Lancaster Examiner and Herald

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m^lxxix.
LANCASTER. PA., WEDNESDAY, JULY "1% 1865,
NO. 36.
lantaster^jramrtitf ^letaKr
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The Sxaminer and Hierald and
AT %Vl a YEAJFt, or §2^111 ADyABCE.
otncn M). WH If OBHi cueew sraiEr.     i
J. A, HIESTAND, E. M. ELINE, S11. MTMIW,
Editor, ona PropriotoMi. WAB bllllli<«.IsStw,ooomiuiilc«Hian*o,iliool'l bsBddiemdtatlig " ¦^Ix.a.Xjn i Tl or,"
liOncaiter, Pa<
ADTERIISINa DKPABIMKNT.
Dtmiisa AnvTOiBDci-TO i>y I". ?««•""["«»'" "'•
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Weil, wjell, I never thought Fred Ave-1 tainly vrould pay every cent   Booner  or . come right back here, and me. and my
'¦''er if ho had to sell his house and fur- [ wife will make things agreeable for you.
A EOLDIEB TO-KIQHI IS OUB OUZSI.
Ftin, .fan tlic gay hearth, and fling back tha barr'd
duor. Strew, etrcw the fresh rushes around on the fioon And blithe bo tho welcome in every breast. For a soldier—ft soldier to-night is car guest.
All honor to him, who, when danger afar Hail light for ruin his ominous star, ^vft pleasures and country, and kindred behind. And sped to the shock on the wings of the wind.
If ycu value the blessings that shine at our hearth. The wife's smiling welcome, the infant's sweet
mirth— VThile they charm us at ovo, let ns think npon
those Who bavo bought witb their blood,  our domestic
repose.
Then share with a soldier yonr hoatth  nnd yonr
home, And warm bo your greeting whene'er ho shall
come; Lot lovo light a welcome in every breast, Por a soldier—a goldier to-night Is onr guest
From Hours at Homo.
rBED, AUD MAHIA. AMD ME.
r.VRT THE FIRST.    ¦
I don't suppose you ever was down to Goshen, in the. St.ito of Maine. But if S[iu was, you had the old Avery plaoe p'nted out to you, nnd he,ird a kind word spoke .about them as had lived there.^ Hy fiitUer was well-to-do, and so was his father befpre him. And so, when one hy ono our family dropped away, I waa left in the old plaoe, rich and lonesome. At least it looked as if 1 w.is lonesome; and every body wns glad when I took a little friendless nephew of mine tobe the aame as my own child. I hadn't no great use for money, and there is no sense in pre. tending I knew how to take cara of.it. Some has a faculty that way, and some hasn't. And so it happened that after Krod grew up and went to New York tq ;ivo, he got into the way of taking a thou¬ sand dollars here and a thousand there, partly to tako oare of for me and partly to use in the way of his business.
I didn't keep muoh acoount of what he had; and it came upon me all of a sud¬ den one day that I was finding it hard to get enough to pay my subscriptions with. Kor I always subscribed to tho Home Mis¬ sionary and all theiQ, and paid up regu- IS; and I wasn't never the one to be mean about supporting the gospel, either. I paid my pew-rent right up to the day, and our minister knows how often I had bim and his wife and all the children to tea, and how there wasn'tnever any stint, and the best cups and saucers got out, nnd them children eating iintil thpy couldn't hold no more, and a filling their pockets full of doughnuts, and I making believe not see 'em do it.
Well! I never shall forget the dayDea- oon Morse came round to get the pew- rent, and I had to say out and out, ',Dea- con Morse, I'd give you the money if 1 bad it, but the fact is, I ain't hnd a dol¬ lar these three months.'
" You don't say so," says be, and he was so struck that he turned quite yaller. " Yes, I do say so," saya I. ' Fred has been plagued a good deal nbout his busi¬ ness, and I've liad to help him along; 5jva then you know I ain't hand at tak¬ ing care of money, and so he's been keep, ing it for me. And he says I givo away too much, and shall look out thata check is kept upon me. I expect he don't con¬ sider tbat at my time of life folks can't change their natur's. And its my natur to keep my money a stirring. You can't eat it and you can't drink it, and why shouldn't you make your fellow-creatures happy with it?'
" But Fred pays  the  interest regular, don't he ?' says the Deacon.
' Well, I can't say as he doea pay it re¬ gular,' says I. ' lie sends me twenty dol¬ lars one time, and ten another time; and onco or twice he'a wrote that he was hard up for cash, and he knew I'd not press him against the wall. And lately ho ain't wrote at all. ' Pretty business, to be sure!' says the ^icacon. 'I never thought you knew much, Aunt Avery, (you seo I'm every¬ body's aunt; its a way folks has) iut I did thinlc you had a little mite of com¬ mon sense, if you hadn't no book-learn-
' I don't suppose I know much,' says I, 'and I never was left lo think I did. And as for sense, I know I ain't got much of that, either. Tho Lord don't givo every¬ thing to one. Folks can't expect, if they are handsome, to have sense besides. It wouldn't bo fair. And them tbat has money can't ejtpeot lo have the gift of taking caro of it and hoarding it. No, no, the Lord divides out things even, and Ills ways .ire bettor than our ways.'
' I'll tell you what,' says the Deaoon_ 'you ought to see a 'little more of the J.orld. You're a nice littlo body, and when it comes lo standing up for the Lord, and going round among the poor and the sick, I don't know your match, anywhere. But you're ignorant ot the world, Aunt Avery, very ignorant. And as for that nephew of your'n, X guess you will find his gift is the gift of landing you in the alms-house, one of these days.'
' Ueacon Morse,' says I, 'I've heard you speak in meeting a good many times, but I never saw you so much riled up as you are now. And if it'a on my acoount you are so wrathy, yon needn't ba irrathy no moro, for I've got riches no man oan take from me.'
' And what if I turn you out ot that pew of your'n where you've sot ever since you was born, and where your father and grandfather sot afore you!'
' I don't know—May be it would oome hard.   But there's free Beats up in the gallery, and if I don't pay my rent, I'm ysura I ought not to set in my pew.'
ly *ouId turn out as he has,' says tho fieacbn. 'As smiUng, good-natured a boy as ever was I I'll step over and havo a word with Sam, if TO" ha™ n" objection. Be'may think of some way out of this botier. And as for you. Aunt Avery, don't yon worry. The Lord will take care of you.'
Well, pretty soon Sam Avery camo in, looking half as tall again as common, and I'm sura I wouldn't for tho world, write down all the dreadful things he was left to say about Fred.
'I'll go now.and consult Lawyer Rog¬ ers,' said he, at last.
' But wouldn';t' that hurt Fred's feel¬ ings?' saya I. And I didn't want to hurt his feelings, I'm sure I didn't.
'Besides, there aint no lawyer in the world can get your money back when there aint no papers to tell where it went to.'
¦Ifs the most shamtful thing I ever heard of!' said Sam. ' And you take it as oool as.B cucumber. Why, Aunt Avery, do you realize that you won't never have a red cent to givo away ?'
' Well, I hope it aint so bad as that,' says I. And I took off my spectacles and wiped 'em, for somehow I couldn't seem to see as plain as common.
Now the next day was Sunday, and I will own Satan is dreadful busy Sundays. And be kept hovering around me as I was washing up the dishes after breakfast, and says he, ' How'II you feel a sittin' up in the gallery this afternoon!' says he, ' Kverybody will be lookin' up and won¬ dering, and there will be no end to wan¬ dering thoughts in prayer. You don't feel verywell. Aunt Avery, and if I was you, I wouldn't go to meetiog to-day.— Next Sunday may be it won't be so hard to go and sit in the gallery.' |
'You needn't call me Aitiit Avery," says I 'for I ain't your aunt, and you know it. And I'm goin' to meeting, and I'm goin' all day, and so you may go about your business,' says I. So I dressed my¬ self up in my go to meetin' things, and I went to meetin,' but I didn't sit in the Avery pew, 'cause I band't paid my pew- tax, and hadn't no business to. I went up into tbe gallery and set down in the free seats near the singers. There was old Ma'am Hardy and old Mr. Jones, and one other man and me; that was all; and tho old Avery pew it was empty all day. If the people stared and bad wanderin' thoughte.I couldn't help it, but I don't believe they did have no wanderin' thoughts. And oomin' out of meeting a good many shook hands with me just the same as ever, and the minister he smiled and shook hands, and his little Rebecca, her tbat used to like my doughnuts so, she kind o' cuddled, up to me, anl says she, " Aunt Avery, put down your head so X pan whisper tq you.' And I put down my head so she could reaoh up to my ear, and says she, ' You won't be poor any more, for here's some money of my own that I'm to give to you, and don't you tell anybody you've got it, 'cause they'll bor¬ row it if you do, and never pay it back.' And then the little thing squeezed two cents into my hand and kissed me, and looked as contented as an angel. And I always was a fool about sitch things, and what did I do but burst right out a orying there before all the people ! But I don't think none of 'em see me, for they all passed on, ane so I got out and got home, and I laid .them two centa down on tho table, and I knelt down, and says^I ' Oh Lord, look at them two cents!' I couldn't say no more, but he knew what I meant, just as well as if I'd prayed an hour, and I could almost see him a lying of his hands on the child's head and blessing of her just as he did to those little ones ever so many years ago. So I ate my dinner, and read a chapter, and went to meetin' in the afternoon, and our minister preached such a sermon that I forgot that I was in the gallery, and everybody forgot it, and there wasn't no wanderin' thoiigbts ifl tbe meet- iri' hoqse, I'll venture to say. Well, after tea I sat in my chair feeling kind o' beat out, and in walks Deacon Morse. 'Aunt Avery, do you keep Saturday night?' say ho. ' Yes, deacon, I do,' saya I. 'So do -/re to home,' says he, ' and it's all the same as Monday mornin' after sun¬ set,' says he, 'so thero ain't no harm talk¬ ing of worldly things. And Iwant to know what you went and left your pew for, and tookand setupintheg^UeryafiUen' every body's mind with all sorts of thoughts, and m^ltin' em' break thfc Sabbath day a lalkin' of it all the timebetween meetin's?' ' Why, I hadn't no right to no olher Beat,' says I, ' and I didn't mean lo do no l^harm,' Bays I.
' If you wern', so good you'd put me all out a' patience,' saya he. 'The pew's your'n and there ain't no hurry about them taxes, and if there was, we could sell the pew and get our money's worth. And don't you go to being stuck up'cause you've lost your money, and making be¬ lieve humble; the Lord don't like them sort of things. I dont mean to hurt your feelin's. Aunt Avery,' says he—"my ways is rough but my heart, aint. And what I mean is, don't go to settin' up there in the gallery, but set in the old Avery pew and let's have it look natural down atairs BO we can listen to the sermon and not be a starin'' round thinking to ourselves, if there ain't an Avery up on the gallery 1' ' De.iconMorso,'s.ays I,' you don't mean no harm, I'm sure, and I don't mean no harm. And I'm sorry 1 ever told you where my money's gone. Its fumed your natur' and made you kind o' sharp and ciitling,' says I. ' And its turned you and everybody against Fred Avery, and he ain't to blame for being poor. I'm sure he feels bad enough that he's taken away my living, and we ough t to be a pity¬ ing him instead of upbraiding him.
So Deacon Morse ho wiped bis eyes, and says he,' It did rile me to seo the old pew empty, Aunt Avery, but good bye; next Sunday we'll havo things our own way.' After he'd gone I set and thought and thought, and at last I got some paper and a pen and ink and I wrote a letter to Fred and told him not to feel bad about it but I wna pretty :well used upjfor want o' money, and if he could let me have a lit¬ tle I'd take it kindly of him, and if he couldn't he needn't mind, I'd sell tha old plaoe and manage somehow.   Satan hung round whilo I was a wrltin', and says he, 'Miss Avery, you'll bo as forlorn as old Ma'am Hardy ifyou sell out.   You'll havo to go out to bord, and won't never havo I nothin' to give away, and nover have tho - miniater to tea.   And you was born in this house, and ao was your father and your grandfahter.
'I'mglad you've learnt manners, and stopped calling me Aunt Avery,' says I. 'And if you're hinting about going to law and such things you may as well go, 6rst as last. Forl'U sell this house and give it to Fred, sooner than do anything to please you.'
With that he sneaked off, and I finished my letter. In a few days who should come driving down from New York but Fred Avery; He said he was dreadful sorry aboat that money, but 'twas all gone, aiid timea harder than ever, but he oe/
Amanda ia a little woman myiorfy coiild live with, and it anybody could you could. Ifyou liko your tea hot '
'I do,'says I, 'bilinhot.'
" Well, if you like it hot she does.   But
then if you change your mind and like it
kind of insipidl and lukewarm, and she'll
I change hers, and like it insiped.   Aman-
niture and turn his wife and children into the street.
' I can't sleep nights for thinking of it,' says he, ' and my wife oant't sleep either, and my little children they keep asking papa, hadn'twobetterstopgoingtoschool^ and go and work for our livin', so as to pay Aunt Ayery all thatjmoney ?' i
'La Ido they now?'says I, 'the little da and I nevel: had no words together, dears! You tell 'em Aunt Avery won't and she's a nice little woman, that's a touoh a cent of it, and to .comfort  their   '^'''' |
ma all they can, and tell her never to      "Sam," saya I, "you've hit the right
nail on tha head thia time.   I'll do what
mind anything tha old woman writes again, for she won't have folks kept awake worrin' about her.'
So Fred he promised to make all right and pay me up besides, and he gave me money euough to pay my pew-rent and to get along with a few months—law! I didn't need much 1 and so all began to go on jest as it did before, and Deacon Morae and Sam Avery left off worrying mo about things. But I was turning them over in my mind unbeknown io them, and one day when there was only a dollar left, I but on my bonnet and went over to 'Squire Jackson's, and aays I, "Squire Jaokson, if yon still want to buy the old place, I've concluded to let you have it. I'm getting old and don't want my affeotiona sot too strong on things below, and somehow my heart feels kind o' sore and as if it wouldn't mind partingeven with the old place.'— The fact is, though I didn't know it, I'd got sort o' weaned from this world by Sa¬ tan's botherin' {me and saying, " Tain't right for Fred Avery to cheat you so! He ain't a man to be depended on !" For if there was anybody I ever did love 'twas that boy, and I never looked to see him grow up selHsh or mean ; and his last let¬ ter sounded kind o' sharp and out o' pa¬ tience, as if I was the one that owed the money, and not him, 'Squire Jaokaon didn't wait to be asked twice. He jump¬ ed right up and went for lawyer Rogers, and had the papers drawn up, and I sign¬ ed my name. And the old Avery place wasn't the old Avery plaoe any more.— 'Squire Jackson cut down those trees my grandfather was so proud of, and had the house turned upside down and inside out* X went to board at the widow Dean's and she gave me.her best bed-room, and I tried to make out that I was at home. But 'twasn't home after all, and I couldn't have the minister to tea, nor fry dough¬ nuts for tbem dear children, and the wi¬ dow Dean's ways wasn't like my ways, and things seemed kind of strange, and I began to feel as if it wasn't me but some¬ body else, and my head got to spinning 'round in a way it never did afore. I thought it was tea, and that the widow Bean didn't make it right, but I didn't like to hurt her feelings by saying that, and at lust I suid to myself, 'The faot L», Aunt Avery, you're an old maid and full of notions, and you've no business sitting here boardin' as if you was a lady ; you ought to be doing something as you was brought up to.' But when I happened to speak lo tho doctor about them queer feelings in my head, ha said, ' Aunt Ave¬ ry, a journey would do more good than all the doctors in the country. You've a great deal to try you and you've changed your manner of Ufa entirely. It don't agree with you to sit here doing nothing, and you must get up and go off some¬ where.'
'But whereabouts?' stiys I. 'I never was twenty miles from homo in my life, and I'm sure I don't icnow where to go.' That very day I got a letter from Fred saying ha had been sick with a fever, ow¬ ing to bis anxiety about his business, and especialy at the step he had driven me to taka by his want of.money. ' If I had a few thousand dollars I could take ad¬ vantage ot the state of the market,' said he, ' and make a speculation that would set me on my feet again, and you with me. Aunt Avery. Then you could buy tho dear old place back and live just as you used to live. But alas! this paltry sum is wanting.
'Money wouldn't set them old trees a growing again,' says I to myself, ' nor make our old house ever look old again, ot least not in my time. But if it could put Fred on his feet again, why it's a pity he shouldn't have it. And I've had hard thoughts I ought not to have had, and called him mean and selfish, and that isn't tho way the Bible tells us to feel. If I thought I could get to being as quiet and happy as I used to be in tha old limes, I'd give him every oent I have left, and welcome. But then where should I live* and who'd take and clothe and feed me for nothing? It takes all the widow Dean's grace and nature too to stand having me to board even when I pay her every Saturday night, and I s'pose people wasn't mado to live together; if they was, everybody'd likeitheir tea lukewarm, and not have two opinions on that p'int or no other.
Just then Sam Avery he came saunter¬ ing in, and says he, 'Aunt Avery, the doc. lor says if you don't go off on a journey your head'll split iu two, and I'll tell you what, I've got a first rata plan in my head that'll set everything straight in no lime- You set here all day worrying about Fred and pitying bim 'causa he can't pay hta debts; now if you could put him in the way of paying what he owes you, wouldn't it talco a lo.id off your mind?"
' Goodness, Sam,' says I, 'of course it would. But there ain't no way unless il is to let him have what 1 got for tho farm And I've a good mind to do that.'
' Ifyou do, I'll have you put in ths asy¬ lum,' says Sam. ' You don't know noth- ingjabout the world and I do, and I want you lo promise me that you won't let Fred have that money wilbout consulting me. Doyou think your good old father worked and toiled and got his face sun-burned and his hands as hard as two horns.just for Fred Avery ? What do you suppose ho'd say if he could rise from his gravo and see stran¬ gers rampaging over tho old plaoe, and them trees cut down, and them red and yellow carpets all over the lloor your mo¬ ther used to keep so clean and shining? Why he'd sneak back where he rose from in less than no time.'
I got so bewildered hearing him talk, that I didn't know what I was about, and I began to think there's two ways of look, in' at things, and may be I hadn't reilect- ed whether or not my father would have liked what I had done. But I knew I'd tried to do as I'd done, and so I says to Sam:
' Don't talk so .Sam. It makes me sort o' shudder to think of my father that's gone to heaven, oaring anything about the old place now, and what color 'Squire Jackson's carpets ara, and such thinga. And if you've got any plan for Fred'a good in your head, I wish you'd tell it, for I'm afraid I haven't shown a ChriBtian spirit about him.'
' Well,' saya Sam, 'you've got to go a journey and so have I, for I'm going to New York on business. And you can go along with me and see Fred and tell him you'll take part of hie debt in board. That wUl relieve his mind and his wife'a mind, and baas Christian an aot as need ba. And then, if after tjying 'em you don't liko I their ways, and don't fool to home, you
ia no more'n Christain, and go to Fred's. Poof man how glad he'll be, and how glad his wife'llbe, and their little children too. I wonder that I naver thought of it be¬ fore !" I
So the next|week we set off, Sam and I, and all the way 1 kept taking back the thoughts I'd liad about him, for it was plain now ha had Fred's good at heart, and all along, jI had fancied there wasn't much love lost between 'em. ' How pleased they'll bo I declare,' says I to my. self. ' I can iake hold and help Fred's wife about the work, and them children; afid there's my old black ailk, lean make that over for ono of 'em, if they ara any of 'em big enough to wear ailk, and then there's my delaine 1" I hadn't, felt ao happy aince the day I sit in tha gallery, but just then we drove up to a very high brown house, and Sam cried out:
'.'"Wake up. Aunt Avery here we are!"
" Why, we ain't going to a tavern are we?" saya I. "1 thought wa were going right to Fred's!"
"Well, tbiajia Fred's; jump out. Aunt Avery, for they're opening tha door."
" What I this great palace I" says I all struck'up. "Oh Sam! it must be they've took borders."
Sam kind o' laughed, and says he, " Then it'll coine all the handier having you," aaya he.|
We went up the ateps, and pretty soon they let us in, and Sam pulled ma along into a great, long, splendid room and sat ma down on a! sofy. At first I oould not see muoh of anything, for there was thick curtain^ on the winders, and tha blinds shut to, but after a minute I began lo make out tha i things, and there was a sight of 'em to ba sure, chairs and tables and aofys, and I don't know what not, all in a muss instead of setting regular and tidy up against the wail.
" Things is in dreadful confusion, ain't they ?" says I, ' but I suppose Fred's wifi) i« a getting supper, and ain't had lime to clear up yet.'
By this time a lady came into the room and stood a staring first at me and then at Sam as if we were wild Indionaor Hot¬ tentots, and says she:,
' You've probably mistaken the house, says she. Sam got up and says he, ' Isn't Fred at home,' says ha. Upon that ehe stared worse than ever, and lurned quite red, butSnm up and told her who he was and who I was, aud was going down to find Fred, ond would leave me in her care.
' But I'm Eurprised he ain't to home, for I made an appointment with him for just this time of day,' says he, ' and rather awkward not to find him, I'm free to say.' j
Juat then in walks Fred a looking as black as thunder, and he takes no notice ofme but juatlgoes iip to Sam, as if ho was going to oatoh Jiim by the throat, and says ho:
' Well sir !' ' Well sir!' says Sam. And they stood a looking at each otb¬ er just like two roosters that's a going to fight.
But after a minute Fred turned round shook hands with me and aays:
' This is my! Aunt Avery,' and the lady tbat had been standing there all this time she stared harder than ever, and says she, ' Indeed ?'
ThinkB I she feels bad at having me see her parlor in , such a clutter, and so I made believe not to lookatanything,-but for the life of me I couldn't help seeing them chairs all askew, and so I got up and laid my bonnet on the table, and while I was a doing of it I just sat a couple of 'em straight and even, by the window. The minute she aee me ahe run and pulled 'om all askew again,
Fred he kept edging oil while wa waa a moving ofthe ohaira, and at last he got Sam into the back parlor, for he didn't aeem to want anybody to hear what they was talking about.
Fred's wife didn't say nothing, so says I:     . ' Do you keep boarders, ma'am ?' 'Keep boarders! gracious! says she. 'I ask your pardon if I've  aaid any¬ thing out of the way,' says I.    ' It looks like suoh a big house, and if it had such a sight of room in it.'
' Did I understand Mr. Avery  to aay you are hia aunt?' aays sha after awhile. ' Yes ma'am, I'm his aunt, by the fath er's side,' says I.
' Most extraordinary !' says she.
' No dear, not extraordinary,' aays I.—
' It's as natural as can be.   Jeremiah and
Abraham Avery married   sisters.    And
Jerry's sister she married a cousin.    And
Fred's father, he '
' Good-bye. Aunt Avery, I'm going now' says Sam coming in,' remember what I've told you about Amanda; goodbye, Mias Avery, goodbye Fred ;' and so off he went. And I realified tbat I was beal out, what with tbe journey and all. So I said I should be glad to go up stairs if it would not be loo muoh trouble to show me tho way.'
' Oh no, not at all,' says Fred, and he had my trunk carried up, and sent for a nice tidy young woman to show ma my room.
Well, we went up so many pair of stairs that I was all out of breath when I got to my room, and had to set down in the first chair I see.; It was one 'o them short daya in the fall, and though it wasn't more than four o'olock, it was begining to grow dark. So tbe young woman let down the curtins and lit a light, and I could see what a beautiful room it was, with such a great white bed, and a white quilt all sweet and tidy, and the brown and blue carpet, and the brown and blue curtains and all.
' Dear me 1' says I, • this rcom is too nice for an old body like me. Isn't there some little oorner you oan tuck me into? ' Oh this is not the best room by no means,' says she. ' Not but it ia a decent bad-room enough though. Shall I help you dress for dinner ?'
' Why, ain't they had dinner yet ?" says I.   ' I hope they ain't waited all thia time for ma.'      \ 'Oh, dinner isn't till six,' aays she. I stared at her then she stared at me; and then says she:
' I guess you ain't beon mnch in New- York ?' says ahe.
' No. I never was out of Qoshen be¬ fore, till now,' says I, 'and Goahen'a ways ain't like New York way8,atleast I expect they ain't, j But what is it yon was say. ing about dressing for dinner 7 Are they going to have company ?'
No, onlyj I thoaght you'd want to fix up a little,? says she.
'I guess it ain't worth while if they ain't gomg to have nobody,' says Ii ' And I'll jistlay down a little while and get rested, if you'll oall me when dinner's ready.»_' So ahe went down, and I fried lo get a nap, but somehow I couldn't, I was ao faint, and beat with Ihejoprn^ and the need of sometimes to eat, if twas not more than a cracker. Ahd when they come and called me to dinner I was thankful to go down, though,' twas so odd a eating dinner after dark.
We all sat down to the table, Fred, and his wife, and me, and there wasn't noth¬ ing on it but soup.
'I supposed they economize in their victuals,' thinks I,' to pay for living in such a big, handsome house. But I must aay I never ate auch good soup, and it must have taken more'n one beef-bone to make it, X am sure.'
'Cousin Avery,' says I to Fred's wife, 'you make your soup beautiful. And you all dressed up like a lady, too. I can't think how you do it. Now when I'm round to work a getting dinner, I can't keep nice and tidy. Not that I hava auoh handsome clothea as your'n,' says I, for I aee her a clouding up and don't know what I'd eaid to vex her.— There was a man a clearing off tha table, and I see him a laughing, and thinks I what's he laughing at? At me? Buti' aint done nothing to laugh at, and most likely it's his own thoughts are" pleasing him. Butjust than ha came in with a great piece of roasted beef and a couple of boiled chiokens, and aver so many kinds of vegetables, enough for twenty.
' Why, Fred,' aaya I, ' them ohiokena look as plump and fat aa if they'd been in tha country. I had an idea New-York chickens were only half growed. But I supposed being brought up on a farm you know how to raise' em more'n common, don't you?'
Fred smiled a little, but didn't say noth¬ ing, and it got to be kind o' silent, and I kept'thinking what a number of things was brought on to the table and so much trouble just for me, so saya I.
' Don't put yourself out for me. Cousin Avery,' aaya I. 'If you make a atranger of ma I shall wish I hadn't come. There'll bea plenty of tbat cold meat for to-morrow, and I'm partial to cold meat.'
By this we'd about got through dinner, and the man had gone away, bo Mrs. Avery she spoke up quite angry liko, and says she:
* The idea of my being my own cook and making the soup! Ha! ha! Even Jobn oould not help laughing !'
' Why, do you keep a girl?' says I, quite bewildered. ' And was that the girl that showed me the way up stairs?'
' What does she mean ?' says she, look- ing at Fred.
' My dear, I'm surprised at you !' says Fred. 'Of course everything strikes a peraon from the country aa more or less singular. But here come the children!' The door opened and in oame three children ; two girls and one boy, and ev. ery one of'em dressed up in while, with curls a fiying and ribbons a flying, and looking as if they'd just come out of a bandbox. There wasn't ona of them more'n seven yeara old, and it oome act oss me it was kind o' queer for 'em to talk of going to get their living, as their pa had said they did, but thinks I tbey are smart little things and not like the common kind. The youngest ona was not much mora than a baby, but he set up in a chair, and his pa and ma they gave bim a good many unwholesome things, and the oth¬ ers helped themaelves to whatever they could lay their hands on. Tbey wouldn't speak to me, but all they seemed to care for was the good things and the nuts and raisins Fred kept a feeding of'em with.— But then all children's fond of eating, and never would atop if they were left to their own way.
I wasn't sorry to hear the clock strike nine,.and to go up to bed. But when I knelt down and tried to pray, it didn't seem aa it did to home ; there was such a noise in the street of wheels going by, that I couldn't collect my thongbta at all, but I seemed to rush and drive and tear along with them omnibuses till my poor old heart got to beating like a mill clap¬ per. And Satan he hung round and kept saying ' Well, what do you think of all this? Your poor nephew, Fred' seems very poor, don't be? and this is a misera¬ ble little mean house, ain't it? and don't hia poor wife have to work hard 7 Where'a that old blaok ailk of your'n, that you was going to make over for ihe .phildren 7 Hadn't you better atop a saying of your prayers and begin to rip it 7' So I got all wore out, and undressed me, and blowed out the light and got into bed. It looked like a nice bed afore I got in, but as soon as I laid my head on the pillow, I says to myaelf,' Faugh ! what feathers! I never alept on such feathers, and ' tain't whole some.'
So I rose up on end, and tossed 'em off on to the floor, but it didn't make no dif¬ ference, and the air seemed full of brim¬ stone and sulphur and all sorts of things, such as you expect to smell when Satan is a prowling round. I felt as if I should smother, and turn whioh way I would I couldn't get to sleep. My head felt worse than it did before I left home, and I be¬ gan to wish I'dstayed there, and not come to this new fangled place whera every¬ thing seems so strange. At last I got up and dressed me in the dark, and went out into the entry to see if I could get a breath of fresh air, and who ahould ba coming up but cousin Fred's wifo.
' Why, ain't you to bed, yet 7' says I,
' No,' aaya she,' I ain't, but where does this horrid amell of gaBcomefrom 7 'ffhal have you been about 7! says sh'e.
' I ain't been about nothin,' aaya I, 'on¬ ly I couldn't get to sleep, and I didn't know what was the matter after I blowed out the light.'
'Blowed out the light! Goodness! It's lucky I've got a nose, or you'd have been dead befora morning, for aught I know,' and she ran into my room and set auch a light a blazing that I was half dazzled.
' Don't never blow out the gaa again,' says she,' but turn it off so,' says she, ahd she put out the light and went away, and there I stood in tbe dark, and didn'tknow where the bed was, and went feeling round and round, and kept getting hold of all aorts of things, till at last I found it, and was thankful to undren and creep in' and hide myself under the clothes-.
[cO.SCtUSlON NE.XT   WEEiC.]
THE OBAY SWAH.
" Oh toll mo, sailor, toll mo true. Is my littlo. lad, my Elihu,
A sailing with your ship ?" Tho sailor's ayes wore dim with dew— " Your little lad, yonr Elihu 7"
He said, with trambliDg lip— " What IltUa lad ? what ship ?"
" What littlo lad 7 08 if thoro conld bo Another snoh a one as bo!
What littlo lad, do you say ? Why, EUhn, that took lo the sea Tbo momdnt I pot him off my knca! It was just tho other day Tho aray Bwan sailed away."
"The other dny?" tho sa'dor'a eyes Blood open with great surprise— " Iho other day 1 tho Swan?" His heart bogan in his throat to rise. "Ay, ay, sir, hero in tho cupboard lies The jacket ho had on," "And so your lad is gone?"
" Gone with tho Swan."   " And did sho stand With her anchor olutohing hold ot tho sand, For a month, and novor stir ?" " Why, to bo suro I   I've scon from the land. Like a lovor kissing his lady's hand, Tho wild sea kissing her— A sight to remember, sir."
" But, my good mother, do you know AU this wns twenty years ago?
I stood on tho Qray Swan's dock, And to that lad I saw you throw, Taking it off, ns it might be, so! The kerchief from your nock." " Ay, and ho'll bring it back!"
"And did tho littlo lawless lad That has mado you siok and made you sad, Sail with tho Gray Swan's crew ?" " Lawless! tho man is going mad!. The best boy ever mother bad- Be suro he sailed witb tbo crew! What would you havo him do?"
"And he has never written line,
Kor sent you word nor made you sign
To say ho waa alive ?" " Hold.' if 'twas wrong, tho wrong is mino ,- Besides, he may be in the brino.
And conld he writo from tho grave ?
Tut, man ! what would you have ?"
" Gone twenty years—a long, long cruise— 'Xwas wiokod thus your love to abuse;
But if the lad stilllivc. And como hack home, think yon, you can Forgive him ?"   " Miserablo man.
You're mad as tbe sea—you rave—
What have I to forgive ?"
The sailor twitched his shirt so blue. And from within his bosom drow Tho kerchief.   Sho was wild. " My God! my Father! is it true ? My littlo lad, my Elihu !
My blessed boy, my child ! My dead, my living child!"
MT DEmsiON.
CuAKiTV—Let my lips be sealed with Charity, that they may opan only for the good of my neighbor. Let xaj efei- be veiled with Charity, ttiat they may rest npon good, and that wickedness may be shut from my sight. Let Charity olbsa my ears to all unkind and malicious slan-' der. LetCharity keep my hands'busy with profitable work, and my feet tamed in the path towards thosa whom God hath given me power to benefit. May Chariiy keep my heart frqm secret sin, from evil imaginings, from, the tempting' whispers of the avil: one. So that .ahating every doojr ^gaiast^imoiiaritableiiesB, my aonl may be madestrobg in lore to theTatW 'and to all men.'
The delusion waa with respect to Isa¬ bella. It was not the ' Isabella with a ingham umbrella, which her father kep' at barber's shop at Islin'ton,' about whom I hava heard the street boya shout them¬ selves hoarso in the thoroughfares, but quite a different sort of Isabella. Her um¬ brella waa, to all appearance, of the choi cost silk, was about tho size of an old fashioned parasol, had a liltle ivory han¬ dle, ornamented by a little fancy carving, and tattooed with blue spots in divers parts bf tha carving, was fashioned hook- wise at the end, whereby it hung grace¬ fully upon sometimes the forefinger, sometimes tbe little finger of Isabella's wellglovod hand, and had a very long, bright, sharp ferule, wherewith Isabella, aa she walked, tapped saucily upon the pavement.
Ah ! if you could  only have seen Isa¬ bella in her teens—a sight ofher was bel¬ ter than any eye water ; it was  good not only for'sair een,' but  for heavy hearts —the most care-worn looking people used to brighten up at a glimpse of her, even people with tooth- ache used lo smile as she passed.    She was bright as a hunbeain, straight as a dart, airy as a gossamer, and graceful as a fern.   She danced in a man. ner to pique Terpsichore, and with one camelia in har  glossy hair  she looked more glorious than a queen with a coro¬ net of diamonds. Now Isabella happened to bo tba youngest of four daughters, but sha happened also to be the fairest.    The conaequenca waa that, though her ptirent (for ahe bad no mother,) and ber sistera regarded her, by reason of her youth, as almost nobody ; visitors, amongst whom was yoar obedient  humble servant,  re¬ garded her as almost everybody.    When, therefore, during my visit, the .Johnson's gave a dinner party, and arrangements were being made, with great respect for precedence   and   propriety,   as   to who should be 'taken in" by whom, Isabella's parent turned to me, who (fortunately I think, as will appear from the sequel) the most insignificant of the whole party, and said, in a sort of apologetic tone, (show¬ ing how blind parents often are to the merits of their children and to the yearn¬ ings of their visitors,) 'Blank, you'll have to take in Isabella.'   Have to, he aaid, aa if I held  the views of  Isabella's sisters about her being ' a little chit,' as if I were an object of pity for being paired off with' 'the youngest;' and as if he hadn't mada my very blood   to dance with joy.   'Very pleasant, therefore, was   his laugh, and very satirical were the smilea of Isabella's sistera when  I rejoined,- promptly and emphatically, 'Thankyou, air; I shall ba the proudeat man in the room." Perhaps it wasn't quite fair towards Isabella's aia ters to make the remark I did ; butthere are sometimes some words which  an in¬ ward irresistible impulse force you to ut¬ ter, though you should thereby break all the rules of conventionality, and make all the world except one charming creature your enemy.   Truth is mighty, and will (sometimes) prevail; Lovo is blind, and communicates (sometimes) his blindness to those whom he leads. Isabella was not present when I gave honest vent to my sentiments, but so soon as she appeared papa facetiously informed ber of what I had said, and I was  witness (gratis) of a more beautiful dissolving view than you could hope to see by payment of half a guinea.   laaberlla's face was for a moment all aglow, and a blush suifiiaed her face; then gradually the glow departed,   the blush faded,  and her faca resumed  its usual appearanoe.. You luustn't suppose that she red^ened.aa one under the influ. .ence of indigeatjon; .there was no patchy sort of inflammation;, a roay.tint ju»t dyed her face, tbpn: traveled.,down h«r,| anpwy.fleck, and, was hidden beneath the top edging-of her dresa.   And then Bhe.^ said, in heraoftlowToice—after jntt one glancain mydireotion^'I am' sure Mr. Blank ia veJy'V and she laughed a little laugh of satisfaction with herself and of acknowledgment to me.   Thence began my great deliiaiori. '
I had ofteii been-undertdelusionS be; fore, but it v^as cpnoermBg.Ii«ibena ttat 1 harbored my great d<4f^ira.' ]?<)^ j^jfajtce,'. I had been und^rj|be.i^'preBaion whegiTj was at school,'' U jjwSji^LWltJJl''-'' ,'^ whofa^ "holiday, that «|pp^M'^|^Te'D^eant 'wUtt she said wltetToli'iiiS^'enjoined m? 'alwm, tq ^leh^ ,^_.^-^^i|p^,|J^^^
ded to hear my relative utter these re¬ markable words.- ' Thank goodness! tbat boy'a gone at laat. I do wish he wouldn't come here ao often ;' whereupon the de¬ lusion I had been laboring under, that my relative was ' always so pleased' lo see me wae abruptly removed, and with a about of 'No, I haven't gone, but I'm going.' I rushed from my relative's hospitable roof, never again, without moral or physical compulsion to stand or sit beneath it.— Another delusion I was the victim of was, that my morning calls and my conversar tion were a source of considerable plea¬ sure to the Groveses, and espeoially to El¬ len Groves, who was very good looking.	
But that deluaion speedily vanished after what occurred upon a certain Friday, (a day ofthe week which Bailors do well to hold unlucky).   I had justknoked at the Groves'fl door, when on eager face popped up abova tbe blind, look a little peep, be¬ came twice its ordinary length and was hastily withdrawn.   It was Ellen Groves'a face.   Tba door was opened, and I en¬ tered just in' time to hear a voice com¬ plain, 'I thought it was Harry, and it's that odious Mr. Blank—it was just like Harry's knock.'    It was Ellen Groves'a voice.    Now, bow in tha name of Old Harry   was I to  know that my hand¬ ling ot a atreat door knocker would ex¬ actly resemble somebody else's ? But here I was called  ' odious' for an involuntary if not inevitable offence.    It is wonderful, after what I bad beard,   my flow of con¬ versation was checked, my remarks wero far from brilliant, and  I auoked rather more varnish off the handle of my um. brella tban can be wholesome ior a human being ?   Besides, I had bought a new hat, a new tie, and a new pair of glovea for this call; upon my honor, I had a good mind to send tha bill into the Groves.   So ano¬ ther of my pleasant delusions pasaed dis¬ mally away.    And many olher delusions I have bad, wbich in course of time have vanished, and left mo a wiser, no doubt, if not a better man ;   and have lessened any   overweening confidence in  myself whioh I may before have nourished,  if they have not tended to increase my con¬ fidence in my fellow creatures, to foster my love of my neighbor,  to enlarge my supply of the milk of human kindness, and to promote my ease in general socie¬ ty.     In fact, they may have left me shy, suspicious, cynical;   but they were noth¬ ing  to  the   monstrous delusions  under which I labored about Isabella.
After the affair of the dinner party, me thought Isabella looked very graciously upon me. She couldn't help looking gra¬ ciously at all times and under all circum¬ stances, and toward all persons ; but mc- thought she looked on me witli especial grace. I fancied I danced with her oftener than anybody else did, and tbat then she was more sprightly than at any other dan¬ cing lime ; I fancied I oftener than any¬ body else sat by her side at dinner, at toa, at breakfast in tbe house and out of tbo house, in the arbor and on tho green lawn: I fancied she played the piece I asked for with more feeling, sang the songs I asked for with more sweetness, and read the books or passages I gave or lent, or point¬ ed out to her, with more alacrity than tha pieces and the songa that others asked tor, and the books or passages that others gave, or lent, or pointed out; and what is more, I fancied tbat when her eyea were fixed on me they took a softer, deeper, moister phase than when they settled upon anybody else.
1 never pretended (and experience shows how vain would have been the pretence) to tbe insight whioh soma wonderfully acuta men possess, or think they possess, into woman's feelings.    'Lord bless you,' I have heard a wiseacre say,  * / know 'em; they needn't not try   to  come  over ma; why, I can lell by a look, an accent, a gesture, when  any particular  name ifl mentioned, whether they have any strong liking for him who is present, or is spoken of; I could tell directly whether a woman would have me or not; I know' em, bleas you.'   Well, I never did, don't, and never shall; I should as soon  think of saying that I understood tbe face of the many- changing ocean.    However, I fancied that whatever encouragement a man may take from look, voice, and gesture, was given j me by Isabella.    Four years passed, during the lasl ofwhich I saw but little of Isabella, I and there was nothing to .disturb my se¬ rene trust,  when,   one morning, (after I had been warned by some one in a dream t> ' propose' as soon as possible) an envel¬ ope containing two oards.which informed me by unmistakable signs that Isabella Jobnson had become Mrs.  Benson.  My excellent friend Burns, whose only  fault is an irrepressible habit of saying tbe most unpleasant things he can think  of (in fact, his facility in tbat respect amounted almost to inspiration,) and whom I had often met at the Johnsons', encountered mo soon after the first dimness had come over my delusion, and, in the course of conversation,  remarked,   (with   a sharp glance at my tell-tale face.)   " i<o Isabella Johnson has married thatfellow Benson.' (Of course ha increased my pang by the slightly disparaging  tone   in  wbich   ho spoke of Benson.)     ' Yes,' said I, curtly, and endeavored lo change the subject.— 'But I suppose you knew,' he continued, 'it was a long-standing affair; they'd been half-engaged ever so long, only old John¬ son wouldn't hear of it until Benson  got his late appointment."    I was unequal to any comment beyond  the symbol for no¬ thing.   'Soma fellows,' observed  Burns, slily, 'thought yoo were rather touched ; but anybody with half an eye could havo seen she was set on Benson.'    Now, here was I who had heretofore considered my¬ self to.have two whole eyea and yet I had not Been it; verily, my delusion was get¬ ting dimmer and dimmer.   But tbe cul¬ mination of dimnesBS waa yet  to arrive— was put off till an evening when  I was to console a siok friend in his chambers, and was in return intended to be unintention¬ ally cut lo the heart by that friend.
Bastowe had been a tolerably frequent visiter at Johnson's, and I must confess was, both in personal appearance, in at¬ tainments, and in prospects, unexpection- I able; but I had never thought of him at all in connection with Isabella; and now he from- tho sick couch .whereon he lay gave forth such utterances as filled me with dismay, and effectually removed the 1a£t traces of my delusion. Of course, we got talkfng of Isabella's marriage. " Ah!' said he, ' aha was a nice little thing.' I thought his expresaiouB were not quite strong enough. 'Sbe^wss so very grace¬ ful,' ha went oli, ' in all she said or did; I dbii't Ibink .1 ever heard a clumsy ex¬ pression from her lips, or noticed an awk¬ wardness of any kind in her movementa lor her attitudes." I assented vehemently .to this proposition. 'Sh«had the sweet¬ est smile,; ppnUnued Baalowa,' I ever eaw, tha moat(^:h»ngeful, charming eyea that ever, twinkled, and tha most intelligent
tainly bad a good opinion of himself,) re¬ marked .- 'Ah 11 can't help thinking I didn't behave quite well toward that lit¬ tle girl.' ' How not 7' I asked, sharply.— ' Why,' ha replied, languidly, 'you know I was a great deal there—by-tha-way I think I firat met you there?' 'Yea,' answer¬ ed I, sulkily, for la m Bure I wasr 'thoro,' os he oalled the Johnson's house, about fivo times to his onco. • Well,' ha went on,l'I waa there and paid her a great deal of at¬ tention, as I dare say you noticed." "No, I didn't," said I, discontentedly, and I de¬ clare I hadn't noticed it. 'I did, though,' quoth he, ' but as you, of course didn't care aboift it, you didn't observe it.'— Confound his ignorance and imprudence, thought I; but he still continued. ' Yes, I paid her a great deal of atlention, and I could see she liked it; sho always gave me every opportunity of being near her —indeed she seemed to expect me to sit by her, and there was that look about har whioh there is no mistaking—you know what I mean?' 'No more than tho man in the moon,' ejaculated I.
' Oh ! you're suoh an odd fellow,' said he, ' you never notice anything; but. Lord bleas you, I know 'em, and I saw I was going too far, for I was engaged  at the time (the engagement has been broken off since, but at the time  it was iu full swing,) and I thought I had belter baok out by degrees ; so I managed not to sit by her eo often ; I talked more to her sis¬ ters; I called more seldom ; andao on, un¬ til we became quite distant.    Andso .she's married that fellow Benson."   Silently  1 pondered over my sick  friend's revela¬ tion, and felt my delusion slipping from me.   If there was any truth in what Bes. lowe said (for ' Lord bless you,'  ¦'' don't ' know 'em,') and any truth in what Burns had lold me about the ' longstanding af¬ fair' of Benson, what a monstrous delu¬ sion I must have been cherishing 1  Then I hadn't seen her oftener than  anybody else had ; then, she hadn't looked at mo witb more softness,  deepness, moistncas in her eyes, than when she regarded oth¬ er people ; then she hadn't played my fa¬ vorite pieces,  sung  my  favorite   songs, read my favorite books, and   quoted my favorite pasaagea with more feeling, more sweetness, more attention, and more fre¬ quency than she played the favorite piec- ea, sang the favorite songs, read the favor¬ ite books, and quoted the favorite passa¬ ges of other people ; then she hadn't re. lurned the pressure of my hand;  then she hadn't looked brighter when I   ap¬ peared on tbe acene; then   she   hadn't said, ' Oh ! I'm so glad you've come,' more expressively to me than to anybody elsel; then Benson and Bastowe {and perhaps a dozen other coxcombs) bad stood belore me in her graces ; then the dreams of the happiest days of my life had been noth¬ ing but a monatroua delusion I What   if love be altogether a delusion 7 What   if Angelica   be altogether a snare ?—What if women be altogether incomprehensible? I m Bure I can't tell you ; but I can meet
DUSATIOH OF LIFE.
The average duration of life of man in civilized aociety is about thirty-tbroo and a third years.   Thia is called a generation, making three in a century.   But there are certain local', ¦.-  • .-¦,,¦ ¦
ties of peopl- >.'.-.;?:    ''. s : -   , i-^,-, ¦• .   .^ sidorably   e.'f .-  ¦ ¦'.      ('•¦    ::'¦   :.-,^r;:.:.-- liveslongerl   • ¦;-.. .!,¦. -.. •al.-.rn. ¦
erthanthe... ...... -''.vt^.m l•l'^
sedentary; I ..      ¦   ,. .,t-^-.; .([.a; indulgent; f ¦    ,..       ..r -!ie ..li
"Thewicke. ¦¦¦!¦:¦
days," is the:, ....
The philoBO ' i ¦ . ,
faot, that th    r        , .;.. ...
power over ¦-..• ;¦" ¦- ,,.,
more centre   --.- ;;-       - .'...-; ined.   The   - nr- n;....   ci; j.ui.-
the light of • ...--.¦ ' .¦.:.     :. :r in'all thing!    ¦ ..i.rtm
his grave is 	
ing Rood."   ¦• I   ' .1
greatoleme- : -.¦...'
traint of th" -,, ;--.-^ ¦   "i.
.hon.i.Hi.— • ::;:!f hU ¦W:;\:ty.— ¦   '¦;    It.,-:
passions; a   ; ••¦    ¦  . . : '        .      ¦
cal cxercisf   ¦ ;..,•   ¦     ' ¦   ...  ;.;   '.
It is said of the eminent Quaker philan¬ thropist, Joaeph John Gurney, that tho labor and pains he took to go and see per¬ sonally the objects of bis contemplated charities, so that none of them should be unworthily bestowed, waa of itself almost the labor of one man, and he attended to his immense banking business besides; in fact he did too much, and died at sixty. The average length of human life, of oil countries, at this age of the world, is about twenty-eight years.    One-quarter   of  all who die do not reach the age of seven ; one-holf die before reaching seventeen ; and yet the average of lifo of " Friends," in Great Britain and Ireland,  in   18C0, was ueorly fifty-six years, just double the average life of other people.   Surely this is a strong inducement for all to practice for themselves, and to inculcate it upon their children day by day, that aimplioity of habit that quietness of demeanor, that reatraint of temper, tbat  control of the appetites and'propensities,  and that or¬ derly, systematic, and even mode of lifo, which "Friends'" discipline inculcates, and which are demonstrably the meana of so largely increasing the average of hu¬ man existence.
Reasoning from the analogy of tbe aiii- mal creation, mankind should live nearly an hundred years; that law seeming lo be, that life should be five times tha length of the period of growth ; at least the gen¬ eral observation is, that the longer peraons are growing, the longer they live—otb¬ er things being equal. Naturalists say : A dog grows for 2 years, and lives S. An ox      " 4 " 10.
Ahorse   " 5 " 25.
A camel  " S " 40.
Mrtn "       20     should live 100.
Bnt the snd fact is, tbat only ona man for every thousand reaches ono hundred years. Still it is enoouraging to know, that tbe science of life, as revealed by tho
Isabella now without a tremor.   It's not | investigations of tha physiologist and tho
an agreeable subject of contemplation I but tbe truth is the truth, and may as well ba spoken ; learn, then, that laabella bas run very much to fat; that she haa a double chin ; that she walks asif she want, ed the chiropodist's assistance ; that she never plays or sings ; that she has five dis¬ obedient ohildren, and that (according lo report) she spank *" them.
il»ei '	
KADY A TIKE AKD OFI.
When the house is still, and the day i.s done,
And the stars arc out aloft, I sit by tho falling 6re atone. And think of the years tbat arc past and gone. Many a time nnd oft. I dream of that village beside the sea; I dream of tbat seat by the trysting tree ; And of one who will never eome back to mo. Ah ! many a timo aud oft!
When the city is hushed, and the chimes are still
And the voices of the crowd are soft. My thoughts wander on at their own wild will. And my tears fall fast, an J my heart is chill. Many a timo and oft.
I dream of tbo hopes nil faded and tied. Of the vow that is broken, the shaft that
sped. And of ono to whom I forever am dead— Ah ! many a time and oft.
teachings of educated medical men, is steadily extending the period of human existence.
The distinguished historian Macaulay slates that in 1G8.5, one person in twenty died each year; in 1850, out of forty per¬ sons, only one died. Dupin says, that from 1770 to 1S4:J the duration of life in France increaaed fifty-two days annually, for in 1781 the mortality was one in twen¬ ty-nine ; IS43, one in forty. The rich mon in France live forty-two years on an aver¬ age ; the poor only thirty. Tboae wbo are " well-to-do in-the-world" livo about eleven years longer than those who bava to work from day today foraliving. Re¬ munerative labor and the dilKusion of tha knowledge of the laws of life among tho masses, with temperance and thrift, are the great means of adding to human health and life ; but the moro important ingredient—happiness—is only lo ba found in daily loving, obeying, and aerv- ing Him " who giveth us all things richly to enjoy."—Hall's ,To<irnal of Health.
TIKE FOB K&TBIHONT.
DOH'r JUDGE  BY APFKABANOES.
Some years ago tbere   arrived at tbe hotel erected near  the Niagara Falla an odd looking man, whose appearance and A writer in one of the weeklies tells us:   deportment were quite in contrast with Among IheancientGermans, than whom   the crowds of well-dressed and polished
unleBB I. WM Bpecialjy/nyitejj^ a)^iiryii».^ Jook you could imagine.' Once more I ConBequ?ntIy I used to go theri-iniii^^ '||8eflted vehemently, and somo compli. erable regutoity.; .but one ,d^y,i w^&.'po |M|}jt»ry|remark8 upon her singing, play- itaeat-doorhappened.tftto 8lam.med,|jt5 S,,dancing, and her frank and easy jmUyiftermy.fasyon-wheneTer,! ws^^. ,B^iniiers (thinking they had been dis
a finer race never existed, it waa death for any woman to marry before she was twenty years old. In this country very fow women are fit, either physically or mentally, to become mothers before they reaoh the age of twenty. The unsound condition and constitution of tbe parent ia usually transmitted, with increased in¬ tensity, to the offspring. By the laws of Lycurgus, the most special attention was paid io the physical education of women; and no delicate or sickly women were, on any account, allowed to marry. Dr. John¬ son, in his work on ' Kconomyof Health,' says that matrimony should not be con¬ tracted before tbe first year of the fourth septennial on the part of the lady, nor before the last year of the same in the case of the gentleman; in other words, tbe female sliould be at Irast twenty-one years of ago, andthe male twenty-eight yeara. The doctor says, that there should be a difference of seven years between tbe sexes, at whatever period of lite the connection is contracted. There ia a dif¬ ference of aaven years, not in the actual duration of life in the two sexes, but in the stamina of the constitution, tbe sym¬ metry of the form, and the lineaments of tbe face. In respect to early marriage, so far as it concerns the softer sex, for every year at whioh marriage is entered upon before the age of twenty.one, there will be, on an average, three years of prema¬ ture decay, more or less apparent, of the
corporeal fabrio."
  le.     ¦
FEi-i.on' 'rR,vvEi.i.Eu.—" Will you help me out of this mud-hole," said a travel¬ ling druggist, who had just been compet¬ ed to stop bia team, beoause they could not pull it out.
"No, I can't stop," said the Yankee, who wns aa heavily loaded,t»nd was feat- ful that he would be too late for the cars.
" I would take it as a great favor, bo- aides paying you," said the former.
" What are you loaded with ?" said the Yankee.
" Drugs and medicines," said he.
" Well, I gueas I'll try nnd get you out than, for I'm loaded with tombstones."
rhey were seen travelling together after \bat.	
As Father Taylor was giving a temper¬ ance address in Rocky Hill meeting- house,a cert.niii drunkard was so much of¬ fended by liis severe but truthful remarks, that he rns.! up and began to hiss the speaker. Instantly Father Taylor turned the attenliuii of the large audience to the insolent rowdy, and them forcibly said, as he pointed to his victim, "There's a red nose got into cold water, don't you hear it hiss."
qnt (Itpwbeit,. in tiua^putioalar .occMi()Bi I: j)j(4 repiainad- indoon,. and the: dun
pligHd particularly   towards   myself.)- Siatowd quite agreed with me, and then.
was dne to eomebody elae),,I was aatonn-.I'qoite to my astonishment (thoughhe oer
The following ia a copy of a letter re¬ ceived by a vilage schoolmaster: " Sur, as you are a man of noledge, I intend to in¬ ter ¦arf aon in your akuU."
Laiid[seer defines photography to be "justice without mercy."
figures whioh adorned the celebrated re¬ sort. He seemed just to have sprung from the woods; his dress, whioh was made of leather, atood dreadfully in need of re¬ pair, apparently not having felt the touoh of a needlewoman for many a longmonth. A worn out bl.infcet, that might havo served for a bed, was buckled to his shoulders; a large knife hung on one side, balanced by a long, maty tin box on the other, and hia beard, uncropped, tan¬ gled aud coarse, fell down upon hia bos¬ oms, aa if to counterpoise the weight of the thick, daik looks that supported themselves on his back and shoulderfl.— This strange being lo the spectators, seem¬ ingly half civilized, have savage, had a quick, glancing eye, an elastic, firm move¬ ment that would, no doubt, win its way through tho brakes both of the wilder¬ ness and of society. Ue pushed bis steps into the sitting-room, unstrapped his lit¬ tle burden, quietly looked round for tbe landlord, and then modestly asked for breakfast.
The host at firat drew back with evi¬ dent repugnance at the apparition which thus proposed tointrudeita uncouth form among the genteel visitors, but a few words whispered in his oar speedily satis¬ fied his doubt; the stranger took his plaoe in tbe company, some shrugging, somo staring, some laughing outright. Yet there was mora in that aingle man than in all the rest of the throng. Hj was an American woodsman, aa ho said ; he was a genuine son of nature, yet be bad been eBterlained with distinction ut the table of princes ; learned societies, to which the like of Cuyler belonged, bowed down to welcomo hia presence; kings bad baen complimented when he spoke to them ; in short, he wsa one whose fame will bo growing brighter when the fashionables wbo laugh at him and many much greater than tbey shall be utterly perished. From every hilltop and deep, shady grove, the birds, thoae blossoms of tho air, will sing his name. The little wren will pipe it with his matyn hymn about her house ; tho oriole carol it from the slender grasses of the meadows; tho turtle dove roll it through the secret forest; the many voi¬ ced mocking bird pour it along the air ; and the imperial eagle, the bird of Waah- ington,a3 bo sits far up on the blue moun¬ tains, will scream it to the tempest and the stars. Ue was the late John J. Au¬ dubon, ornithologist.
A Danish writer spoke of a hut so mis¬ erable tbat it did not know which way to fall, and so kept standing. This is liko the man that bad such a complication of diseaaea that ha did not know what to die of, and ao lived on.
A lady asked her gardner why tba
weeds always outgrew and covered up the
flowersf " Madam,"he answered,  "tho
soil is mother of the weeds, but only atep-
I mothf r of the flowers."