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“THE PO£r3 £ORMRr
Hymn of the Alamo.
Air —“Marseilles Hymn.”
Rise, man tbe wall, our clarion’s blast
Now sounds its final reveille!
This dawning morn must be the last
Our fated band shall ever see.
To life, but not to hope, farewell!
Your trumpet’s clang and cannon’s peal,
And storming shout, and clash of steel
Is ours, but not our country’s knell !
Welcome the Spartan’s death
’Tis no despairing strife —
We fall—we die—but our expiring breath,
Is freedom’s breath of life.
Here on the new Thermopylae,
Our munutnent shall tower on high,
And “ Alamo” hereafter be
In bloodier fields the battle cry.
Thus Travis from the rampart cried,
And when his warriors saw the foe,
Like whelming billows move below,
At once each gallant heart replitd,
Welcome the Spartan’s death
’Tis no despairing strife —
We fall—we die—but our expiring breath
Is freedom’s breath of life.
Theyeo-ne—like Autumn's leaves they fall —
Yet hordes on hordes, they onward rush—
With gbry tramp they mount the wall
Till numbers the defenders crush !
The last was fell’d the fight to gain ;
Well may the ruffians quake to tell
How Travis and his hundreds fell
Amid a thousand foe men slain.
They died the Spartan's death,
Hut not in hopeless strife—
Like brothers died, and their expiring breatii
W as freedom’s breath of life.
I Wait for Thee.
The hearth is i* l 'opt —the fire is bright,
The kettle sings for tea ;
The cloth is spread—the lamps are light,
The hot cakes smoke in napkins white,
Aid now I wait for thee.
Come home, kwe, **,*, tii;y task is 4.&e -,
The clock ticks listeningly,
The blinds are shut—the curtain down,
The warm chair to the fireside drawn,
The boy is on my knee.
Come home, love, home, his deep, fond eye
Looks round him wistfully,
And when the whispering winds go by,
As if thv welcome step was nigh,
| He crows exultingly.
In vain—he finds the welcome vain,
And turns his glance on mine,
r '° earnestly, that yet again
His f o rm unto my heart I strain,
That glance is so like thine.
fh\ task is done, we miss thee here,
11 here er thy footsteps roam,
No heart will spread such kindly cheer,
No beating heart, no listening ear,
( w ’dl wait thee home.
Ah, along the crisp walks last
That well-known step doth come ;
holt i drawn—the gate is past,
I,e ha! * is w 'dd with joy at last,
A thousand welcomes home.
t'Ontle Words—Loving Smiles.
‘ 1 SUn ma )’ warm the grass to life,
The Jew the drooping flower,
” 1 } grow bright and watch the light,
1 n Autumn s opening hour—
>Ul “ , ' r 'k that breathe of tenderness,
A p.d smih.g we know are true,
‘armor than the summer time,
And brighter than the dew.
ls " ot ’ttuch the world can give,
A ith all its subtle art,
k'old and gems are not the things
g the heart;
U ‘ oh > if those who cluster round
I he altar and the hearth,
J 'u gentle worc is and loving smiles ;
How beautiful is earth !
“ Keep to the Ri&ht”
“ ei P to *he right,” as the law directs 5
u j.° r suc h * 8 the rule of the road ;
ee P to the right,’’ whoever expects
Purely to carry Gfe’ B l oa d.
to the right,” with God and his Word,
„ ‘ Jr “Wider, though folly alluree ;
‘-'P to the right,’’ nor ever be hurled
r, ->ra what by the statute is yours.
Hoop to the right,’’ within and without,
ii r- IGI B * ran g®r and kindred and friend :
ee P 1° the right,’’ and harbor no doubt
all will be well in the end.
’ p to the right,” whatever you de,
i, ljr c ' airn but your own on the way ;
ee P to l he right,” and hold to the true
t r°4 niofp till the close of the day.
From Arthur's Home Gazette.
FARMERS’ SOYS.
[The following excellent story is from the
New England Farmer.]
When a young man leaves his home in tbe
country for a less desirable one in the city or
elsewhere, the inference, as a general thing, is
either that he is ‘spoiled’ by indulgence on the
part ot the parents, or by certain influences
which may have fallen upon him, led to despise
labor on a farm, and induced to seek a less la
borious and more easy mode of life. That
these are not the only causes which induce bovs
to leave a good home and farm, the following
sketch may perhaps show.
‘I am really very glad to see you, Mrs. Gove,
this atiernooa. Do you know that it is nearly a
whole year since I’ve had this pleasure, and you
j my nearest neighbor?’
‘I did not think it was so long, but —but I
have a great deal of care.’
*Yes, you certainly must have. Let us take
our work and sit on the piazza; it is much cooler
there, and secluded from the sun.’
‘Can we see our meadow from there, Mrs.
Norton ?’
‘Let me see—O, yes, very well.’
‘Mr. Gove, with the men and Billy, have gone
down to the lower field fencing, and he wished
me to have an eye on the meadow’, as that fence
is all down and our cattle are in the road. I
see you have finished planting, Mrs. Norton.
You have every thing done in season, and yet
j you never seein hurried, or fretted. Y'ou must
i take comfort.’
‘W hv, as to that, we feel that there is nothing
worth doing but is woith doing well; and feel
ing thus, we own but little land, a small farm
compared with yours, and we find no difficulty
in having our work done at the right time.’
‘Yes, and I can hardly realize, Mrs. Norton,
that this is the same place where I played, when
a child, His so changed, and so beautifully chang
ed ; these handsome trees —why in this very
spot twenty years ago a sand bank ’twas, in
w hich nothing grew but dock and tansey. I used
to get the double tansey for grandmother to co
lor her cheese with. I am not surprised that j
my Billy should say, as he did to-day, that he !
was never so happy as w hen he was under the j
a-h tree down by the spring. Really, Mrs. Nor
ton, that is the only one near our house, and j
that is fast going to decay. Y’ou have vines,
trees and shrubs,and beautiful flowers; why, it
seems to me these things must tend to make |
home pleasant.’
‘You are right, Mrs. Gove; we feel that by
cultivating a taste for the beautiful in nature,
we improve the character and soften the heart.’
‘I know you are right, and not for my sake,
but on Billy’s account, I wish I could make Mr.
Gove think as we do. But perhaps Ido wrong
to speak in this way, for Mr. Gove lias more care
now than any one man ought to have, and 1
know that he has no time for anything but bare- i
j ly to take care of what he has, without making i
any improvements. But lam in hopes when ’
William grows up, that he will get time to set
trees and make our home pleasant, for a more
ardent lover of nature I surely never saw.’
‘Mrs. Gove, of course vour husband knows
his own business, but I've often thought that it
would be for your interest all round, if your
husband had less land to care for. I mean, if
he would sell some, it certainly would lesson his
care as well as your own.
‘Perhaps so, but really Mr. Gove doesn’t think
it looks just right for a man to part with pro
perty which has been handed down from father
to son, until it is now in the fouith generation.
’Tis true I have a good deal of care, and must
work hard, but I have no reason to complain,
though ’twouid be very nice, what little time I
have to sew, to sit in such a cool, delightful place
as this. Perhaps I’m all wrong, and think too
much of these things,’
Mrs. Gove was returning from the visit to her
neighbor, which they had mutually enjoyed,
when a pat on the shoulder caused her to ex
claim, ‘Are you tired, Billy ?’ as she gazed at
that pale face, and sought to read the language
of those dark and handsome eyes. ‘Are you
tired, my dear?’
‘Y es, mother, 0.1 am very tired; fur don’t
you think after I had helped father a* long as he
I had anything fur ie to do, I went into that
pretty grove where sis and I played the week
before she died, and there, right by a little mos
sy bank, was a little larch tree; and, mother, I
wanted very much to dig it upand bring it home,
and set it out by your bed-room window. I
am sure, mother, it would look beautifully there,
and then 1 never should see it w ithout thinking
of little Alice.’
‘Did your father bike it up for you!’ said
Mrs. Gove, as she strove to force back the tears
that would come.
‘No, mother, I took the spade and tried; I
dug all around it, but I couldn’t start it a bit,
when I tried to pull it up, and then I asked father
if he would let Mike take it up for me. You
know, mother, that Mike is a good hand, for he
helped take up and set out all Mr. Norton’s
trees.’
‘And what did your father say, my dear ?’
‘lie said, ‘don’t be so foolish, child—we’ve no
time to fool away,’ or something of that kind.
I wish l had strength to pull it up, but I don t
know as father would let me setitout. Do you
think it is foolish, mother?’
‘Mv dear child, your father has a great deal
of care and anxiety, and you heard him say
this morning, when the man called to tell him
his fence all lay flat, and everybody’s cattle were
in, that his work was driving him continually ;
so perhaps father thought ’twouid be wrong
to spend the time that is now so precious to
us, in doing w hat we could get along without
doing.’
‘Well, mother, does father take much com
fort? He is always behindhand, and he never
finishes all the jobs he begins. Why, don’t
you know last summer we had so much lo do
that we did not get time to hoe that piece of
corn between the woods, and I heard father say
myself, that he did not begin to pay for the
plowing. And, mother, you know I heard it
talked over at the store, how father had to pay
for that strip of land he bought ot Mr. Chase,
twice, because he did not get time to make the
deed, and Mr. Chase died before ’twas done.
When I hear people say to father, ‘you arc the
richest man in town,’ or, ‘you own the most land,’
why, I think, well, I don’t see as father is any
happier than the neighbors, that liavn’t half as
much. YVhy, I heard father say to-day that he
was harassed to death.’
Tbe night after the above conversation, as Bil
ly was quietly sleeping, and Mr. Gove sat with
his arms folded, and his eyes resting on the
wall, Mrs. Gove asked her husband, in rather a
timid tone, if he had noticed bow fully Mr. Nor
ton’s fruit trees had blown.
‘Well, I believe I saw them, or heard some
one speak of it. But lam tired.’
Wes, I think you must be, you’ve worked hard
all day.’
MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 16, 1852.
T have worked like a dog, and what does it
amount to ?’
‘Do you think,’ said his wife, ‘considering we
have to work so hard and hire so much help
that it is for your interest to keep all the land?’
‘Think—l don’t think anything about it. I’ve
got it, and I must take care of it. I should look
“ell spending what lias so long been in tbe
family. As long as property is in land it is safe;
but change it into money, or any thing else,
and ten to one ’tis soon gone, nobodv knows
where.
‘l’erhaps you are right; but it seems to me
| y° could take much better care of less, make
it more profitable, and at the same time relieve
yourself of this care and anxiety, which I fear
is wearing upon you. And then you know
: \Y illiam is slender. I don’t think he’ll ever be
able to work as hard as you have done.’
‘He never will, if he is brought up to think
j is too good to work. He has notions in his
! head now, that I fancy will do him no good.
! You have been over to Norton’s this afternoon.
! I suppose his wife advised you what was best
; for us to do. Why, Betsey, can’t you see thro’
it all ? They have been and sold half of their
j farm, and laid out the money in trees, and I
don’t know what all, —sent the boys to school
instead of teaching them to work, and she wants
us to do the same. Ila ! ha! misery likes com
pany. The long and short of it is, Betsey, Mrs.
Norton wanted to get rid of work. I wish they
had sold the whole concern and cleared out, for
I see plainly you nor William can go over there
j but it bewitches you. No you will never see
me covering my land, or surrounding my house
with bouyhten trees. If I had time I should
like well enough to set out a maple or some
thing near tbe house. I should like one or two ,
fur the horses to stand under, but I havn’t the
time, neither do I think it best to encourage
any such notions in the boy. Y r ou know how
it is—‘if you give an inch they’ll take an ell.’
He begged hard for us to dig up a larch this
afternoon, but indulgence will spoil any child.
It I had done that for him, why he would only
have wanted more, and if he got too many such
notions, why he is headstrong, and the first we
j should know he would be off like others we
i know of. No, the only way to get along with
children is to be strict; no arguing with them,
and no giving way to their foolish wants.’
‘Do you think it was indulgence that made
I George White go to New Y'ork ? I don't know
I but what it might be, his mother was dreadful
careful of him.’
‘I should like to know what ’tis makes boys
leave their father’s homes and farms, and go
off to the city, and barely get their board, if it
isn’t letting them have their will and wav.’
‘I have no doubt that over-indulgence begets
self-will, and overcomes a child’s sense of duty,
so that restraint is thrown ofl’, and parental ob
ligation disregarded; but, husband, I do be
lieve one thing, and that is, if we wish Willy to
love his home, we must make it happy ; if we
wish his warmest affection to cluster around
this place,we must make it attractive. Y'ou think
the Norton boys are indulged too much, but I
this indulgence is nothing more than a desire
on the parents’ part, judiciously carried out, to
make them useful and happy. And I believe
they take the right course. No children love
their home better than they do. Mrs. N. tells
me that it is with the greatest reluctance that
they leave home in the vacation, to visit their
cousins in the city.’
‘Well, well, don’t say any more, for I have as
much as l can do to get through the day’s work,
and I for one want to sleep in the night! Mrs.
Norton is welcome to her notions, and I will
have mine!’
While Mrs. G. is wrapped in the ‘sweet sleep
of the laboring man,’ and Mrs. G. is revolving
in her own mind the many different plans which
suggest themselves to a mother's ever watchful
heart, for the good of her boy, let us take a
peepat the character of both parents and child.
Had a stranger inquired of almost any one
in N., ‘what sort of a man is Mr. Gove ?’ the an
swer would probably be to this effect: ‘Fine
man, sir, upright, honest and firm ; trijies don't
move him.’ Granted —but let us see if there
can be, with these good qualities, nothing want
ing.
Mr. G. was stern ; in his view, the ‘smoothing
over’ of an atfair was never advisable. Billy,
as a child, had much to contend with in the
way of passion, pride, and self-will; like almost
all children, occasional acts of thoughtlessness
and hasty impulse led him into error and its
painful consequences. Had his father been
ca’ eful to‘do justice to his better qualities, while
at the same time he blamed and convinced him
of his faults,’ all might have been well ; but. Mr.
G. never met his errors in ‘love and conquered
them by forgiveness.’ Unjust harshness ac
tually confirmed him in error. Mr. G. was spo
ken of as a generous man, but to use the beau
tiful language of one departed. ‘There are
those who are lavish in attention and presents
to friends, but who never imagine that their own
home circle has the first and strongest claim to
kindness, whether of word or deed. Affections
and thoughts lavished on comparative strangers
never radiate on home; but when given to borne
first, tbev shed light and kindness far and near.’
Mr. G. never won the heart of his child. How
was it with the mother? She possessed the
rare combination of ‘gentleness with firmness,
submissiveness with dignity.’ Her anxious de
sire was to do justice to his better feelings, and
while she wished to educate his mind, she was
more anxious that his heart should be won and
taught.
But little change, outwardly, was visible in
the Gove family when W illiam had reached his
eighteenth year. The homestead remained the
same— save some marks which ‘Time’s effa
cing fingers’ had not failed to make. The ‘ash
tree,’ by the spring, was gone, and the maple
‘for the horse to stand under,’ had never been
‘set out.’
One fine morning in May, William asked his
father if he might have the sorrel horse to go
to the village adjoining. Permission was given
on condition that he would return before din
ner. Dinner came, and with it came William.
‘What has our William been doing!’ ex
claimed Mr. Gove, as he gave a hasty glance at
the window. ‘Cuttting a wagon load of withes.
‘I don’t know, but i can’t see very well with
out my glasses.’
’Twas easy to see, however, that that hasty
glance had ruffled the smooth current of his
thoughts, for he at once knew that withes needed
no roots. William took out the horse, wheeled
the wagon into the shed, and entering the long
kitchen, seated himself at the table. Ihe mo
ther with her quick perception, failed not to
understand why that shadow rested upon the
father’s brow. Hardly a word was spoken—
Mr. G-, upon leaving the table, took up a news
paper, a thing which he rarely had tune o o,
it was evident to Billy, however, that le was no
reading very intently, for the paper was upsu e
down. When William left the house, he went
directly for the spade and hoe, and walking de
liberately down the hillside, south of the house,
commenced making holes twelve feet apart,
where he had helped his father plow the day
before. He had thus been engaged half an
hour, when, rising to wipe the heavy drops of
moisture from his forehead, he saw his father
looking earnestly at him.
‘What are you doing, William V
‘I am fixing places to set out trees!’
‘What kind of trees ?’
‘Peach aud pear trees, sir.’
‘M’here did you get them !’
‘I bought them at a tree auction to-day.’
‘Y'ou did! Well, you can’t set them, here,
sir.’
‘I can’t—what’s the reason ?’
‘There are reasons enough, though I’m under
no obligations to tell children ; yet I won't be
particular this time. In the first place, I wish
you to understand once for all, that you take
one step too far when you buy trees without
leave or license, and more than that, proceed
deliberately to put them on my best corn land.
; And now you can do what you please with the
trees. Y'ou have taken far too much liberty.—
You shall never set them on my land.’
A\ ithout one word, William shouldered his
spade and walked to the house. His mother,
who stood at the corner-window, although she
had heard no word spoken, understood the
whole affair perfectly. She saw William shoul
der the spade, and then her heart beat heavily,
but quickly raising the corner of her apron, she
wiped away the tears which were fast falling,
and met her son with a smile.
‘ lUell, mother, I’ve done,’ said he, as he sunk
down on the old kitchen chair, ‘l’ve done trying
to be anything here. He won't let roe be any
body !’
‘My child, don’t speak so disrespectfully of
your father. He, Billy, that sounds dreadfully;
never say that again, my son.’
‘I can’t help it, mother, I shan’t stay here.—
Y r ou know what I told you, last week, mother,
and to-day I have had something come across
my feelings, harder to bear than all. When I
was coming from the village, I met a man with
a double wagon, and a beautiful larch tree in
it. I was hoping to buy it, so 1 asked him where
he got it. ‘Squire Gove gave it to me,’ he re
plied. O, mother, wasn't that too much ? I
asked him who took it up, and he said his Irish
man, that he called Mike. I could have torn
that tree in splinters, mother. I rode round by
the grove, and sure enough ’twas gone, and th
mossy seat all trampled and torn. Do you think
after that I would ask him to let me set out the
trees ? No, mother, if father can do without
me, I can do without him. I shall go away as
soon as yeu can get my things ready. Os course,
the folks will say—‘What an ungrateful boy to
leave his father alone;’ but why can’t father try
to please me as well as others—as well as stran
gers? There are the Norton boys—if father
had done one-quarter for me that their father
has done for them, I should be very, very hap
, py. 0, mother, don't feel so bad, you must not
: blame me. I know you are a,real Christian,
mother, but I aint like you —you overlook, and
forgive everything. I am some like father; I
wish 1 was just like you.’
William expected his mother would entreat
him to stay at home, but no, not one woid did
she say in favor of it. She knew these were lit
tle things to cause the boy to leave the home of
his youth for a home among strangers, but she
knew also that the joys and griefs at home are
almost all made up of little, very little things.
We will hasten over the particulars of Wil
liam’s leaving home, and only say that his fa
ther’s parting words were, ‘I can do without
you as long as you can without me, William.’
In four weeks from this leave-taking, William
was a sort of waiter on board a Mississippi
steamboat.
Mr. Gove hired an extra hand ; many people
shook their heads meaningly, and said it was a
pity, a great pity, but nothing new or strange,
for an only child to be spoiled by indulgence ;
but then, he was a pretty, bright boy, and they
supposed it came hard to punish him; but
‘Spare the rod and spoil the child,’ was Scrip
ture.
The summer was passed, the golden-grain
was garnered, and the rich fruits secured when
Mr. Gove, who had grown somewhat moody of
late, called Mike to the back door, and giving
him some directions, took his hat, and passing
out the other door, joined him.
‘Let me see, you have the spade and hoe.—
Well, now, come down with me to the side of
the hill where the early corn was planted, and
do you remember where the holes were, that
William made last spring?’
‘And sure ’tis not me that’s afthur forgatting
sich things, for didn’t I put a flat stone by every
hite of ’em ; and didn’t I in hoeing and harvest
keep them from being shoved a bit? For do
you mind, sir, I set a dale by the boy, he
wouldn’t hurt a baste, sir, and his heart is as big
as a whale.’
‘Well, well, that’s enough, Mike. Now, you
bring all the trees you buried in the swamp, and
set them out just as you did Norton’s, and do
you know which were the trees designed for the
holes William had opened?’
‘And faith I mind it well, for didn’t I tie a
string round ‘urn, and lay ’um jes so?’
‘Well, set them right, and wheD you have
done them, call me from the house.’
Mr. G. took the arm chair, and moving it to
the bed-room window, seemed lost Ln thought.
Surely, he must be sick, for he never was known
to sit down of a week-day except at meal times.
Two hours passed, and Mike was passing the
window, when he was thus accosted by Mr. G.:
‘Have you done, Mike ?’
‘Sure, sir, a plasant job to me, I was lazy to
quat it.’
‘Now take your spade, and prepare a place by
this window, where you see I’ve placed the stick,
for a larger tree. Now, if vou have it right, go
over to Capt. Burns’, and ask him if he will sell
me that larch tree in the west corner of his birch
lot. Tell him the price is no object, and be care
ful you don’t break any of the small roots, be
very careful, Mike.’
‘No fear o’ that, sir.’
‘Stop, that is not all. When you come home,
call at Smith's and tell him I have concluded to
let him have the land, and tell him to come
over, this afternoon, and Squire Norton will be
here to fix tbe writings. Tell all who inquire
for me that I am sick.’
Before night, one-third of Mr. Gove’s land
was in Mr. Smith’s possession, and the deeds on
record. The larch seemed quite at home by the
bed-room window.
And, now’, what strange spell was this upon
Mr. Gove.
‘O, there are moments in our life
When but a thought, a word, a look has power,
To wrest the cup of happiness aside,
And stamp us wretched !’
The evening before Mr. G. chanced to take up
a school book”of TUilliam’s, and on a blank leaf
were written, in a neat school boy hand, these
simple lines:
‘ ’Tis the last blooming summer these eyes shall behold;
Long, long ere another, this heart shall be cold ;
For O, its warm feelings on earth have been chilled,
And I grieve not that shortly its pulse will be stilled.’
Mr. G. dropped the book, and wandered, he
hardly knew whither, till he found himself in
the swamp where William’s trees were buried.
What followed, the reader already knows.
Mrs. G. had finished her day’s work, and was
seating herself in the little rocking chair, when
Mr. G. called to her from the bed room.
‘Betsey, will you sit in here ? I want you to
write a letter to William, to-night.’
‘To-night! Why it is after nine o'clock!’
‘I know it, but I shall feel better if it is done
to-night. I feel sick all over, and perhaps lam
nervous.’
‘I will write what you wish me to, my dear
husband.’
‘O, don’t say so—but tell Billy I wish him to
come home without delay ; tell him for the love
he bears his mother, and for the love I bear him.
to come now. Say that my hand trembles so,
I can’t write this, but I say it from my inmost
heart.’
Mrs. G., with an overflowing heart, quickly
performed the delightful task.
‘And, now, Betsey, I will try to ask God to
watch over that boy, and to soften my own
proud heart.’
‘O ! when the heart is full—when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a very mockery—how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer.
June, beautiful June, the ‘month of roses,
found Mr. G. in that ‘old arm chair,’ by the bed
room window, but O, how changed !
‘llis hair was thin, and on his brow
A record of the cares of many a year,
Cares that were ended and forgotten now.’
It was the last day of his earthly existence.
The gentle breeze, as it swept through the light
foliage of that beautiful larch, caused him to
open those eyes so soon to be closed for ever—
and as they met, for the last time on earth,
those of his own Billy, upon whose arm his
head rested, he whispered, ‘I die happy now,’
and the scene of life had closed.
Story of a Doctor’s Lamp.
Bentley’s Miscellany has a queer story about a
cook and a doctor, the following being the substance:
It appears that the cook’s shop was next door to
the doctor's shop. As the doctor got up in the world,
he resolved to put one of those variegated colored
globes in a glass case over his door, in order that his
shop might be discovered for several blocks up the
street. On unfortunate day this globe was put in its
position. It was a beautiful addition to the store, and
attracted a good deal of attention from the throng who
passed in the street in the evening. Indeed, it was
astonishing that such a number of persons should be
constantly gazing at the variegated colors of the doc
tor’s globe. The eating-house keeper was delighted,
nay, he even grew amiable, when he observed that the
viewers of the colored globe naturally went and peep
ed into the cook-shop ; for he knew it would bring him
customers, and for once ho felt himself appreciated.—
But yet, to his surprise, whenever the spectators’ eyes
lighted upon any of the food temptingly displayed to
the public in his window, a look of distaste followed.
It was very strange ; it was not once, but a dozen
times he noticed that even strangers, ignorant of his
fame as a cook, after taking a look at his meats, passed
on with upturned noses ; and even his old customers
shook their heads aud went their w'ays, while the few
who entered seemed displeased when served, and came
not again. What could it be ? A light broke upon
the suspecting cook :it was—the lamp! The glare
from the red bull’s-eye, falling upon the meat, made
all look raw. The cook was in despair. His cus
tomers generally were not fond of underdone meat; and
the public appeared of. the same taste; while those
who delighted in raw meats found out the deception
upon purchase, and bought no more. What was to
be done ? The doctor was his sworn enemy; and if
lie let on how matters stood, the red light would be
surely kept there unless a handsome bonus was paid for
its removal. The cook hit upon a plan. lie got a
green shade made for his eyes, and accosting the doc
tor, very good naturedly said :
“ Well, neighbor, that red light of yours is playing
the deuce with my eyes. Now, I suppose any other
color would suit you quite as well, and I called to say
that if you are willing to change it, 1 will willingly pay
the cost, and thank you into the bargain. Neighbors
should be friendly and obliging to one another, you
know.’’
“ Oh ! ha ! hum ! yes,” said the doctor; “ playing
from balk, I see; but I rather like the lamp—ex
tremely partial to the lamp—owe my present success
to the lamp—gave thirty shillings for the lamp—and
so, you see, I won’t sell the lamp nor exchange it. —
The cook was not exactly prepared to pay thirty pounds
for the lamp, and finding himself in the doctor’s hands,
thought best to enter a compromise, viz : that upon re
ceipt of five pounds sterling, he should turn the lamp
so that the objectionable red light might not enter into
the cook’s shop window. After paying his money,
the cook left the doctor’s shop in no very amiable
mood. The lamp was changed so that the globe threw
its sanguinary hues in another direction. Owing, how
ever, to some peculiarity of the globe, a gloomy blue
now overshadowed the window of the despairing cook.
This made matters still worse. People did not stop to
look into the cook-shop window now , but fled precipi
tately over the way, horror and fear upon their coun
tenances ; while one, whose curiosity had deepened
into amazement ending in a shudder, shook his fist at
the poor cook and vanished menacingly. The blue
light was even worse than the red; if things
seemed underdone in the one, they appeared over
kept by the other. Food looked putrid ; and as for
the unhappy cook, he was like one of the stricken
figures in Poussin’s picture of the plague at Ashdod.
It had a most sickening effect. There was no use in
making any complaint, and the cook well knew it;
but he, nevertheless, resolved to appeal to the doctor’s
magnanimity; so, with feeble limbs and faltering tongue,
he commenced the 6torv of his wrongs, but was cut
short by the everlasting—“Oh! ha! hum! Want
to change the blue light; well, give me another five
and you shall have the other side—the yellow.’’ The
poor cook sunk down helpless ; he had got out of the
“frying-pan into the fire ;’’ but what he should get by
another trial he knew not, nor cared to make the ex
periment. The doctor was a hard customer. lie
would have his five pounds, or the lamp should remain
undisturbed. With an almost broken heart the poor
cook surrendered a full month’s profits to the avari
cious doctor, who thereupon erected a screen whioh
effectually prevented a further glare upon the nicely
placed and tempting meats in the cook’s window. The
customers soon came back and all went merrily again ;
but the cook has never forgotten the ten pounds black
mail which the doctor levied upon him.
Frentice, of the Louisville Journal, is one o’fm.
Speaking of the late quarrel beetween the Ohio
Statesman and the Cincinnati Enquirer, as to
which is the meanest sheet, he says it is a good
question for a debating society, for “agreat deal
can be said on both sides.”
A Sister’s Value.
Have you a sister T Then love and cherish her
with all that pure and holy friendship, which renders a
brother so worthy and noble. Learn to appreciate her
sweet influence, as portrayed in the following words :
He who has never known a sister's kind ministra
tion, nor felt his heart warming beneath her enduring
smile and love beaming eye, has been unfortunate in
deed. It is not to be wondered at, if the fountain of
pure feeling flows in his bosom but sluggishly, or if the
gentle emotions of his nature be lost in the sterner at
tributes of mankind.
“ That man has grown up among affectionate sis
ters,” I once heard a lady of much observation and
experience remark.
“ And why do you think so TANARUS” said I.
“ Because of the rich development of the tender
feelings of the heart.”
A sister’s influence is felt in manhood's riper years;
and the heart of him who has grown cold in contact
with the world will warm and thrill with pure enjoy
ment as some accident awakens within him the soft
tones, the glad melodies of his sister's voice; and he
will turn from purposes which a warped nnd false
philosophy had reasoned into expediency, and even
weep for the gentle influence which moved him in
earlier years.
IT WoS’TTDO.
BY WM. MATHEWS.
It is curious how many thousand things there
are, which it won’t do to do upon this cosy planet
of ours, whereon we eat, sleep, and get our din
ners. For instance—
It won’t do to plunge into a law-suit, rely
ing wholly on the justice of your cause, and not
equipped beforehand with a brimming purse.
It won’t do to tweak a man’s nose, or tell
him he lies, unless you are perfectly satisfied
he has not spunk enough to resent it by blow
ing your braius out or (if you have no brains)
cracking your skull.
It won't do, when riding in a stage coach, to
talk of another man whom you have not per
sonally seen, as being an “all-fired scoundrel,’’
until you are absolutely sure he is not sitting be
fore you.
It won’t do, when snow-drifts are piled up
mountains high, and sleighs are eternally up
setting, to ride out with a beautiful, lively, fas
cinating girl and not expect to get smashed with
her.
It won’t, do for a man, when a horse kicks
him, to kick back at the horse.
It won’t do to crack jokes on old maids, in
the presence of unmarried ladies who have pas
sed the age of forty.
It won’t do to imagine a Legislature, fed at
the public crib, will sit but six weeks, when two
thirds of the members have not the capacity to
earn a decent living at home.
It won't do for a man to bump his head
against a stone post, because lie conscientiously
believes that his head is the hardest.
It won’t do, when a rausquito bites your face
in the night, to beat your ow’d cranium to pie
ces with your fist under the impression that
you are kiling the musquito.
It won’t do, for a chap to imagine a girl is in
different to him because she studiously avoids
him iu company.
It won’t do for a young lady to presuma that
more than a third of the gentlemen who show
her pointed attentions, have the most distant
idea of marrying her.
It won’t do for a man to fancy a lady is iu
love with him because she treats him civilly,
or that she has virtually engaged herself to him
because she has always endured his company.
It won’t do, when in a hurry, to eat soup
with a two-pronged fork, or try to catch flies
with a fish net.
It won't do to be desperately enamored of a
pretty face till you have seen it at the breakfast
table.
It won’t do to be so devoted to a tender
hearted wife as to comply implicitly with her
request when she asks vnu, “Now, tumble over
the cradle, and break your neck, won’t you?”
It won’t do to take hold of a hair-trigger pis
tol during a fit of the blues.
Itwon’tdofora politician to imagine him
self elected to the Gubernatorial chair, while
“the back countries are to be heard from.’’
It won’t do to pop the question more than
a dozen times after the lady lias said “No !”
It won’t do to extol the beauty of a lady’s
hair before you know whether it did not once
belong to another lady’s head.
It won’t do to talk of cabbage when tailors
are standing by, nor of wooden nutmegs and
white wood hams, when there are Connecti
cut Yankees about.
It won’t do to go barefoot in winter to get
rid of trouble from corns.
It won’t do to take every man to do that you
would like to do, even if so to do would be to do
yourself a favor. It won’t do!
Female Nobility.— A writer in an English
journal, thus beautifully paints true female no
bility :—“The woman, poor and ill clad as she
may be, who balances her income and expendi
ture, who toils and sweats in unrepining mood,
among her well trained children, and preseuts
them morning and evening, as offerings of love
in rosy health and cheerful cleauliness; is the
most exalted of her sex. Before her shall the
proudest dame bow her jewelled head, and the
bliss of a happy heart shall dwell with her for
ever. If there is one prospect dearer than ano
ther to bend the proud, and inspire the broken
hearted: it is for a smiling wife to meet her hus
band at the door with his band of happy chil
dren. How it stirs up the tired blood of an ex
hausted man when he hears the rush of many
feet upon the stair case; when the crowd and
carol of their young voices mix in glad confu
sion; and the smallest mounts or sits into bis
arms amid a mirthful shout.’’
Mrs.Partington once invited an aged clergy
man from the city to take tea with her. On
opening the sugar-bowl, she discovered a decea
sed mouse in the premises. In the exciteraect
and frenzy of the moment, she seized a large
lump of sugar and flung it behind the hack log
while she carefully deposited the mouse in the
gentleman’s cup. He discovered the mistake
as soon as he began to stir the sugar.
If you make love to a widow who has a
daughter twenty years younger than herself,
begin by declaring that you thought they wore
sisters.
Telling Tales out of School.
We never could have supposed that Fanny i*ern
would have been guilty of the following traitorous ef
fusion :
‘Everybody is having a vacation except editors —
Boston Post.
I should like to have the editor who wrote that look
me in the face, answer the following ‘catechise,’ and
then dark whine after that fashion! Who gets tick
ets to all the Siamese boys, fat girls, white negroes,
learned pigs, whistling canaries, circuses, concerts and
theatres ? Who baa a free pass to railroad celebrations,
water excursions, balloon ascensions, political fights,
Webster dinners, Kossuth suppers, and ‘great rejection’
meetings ! Who has the first great squash of the sea
son ? who feeds on anonymous pears and nectarines,
strawberries, grapes, peaches and melons? Who gets
a slice of wedding-cake every time a couple make
fools of themselves ? and who has ‘pi’ in bis office year
in and year out ? Who has all the big and lesser
literary lights, male and female, constantly revolving
round him? Who amasses a magnificent library free
! gratis for nothing ? (save a puff or two.) Who gets
pretty bouquets when he’s sick,from his lady contribu
tors 7 ‘Vacation,’ forsooth! don’t talk to me, I know
all about it. The first gentleman I ever saw was an
editor.’ I’ve been acquainted with’m ever since I was
knee high to a huckleberry! Faxnt Fern.
p o~t i~i ics.
From the Campaign Republic.
Clear the Track.
Air —‘Dan Tuclcer
I went to town the other night,
Aud saw an interesting tight—
The Locos in despair ran round,
Saying Gen. Scott has come to town.
Chorus —So clear the track, Scott is comiug,
Clear the track, Scott is coming,
Clear the track, Scott is coming,
See how the Locos arc running.
Some said that Pierce would never do,
And others said ‘he is true bine;’
But didn’t they raise an awful muss
When they heard the name of ‘Feathers aud Fuss.’
So clear the track, &c.
Some said for Pierce they would not go j
For him their cock refused to crow ;
To Scott they thought he soon would yield—
For Scott is bound to win the field.
Then clear the truck, &c.
And Pierce they say, in Mexico,
Had a very awkward fall you know,
And if he gets in the President’s chair,
lie’ll faint as soon as he is there.
Then clear the track, &c.
Now Pierce you’d better travel straight
To the granite hills of Hampshire State j
Take my advice—no longer stay,
Or you will surely faint auiay.
So clear the track, &s.
To Washington you must not go,
But up Salt River soon you’ll row ;
It’ll cure your fainting —change of air—
And the Locos they will pay your fare.
So clear the track, &c.
Now, boys, we’ll rally round brave Scott,
You can’t refuse, I know you’ll not—
To vote for the man who fought for you,
And made your country’s foes turn blue.
So clear the track, &c.
Then rally, Whigs—come shout and sing,
And let us make the welkin ring—
And a glorious victory we shall gain
For the old hero of Lundy’s Lane!
Then clear the track, Scott is coming,
Clear the track, Scott is coming,
Clear the track, Scott is coming,
See the Loeos bow they’re running.
N. 0., Sept. 18, 1852. J. C. W.
Resolutions of the Great Union meeting
at Castle Garden, \. Y. in 1850.
Resolved , That the people of New York, withont
distinction of sect or party, are ardently devoted to the
union of these States, as, next to our liberties, the
most precious of their political institutions; and, hav
ing never yet begun to calculate the value of this Union,
can contemplate no contingency in which its dissolution
would be otherwise than a gigantic crime against the
peace, prosperity and freedom of our country and of
mankind.
Resolved , That in the resolutions, lately submitted
to the Senate of the United States by Mr. Clay, look
ing to a complete and final settlement of all ques
tions relating to slavery, on which the feelings of
the Northern and Southern sections of our country
have been excited against each other, we joyfully
recognize the basis of a harmonious and brotherly
adjustment of a most distracting and perilous contro
versy ; and entreat our fellow-citizens of all parties and
sections to study those resolutions carefully, and in a
spirit of devotion to the Union and perpetuity of this
noble confederacy.
Resolved , That, in view of the above considera
tions, we accept, as the basis of a compromise, the
preamble and resolutions as introduced by Mr. Clay
into the Senate of the United States on the 19th Janu
ary, 1850.
Gen. Soott, being present at this meeting and re
cognized, was called on to apeak, and responded as fol
lows :
Fellow-Citizens: Your kind greetings fill mo
with the deepest emotions. I came here not expect
ing to take more than a stand in some corner of the
great hall to witness the proceedings, dome kind
friend discovered me below, or I should not have stood
in this conspicuous place. I did not expect to address
one word to this meeting. I see before me much of
the intelligence, respectability, and sterling worth of
this great city, assembled here for the purpose of sup
porting onr great Union, of which 1 am an humble
friend and servant. Ido not call myself a eitizen of ibe
North, of the South, of the East or of the West; bat
I have served the Union for forty-odd years, and feel
myself a oitizen of every part of it; and whatever
life aud strength I may have, shall be devoted to ita
preservation. Feeling that it was in jeopardy, and
that this meeting had assembled to promote harmony
and preserve the Union, I come here, and return you
many thanks for the kindness with which yon have
welcomed me.
1 am notan Abolitionist, nor an advoeate of slavery.
I came not here as a democrat or a whig. ] have at
tended no party meeting for forty-two years. Bat
when the cry is that the Union k in danger, and a
rally is made to support it, I would have been a cow
ard and a recreant if 1 had not also rallied !
Os whatever value may be the remainder of my fife
(and no one sets less value ou it than I do) I would
give it in support of the Union, i hope I may not live
to see its dissolution; but, if unable to avert its fate, I
would be buried beneath its ruins !
I am charmed with the good feeling and universal
patriotism which this meeting has exhibited ; and God
grant that you may devise some plan to save that
Union to which we all, in heart and soul, are so much
attached.
A Cross Examination.
The following admirable jeu d'esprit is taken from
the columns of the Holly Springs, Miss., Gazette—a
paper conducted with a pith and vigor that are rarely
witnessed in the country press. The Gazette , notio
ing Gen. Pierce’s letter to Mr. De Leon, denying the
truth of the report of the New Boston speech,says:
Now, forsooth, Gen. Pieroe oomes forward and does
what ? Make a specific) and circumstantial denial ? No
such thing; but a mere general and vagne denial of
the truth of the report. We should like to see Gene
ral Pieroe placed upon the witness stand, with our es
timable friend, Major Morton,to cross-examine him,
and then oomment upon bis testimony as it is. We
imagine the examination would run somewhat altar
this fashion:
Barton. Gen. Pierce, yoa nay you made a speech
at New Boston last January, some two hours long!
NO. 28.