of the glory
of his departure, when the fishei man’s wife
having lulled her infant asleep, went herself
to the hill that commanded an extensive
view of the wide spread ocean. All the
little household soon assembled on the spot,
but no boat was seen upon the waters—
nothing that could give hope except the as
pect of the waves which looked too plaeid to
be dangerous.
Their deep dread was no longer to be
concealed ; and while the old man paced to
and fro, looking earnestly at brief intervals
over the lovely sea, the mother and daugh
ter were sobbing audidly.
“ Fearless let him he whose trust is in
his God !” exclaimed the father. The sen
tence was uttered involuntarily, but it had
its effect.
“Aye,” said the mother, “he always
trusted in his God, and God will not forsake
him now.”
“Do you remember, Jane,” continued
the old man, “ how often Providence was
with me, amid the storm and the wreck,
when help from man was far off, and would
have been useless if neat ?” And they
cheered and encouraged one another to hope
the best—but to submit to the decree of
Heaven, whether it came as the gentle dew
to nourish, or as the heavy rain to oppress.
From that hillock which overlooked the
ocean, ascended the mingled prayers that
God would not leave them desolate.
The fisherman the object of their hopes
and fears—had been very successful dur
ing the night, when at day bieak, as he was
preparing to return home, be remembered
his promise to bring with him some seaweed
to manure the pjotatoe plot behind his cot
tage. He was then close to the rocks, which
were only discernable at low water; ho
pulled for them, jumped on shore, fastened
the painter of his boat to a jutting part of a
cliff', and took his boat hook with him. He
collected a sufficient quantity of the weed,
but in his eagerness to obtain it, had wan
dered from the landing place, when he heard
his boy loudly hallowing and exclaiming
that the painter was loose. He rushed in
stantly towards the boat, which was then
several yards off; the boy was endeavoring
to use both the oars, and Neptune, the faith
ful dog, was running backward, howling
fearfully, as if conscious of his master’s
danger, at one moment about to plunge in
to the waves and join him, and the next lick
ing flip fare and hands of the child, as if he
O -
foresaw that for him liis protection would
be most needed.
The fisherman perceived at once the des
perate nature of his situation ; the tide he
knew was coming in rapidly, and his hope
of escape was at an end, when he perceived
that his lw>v in his effort to use the oars, hail
let one of them fall overboard. “Father,
father,” exclaimed the poor lad, “ what shall
ldo!” The boat was at this moment so
distant that his distracted parent could scarce
ly hear the words, but he called out to him
as loud as he could to trust in God, the fath
er of the fatherless. He then stood resign
ed to the fate which awaited him, and watch
ed the drifting boat in peril from the fatal
rocks. He had offered up a brief prayer to
the throne of mercy, when in an instant a
light bioke upon his mind. “ Great God 1”
he exclaimed, “I may yet be saved.” With
the energy of hope battling with despair, he
collected all the stones around him, and
heaped them rapidly upon the highest ledge
of rocks—it was indeed wonderful how he
could have gathered so many in so short a
time, but the Almighty gave strength to his
arm, and he was laboring not for life mere
ly, but for beings still dearer to him. The
tide came on, on, on, and soon obliged him
to quit his work. .He then mounted the
pile he had beapecl planted his boat-hook
firmly in one of lliejcrevices of the cliff’, and
prepared to struggle for existence : but his
henit failed him, when he considered how
slight was the possibility that the waters
would not rise above his head, tstill he de
termined to do all lie could to preserve life.
The waves were not rough, and the boat
hook supported him.
The awful moment rapidly approached ;
the water had reached his knees ; but he
stood firmly and prayed that he might be
preserved. On, on, on, it came, and his
shoulders were covered—hope died within
him, and he thought of himself no longer,
hut to those who were so dear to him ; his
wife, his ch’ldren and his father—it was a
blessing to them that he then implored
Heaven. Still, on, on, on, it came, and he
was forced to raise his head to keep os long
as possible from death ; his reason was al
most gone, his breath grew feeble, his limbs
chilled ; he panted and his jirnyer became
almost gurgling murmurs. The blood rush
ed to his head ; his eye balls glared as if
they would start from the sockets. lie clos
ed them with an effort, and thought for the
last time on the home that would soon bo so
wretched! Horrible images were before
him—each swell of the waves seemed as if
the fiends were forcing him downward, and
the cry of the seabird was like their yells
ovev their victim. He was gasping, rhoak
■ing, for ho had not strength to keep his head
¥. T. THOMPSON, EDITOB.
above the waves; every moment it was
splashing upon him, and each convulsive
start that followed only aroused him to the
consequences of consciousness, if conscious
nessit could be called, that the next plunge
would be his last.
Merciful powers ! at the very moment,
when the strength and spirit of man had
left him, and the cold shudder of death had
come on, he felt that the tide rose no higher.
His eyes opened, closed and a feat ful laugh
troubled the waters ! They eddied in his
throat, and the bubbles floated around his
lips—hut they rose no higher—that he knew
-~again and again his bosom heaved with a
deep sob, and he drew in liis breath, and
gave it forth in agony. A minute had pass
ed since the salt sea touched his lips ; this
was impossible if the tide still flowed—ho
could reason so much. He opened his eyes
and faintly murmured forth, “ Oh, God, be
merciful 1” The flow of the ocean had in
deed ceased ; there lie stood motionless;
but praying and weeping—thinking of his
beloved home, and hoping that bis place
there might not be forever vacant. The wa
ters in a short time subsided, and he was
enabled to stretch his chilled limbs, and then
to warm them by exercise. Soon the rock
was left dry as before, and the fisherman
knelt down upon that desolate spot among
the billows—hid his face in his hands, and
praised and blessed his Creature—his Pre
server !
Oh ! It Was tber well known bark of his
faithful dog that he heard above the waters;
in another moment the creature was licking
his pale cheek. He was saved—he was
saved; for his own boat had touched the
shore, and his own boy was in his arms!—
He had been drifted to the htftd, and had
easily found those who had rowed hard for
the chance of saving his father’s life.
“ Now homeward, homeward !” he ex
claimed.
“ Homeward, homeward!” echoed the
child, and Neptune jumped and.b'arked at
the welcome sound.
The fisherman’s family wa9 still supplica
tinac Providence tlw* LilLvck iLt ovor
looked the deep, when the old man started
from his knees, and exclaimed, “ We are
heard! there is a speck upon the distant
waters.”
“ Where, Where 1” was echoed hy the
group, and lie pointed out what he hoped
to be the absent boat. They eagerly strain
ed their eyes, hut could see nothing; in a
few moments, however, all perceived a sail;
still it was impossible to tell the directioniu
which its curse lay.
Then was the agony of suspense; it con
tinued, however, but for a short time ; a boat
was evidently advancing towards the shore;
in a few minutes, they could plainly perceive
a man at the bow, waving his hat above his
head, and soon after the well known bark
of Neptune was borne to them by the breeze.
The family rushed to the extremity of tho
rude pier, and the loud huzza of the fisher
man, was answered by the “ welcome, wel
come,” of his father, and the almost inarti
culate “ thank God,” of liis wife.
And now all was joy and happiness in tho
cottage, where there hndjbeen so much
wretchedness; the fisherman, his boy and
his dog, were safe from the perils of the
great deep ; but he would return no answer
to questions, as to what had detained him
so long beyond the usual period of his re
turn. “ Wait, my wife,” said he, “ until wo
have dressed and refreshed ourselves, and
you shall know all ; but before we do either,
let us bless God for his mercy, for out of
great danger hath he preserved me.”
Never was there a more sincere or more
earnest prayer offered up to the Giver of all
goodness, than ascended from the humble
dwelling. And when the fisherman had
told his tale, how fervently did they all re
peat the words that had given them so much
consolation in the morning.
“ Fearless let him be whose trust is in
God.”
Discovery rs Engraving. —The art of print
engraving, like many other important in
ventions, was the result of accident. A poor
woman having entered into the studio of the
celebrated Florentine goldsmith, Maso Fi
uiguerra, bearing in her hand a packet of
wet linen, incautiously placed it upon a ta
ble on which lay a small silver plate that tho
artist had just finished engraving. In order
to see the effect before it was enamelled ho
had filled the lines with a composition very
nearly approaching our common printing
ink, composed of lamp-black and oil; and
the woman, upon taking up her parcel,
found a very neat impression of the subject
upon the wet napkin in which it was envel
oped. Such is the story told hy Vasari, and
if not exactly true, it has, at least, the merit
of being highly probable.— Dublin Review.
Women are the flowers of society—when
cherished, their beauty and fragrance are
perennial; when neglected, they fade and
wither, lose their sweetness and become ob
jects of disgust. Be careful, then, thou to
whom one of these delicate plants is en
trusted.
Old bachelors do not live so long as other
men. They have nobody to darn their
stockings and mend their clothes. They
catch cold, and there is no one to make them
sage tea : consequently they drop off.