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VOL. 2.
For the Georgia Citizen.
LEON I,
OR THE ORPHAN OF VENICE.
A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTB.
BY T. H. CHIVER3, M. D.
[Continued .]
Dramatis Person®.
MEN.
C'or.NT Alvar. Leosi’s seducer, afterward* married to Theresa.
Do* Car lob, Leo.ni , friend to Leoni, and brother to Elvira.
Alvino, cousin and husband to Leoni.
Dos Pedo, friend to Count Alvar,
Court Rodolfh, father to Theresa and one of the Duke’s
Council.
Duke and his council.
Orrictß and Guard.
WOMEN.
Leoni, Orphan of Venice.
Elvira. her friend.
Theresa, wife to Count Alvar.
ACT II.—SCENE 1.
The same apartment in Don Carlos’ palace.—En
ter Leoni attended by Elvira.
• ELVIRA.
Alas! Leoni! why should sorrow weigh
go heavily upon thy heart ? Come, speak !
LEONI.
If an unbroken trust in human truth,
Prompt the pure soul to its idolatry ;
And if the heart, in its fond, gushing love,
I’our out itself to one no less than self,
And, in its trusting innocence, become
The victim of that villain’s power—should it
He called the harlot of that man ? By Heaven !
And by tbe heart that he has broken —lie
Shall die.’
ELVIRA.
Would not repentance urge thee on
To some forgiveness, if, upon the depths
Os his great sacrilege be poured the balm
Os penitence ?
% LEONI.
No, that can never be !
There is no stream of mercy in my soul!
But now, from out the fountains of my heart,
A tide of indignation rushes up tyS
And, mounting to my bi ain, forever drowns,
‘Beneath the wide oblivion of its roar,
The voice of all persuasion ! He shall die!
ELVIRA.
The bird that soars the highest into Heaven,
If once its wing is broken in its flight,
Is only bruised the greater by its fall!
And like the Angels,’ that were once so pure,
Will mourn the humbleness of its descent,
Just in proportion to its flight above !
LEONI.
1 now remember when Alvino loved
Ale first—tbe first time that we ever met!
That day was very beautiful. No cloud
Was seen in all the vastness of the sky,
PiH Nature seemed so much in love with Heaven,
That she forbade the rustling of the boughs
To make tbe silence of her noontide joy!
ELVIRA.
Oh! still this sorrow of thy gentle heart,
And like the priceless diamond in the mine,
Tossed by the Earthquake into purity,
Suffer the ills of life but now to add
New particles of beauty to thy soul.
LEONI.
Let not tbe tears of pity cease to flow
Upon the wasting sands of this poor life ?
Hut let them fall upon each golden grain.
As softly as an Angel’s sighs upon
The soul of Virtue dying by the hands
Os enemies!
ELVIRA.
Me thinks that, nature heard
The awful sadness of that prayer !
LEONI.
She did ;
And God has registered eaeh word in Heaven !
ELVIRA.
If that be so, why should the God of Heaven
Not punish him for guilt ?
LEONI.
lie will—through me !
[Exeunt severally.
Eater Don Carlos and Alvino, as in conversation.
DON CARLOS.
Before High Heaven, Alvino! it is true!
1 could divulge to thee the foulest news
That ever hung upon the lips of truth ! /
ALVINO.
What news is that ? Come let me hear it now !
DON CARLOS.
Since thy return, thou hast not heard the news
V hich float about, like chaff, upon the wind,
m hichever way it choose to blow ?
ALVINO.
No, Gods!
Wu speak as if some devilish deed had come
To light again ! What is the matter now ?
DON CARLOS.
True—if some devilish deed had not been brought
To light, these hands had not been proffered in
The cause. You know Count Alvar, do you not ?
ALVINO.
He was the guardian of niy youth. In
DON CARLOS.
He traveled in disguise ; and still he was
The guardian of thy youth! Then watch the dog,
And show the villain thou art old enough
To teach him honesty !
ALVINO.
i Thou wouldest impugn
V Him with thy very wrath ! /
| DON CARLOS.
I would, by Heaven !
And cut the rascal’s throat besides! You know
Leoni, do you not?
ALVINO.
Leoni? she
was the playmate-jewel of my heart ?
Ihou hast beheld the straying Hart, with wild,
Lxultant bound, leap from the azure hills,
And, rushing with impatient speed, dash where
The silver Swan lay sleeping on the lake,
And frighten her to Heaven ?
DON CARLOS.
Ay, watched the Fawn,
Bounding a’ong the river-bank at noon,
Lause on the margin of the mossy brink
lo sip the cool, delicious wave that curled
hi dimpled eddyings neur the shore, take fright
At its own picture in the limpid stream,
And dash away with wild, delirious bound,
lo where its mother watched it from the hill,
As if it were too lovely for this worldly’
ALVINO.
uc bd Leoni look upon herself,
And see too bright an object for this worldy
DON CARLQ3.
ut now her cheeks are furrowed down with tears !
alvino.
:t b tears ? Leoni has no tears ?
PON CARLOS.
She has!
- 11 and needs the strength of such an honest arm,
0 crus h the wretch who made them flow !
ALVINO.
Why so ?
DON CARLOS.
She is deceived!
ALVINO.
Deceived ?
DON CARLOS.
The Count ?
ALVINO.
She was the orphan cousin of our house!
By Jove ! he must have used some violent means ?
DON CARLOS.
And if he did—(which thou wilt seek to know—)
Not only tear the wolf-skin from his back—
ALVINO.
But, draiuing every life-drop from his veins,
Winters of death shall blow upon his soul,
And freeze up his existence into ice !
The eagle that haa roosted on the pines
Will shake his pinions on tbe pensive bough,
And rising on the dewy breath of Morn,
Will speed him to the sun’s eye gloriously,
Nor heed the frozen armour that has weighed
A ll night upou his snowy wings!
DON CARLOS.
Then shake
Him from the altitude whereon he roosts,
And let the clamour of his mighty wings
Strike terror to the ear of Night!
ALVINO.
Night! night!
Thou wouldest not have me kill him in the night 7
DON CARLOS.
I would—secure him in the dead of night!
Then balance consequence with insult given!
Pluck out the sting that wounds Leoni’s heart —
Stamping the adder underneath thy feet
alvino. — ( Seriously.
I would not wound the feelings of his slave 5
But if the Chalice of my hopes, so full
Os pure and perfect love, be drained to dregs,
And I am forced to drink the wormwood left —
By Heavens! my run-mad heart will qunch its fire 1
For there are crimes, which, when committed, call
For aid, which, whin bestowed, would be but crime
Itself, wer’t not for this—the shedding bleod,
As sacrifice, for orphan honor stolen !
DON CARLOS.
Then let the vengeance of thy burning heart,
But cheer impatience on to swifter speed,
Till, grasping hold thy dagger by the hilt,
And seeing how its face will shine—thou’lt sheathe
It in the foulest heart that ever beat!
For such an absolution sweeps away
The guilt that dyed the name of innocence!
ALVINO.
Till then, farewell! We may not meet again,
Until Leoni listens to my voice.
DON CARLOS.
Farewell! May all the Gods defend thy steps !
[Exeunt severally.
SCENE 11.
A magnificent apartment in Count Alvar’s Palace.
Enter Count Alvar, and Don Pedro.
COUNT ALVAR.
Then answer me •, who was tbe greatest friend
That ever helped thee in the hour of need ?
DON PEDRO.
I swear, my lord,” Cl?- tAhar is the ma...
COUNT ALVAR.
Do you believe this from your very heart ?
DON PEDRO.
I do, if ever words came from my heart!
COUNT ALVAR.
Knowing that all thy words come from thy heart,
I would divulge to thee the secretest thing
That ever came from out the soul of man,
And have thee keep it sacred as thine own?
don PEDRO.
1 will, my lord.
COUNT ALVAR.
Then listen to me now ;
I have been taunted by the vilest foe
That ever marked the royalty of pride,
And I wonld have thee whisper in his ear f S
The loudest vengeance that the voice of man
Hath ever uttered to the soul! Be firm !
I would not have thee suffer in thy heart
A single sympathy to dwell! llis blood —
DON PEDRO.
His blood , my lord ? whose blood ?
COUNT ALVAR.
Thy face is pale !
Now promise me, before the Gods, whose frown
Is darker than clouds above Olympus,
That Carlos shall not live!
DON PEDRO.
What 1 must he die ?
COUNT ALVAR.
And by thy hand !
DON PEDRO.
What 1 murdered by my hand ?
COUNT ALVAR.
Thy hand !
DON PEDRO.
What for, nty lord ?
COUNT ALVAR.
The foulest blot
That ever stained the dignity of man
Will then bo wiped away IS
DON PEDRO.
Then he must die ?
COUNT ALVAR.
Yes? plunge thy dagger in his cursed heart,
And send him to the river of the dead !
Be thou thyself revenged !
’ DON PEDRO.
Revenged, my lord ?
COUNT ALVAR.
Ay ! who has kept thee from Elvira’s arms ?
DON PEDRO.
Elvira? —Carlos !—damned as he is—
I cannot slay-Elvira’s friend !
COUNT ALVAR.
Her friend ‘
What! cannot take the life of him who robbed
Thee of the sweetest joys on earth? Oh ! fool!
DON PEDRO.
The sweetest spirit ever sent from Heaven ?
But will the death of Carlos make her mine?
COUNT ALVAR.
It will. She would be with thee even to-night,
If it were not for him !
D6X PEDRO.
Then he must die!
COUNT ALVAR.
Swear, then, that thou wilt take his life !
DON CARLOS.
I swear!
COUNT ALVAR.
Remember, that his destiny is— death, !
DON PEDRO.
It shall be dope, my lord. Farewell!
COUNT ALVAR.
Adieu!
[Exit Don Ped*Q-
Now, if he is the soldier that he seems,
And love* Elvira as he says he does ;
And only serves the wishes of his heart,
As he has served the prompter of its ire;
The savage that has prowled along my patl\,
Will find the depths of my revenge so deep,
He will not seek to lavish out his own!
[Exit.
SCENE 111.
The same apartment in Don Carlos’ Palace.—
“ in nil tilings —Ikitral in notljiiig.”
MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, MAY 24, 1851.
Enter Leoni meeting
ALVINO.
Leoni!
leoni.
[Embracing him.
Oh! Alvino!—
ALVINO.
Speak again!
I love to see thee shed such anxious tears !
They speak the language of thy virgin soul—
Shed lofty fervour round expectant joy,
And make the pathway of my purpose bright!
leoni, [ Weeping.
Alvino !
ALVINO.
Speak my Jove! tell me thy grief?
LEONI.
There have been strange vicissitudes to damp
The ardor of my spirit, since we met!
I have no resting place beneath the sun !
ALVINO.
What! cannot he who loved thee in thy youth,
Find recompenee enough for thee ? Say, love ?
LEONI.
Alas ! Alvino! ‘
ALVINO.
Carlos told me all!
I wonld not have yqu name it for the world!
I only want the whispers of revenge !
LEONI.
Revenge ? The sweetest music to my soul
That ever calmed the discord of my heart!
Then you have sworn
ALVINO.
Destruction to his soul!
LEONI.
And thou wilt keep that promise to the last?
ALVINO.
The latest moment of my life, if thou
Wilt only promise to be mine?
LEONI.
Not thine—
Nor to bestow this hand on mortal man,
Until my woes are baptized in his blood,
And this poor life redeemed by loss of his !
ALVINO.
The mighty Gods have registered that oath
Upon the shining Adamant of Heaven! .
LEONI.
And thou wilt dip thy dagger in his blood,
And send him with the legacy to Hell ?
ALVINO.
As sure as yonder sun shall ever set!
LEONI.
Let not reluctance weigh upon thy purpose—
Be buoyant a* the Turtle on the wing!
Take thou this Dove into thy bosom’s Ark,
Who brings the Olive-leaf of peace to thee—
And let her sorrows make thee more than bold !
ALVINO.
But will the crystal mirror of the lake,
Embosomed in the forest-girdled vale,
Be wreathed the less by the tempestuous wind,
Because the rosy-scented breath of morn
Has settled on its pinions ? No, my love!
LEONI.
\nd ’est one breath should blow him back his soul,
And kindle life again—be sure you tramp
The ember into ashes. Be not rash—
The thing should be well done 1 To-night! to-night L
ALVINO.
This night shall be his soul’s eternity!
LEONI.
When it is done—return to me again—
I’ll wash thy bloody hands with tears of joy!
Swear, now, before we part, that he shall die!
ALVINO,
[Kneeling.
Ye silver lamps! which hang, to-night, in Heaven !
Ye Auditors to God! whose beauty lights
The glorious dome that canopies the world!
I call upon ye from the dim abodes
Os everlasting ether, to behold me now!
In reverential awe, upon my knees,
I offer up to you the only vow
That ever shall, as sacrifice, ascend *
From off the altar of my soul to Heaven !
And now, in the allotted duty which
lowe myself, to nature, and the world ;
I do devote the remnant of my days
But to the shedding of that villain’s blood !
[Rising.
And now that his suspicion may not prompt
Him to the coming on of that dread hour^^-*
I must mature the purpose of my plans
Amid the grandeur of the mighty hills,
Whereon the thunders of the roaring winds
Shall make dolorous music to my soul!
[Exeunt omnes.
SCENE IV.
A chamber in Don Carlos’ Palace. — Don Carlos
is lying asleep on his couch.—Enter Don Pedro
with a knife in his hand.
DON PEDRO.
[Approaching him.
Now, then, lie dies. He sleeps 1 Still as the doad !
As if the silence of the grave were all
That reigned around such sweet repose! Now then.
But ho should not be murdered in his sleep!
For then his eyes will not behold whose hand
It is that takes revenge upon him for
Ills dear Elvira’s sake! No, he must rise !
Awake! thou murderer of my happiness,
Arise!
DON CARLOS.
[Waging, and rising.
What! Pedro? Villain that thou arty
Who set thee on to this foul deed ? r
[Wresting the dagger from his hand.
DON PEDRO.
Hold! hold!
And thou shalt hear !
DON CARLOS.
[Grasping him by the throat.
No! thou shalt die ! with all
Thy multitude of sins upon thy head!
If thou hast any prayers to offer up
To God’s offended majesty, ’tis time
The voice of penitence had cried aloud
For mercy !
DON PEDRO.
Carlos! spare my life !
DON CARLOS.
To die
A thousand deaths for every day you live ?
DON PEDRO.
No! you shall hear it all!
DON CARLOS.
Then speak the trull}!
/ON PEDRO.
* f J ‘ ’
DON CARLOS.
Devil that be is! Now die!
[.Rawing the dagger.
DON PEDRO
-01)! Carlos! spare me for Elvira,’* sake J
DON CARLOS,
Elvira ? Villain call that name again,
And thou shalt strangle in thy cgred blood !
DO,N PEDRQ.
Count Alvar
DON CARLOS.
Pcdgo! utter not that name again,
Or, all tho elements
Will, in consuming me, destroy thee too!
What is thy destiny ?
[Letting go his throat.
DON PEDRO.
To do thy wish !
DON CARLOS.
Well, that will bo to drown thee in the sea!
DON PEDRO.
But thou wilt hear the truth? S’
DON CARGOS.
Speak, then, the trutli!
DON PEDRO.
I did not oomo to murder thee in sleep,
But frighten thy compassion for the soul
That loves Elvira.
DON CARLOS.^
J [Contemptuously.
r Murdery for the Count!
DON PEDI.y.
I would convey thy vengence to soul.
DON CARLOS.
That is, that you would kill the Count for me ?
DON PEDRO.
If killing liim would make Elvira mine.
DON CARLOS.
[Raising the dagger.
Then swear before this bright, uplifted steel,
That should descend upon thee in revenge—
That tbou wilt never serve Count Alvar more 1
DON PEDRO
I swear it from my heart, my lord, if you
Will promise that Elvira shall be mine
DON CARLOS.
That choice is with herself.
DON PEDRO.
Then promise mo
That we shall see each other once again ?
DON CARLOS.
It may be so.
DON PEDRO.
Then by yon heavenly light!
Whose beauty is the image of her eyes—
I swear to dedicate my life to thee !
[Exeunt Omnes.
Curtain Falls
End of Act Second.
Little Children.
BY MRS. CHANDLER.
‘For unto men, the clear fresh look
Os a child’s eye, is an illumined book
Os rare divinity,
Wherein good thoughts are writ in such sweet guise,
Thai all for love, we must grow wise
In reading them.’ l. n.
‘ Take hoed that ye despise none of these little ones,
for I say unto you, their angels do always behold the face
of my Father which is in heaven.
Oh ! lovely little children—oh. blpssoms white and fair!
Ye pure and spotless dwelkrr.? f sin and care,
Oli! lilies of rit’ll fragrance \~-f A I’vk and mild!
Tender and holy innocents—UQ. undetilod!
Ye are not of this mortal earth - of your
Oft shadow forth most mournfully, a sorrowful surprise,
As if at length convinced of earth's corruption, ye
would fain
Forsake the evil haunts of men, and turn to Heaven
again.
Oh, spirits fresh from Paradise!—the glory of your
wings,
Upon our way-worn human hearts, a dewy coolness
flings—
All silently ye minister to us—for what are we,
That we should arrogantly think to fashion such as ye?
Ye are not of this mortal earth—th’anointed eye may
trace
God’s holy seal upon the front of each angelic face—
Above your bright and waving locks, I see the golden
crown,
And all about your infant forms the light of Ileav’n
streams down. \
Whether in hut or stately bow’r—whether in cot or
hall,
The houseless wand’rer or the gently bred—l love ye
all!
And since Heav’n hath resumed the pearl which I too
proudly wore,
I feel—oil, blessed little ones! —l feel I love ye more.
1 cannot bear to see ye grieve—your sorrows are my
own,
I see her in each mournful face— she speaks in cv’ry
moan.
Your earnest childish sadness doth an answ’ring chord
awake,
For I love ye—little blessed one!—l love ye for her
sake.
I weep—oh, little children ! —I bow my head and weep,
To think how soon the storms of life shall o’er your
pathway sweep—
How soon your white and glorious wings be trailing on
the earth—
How soou your spirits shall forget their blest immortal
birth!
My heart is faint within me, and my eyes are dim with
tears,
Witching afar the shapes that stalk beside tbe coming
years—
Pride and mad ambition,and Jealousy and Lust
Shall rend the bright crowns from your heads and tread
them in the dust,
When ye shall mourn the hope deceived—tho trusting
heart betrayed—
When ye shall suddenly behold your golden dreaming*
fade!
When ye shall feel your souls grow sick and yoarn fox
the sweet rest
That greeted ye when ye were babes upon your moth
ers’ breast.
Better (but that iny grief doth give denial to my tongue)
Better, oh, little ones! ye should depart while ye arc
young,
Ere yet the blight hath fallen—ere yet tho world’s
fierce strife
Hath quenched forever, in your souls, the high and
Heaven born life.
Oh, mothers of these holy ones!—ye have a trust to
keep
For whose dear safety, night and day, yo well may
watch and weep —
A treasure, which to purchase, ye would deem the
world too small —-
A tfeusure ye would scarcely render up at Heaven's
call,
Watch —wake —see that ye slureher not—lest in the
open dsy, t
Some fiendish hand, shall enter in, aqd steal their souls
away—
Watch—pray, and sleep no* at your post—lest in the
coming night
The lamp which you have left untrimm’d shall waste
away its light
And you, ye hard, unloving hearts!—whom blood nor
nature bind,
Who to the pleading voice ate deaf—the weeping eye*
are blind—
Speak not a harsh word wrongfully, for God’s most
just demand
Shall surely ask a fearful retribution at your hand,
Their wrongs have all been numbered—the Lord of
Heav’n hath said
Ye shall account for ev’ry tear these little ones have
sbed—
Therefore—oh, earthly guardians—be merciful and
spare—
Ye know not ye are ‘entertaining angels unaware.’
From the Sunday (N. Y.) Times.
Female Freemasons.
We were not aware until recently that the
ladies had ever aspired to the honors and dig
nities of freemasonry. We had heard, it is
true, that in virtue of the plausible plea that
matrimony constitutes the contracting parties
one flesh, and equal participation in the secrets
of the order had been occasionally claimed by
the wives of freemasons, and that, while hold
ing “beds of justice,” and laying down tl'p law
iu “curtain lectures,” this claim had beeki en
forced with arguments ala Caudle; but we
had no notion that the fair aex had actually
adopted an organization on the masonic plan.
We copy from Dr. Mackey’s article the fol
lowing sketch of the system of government, Ac.,
of the female lodges:
“The officers of a lodge of adoption consists
of a grand master and grand mistress; an ora
tor, an inspector and an inspectress, a depositor
and a depositrix, a conductor and a conductress.
They wear a blue sash or collar, with a gold
towel suspended thereto. The grand master
uses a mallet, with which he governs the lodge,
and the instrument is placed in the hands ot the
grand mistress, the inspector and inspectress,
and depositor and depositrix. Every member
wears a plain white apron and white gloves.
The brethren in addition to the insignia of
their rank, wear swords, and a gold ladder with
live rounds, which is the proper jewel of adop
tive masonry.
The business of the lodge is conducted by the
sisterhood, the brethren only acting as their as
sistants.
The grand mistress, however, has very little
to say or do, she being only an honorary com
panion to the grand master, which mark ot dis
tinction is conferred on her as a token of respect
for her character and virtues.
The lodge room is elegantly and tastefully
decorated with emblems, which, ot course, vary
in each degree. In the degree of apprentice,
for instance, the room is separated by curtains
into four apartments or divisions representing
the four quarters of the world, Europe, Asia,
Africa and America. The division at the en
trance of the lodge represents Europe, in the
middle on the right is Attica, qii the left Amer
ica, and at the extreme east is Asia, where are
erected two splendid thrones, decorated with
gold fringe, for the grand master and grand
mistress. Before them is placed an altar, and
on both sides, the right and left, are eight stat
utes representing wisdom, prudence, strength,
temperance, honor, charity, justice and trutli.
The members sit on each side in straight lines,
the sisters in front, and the brothers behind
them, the latter having swords in their hands.
There cunnot in fact, be a more beautiful and
attractive sight than a lodge of adoptive masons
properly organized and well attended.”
The lady mason —if we may so call them —
in their masonic banquets have established a
symbolic language to bo used at table, which
is quite delectable. For example the lodge
room is called “Eden;” the doors, “barriers;”
the minutes, “a ladder;” a glass, “a lamp;” wa
ter, “white oil,” wine, “red oil.” Instead of
“Fill your glass,’’ they say, “trim your lamp,”
a phrase which w r e recommend for general use
as much more euphonious than “imbibe,” “take
a horn,” “take a sniffer,” “wood up,” or any
other of the symbolic invitations to transgress
the rules of temperance which are now common
in Christendom.
Let it never more be said that a woman can
not keep a secret, for, as a writer in the Freema
son’s Quarterly Review well observes; “adop
tive masonry stands a bright monument ot fe
male secresy and fidelity, aud proves how wrong
all those are who fancy a woman is not to be
trusted.”
From the Family Visitor.
A Good Prescription.
. A young lady whom fortune litis blessed, and tvho
has at home every luxury which it can procure, has re
cently written to Dr. Jackson of New Jersey, stating
that she is sick, and miserable without an object or a pur
suit in life, and begs to know ‘if she is worth saving —if
there is not a higher life to which he can introduce her.
In his reply he quotes the following apt verse:
“ Go work for your bread be it ever so slowly ;
Go cherish some flower be it ever so lowly !
Labor, for Labor is noble and holy,
And let your great deeds bo your prayer to your
God.”
We venture to say that a better prescription than
this has seldom been written. There is something in
it which stirs the blood like martial music.
O, the wretchedness of ennui ! Did you ever feel
it? I have nothing to do. What shull I do witli
myself?” and with a weary yawn the surfeited one
turns from the interesting volume, or the piano, to
throw herself upon the sofa for a lounge, from which
she will arise ten times more miserable than before. No
one pursuing a course like this, soon becomes
an invalid, and as glimpses of a higher life are let upon
her understanding, should ask eagerly “ ain I worth
saving? What shall I do?”
Look at the Queen of Louis the XI, of h ranee . A
throne would not satisfy her without Industry. She
called around her all tho daughters of the nobility and
instructed them iu elegant embroidery. Tho churches
were hung with proofs of their ingenuity, and her court
was the happiest and most elegant in Europe.
When Lafayette was about to return to Frauce, he
called to make his parting adieu to Mary Washington,
the distinguished mother of a distinguished son, he
found her at work in the garden.
Dr. Franklin said, “I had much rather see a spin
ning wheel than a piano—a shuttle than a parasol a
knitting needle than a visiting card.” These illustrious
examples alone make labor noble, but when we consid
er that It i* e, perfeot panacea far diseased imaginations
as well as diseased bodies, we can readily subscribe to
the word* of the poet, apd pronounce [t pat only “ no
ble” hut “holy,” nd add,
“ Ret yapr great deeds be your prayer to your
God.” o. w. b.
Press vs. Squeeze.— A young man from
the country, going to call on some musical
young ladies the other evening, he was told
that he must ask them to sing, and should they
refuse, he ought to |>ress them. Accordingly, j
he commenced by requesting Miss Mary to fa
vor him with a song. She gently declined, and
said she had a cold, Ac. “ Well then, Miss,”
said our hero, “thuppose I thqueeve you, don’t
you think you might sing?” The girl fainted
immediately.
A Skater Chased by M oires.
A thrilling incident in American country life is viv
edly sketched iu “Evenings at Doualdson’s Manor.”
In tin winter of 1844, the relator sailed forth one eve
ning, to skate on the Kennecbeek in Maine, by moon
light, and having ascended that river nearly two miles,
turned into a littie stream to explore its course.
Fir and hemlock of a century’s growth—he says—
met over head and formed an archway radiant witli
frostwork. AH was dark within ; but I was young and
fearless, and, as I peered into an unbroken forest that
reared itself on the borders of the stream, I laughed with
very joyousness; my wild hurrah rang through the
silent woods, and I stood listening to the echo that rev
erberated again and again, until all was hushed. Sud
denly a sound arose—it seemed to me to come from
beneath the ice; it sounded low and tremulous at first,
until it ended in a low wild yell I was appalled.—
Never before bad such a noise met my ears. I thought
it more than mortal; so fierce, and amidst such an un
broken solitude, it seemed as though from the tread of
some brute animal, and the blood rushed back to my
forehead with abound that made my skin burn, and l
felt relieved that I had to contend with tilings earthly,
and not spiritual—my energies returned, and I looked
around me for some means of escape. As I turned my
head to the shore I could see two dark objects, dashing
through the underbush at a pace nearly double in
speed to my own. By this rapidity, and the short yells
they occassionally gave, I knew at once that these were
the much dreaded grey-wolf.
I had never met with these animals, but, from the
description of them, I had very little pleasure iu making
their acquaintance—their untameable fierceness, and
the untiring strength which seemed a part of their na
ture, rendered them objects of dread to every benighted
traveller.
There was no time for thought; so I bent my head
and dashed madly forward. Nature turned me to
wards home. The light flakes of snow spun from the
iron of my skates, and I was some distance from my
pursuers whence their fierce howl told me I was still
their fugitive. I did not look back; I did not feel afraid
or sorry, or even glad; one thought of home, of the
bright faces awaiting my return, of their tears if they
should never see me again, and then every energy of
body and mind was exerted for escape. I was perfect
ly at home on the ice. Many were the days that I
had spent on my good skate, never thinking that at
one time they would be my only means of safety. Ev
ery half minute aud an alternative yelp from my fero
cious followers told me too certainly that they were on
close pursuit. Nearer and nearer they came ; I heard
their feet pattering on the ice nearer still until I could
sees their breath and hear their snaffling scent. Eve
ry nerve and muscle in my frame was stretched to the
utmost tension.
The trees along the shore seemed to dance in the un
certain light, and my brain turned with my own
breathless speed, yet still they seem to Ilia* forth their
breath with a sound truly horrible, when an involunta
ry motion on my part turned me out of my course. -
The wolves close behind, unable to stop, and as uuabie
to turn on the smooth ice, slipped and fell, still going on
far ahead ; their tongues were lolling out, their white
tusks glaring from their bloody mouths, their dark
shaggy breasts were bleaehed with foam, and, as they
passed me, their eyes glared, and they howled with fu
ry-
The thought flashed on my mind that by this means
I could avoid them, viz—by turning aside whenever
they came too near ; for they, by the formation of their
feet, are unable to run on the ice except iu a straight
line.
At one time by delaying my turning too long, my
sanguinary antagonists came so near Gat they threw
the white foam over my dress, as they sprang to seize
me, and their teeth clashed together, like the spring of
a fox-trap.
Had my skates failed for one instant, had I tripped on
a stick, or caught my foot in a fissure in the ice, the
story 1 ain telling would have never been told.
I thought all the chances over—l knew where they
would take hold of me if I fell; I thought how’ long it
w'ould be belore I died,and, then there would boa search
for the body that would already have its tomb; for OI
how fast man’s inind traces out all the dread colors of
death’s picture only those who have been so near the
grim original can tell.
But I soon came opposite the house, and my hounds
—I knew their deep voices—roused by tho noise, bayed
furiously from the kennels. I heard their chains rattle;
how I wished they would break them! and then I
should have protectors that would be peers to tho fier
cest deuizens of the forest. The wolves, taking the hint
conveyed by the dogs, stopped in their mad career,
and after n moment’s consideration, turned and fled, I
watched them until their dusky forms disappeared ov
er a neighboring hill. Then, taking off my skates,
wended my way to the house, with feelings which
may be better imagined than described. But even yet
I never *ee a broad sheet of ice in the moonshine with
out thinking of that snuffling breath, and those fearful
things that followed me so closely down the Kennebeck.
The three Rival Cities.
That there is a ludicrous tone of annoyance,
and a lordly disdain of each other in the literary
cliques of three great northern cities has long
been evident to the outsiders. The Mutual Ad
miration Society of Boston —an odd mix of
clergymen who meddle least of all with divine
things, rampant old maids and sweet singing
poets —hold the tar, tallow, calico and Wall
street aristocracy, whom Willis has scented with
essences and baptized into “Japonicadom, kid
gloves and French patents,” in great contempt
The huge pumpkin regards its brother vegeta
ble, the “Dutch cabbage,” with eye askant and
rolls over to the other side. Meanwhile the
“Philosophical Society” clique of Philadelphia
now and then dip their fingers into Uncle
Sam’s mint, and dilate largely on the days when
the right angled city was not altogether pro-’
vinciai. Curious it is indeed to behold a “Wis
tar party” at this latter home of all the talents,
grave professions, erudite editors (sometimes,)
potential office-holders, and sucking poets, gath
er over the groaning table of oysters, tarrapin
and chicken salad, and settle the fate of doctors,
medical schools, magazines and humble aspi
rants to “the club;” which laborious duty done,
the lucky recipients of the “feed of the lions,’’
may at times, low down in tbe small hours, be
seen following irregular curves right an
gled corners, and have been go off at
a tangent over tbe curb stone !
A Gem.— The following beautiful specimen of
eloquence is by an Indian woman, over the con
tiguous graves of her husband and infant:
“The Father of life and of light has taken
from me the apple of my eye and the core of
my heart, and laid them in these two graves. I
! will water the one w ith my tears, and the other
with the milk of my breast, till I meet then
again in that country where the sun never.
sess.”
Taking tbe (ensns.
An Elderly Lady Cauoht. —Tlie taking of th.r
last census has given us a score of eapital stories, hut
until yesterday we do not recollect ha> ing stumbled upo:i
the following. We pick it up as an estray, going th
rounds without credit:
Last fall a census taker, on a tour of duty, stopper
at an elegant brick dwelling house on Western Row---
the exact location of which is no business of ours, lie
wits received at tlie door by a stiff, well dressed elderly
lady, who could be recognized as a widow of some
years standing. On learning the mission of her visitor,
the lady invited him to a seat in the hall: Having ar
ranged himself into a working position, he inquired foi
the number of persons in the family of the lady.
“Eight sir,” replied the lady “including myself ”
“Very well—your age madam 7”
‘My age, sir,’ site replied, witli a piercing, dignified
.00k; ‘I conceive it's none of your business, what ic.
age might bo---you are inquisitive, sir.’
‘The law compels mo madam, to take the age of ev
cry person in the ward ; it is my duty to make the in
quiry.’
■Well, if the law compels you to ask, I presume it
will compel me to answer. lam between thirty and
forty. ’
‘I presume that means thirty-five 7’
‘No, sir, it means no such thing : I am only thirty
three years of age 7’
‘Very well, madam,’ putting down the figures “ ju*t
as you say. Now for the ages of the children, eon.
mencing with tho youngest one, if you please.’
■Josephine, my youngest, is ten years of age.’
‘Josephine— pretty name—ten.*
‘Minerva was twelve last week.’
‘Minerva; captivating; twelve.’
‘Cleopatra Elvira has just turned fifteen.’
‘Cleopatra Elvira; charming; fifteen.’
‘Angelina is eighteen, sir; just eighteen . r
‘Angelina; favorite name; eighteen.’
‘My eldest and only married daughter, sir, Anna.
Sophia, is a little over twenty-five.’
‘Twenty-five did you say madam V
cs > *' r - I s there anything remarkable in her be
ing of that age.’
‘Well, no I can't say that there is; but is it not re
markable that you should be her mother when you
were only eight years of age 7’
About that time the census taker, was observed sail
ing out of the house, closely pursued by a broomstick
It was the last time he pressed a ladv to give her age.
Kissing Done by Rule.—Some young la
dv, whom practice has doubtless made perfect,
hits down u rule tor kissing. We (give herov>’ti
words:
“ikere is as much difference in kisses .is in in
dividuals, and I am sure that I should not like
to be kissed by every one. Now kissing can be
reduced to rules, one of which I will give. Tho
head should always be turned slightly to the
1 -ht, as such a motion gives graoe, and pre
\ents the concussion of the olfactory organs.
Ihe lips should then be pressed closely and
sweetly together, as you sip the nectar of the
long kiss, but no smack should be heard. I
speak particularly ou this subject, because 1 eon
sider kissing part of our nature, and because
few people appear to understand the value of a
kiss, and the manner in which such salutation
with the lips should be rendered.”
Voung men should post the above in the
crown ol their hats, so that when they visit thei*
Anna Marias, they may go through the mo
tion by the improved rule.
Goon Joke ox a. Widower.—A correspon
dent at Holly Springs, Mississippi, tells the fol
lowing and vouches for its truth. It is the best
joke we have heard of lately. It appears that a
widower, in that town, of somewhat gallant dis
position, had been accustomed to visit the widow
M—to see the amiable widow or tier lively
daughters our informant did not know which.
One evening he found the family hard at work
upon some garments of cloth. The girls were
sewing and the widow was pressing the seams.
The widower hung up his hat as usual, and took
his seat by the lire; just at that moment it hap
pened that the widow had done with the press
iug iron, (vulgo or tailor's goose,) the set it
down on the hearth, and called to her negro
man in a loud voice—“ Jake! Jake! come and
take out this goose!”
lhe widower started up in astonishment not
knowing what to make of this abrupt order.
“Jake do you hear?’ again exclaimed th*
widow.
“I beg your pardon Mrs. M. n said the
widower with visible agitation, “but prav don t
call Jake—if you wish me to leave your house
I will go at once without interference of ser
vants.
The ladies roared with laughter, and took
some moments to explain to the chagrined] wid
ower his mistake. He has not been known to
visit the widow M. since that memorable night.
%
Fautaff. —Mr. Giles, at the close of life
lecture upou Falstaff, eloquently “points a mor
al” by the following picture of the last days of
the fat, funny, and sack-loving old knight.
“What a mournful condition of humanity is
presented to us in the debasement of talent to
the appetites? Behold it in the picture set before
us in halstaff. Look at that grey-headed, grey
bearded old man, lolling, bloated on the dregs
of life; the desires insatiate as strength de
clines; the senses gross, while a brilliant imagi
nation Hows in radiance over them, as the. sun
upon a morass ; abilities which might hare ex
alted empires, devoted to the cooking of a ca
pon, or the merits of a sack posset; eloquence
and wit lavished upon blackguards; law, hon
or, courage, chastity, made a jest. Laugh, it is
true, you must; but when you have laughed,
turn back and think ; and after thinking, you
will admit that tragedy itself has not any tiling
more sad.”
Jcst Hear Ilm.—Fowler, the celebrated phrenoio
gist of New York, makes the following sweeping asser
tion r
oung man, middle aged man, it matters not whai
may be your acre, your ise, your streugth, your riche.:
your anything else whatever, you. are qo man un*=
you have been in love.’
‘Boys, da you hear that?’
03r“ Pa, nobody shan’t put oorsett on rm>
shall they?”
“No, my son, they shan’t; but what put tba|
in your head?”
“Why, Mr. Green says as how if I kill any
more of his chickens, he’d give me the darud ■
est keen’thaf over was.”
NO. 8-