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ME jiMMIDM Kit. BY J. A. TURNER. j VOLUME 11. , floetr!). Be Gentle to thy Wife. Be gentle! for you little know How many trials rise, Although to thee they may be small, Td her of giant size: Be gentle 1 though pefchance that lip May speak aNnUrmtiring tone, The heart may beat with kindness yet, And joy to be thine own. Be gentle! weary hours of pain ‘Tis woman's lot to bear; Then lend her what support thou canst, And all her sorrows share. Be gentle \ for the noblest hearts At times may have some grief, And even in a pettish world May seek to find relief. Be gentle! for unkindness now May rouse an angry storm, That all the after years of life In vain may strive to calm. Be gentle! none ah* perfect— Thou’rt dearer fat* thfth life, Then, husband, bear, and still forbear— Be gentle to thy wife. Hisallaitcous. The Mechanic’s Home. An old Story for the New Year. 3BY g. L. NICHOLS, M. D. [The following simple story has been widely circulated, but believing that it teaches some useful lessons we republish it here.J One evening in the early part of winter, the door-bell rang with energy, and the servant announced &?nan who wished to see me. A “man,” is one thing with a servant, a “gentleman” another, and a “person” something difi ferent fromeither. The man stood in the hall, but I wondered why he had not been called a gentleman. I was puzzled where to place him myself. His dress Was very neat, but plain and rather coarse. Li is linen, that badge of refinem nt, was white, in perfect order, and almost elegant. Every thing about him seemed substantial; but notning gave me a clue to his po sition in life. In all outward seeming he was simply “a man. ’ When he I spoke to me, his address was simple, clear, and with a eertain air of self reliance. “Doctor,” he said, “I wish you to come and see my child. We fear he is threatened with croup.” I put on my hat, and prepared to ac company him: for if the case were as he supposed, there was no time to lose. \ In this disease a single hour may make a life’s difference. In a moment we were in the street, and walking briskly up one of our broad avenues. The child, he said, had been playing out of doors, had eaten heartily at supper, gone to sleep, and waking up a short time since very hoarse, with a choking cough, The case was a pretty clear one, and I hur ried rny walk still more, and in a few moments we were at the door. We went up—up, up—to the fourth story. The last flight of steps was carpeted, and a small lamp at the top lighted us up. An excellent and very durable kind of mat lay at the door. You will see in time why I give these little par ticulars. I entered the open door, and was Welcomed by a rather pretty and re markably tidy woman, who could have been nobody in the world but the wife of the man who had summoned tne. “I am glad you have come so soon,” whe said, in a soft, but pure accent. — “Little William seeins so distressed that he can hardly breathe and the bext moment as we passed through a harrow passage to where he lay, I heard the unmistakable croupy sound, that justly earries such terror to the parent’s heart. “Is it the croup, doctor ?” asked the father, with a voice of emotion, as I bent over the child—a fine boy, three years of age. “It is certainly the croup, a.nd a pretty violent attack. How long is it «ince you thought him sick ?” “Not above an hour,” was the calm reply. It whs made calm by a firm eelf-eontroL I looked at the mother. She was very pale but did not trust herself to speak. “Then there is probably but little danger,” I said ; “ but we have some thing to do. Have you the water here?” The husband went to what seemed a closet, opened two doors, and disclosed a neat pine bathing-tub, supplied with Croton. This was beyond my hopes; but I had no time to wonder. The little crib, where he lay on a nice hair mattress, fit for a prince to sleep on, I took off his clean night-clothes, stood him in the bath tub, and made his father pour Aril upon his neck and • % (ffitrelitn Journal-Iltbotdi to literature, f olitira, anil (general Uisrellann. chest throe pailfi til cold water) while I rubbed him briskly With ftiy haiid. lie was then wiped dry, and rubbed until his whole body was in a flame. Then I wrung a large towel out of cold water, and put it around his throat, and then wrapped him up in blankets. The brave little fellow had borne it all without complaint, as if he understood- that under his father’s eye no harm could could corne to him;— In fifteen minutes after he was wrap 1 ped in the blankets' he was in a pro fuse perspiration, in a sound slumber, and breathing freely. The danger was over —so rapid is the disease, and so easily cured. *> Happiness had shed a serene light upon the countenance of the father, and thrown over the mother’s face a glow of beauty. I looked upon thetti) and was more than ever puzzled where to piace them. There were marks of high birth or superior breeding, not the shadow of decayed gentility about them. It was rather the reverse, as if they were working up from a low rank of life to a higher. I looked around the room. It. was the bed-room. Everything in it was perfectly orderly. The bed, like the crib, ivas excellent, but not expensive. The white counterpane did not cost more than ten shillings—yet how beautiful it looked! The white win dow curtains were shilling muslin, but their folds hung as richly as though they were damask—and how very ap propriate they seemed ! The bath, with its snug folding-doors, I knew had not cost, plumber’s bill and all, more than ten dollars. The toilet table, of an elegant form, and com pletely covered, I had no doubt was white pine, and cost half a dollar.— The pictures on the wall were beauti fully tinted lithographs—better, far better, than oil paintin prs I have seen in the houses of millionaires ; yet they can be bought atGoupil’s, or Williams & Stevens’, for from three to five shil lings, and a dollar a-piece had framed them. The floor had a carpet that seemed to match everything with its small neat figure, and light chamber color. It v/as ajewel of a room, in as perfect keeping in all its parts as if an artist had designed it. Leaving the boy to his untroubled sleep, and giving directions for his bath on his waking, I went into the oth er room, which was differently, but just as neatly arranged. It might have answered for a parlor, only that it had a cooking-stove ; or an artist’s studio, or a dining-room. It was hung with pictures—heads, historical pieces, and landscapes; all such as a man of taste could collect and buy cheap, but which, like good books, are invaluable. And, speaking of books, there was a hanging library on one side of the chimney, which a single glance assured me contained the very choicest treasures of the English tongue. The man went to the bureau, open ed the drawer, and took out some money. “What is your fee, doctor?” he asked, holding the bills so as to se lect one to pay me. Now I had made up my mind, before I had gone half way up the stairs, that I would have to wait for my pay, per haps never get it; but all this had chang ed. I could not, as I often did, in quire into the circumstances of the man, and graduate my price accor dingly. Then he stood ready to pay me, with money enough ; vet it was evident that he was a hard working man, and far from being wealthy. I had nothing left but to name the low est fee. “One dollar does not seem enough,” said he. “You have been at more trouble than to merely write a pre scription.” “Do you work for your living ?” I asked ; hoping to solve the mystery. He smiled and held out his hands, which bore the unquestionable marks of honest toil. “You are a mechanic?” I said; wil ling to know more of him. “Take that,” said he, placing a two dollar note in my hand, with a not*to be-refused air, and I will gratify your curiosity; for there is no use pretend ing that you are not a little curious.” There was a hearty, respectful free dom about this that was irresistible. I put the note in my pocket, and the man, going to a door, opened it into a closet of moderate size, and displayed the bench and tools of a shoemaker. “ You must be an extraordinary workman,” said I, looking around the room, which seemed almost luxurious; but when I looked at each item, I found that it cost very little. “ No, nothing extra. I barely man age to earn a little over a dollar a day. Mary helps some. With the house work to do, and our boy to look after, she earns enough to make our wages average eight dollars a week. We be gan with nothing—we live as you see.”. All this comfort, this respectability, this almost luxuary, for eight week ! I expressed my surprise. “I s'lould be very sorry if we spent so much,” said he. “We have not only manged to live on that, but we have something laid up in the savings bank.” ° “Will you have the goodness,” said I, “just, to explain to me how you do EATONTON, GrA., SATURDAY, JANUARY 27, 1855. it?” For I was really anxious to know how a shoemaker and his wife, earning but eight dollars a week, could live iil comfort and elegance, and lay up money. I took a chair which he handed me. We were seated, and his wife, after go ing to listen to the soft and measured breathing of little Willie, sat down to her sewing. “My name, ” said he } “is William Carter. My father died when I was young, and I was bound out appren tice to a shoemaker, with the usual provision of schooling. I did as well as boys do generally at school ; and as I was very fond of readiiig, I made the most of my spare time, and the advantages of the Apprentices’ Li brary. Probably the books that help ed me most were the sensible writings of William Cobbett. Following his example, I determined to give myself a useful education, and have to some extent succeeded. But a man’s educa tion is a life-long process; and the more I learn, the more I see before me. “I was hardly out of my time when I fell in love with my Mary there, whom some people think very pretty, but whom I know to be very good.” Mary looked up with such a bright, loving smile as to fully justify “some people” in their notion. “When I had been one year a jour neyman, and had laid up a few dollars, (for I had a strong motive to be sa ving,) we were married. I boarded at her hither’s, and she bound shoes for the shop where I worked. We lived a few weeks at her home ; but it was not our home--the home we wanted; so we determined to set up house keeping. It was rather a small set-up, but we made it answer. I spent a week in house-hunting. Some were too dear, some too shabby. At last I found this place. It was new and clean, high and airy, and I thought it would do. I got it for fifty dollars a year; and though the rents all around have advauced, our landlord is satis fied with that, or takes it in preference to risking a worse tenant. The place was naked enough, and we had little to put i|4 it save ourselves; but we went ipeerfully to work, earned all we could —and you see the result.” “I see; but I confess Ido not under stand it,” said I; willing to hear him explain the economies of his modest and beautiful home. “ Well, it is simple enough. When Mary and I moved ourselves here, and took possession, with a table, two chairs, a cooking-stove, a saucepan or two, and a cot-bed, with a straw mat tress, the first thing we did was to hold a council of war. ‘Now, Mary, my * : love,’ said I, ‘here we are; we have next to nothing, and we have everything to get, and nobody but ourselves to help ourselves.” “We found that we could earn on an average, eight dollars a week. We determined to live as cheaply as possi ble, save all we could and make our selves a home. Our rent was a dollar a week —our fuel, light, water-rent, and some little matters, a dollar more. We have allowed the same amount for our clothing ; and by buying the best things, and keeping them care fully, we dress well enough for that. Even my wife is satisfied with her wardrobe, and finds that raw silk at six shillings a yard is cheaper in the long run than calico atone shilling.— That makes three dollars a week, and we had still our living to pay for.— That costs us, with three in our family, just one dollar a week more.” “ One dollar a piece ?” “ Come this way, and I will show you,” he said, “No—one dollar for all. You seemed surprised, but we have reckon ed it over and over. It cost more at first, but now we have learned lo live both better and cheaper. So that we have a clear surplus of four dollars a week, after paying all expenses of rent, fire, light, water, clothing, and food. I do not count luxuries, such as an evening at the theatre, a concert, or a treat to our friends when we give a party.” I know a smile came over my face, for he continued: “Yes, give a party; and we have some pleasant ones I assure you. Some times we have a dozen guests, which is quite enough for comfort, and our treat of chocolate, cakes, blanc mange, &c., costs as much as two dollars ; but this is not very often. Out of our surplus—which comes, you see, to two hundred dollars a year—we have bought all you see, and have money in the bank.” “ I see it all,” said I; “ all but the living. Many a mechanic spends more than that for segars, to say nothing of liquor. Pray, tell me precisely liow you live.” “With pleasure. First of all, then, I smoke no segars, and chew no tobac co, and Mary takes no snuff.” Here the pleasant smile came in, but there was no interruption, for Mary seemed to think her husband knew what he was about, and could talk very well without her aid, “I drank a glass of liquor since the daj f I was married, except a glass of wine about four times a year, on Chri||mas, New Year’s, Fourth of July, and Willie?* birth-day. The iPia&iUo (dib &roia(o^2t(DP w last is our especial holidajra I have read enough of physiology to make up my mind that tea and coffee con tain no nutriment, and are poisonous besides ; and I tried a Vegetable diet long enough to like it better than a mixed one, and to find that it agrees with me better; and as we have read and experimented together, of course Mary thinks as I do.” “But what do you eat and drink ?” I asked, curious to see how far this self taught philosopher had progressed in the laws of health. Taking the light and leading the way into a capacious store-room. — “Here, first cf all, is a mill, which cost tne twelve shillings. It grinds all n>y grain, gives me the freshest and most beautiful meal, and saves tolls and profits. This is a barrel of wheat. I buy, the best, and am sure that it is clean and good. It costs less than three cents a pound; and a pound of wheat a day, you know, is food enough for any man. We make it into bread, mush, pies, and cakes. Here is a bar rel of potatoes. This is hominy.— Here are some beans, a. "box of rice, tapioca, macaroni. Here is a barrel of apples, the best that I can find in Ful ton Market. Here is a box of sugar, and this is our butter jar. We take a quart of country milk a day; I buy the rest of our living by the box or barrel, where I can get it best and cheapest. Making wheat —eaten as mush or bread, and all made without bolting—and potatoes, or hominy, or rice, the staples, you can easily see that a dollar a week for provisions is not only ample but allows of a healthy and almost 1 uxurious variety. For the rest, we eat greens, vegetables, fruit and berries, in their season. In the summer we have strawberries and peaches, as soon as they are ripe and good. Mary will get up a dinner from these materials at the cost of a shilling, better than the whole bill of fare at the Astor House.” I was satisfied. Here was comfort, intelligence, taste, and modest luxury, all enjoyed by a humble mechanic who knew how to live at the cost I have mentioned. How much useless complaining might be saved—how much genuine happiness enjoyed— how much of evil and suffering might be prevented, if all the working men in New York were as wise as Wil liam Carter! I never shook a man or woman by the hand with more hearty respect than when I said “Good night” to this happy couple, who, in this expensive city, are living in luxury and grow ing rich on eight dollars a week, and making the bench of a s.ioemaker a chair of practical philosophy. Reader, if you are inclined to profit by this little narrative, I need not write out any other moral than the in junction of Scripture, “Go and do likewise.” What it Costs to Dress a Lady, The editor of the Home Journal, or rather one of his female correspondents, says : “As to what it costs to dress a lady, now-a-days, different persons would answer very differently. I should think the least, for the mere dress of one who goes out a great deal, might be a thousand dollars a year, and that spent very carefully. Two thousand is nearer the average, probably; though even this without including furs and jewelry. Russian sables and diamonds are bought, of course, but once in a life-time, and yet there are other adornments upon which a woman who dresses at all thought lessly, may easily spend three or four thousand.” We know some ladies “who go out a great deal,” whose dress ought not, judging from external appearance, to cost so much as a thousand dollars in fifty years. They are ladies who go out in the morning and do not return until the shadows of the evening have fallen around their homes; they earn less than a dollar a day; and out of it support an old mother, a sick sister, or a young child. Ladies who spend two thousand dollars a year on their dress, ought to think of these sisters of theirs, and occasionally put on the robe of charity which covers a multi tude of misdeeds. Keep out of debt. It is better to be in want that in debt. We once over h >ard a conversation on this subject, between two young men, which struck us as worthy of record. ‘ Never go in debt, 7 said o ;e. ‘Suppose that I am in absolute want,’ replied the other. ‘ Beg then.’ ‘lf I cannot beg, shall I starve ?’ ‘Do any thing rather than go in debt. You will be happier in your poverty or starvation, free from indebtedness than surrounded by the luxuries of life, unpaid for.’ It is this sentiment which made Shakespeare re cord the misery of rustling in unpaid for silks.’ A correspondent of the Richmond Enquirer , writing from Powhattan, states that there is a negro woman living in that neighborhood who is known to be one hundred and twenty six years old ; who has never lost her appetite or eyesight, never took a dose of medicine or was sick a day, and who was the mother of sixteen children all of whom died of old age. • * “It was Rum that did it. ” Such was the text from which was preached a most impressive sermon on Friday last in our sister city, Buffalo ; and the text was the sermon also ; and the text and sermon were the last words of one ot God’s erring crea tures. There was no organ with its swell ing notes dying away in lengthened aisles to open the services, there were no anthems of joy and praise with which to continue the worship of God, there was no benediction sweetly breaking upon the ear of devout wor shippers as they rose from cushioned seats to leave the house of prayer; but the service was imposingly solemn, and it sunk deep into the hearts of an awe-stricken assembly. It was the “Court of Death.” There stood justice, stern justice, in the per son of the executive of the law, and in his hand the warrant which com manded him to revenge the injury done to the peace and dignty of soci ety ; there were the men of God de voutly asking offended Heaven to pu rify the blood-stained soul of the trembling victim; there was the plat form, the gallows, the rope, the drop ; and, observed of all, there stood the cringing, shivering outcast, who was to expiate his crime by yielding up his life as the last lesson he could read to evil-doers. That criminal was the preacher, robed in a frock of white, girt by a black sash, and, on his brow, the fatal cap. During this dressing for the grave, the distracted man cried out:— “ Great God ! Oh ! my God ! what an end I have come to! Merciful God, look clown on me ! Oh ! Lord, have mercy on my soul! It was rum THAT DID IT !” To his dying moment did that terri fied man proclaim that his murdered wife did not offend him in anything, that he loved her, anJ yet, under the infernal spell of rum, had he imbrued his hand in her blood ; that hand with which, three short months before, he had pledged her his love and protec tion. We have never read of a more har rowing scene than the death of Darry. He shrieked with terror, and his cries for mercy were piteous. He had been guilty of one of the foulest murders on record, and he must die ; the safe ty of Society demanded his life. He could not escape his fate, and he stood with the halter about his neck, and the hatchet was raised to sever the cord which should launch himintoeter nity ; and there, looking upon the terrible past and the dreadful future, did he raise his voice and utter the fearful warning against the use of in toxicating drink. Will the world hear and heed the words of this despairing man ? “Oh that I should come to such an end ! It was rum that did it.” Will those who daily put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains, lis ten to the voice from a murderer’s grave ? “Tell them to leave liquor alone; it has been the death of me!” Weeping and groaning as the grave opened beneath his feet, he screamed, “ God help me !” “ God forgive me!” “Christ assist me to pass through this struggle !” This is no fancy picture, but drawn, word for word, from the scene in the prison. “It was rum that did it.” [Cleveland Herald. Supposed Insanity of the Duke of Cambridge.— The London corres pondent of the Boston Post writes as follows: Madness, like murder, will out, how ever ; and the young scion of Royal ty proves the purity of his blood, bv getting crazy, like his grandfather. It seems that some strangness of conduct was noticed after the battle of the Al ma, in the Duke of Cambridge, but no thing of a decided character appeared until after the defeat of the Russians at Inkermann. Riding across the bat tlefield and observing a wounded Rus sian endeavor to shoot an English sol dier, instead of running him through on the spot, the Duke began to reason with him, and his aids coming up, they overheard him saying: that he should use all his influence at head quarters to to have him hanged ! As the dead were being carried by, the Duke be gan to remark—“ That man is not dead, set him on his legs, he’ll walk,” and upon Lord Raglan’s remonstra ting with him ijpon the ill time for such buffoonery, he replied, “ Buffoo nery, my Lord 1 lam amazed. The man is not dead. I myself saw him alive, and talked with him this very morning!” Measures were instantly taken to report the Duke as an invalid, and to remove him from his com mand. Cross Firing.— “ Did you see the fire in my eyes !” asked a Swaggering toper of a temperance lecturer. “ I didn’t make any observation, beyond your nose,” was the answer, “ M Do you mean any reflection, sir?” “If the fire was in your eye, as you inti mate, I think it must have been a re flection,” The loafer couldn’t stand the fire. ifc&Vjjjjjm Who wrote the Vestiges of Creation. Mr. Page desires us to reproduce the substance of a statement made by him, a few days ago, in Dunbee, as to the author of the “Yestiges of Creation.” Mr. Page fixes the authorship on a gentleman who has generally been credited with the work. At the time the “ Yestiges ” were published, Mr. Page says, he was engaged as one of the literary and scientific collaborateurs of the Messrs. Chambers. The first time he saw it was in the hands of Mr. Wm. Chambers, who came into his room one day with the “here is a curious work, making some sensation,” and requested that he (Mr. Page) should write a notice of it for the Journal, ( Chambers' Edinburgh Journal .) For this purpose Mr. Page took the work home—and he had not read twenty pages of it before he felt convinced that it was the production of Mr. Robert Chambers. When asked for the review, he sta ted he could pot prepare one for two reasons: Ist, that he did not think the work suited for notice in the Edinburgh Journal; and 2d, because he believed it to be the work of Mr. Robert Chambers. Mr. William Chambers received this announcement with ap parent surprise, but denied all knowl edge of the matter—and there the subject dropped. Some time after, however, and when the work was se verely handled by the reviewers, Mr. Robert Chambers alluded to the mat ter, affecting ignorance ancl innocence of the authorship, upon which Mr. Page remarked, that had he seen the sheets before going to press, he could have prevented some of the blunders. The consequence of this remark was that Mr. Robert Chambers sent him the proof sheets of the second or third edition- of the “ Vestiges,” with the request that he would enter on the margin any corrections or suggestions that occurred. Mr. Page says he made some notes; but he does not say wheth er these notes were adopted in the re impression. However, he has, as he declares “ made a clean breast of it” at length—and he concludes with the remark—“ If merit is attached to the work, the author will reap his high re ward—if demerit the blame will, at least, fall on the right shoulders.” \_London Anthenceum , Dec. 2. Better Times. Judging from the tone of the news papers in the different sections of the country, there are indications of grow ing ease in the money market. The drain of the specie is checked, and our gold mines are furnishing us about one million per week. Produce of all kinds is in great demand. Railroads are doing a fine business, and almost all the interests of trade are presenting a cheerful aspect. Labor is still high, and the demand for workmen, in most places, is not seriously abated. The monetary pressure, during the present season, has been exceedingly se vere. But it has not proved an un mitigated evil. Not at all. If we. could only form an estimate of the wild, reckless schemes that such times cheek ; of the disenchanting power it exerts in tearing off the deceitful guises of myriads of ambitious and ruinous schemes; of the touchstone it applies to character and credit; of the business lepers it sends off into the wilderness, and the healthy blood it infuses into the veins of active industry and com merce, we should feel that Hard Times had a great and good office to perform. Men seldom value any truth that has not cost them some sorrow and suffer ing to learn; and our best habits are generally scourged into us by the rod of severe correction. There are always persons who keep up the cry of Hard Times as loug as possible. But it is obvious that in a country like ours, and under circum stances as they now exist, the heavy difficulties through which we have been struggling, cannot continue to oppress. One of the encouraging facts of the day is the ability which we have shown to resist the pressure. The business of the country is generally sound, and so long as this is- the case our ener getic people will have elasticity enough to bound forward.— Mont. Mail. What Will Take the Scent out of Clothing.— Sitting on the piazza of the Cataract, was a young, foppish-looking gentleman, his gar ments very highly scented with a min gled odor of musk and cologne. A solemn-faced, odd-looking man, after passing the dandy several times with a look of aversion which drew general* notice, suddenly stopped, and in a con fidential tone, said: “Stranger, I know what’ll take the scent out of your clothes; you —” “What! what do you mean?” said the exquisite, “fired with indignation,” starting from his chair. “ Oh, get mad now, pitch round, flight—-just because a man wants to do you a kindness!” replied the stranger. “ But I tell you I do know what’ll take out that smell—phew ! You just go burry your clothes—bury ’em a day or two. Uncle John got afoul of a skunk, and he—” At this instant there went up from the crowd a simultaneous roar of mer riment, and the dandy very sensibly ( rmr je2 mm. mm j $2.00 A YEAR, IS ADV ANCE. NUMBER 4. Mr. Bourcicault’s Sketches of Eh-bK ropean Socfety.. THE LONDON MERCHANT. John Oakheart and Son are Baltic merchants.—Young John entered his father’s office as a clerk at sixty pounds a year, of which he paid his mother forty for board, lodging, and washing and clothed himself with the odd tSfen tv.' I)o not imagine that Mr. Oak’ heart’s establishment required this as sistance. The old gentleman desired to make his son feel independent—he was a man, he earned his own livelihood and should feel that he supported him- ~ self. At twenty-five years of age, young Oakheart marries, receiving with his wife a moderate sumo! mon ey. He wants to purchase a share in his father’s business : they cannot come to terms. Young John can make a better bargain with a rival house in the trade. The old man hesitates: he likes the sound of J. Oakheart & Son; but business is business. Had his son . married a penniless girl his father would have given him what he now refuses, to sell: but now business is business, and as a calculation he can’t do it. So young John becomes chief partner in a rival firm to that which must one day be his, and trades against the old man, whose only aim is to lay up wealth for his son. Every day, at 4 o’clock, leaning against a particular corner on Change* stands the elder merchant, his hands deeply sunk into his dog-eared pockets. A young city man approaches; they exchange a quiet, careless nod: “ Feel inclined to discount for 1,200 at long date?” “ What names ?” asks old John. “My own. I will give four per cent.” “ I should want more than that, as money goes —say 45-8.” “The brokers only ask 4 re plies the young man. “ Then give it.” And they separate with an indifferent nod. That was fa ther and son. Every Sunday, young John and his wife dine at Bussell Square, in the same house where old Oakheart has lived for thirty years. His name has been cleaned out of the brass plate on the door. This house young John still looks upon, and speaks of as his home. All the associations of his childhood are there, every piece of furniture is an old friend, —every ob- , ject is sacred in his eyes, from his own picture, taken at four years old, with its chubby face and fat legs, to the smoke dried print of General Aber crombie. They form the architecture of that temple of his heart—bis home. After dinner the ladies have retired. The crimson curtains are comfortably closed. The crackling fire glofys with satisfaction, and old John pushes the bottle across to his son, for, if Old John has a weakness, it is for tawuey port. “Jack, my boy,” says he, “what do you want with 1200 pounds?” * “Well Sir,” replies young John, “there is a piece of ground next to my villa at Brixton, and they threaten to build upon it—if so they will spoil our view. Emily,” meaning his wife, “ has ofteii„ begged me to buy it, and enclose it in our garden. Next Wednesday birthday, and I wish to gratify her with a surprise; but I have reconsider ed the matter —I ought not to afford it—so I have given it up.” “Quite right, Jack,” responded the old man, “it would have been a piece of extravagance,”—-and the subject is dropped. » Next Wednesday, on Emily’s birth-. daj r , the old couple dine with the young folks, and just before diTnleff Old John takes his daughter-in-law aside, and places in her hand a parch ment —it is the deed'of the little plot of ground she coveted.—He stops her thanks with a kiss and hurries away. Ere the ladies retire from the table, Emily finds time to whisper the secret to her husband. And the father and son are alone. Watch the old man’s eyes fixed on the fire, for he has de tected this piece of affectionate treach ery, and is almost ashamed of his act, because he does not know how to re ceive his son’s thanks. In a few mo ments a deep, gentle feeling broods upon the young man’s heart, ne has no words—it is a prayer syllabled in emo tions that make his heart tremble. He lays his hand upon his father’s arm and their eyes meet. “ Tut, Jack. Sir! pooh ! sir, it must 1 all come to 3 r ou some day. God bless you, my boy, and make yon as happjr at my age as 1 am now.” In silence the souls of these men embrace. But who is that seraph that gathers them beneath her outspread angel wings? I have seen her at the fireside fluttering like a dove from bosom to bosom. Its have seen her linking distant hearts' parted by the whole world. She is the good genius of the Anglo-Saxon family. And her name is home. “Our art was hailed from kingdoms far abroad*, And cherished in the hallow’d house of God; •From which we learn the homage it received, And how our sires in heavenly birth believed. Each .printer, hence, howe’er unblest his walks; -• E’en to this day Ids house adiiAPBI. calk” ■From AT Cretry'f Potfri of “Th* Present