Pioneer

              THE PIONEER.
VOL. III.
Vrinted and PubUahed b^ A. ». and R. K.. GrosVi, ftoulVi-AiVeBt corner ot* tVie Market Square.
MARIETTA, PA. FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 182».
NO. 28.
THE FISHER.
FnoM T.IK Gkhmix of Giethe. 'np water mlled—the water swelled,
A fi.'.iir sit  heside ; tCalm'v hi" patient watch he held
Beside the freshening tide : J/iid while his p^tKni Witch he keeps.
The parted w ,    -i rose, [.A.id from the n.zy ocean-deeps
A v.aier-ni.iiden rose.
|S!ie spake to him—she sang to him—= ' VV'.y lur'st thou so my brood, i':'^ cunning art and cniel heart, r.-om out their native flood .' [Ah ^ could'st thou know, how here below
0:iT peacefcil lives glide o'er, Thoud'st leave thine earth and  plvD^e be- neath To seek our happier shore,
Jathf.s not the golden sun his face,'-*-
The moon too in the sea i l>nd rise they not from their resting place
More beautiful to see? knd lures thee not the clear deep heaven
Within tlie waters blue,— [And thy form so fair, so mirrored ther«'
In that eternal dew .<"—
[The water rolled—the water swelled.
It reached his naked feet • He felt as at his Love's :\pproach
His bounding bosom beat ; • She spake to him, she sang to him,
His short suspense is o'er ; Half drew she him, halt dropped he in,
And sank to ri.se nn mnrc.
 -"^©e	
SONG.
At night when dnams thine image bring, I .see thee smile, 1 lieiir thee sing; A ;:d many a wbispe.-ed icccnt say, 1  t.ire not, cannot b:eat;-.c by d;iy. O then when I too fondly speaW, Tlie rose-hiie deeper dyes thy cheek, ¦ 'le dew shines brighter in thine eye, " iii.e heart beats warmer to thy sigh, A th lusaiul lovelier charms are known, Dty's jealous eye hath never known ; Uo sei wus bro-,v is there to chide, i;o mother \v;i.tches by thy side— All, all are gone, and leave it free, The silent world to love—and me.
91
.1
ELIiVOBE
AND HER TWO S0N3. The followina; simple, but pathetic ¦•ale, is extracted Irom the manuscript if an uiipublifiiied work, ihe scene of the story is on the north coasts of Scotland.
* * " Tell me the tale then Td. run," fl.iid Geraldine. * It is too ?;iil for you, my lady, it is enough to r.idke '-ne's heart ache.' ' Yet tell it )v.'i jNIorna; a sad tale is not always dKagreeable, at least to me,—and be¬ sides it vvill be somewhat in unison with thc place,' she added, as she glan¬ ced around the larjj;e hall, in which they were sittin;;. Evening was fast elosing; in, and dim and shadowy twi Ii-;ht threw over every object, that un¬ certain character, vvhich is so delight fu! to an iiiiai;iiiative mind.—Thetnick dark foliage, that waved over the case ment, aui;uiented by its heavy rustling, ;is it bent to the chill blast without, the melancholy that was stealing over the feelin/H ufGeraldiiie. She had seated, hirself (111 a large antiquated sofa, or rather couch, which occupied one cor¬ ner of the hall—a piece of furniture, that f'.'Mn its covering; of embossed leather, whose once rich gilding was tarnished, and in many places almost cr.tiroly dt laced, its heavy carved arms and nit sy supporters, darkened by time to iho hue of ebony, indicated that it was almost coeval vvith the buil¬ ding, in whosr. now nearly deserted halls it seemed to the eye of fancy btiil to boast a proud pre-eminence.— Geraldluf:'.-' eye rested on the portrait of Sir Malcolm, vvhich h-.ing near a casement. The grim features were still discernable thro"* the fast thicken¬ ing sh^iiles of evening, and as she ga¬ zed steadily, she could almost fancy that she &aw the eyelids move. She r<>^uiiieJ her conversation with old Morua. M ho had crept close to the couch. 'Tell i:.e the tale you promised me Morna,' she repeated.
Well then, my Lady, poor Elinore
that runs alung past her dour so calmly and  pleasantly, laughing, as it were, and sparkling in the sunbeams as you saw It to-day, was like her own life at that time; she vvas so joyous and so happy.   And as for her two boys, they also were like the same streani, althu' in diBerent ways.   Allen the young¬ est, a sweet child of eleven years old, was as cheerful and as playful as the rimpling rivulet;   while Donald, who was a tall well grown youth of nine¬ teen, resembled the source of that cur¬ rent as it rushes from tbe mountains, swelled  by   rains—it  comes  dashing from rock to rock, leaping and foaming like a wild horse, till It   reaches the dark glen, when it ceases to rage, and winds quietly arouad Elinore's cottage. Her husband had served the vvar, and Itad been sorely wounded; but he had got well at length, and although lame, he continued to do a deal of Wurk, and helped to support his family.    And as they all were very industrious, and ve¬ ry worthy, they were much beloved in the country all about them.   The first sorrow that befel her was the death uf her husband; for she loved him tender- y, and well she might, fur a faithful and affectionate husband be had been to her.    But he was called away.   And now she was left with her tvvo boys.—• Donald  Was a fine high spirited lad, and  tho' he  loved his mother—»there Could   be no question of  it—yet  his thoughts were otten rambling after war aod glory and the like of tiiat     And it was all his mother could do to keep him with her:  for she had seen enough of the consequences of war in the suffer¬ ings of ber poor husband, aad  so she often told Donald.    But t<ie had was resllciis and roving, and he would take his guii, and out over the mountains at the peep uf day, aye, even when the stars were yet glimmerini; in the sky; and many a pouch uf game, did   de bring home at even fall to the cot ot 'ri'i Tnother.    And then again, would he climb among the cliiH tu icix-f-h fur tht • ;;gs 01 the wild Lirds that build among the hi^h Krey  peaks beyond   thc glen, and  he SDrtietinies scaled  tho  nest of 111*- very eagle tier^'df, go ilaring  nnd sure   footed  was  he.—.And after him went still the young; .Allen, for he Iciv- ed his brother, and   Donald returned the affection of the innocent bairn.— Even now I seem to see hiin, as he u- sed to sit on the turf at the cot v/atch- ing and waiting for his brother's return, when it so happened that he had been abroad without him.    And   when   he first caught a glimpsfe of him, coming slowly and wearily down thc glen, how his eyes vvould glisten, and his little face would beam hke sunshine, as he sprang to meet his dear Donald.    One night I had been to sleep at Elinore's, for my husband had gone to a neigh¬ boring town for a day ur tvvo, and there were nwie but men servants left at the cajitle  except old   Maude, so feeling alone like, 1 went down to Elinore's to stay   by her.    Wrll  we ro.se  at day davvn, and scarcely that, for there was but a greyish like streak ir the east; but I had something of a walk to take, ere I could measure back my vvay to the castle, and Eb i.ore had to go a clev¬ er bit up towards tiie head nf the glen, to get her two cows home in early sea¬ son, and  though 1 told her  she  had better send Donald and Allen for them she said, no, let them sleep awhile yet. But she opened the door of their little room, and we both looked in on them. —There they lay—Donald in a sound sleep, and his  young brother vvith his face pressed close to his dear Donald's cheek, and his arm thrown over his bo¬ som as if he was clinging to him after his return from the chase.
It was a sweet sight, and Elinore stooped down and kissed thc forehead uf her sleeping sons. We left the cot- t.ige and 1 told her at parting that if my husband did not return, I vvould be with her again before the gloaming. Elinore took her vvay up the glen, and what befel her there she afterwards told me, when she lay on the bed of sick¬ ness. She had reached the border of the deep basin, where the water sleeps, as it were, after rushing from the cliff's above and had begun to ascend among the rocks,—for she thought, as she af¬ terwards said, that as she had time enough before her, she would search out a few herbs that grew in that wild place, to send to old Maude, who had- been ailing a long time. Well, she wound her way along thc side of the torrent, which appeared to her, to rush stronger, and roar louder, the higher she went, and the mist rolled over the summits and down the sides of the hills en, my l^ady, poor r^iinore and every thing around her looked so lived in the htth'cjt, down in the glen j wild and solitary, that her courage fail-
you  admired so much.    The  stream j ed, and she prepared to return to the
level ground for her cows. But just as she came opposite the l^eat black crag, that which we call EaMicliff', my Lady, she saw the sapors roll down its sides like wreaths of snow, and they sailed over the bed of the torrent and concealed it from her sight ihuugh she still heard it roaring below. Then she said, it separated, and she jaw among the mists on the opposite ro:k9,a form like that of her owa Allei, wrapped in a winding sheet, and oh, U was aboui his neck—And while she looked, it changed its form and vanished away, taking the most beautU'ul colors as It disappeared. She was so toirified that she dropped the lapful of herbs she had gathered fur Maude, and has'.ened back to the cot resolved to keep Allen at home all that day. The sua vvas just rising when she reached the cottage door,—she opened it hastily, but found that her sons had already gone. There on the table stood two small wooden bowls with their horn spoons; a jug with a little milk remaining In it, and some fragments of eaten bread lay near, the remnants of their morning meal. They had eaten it, and set out on their usual rambling^. Elinore vvas miser¬ able all the day, and as she said fit for nothing; the appearance on the side of the Earnclift* still haunted her mind; she would have thought it a delusion occasioned by rolling mists, but no— the countenance was pale, and she saw it plainly—it smiled upon lr.;r.
' Evening at length returned, and as my husband was still absent, I again went to Elinore's cottage. I fuund one of the neighbor's there trying to comfort her, for she was still wearying for her boys tn come linnie, and vve were telling ht»r how idle her fears were, for sure it was no uncommon thing for Donald aud Allen to stay away till night-fail.
 Just then vve heard a hasty step near the door, and in a moment Donald entered b-arin^ something heavy. His mother -itarted from her teat, and stood stiJi as she gazed at him, ;.s well she might; for hi,- countenance was as pale and wan   as that of the water wraith,
ant'   '  '-^  aV'<_o_.-».Tr*;j^   .f.?4l-.   -; . {»..J,1   fh*.
lifeless body of his young urother in his arini:, whose head" dropped over his shoulder like a broken lily. In an in¬ stant he stooped, aud laid the boy down on thc earthen floor, as he cried with a voice—oh, my lady, so unearth¬ ly—like nothing that I had ever heard before—it was so piercing—so lik6 an agony—' Mother' he cried, ' I have shot you an eaglet!'—then throwing his arms up, with something between a laugh and a scream—he darted thro' the door, and disappeared up the glen —nor from that day to this has he ev¬ er been seen or heard of more.
* The woman, whom I had found sitting with Elinore and myself, raised the breathless body from the floor, and laid it on the little bed in the inner room, where 1 had seen him so sweet¬ ly sleeping in the morning. His blue eyes vvere closed now forever, and his pretty golden ringlets were stiftened with blood—a wound appeared in his left temple, which had caused his death.
• But oh, my lady, how can I describe the agonies of the poor unhappy Elin¬ ore—-how she clung to her boy; bow she pressed her lips to his cold face, and demanded to be buried with him; long she lay so very ill that her friends never expected she would rise again. But she did .it length recover, though indifferent to every thing in this world, she no longer took any Interest in her cottage or its concerns. She fell into a deep melancholy, and gradually lost her reason. She would suffer for the necessaries of life, were it not for the bounty of her neighbors. They would gladly take her into their houses, ei¬ ther of them, but nothing can Induce ber to live with any body. She re¬ turns at night to sleep in her little cot¬ tage, and in the bed formerly occupied by her sons; but her days are passed in wandering among the rocks, or seat¬ ed by the side of Allen's grave.'
Morna paused, and Geraldine, whose tears had flowed rapidly, vvhile listen¬ ing to the simple but melancholy tale, now inquired if any information had ever been gained as to th# manner in which young Allen came to bis death ? MornaVepTied, that < a young country¬ man, who, like Donald, bad been seek ing for eggs among the cliffs, had seen him with his little brother climbing among the rocks towards a nest of young eagles, that he was near enough to hear him desire the boy to sit down on a mossy seat, which he pointed out to him, and wait his return, while he himself would try to get as nigh to the
nest as to be able to shoot one of the eaglets; but that the restless spirit ot .\llen prompted him to follow, un¬ known to his brother, and clambering up by a different route, he arrived at a sumewhat higher point, opposite to that from whence Dunald vvas aiming at the nest—and, raising his head above a ledge of rocks just as the gun went off, received the fatal charge in his temple.
* The startled eagles screamed wild¬ ly, and wheeled high above their eyrie, but the echoes of the solitude were more sadly awakened by the shriek of DonaM, when he beheld his brother fall. For a moment he stood gazing unable to reahse the extent of his mis¬ ery—then snatching the boy up in his arms, he descended from ledge to ledge and rock to rock with inconceivable rapidity, nor ceased his maniac-like speed till he reached his mother's door. The strange youth called, shouted to him in vain. And vain were all his attempts to overtake him. Long be¬ fore his more cautious steps could win to Elinore'i dwelling, the wretched Donald had fled to return no more.'
Lady Geraldine was still weeping over the untimely fate of the youthful Allen and the sorrows of his bereaved parent, when the tr&mpling of horses, and the loud ringing of the bell at the door of tha great hall, announced the return ot her uncle and bis party; and soon after, the lively voices of Lady F. and Mr. Abernety roused her to a recollection of the business of the day. The sadness that oppressed her spirits however, rendered her unable, just at that moment, to meet the cheerfulness of her friends; and taking alight from one of the servants who was cronsing the hall, she retired to her apartment.
Parting with an old Frirnd.—About two year.s ago a sailor had the misfor¬ tune to take on board more grog than ballast, and falling into the hold, dis¬ located his shoulder. The poor fellow was at sea, and being without proper surgical aid, lost the use of his limb. It hung useless from his body, and pro¬ ved a great burthen. Having applied to the most celebrated surgeon in Lon '^on. he was Mlxi tkai: notbLoji^ CAidd b«> done for him but removing the arm from the socket. He was not so ready at first to part company with bis arm', but being told it would never again render him any assistance, Jack con¬ sented to have it off*, observing at the time that no hull should keep on board more cats than could catch mice. He was admitted some months since into Guy's Hospital, and prepared for the operation.
All the pupils attended to lee the operator take the arm off*, and nothing could etceed the skill displayed by Sir !¦•. ' ¦ on the occasion. The arm was put aside to be taken awaj. Jack never uttered a word until it was over. He then said ** I should like to see my arm if you have no objection." ' None,^ replied Sir ——, if you desire iL" The amputated limb was brought, and .Tack, taking tbe hand exclaimed very deliberately, ** Farewell messmate you and I have weathered many a tough gale together, and now we must part. You have been a good triend to me: I shall never find such another?"—The surgeons were struck by the odd man tier in which he had taken leavo of his arm, and a handsome subscription was entered into for his benefit. He got well in a few weeks, but he has not yet lost the recoliectiuu of parting with his old friend.
Poor-man-of-Mutton.—Dr. Jamie- son, the lexicographer of Scotland, ex¬ plains that '< this is a term applied to the remains of a shoulder of mutton, which, after it has done its duty as a roast at dinner makes its appearance as a broiled bone at supper, or upon the next day." The Doctor gives the following anecdote in illustration:— " The late Earl of B. popularly known by the name of Old Rag, being indis¬ posed in an hotel in London, the land¬ lord came to enumerate the good things he had in his larder, to prevail on his guest to eat something. The Earl at length, starting suddenly from his couch, and throwing back a tartan night gown which had covered his singularly grim and ghastly face, replied to his host's courtesy. * Landlord, I think I could eat a morsel of poor manJ* Boo iface, surprised alikie at the extreme ugliness of Lord B's countenance, and the nature of the proposal, retreated from the room, and tumbled down stairs precipitately, having no doubt that this barbaric chief, when at home, was in the habit of •eating a joint of a tenant or vassal when bis appetite was dain tj.*[
Two milk men, some days sine® finding cents very scarce, were much troubled in making change when they sold their milk. They accordingly agreed to go to the U. S. Branch la tills city and get twenty dollars in cents. After the cents were delivered to them, on their wav to the ferry, they stopped at a Porter House to get some punch, when they deposited the bag containing the cents on the table. All ! said an old man who sat in the room, if all that vvas in the bag was half joes it would be something handsome. To which remark, one of the milk men said, they are half joe's, upon which the old man offered a bet of ten dol¬ lars. The stake money was put in a third person's hands, vvhen the milk man making the bet, called to the oth¬ er milk man, whose name was Joseph Joe, says he, are not those in the bag half yours. Yes, says Joe. There, says he, J told you they were half Joes, and accordingly took the bet.
On Sleeping in Church.—It is a' matter of record, (no matter where) that about 100 years ago, an Indiaa was conducted by a discreet burgess of the city, to witness the service* of the sanctuary of the Lord's day—when these services were ended, the citizen, on their way homewards, in order to impress upon the mind of his tawnj friend the superiority of Christianity over heathenism, entered into a detail of the money appropriated by the con¬ gregation of which he vvas a member for the support of public worship, tho erection of the hou-se, the salary of the minister, &c.—To all this the son of the forest, who had observed thp drow¬ sy disposition vvhich pervaded the as¬ sembly, replied. '• Uinph ! Indian sleep just as sound under a tree, and no pay any thing!"
MtrruAL CoNsoMTtoK. An old clergyman, who had an old tailor for his beadle or officer for many year.il, returning from a neighboring sacrament where Thomas was in a hab¬ it of attending him, after a thoughtful and silent pau'»e, thus addressed hia fallow traveller., tbi» ' minister's man;* —' Tammos, I canna weel tell how it is that our kirk should be getting aye thinner an* thinner- for I'm sure I preach as weel as ere I did, an'should ha* tar mair experience than when I gaed amang ye.' " Deed," replied Thomai, *auld ministers, now-a days, are just Hke auld tailors—for I'm sure I sew as weel as ere I did, and tbo claith's the same, but it's the cut, sir, it's the TUW cut."
Touch of the sublime.—The follew- ing is a literal copy of a speech deliv¬ ered at a debating society in one of the western towns of Pennsylvania. Cor¬ poral Trim's eloquence was no toacli to this masterpiece.
" Well—the subject to be excussed ii, whether ardent spirits does any good or not. I confirm it don't.—Jist think of our ancestors in future days—they lived to a most numerous age—so that I think that whiskey nor ardent spirita dont do any good. (Long pause.)— Well—the question to b' excussed is whether ardent spirits does any good or not—so that I conclude it don't,—. (Another long pause.) I can't git hold on the thing so as you're by this time quite squinced of the folly of the thing, Til design it to the presedent."
A schoolmaster who was fond of th© use of his grog as the use of the globes, was asked the difl!erence between gra¬ vity and gravitation—" When I'v* drank five glasses of grog," replied the pedagouge, " my gravity vanishes, and my gravitation begins to operate."  9©e	
Peaches extra.—We have received from the garden of a lady at Pertli Amboy, some leraon clingstones, being part of a second crop this fall. The tree (about five years old,) gave for it« first crop three bushels ol very fine peaches, aod then, as if determined to cut a figure in the world, set about blossoming again, and produced a sec¬ ond crop of nearly a hundred peaches [N. Y. Courier.
We feel it a duty again to notice some of the items of our bill of mortal¬ ity. The whole number of deaths re¬ corded for the last week, is 15^: of these one took * Laudanum to excess,* one died of 'Small Pox,' SIX adults died of * Mania a Potu.' madness from intoxication, and NINE were Utill bom!IP Is not this a most disgrace¬ ful report to go forth, of our habita and fashions i'^Phil. Preis.