Decatur Eagle, Volume 1, Number 42, Decatur, Adams County, 27 November 1857 — Page 1

T 11 E "DECATUR EAG IE,

VOL. 1.

THE DECATUR Ml. ' T ‘ " PUBLISHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING. Cffloo, oti Main Street, in the old School House, one Square North of J. & P Crabs' Store. Terms of Subscription : For one year, $ I 50, in advance; $1 75, « itbin * six months; $2 00, after the year lias expired. lit” No paper will be discontinued until all arreragea arc paid, except at the option of the Publisher. Terms of Advertising: One square, three insertions, $1 00 i Each subsequent insertion, ?5 1 O'No advertisement will be considered less J than one square; over «ne square « ill be counted and charged aslwo; over two, as three, etc. JOB PRINTING. We are prepared to do all kinds of J<~»JJ WORK, in a neat, and workmanlike manner, on ; the most reasonble terms. Our material for. the completion of Job-work, being new and of the latest sty’es, we are confident that satisfaction can be gi?en. Law of Newspapers. 1. Subscribers whodo not give express notice to the contrary, are considered as wishing to i continue their subscript ions. •2. If subscribers order tin- discontinuance of ' their papers, the publisher maycontinuetosend them until all arrearages are paid. .'l. If subscribers neglect orrefuse to take their papers from the eflice they are held responsible till they have settled the bill and ordered the !i paper discontinued. 4. If subscribers remove to other places with - ’ out informing the publisher, and the paper is ' still sent to the former direction, they are held ; ' responsible. ' i (Ls The Court have decided that refusing of ~ take a paper from the office, or removed and leaving ituncalled forisi-aiMA facie evidence of ' intentional fraud. ,• . National Curiosity of Courtship. In Kamschatka a young man, aftermaking proposals, enters into the service of his intended father-in-law; and if he prove; agreeable, he is admitted to the trial of •tlie touch.’ The young woman is swaddled up in leathern thongs, and is put under the the guard of some old women: the suitor watches every oppoitunity of a slackened vigilance to salute her. The i girl must resist, in appearance at least. > and therefore cries out, to summon her! guards, who fall with fury upon the lover j — tear his hair, scratch his face, and act ! in violent opposition. The attempts of the lover are sometimes unsuccessful for ! months; but the moment ‘the touch’ is achieved, the bride testifies her satisfac lion by pronouncing ‘Ni, ni,’ with a soft; and loving voice. This ceremony was ] also usual in Lithuania and Muscovy. ;

±ll JUIvUUIrS HIV num vuv services of an old woman, who usually officiates for a whole parish in succession, to propose to the girl of whose qualifies- ■ tions he has heard a favorable account. — ' The old lady sets about her business cleverly—dwells on the good looks or fine disposition of her client, and especially on the vehemence of his attachment —for even a savage knows the kind of flattery j most preferable to a woman s heart — If she succeeds in obtaining a favorable answer, the parties meet at the pastor’s, house for the ceremony of betrothal; if not, j the old lady is sent to a succeession ofl girls, on a similar errand, until she does — lor when a Livonian lad has made up his | mind to get married, he thinks the soon- ; er he gets over it the better. On the wedding-day it is customary to make every vehicle turn off the road for the procession, which proceeds to the bouse of the bride-groom, singing a low chant that rings very pleasingly through the dells. Gloves suspended to a shaft of the vehicle containing the bride and bridegroom are supposed to bring good luck to who ever reaches them first, and arc eaglely caught after bv the guests who are awaited the arrival. The bride is then lifted from the cart at one bound, on to a sheepskin j extended before the door, to signify that the way through life is henceforth to be soft to her feet; then corn is strewed before her, in emblem that abundance, is to follow her in her new home; and thus she is carried in noisy triumph over her lius- . band’s threshhold. Here, propped in a high backed chair, and surrounded by women, sits the oldest matron of the family, ready to receive the new-comer. The ' bride bends before her. and the matron takes a high, stiff cap, made of white silk, and places it on the young wife’s head., When the cap has been slowly adjusted,, the dame repeats this ancient form ol words:—‘Forget thy sleep —Remember thy youth—Love thy husband;’ accom-, panying each sentence with a slight stroke i on the cheek. A Fast Town.—The St. Paul Advertiser says at the present time there is not less than §500,000 of overdue and protested paper deposited by Eastern creditors in the banks of that city; that the indebtedness in St. Paul to banks alone due in the next six months,is §750,000 niore; while the eastern indebtedness of the merchants and others to mature in the same period is $1,200,000. That is the city owes $2,500,000, of whic i §l,500,000 is due to the East. Other towns in the Territory are similar involved. Love may slumber in a young maiden s Heart but not very soundly. It dreams.

THE DOI'BLI'. ML'ADER; > OR, The Charcoal-Burner’s Victims. About thirty years since, in the wildest part if the Shawangnnk Mountains, lat a deep gorge called ‘the gap,’ lived a I charcoal-burner. His dwelling—a logout of the rudest description—was hid j away like a woodpecker’s nest, in the j corner of a large hollow, in the high bank, resembling a sunken cheek in the human ! countenance. The hollow was overgrown ! with trees and buslies, so thickly as almost to conceal the cabin, except where it thrust out its little nostril of a chim- ; ney, as if for air. Now and then a chance beam would stray in, however, and touch its one window, which, then gleamed out like the fierce eye-ball of some animal from its lair. The charcoal-burner was a dark-browed, ferocious-looking man, of gigantic strength, and with eyes so subtle, iso cruel, so malignant, rolling and lurking amidst hanging hair so matted and i wild, that it seemed as if a coiled and knotted blacksnake had taken possession of Lis head, and was looking out of the sunken, livid sockets, with its own keen and flashing balls His wife—a weird-like, skinny creature, that seemed as if she had I dried up from the effects of the fiery i spirit within; and his son, resembling his father, of lesser size, however, and spread •thinly over with the soft colors of youth i --lived with him. Their coal-pit was upon the side of the gap, a short distance up, and it was itself in consonance with I the wild scene and wild inmates; for it ap--1 peared at night, when aglow and smoking, like some dreadful monster, with a horrent crest of blacknes, and red eyes glarI ing all around as if for prey. One evening about sunset, a traveler on horseback was seen, by a loitering j woodcutter, on the eastern side of the gap (the Orange county side) to enter it.— lie had inquired of the latter how far it was to a certain point in Sullivan county, I who consequently noticed him more par- ■ ticularly than he perhaps would ot.herI wise have done. He was a fine-looking young man, handsomely dressed, and mounted on a splendid horse, with a valise strapped behind a beantifully-finished 'saddle. Receiving the necessary information, he disappeared within the enj trance of the gap. : About a month after this event, a paiI avrranh anueareit in a newspaper of the

city of New York, stating that Mr. 1., a member of one of the most respectable families of the city, had left home some forty davs previous, upon a tour on horseback through (he south-western part of the State, and that a month had elapsed ’ without his being heard of. Then followed a minute discription of both horse and rider. Tills paragraph was copied into one or two of the Orange county papers, and at length attracted the eye of the woodcutter. He’told his story to a neighboring mag- I i«trate, suspicion being instantly fastened upon the three inmates of the gap, to they were arrested; but the circumstances, though strong, not being deemed sufficient to even place them upon trial, they were discharged. A year after they were set at liberty, the son, who, always dissipated, had, in the meanwhile, become a poor, drunken creature, thoroughly deprived and cor- | rupt, came before the grand jury of the ; county, who were sitting at the time; and in consequence, the father was arrested I and confined as well as himself, in differ-, ent cells of the county prison. The woman was not implicated, but she prefer-, red, woman-like, to share the imprison- I meat of her husband. In a few days the trial came on. The wood-cutter was first examined, and after narrating the cir- i cumstances of the stranger accosting him, ; and hisentrauce into the gap, the son was , called to the stand. The father was seated upon a bench directly’ in front of j the stand, and separated but a few feet from it; his wife, the mother of the youth,! was beside him. The old man’s coun-' tenance was wild and gloomy; his eyesi had been hitherto alternately flitting with a quick, keen, shifting glare from face to face, and dropped upon the flloor; but as the son took the stand, he fastened his L r aze upon him of fiendish wrath, w.iile . iiis face grew black as midnight. The woman seemed crushed down with soi- ; row—the fiery spirit had all vanished from her stricken countenance, which now showed traces of former beauty. The | son’s eye also wandered over the crowd, as became to his place, with the same rapid glance of the father, like the flying of a bird from bush to bush, until it rested upon the anxious and heart-broken look of his mother. It then grew some- ; what soft, with signs of compunction strmrHing within it; but catching the demoniac gaze of the father, it appeared to emit sparks of fire, to snap, as it were with bitter fury; rage, defiance, hatred, all flaming in the keen, black debths, until the countenance appeared scarce.y human. The oath was now recited to him by-

Our Country s Good shall ever be oil Aim —Willing to Praise and not afraid to Blame.”

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTY, INDIANA, NOV. 27, 1857.

the clerk, but just as he was ablut to touch the Bible with his lips, his bother who had appeared hardly consci.us before of anything, stood up before hin. ‘Edward Wilkins,’ said she, in adeep, 1 solemn tone, ‘why are you here? This I is no place for you. Come,’ added she ‘ in an endearing manner, ‘let us both go ' home!’ I will not go home, mother,’ answffed ■ the youth positively, but somewhat kitd- j ly; ‘this is jest the place forme and hat' ere man there too,’ pointing to the ehfer I Wilkins, whilst his voice became fierie and abrupt. ‘That man is your father, Edward Wilkins, said his mother, sternly ‘Surely, surely, my son,’ continued she, in a piercing tone, ‘you cannot mean to harm him' Think of it, my child, he is your father. And am I not your mother, Neddy?— ( ome, my boy, come! Come with mt,’ and the unhappy female, as she said tins in a choked and most touching voice, advanced towards him with an extended hand, whilst the tears fell in great drops from her cheeks. ‘Mrs. Wilkins, you must be seated,’ here interupted the judge,’in a mild, but autbuiitivo <md determined manner;‘let the man,’ turning to the clerk, ‘be sworn. Starting as if from a trace, young Wilkins now took the customary oath, and after answering a few preliminary questions of the public prosecutor, commenced his story. ‘On the twenty-third of August, a year ago, father—l mean that man there—and I, was at the coal pit. ‘Twas just about sundown, and we was a talking about how poor we was, and the dificulty we was al’ays in with the sheriff and constables, when we seed a flashy-looken young man on a fine hoss, looken as if he had lots o’ money by him, came into the gap. The moment fa—that man (here—seed him, sez he, to me, ‘Ned!’ says he, ‘when is that ere execution due that Squire Dobbins issued again me?’ ‘To-morrow, father,’ sez I; for I called him father then; 1 don't now though, I can tell him that,’ and bringing down his fist upon his palm violently, whilst his eye flashed fire. ‘Well,’ sez he, ‘Ned! 1 tell you what it is; that ere feller rider, down there looks as if he was made of money. ’Spose we just stop his motions?’ And he looked at me in sich a wav that I understood him in a minii. So we crept down to a narrow part of the gap, and hid behind a

thick bush. By-and-by the chap came riden slowly along—for the road is quite ■ rough —a whistlen to hisself, and a looken down at his horse’s mane. Ashe kim ; abreast, we sprung out; I ketched the bridle of his boss, and fa —that man there —dragged him off’in a twinklen, stuffed his hankerchiaf in his mouth, jumped upon his breast, hauled out his knife, drawed his head clean back, and ” ‘Edward! Edward Wilkins’’shrieked a voice in the wildest and most thrilling acI cents,‘stop! stop! I command you in the name of God, stop!’ and the wretched mother rushed up to her son’s side, and caught him violentlv bv the arm. ‘I vour mother, who gave you birth; who reared you from a tender infant —I ask you, I implore you, for the sake of holy’ heaven, say no more, my child, say no more! The court, as well as the spectators, seemed paralized with horor. Young Wilkins trembled as if he were about to fall; but catching the eye of his father, in which was an expression of fierce triumph, he wrested his arm from his mother’s grasp, stamped his foot, and almost howled — ‘I will not stop, mother; I will not stop. Didn’t he keep all the money hisself; and when I tried to git it from his packet one night, didn't he knock me down and kick me till I rolled over and over, and beat my head again the haarth, and finally, at last, dind’t he, when I was blind with blood, fairly kick me out o’ the house? Answer me that, mother, answer me that! ‘Edward Wilkins, come home with me. I command you to come. You shall come; . you know me boy, when I’m roused, you know’ me!’ ‘Yes, I know you, mother, well enough. You made me know you when I was a child, but I’m a child no longer, I can tell you; and him, too,’ he added, glancing with an eye of flame at his father ‘Do you want t.odie with him, Edward? exclaimed the mother; hoarsly. ‘Do you ’ want, to swing on the same gallows?’

‘I d jest as Jeere die as not. r nave n < j had a ininit’s peace since that night; I l hnv’n’t!’ ‘Enough of this,’here interposed the judge, for a spell of horror had hitherto been cast over all to such an extent that ino one even dreamed of interupting this fearful conversation. ‘Enough of this. — ■ Constable, remove the woman. Let the witness proceed.’ Again the youth started, but he comi menc«d (mediately, and hurried through his narrative as if fearful that his breath would fail him ere he told it. •Well—he —that man there-pulled back his bead, as I was a sayen—drawed

bis knife up to the very hilt through his I throat, till the great spirts of blood struck even me in the face, then held him down till he stopped kicken; and ” Here he was interrupted by a shrink so loud, so frenzied, that it rung through every ear as if an arrow pierced the brain. A heavy fall succeeded, and the poor, heart-broken wife and mother, who' had not as yet been taken from the room owing to the pressure of the crowd, was seen on the flour struggling in a tit of ep- I ilepsy, as if in the death agonies. She l was quickly removed for medical aid, but' ! even this did notdauntthe malignant, revengeful spirit of the poor wretch her son from his horrible, most horrible task. ‘Arter the young man was dead,’ he continued, more hurriedly than ever 1 'we; searched his pockets and valise, and found i I a heapo’money. We then cut the horse’s ’ throat, afeared he would betray us es we ; kept or sold him; and then we dragged I both upto the coal pit and tlirowed theirl j bodies in. We kept the hull thing secret j for some time from mother, knowen it ; would worry her a’most to death, but ; ; she soon ’spected it, and finally at last' I she plagued me so, that I up and telled her. Arter all, would you bleeve that that ere man there wouldn’t give me any of the money? So what with that, and seen the murdered man every night a standen by my bed, with his throat all bloody, and my chamber all in blue flames, I tuk to drink, and that man there I and I used to quarrel, and finally at last he knocked me down and kicked me out of doors. I then said I’d be revenged, and I've kept my word; and cf you don’t hang him ” The wretch had proceeded thus far, pouring out his words with a sort of frenzied haste, when be was fearfully interrupted. The father had listened to him as he told his story, with eyes that glared more terribly at every word, edging nearer and nearrer, like the stealthy movement of the panther towards his slumberling victim; but, as his son uttered these last words, he sprang upon him with the ' fierce spring of that same panther upon his prey; and ejaculating a dreadlnl oath, j caught him by the throat. So sudden and unxpected was the assault, that the son staggered and fell with his father upon him; cinching his throat with an iron, vice-like grasp. There was a rush of all nem to scpeiate them; but so quick and unexpected was the action, that a moment or two elapsed before an effort could be made. Black grew the face of the son; his eyes rolled fearfully, and his tongue protruded, but still that grasp continued defying the strength of those who vainly endeavored, amidst the rocking and tu mult and pressure ol the excited crowd, to unlock it. At last, dashing the son’s head with awful violence against the projection of a seat, the father, with a horI rid laugh, arose, and the son fell heavily upon the floor —dead! The father was rescued with difficulty I from the hands of the crowd, who would have torn him to pieces; and shortly afterwards paid the penalty of his crimes upon the scoffold. He died unrepentant, and without the pity or sympathy of a human being. I mistake—there was one who attended him in his cell—stood by his side at the scaffold, and received him into her arms when the fearful sentence of the law was fulfilled. The body was yielded to her. She buried him in a wild place in ‘The Gap,’ and in one short month was laid beside him. This world was no place for her, and God, iu His merciful kindness, took her away. How touching an instance of female affection, clinging to the object of its devotion through shame and guilt, despair and death!

An Anecdoteof John Adams.—When John Adams was a young man he was invited to dine with court and bar at the house of Judge Paine, an eminent loyallist, at Worcester. When the wine was circulated round the table, Judge Paine gave as a toast, ‘the king.’ Some of the Whigs were about to refuse to drink it; but Mr. Adams whispered to them to comply, saying, ‘We shall have an opportunity to return the compliment.’ At length, when John Adams was desired to give a toast, he gave ‘The devil.’ As the host was about to resent the supposed I indignity, his wife calmed him, and turned the laugh upon Mr. Adams by imrneI diately saying, ‘My dear, as the gentleI man has seen fit to drink to our friend, let us by r.o means refuse, in our turn, to drink to

The Rule of Contraries.—As a canalboat was passing under a bridge, the captain gave the usual warning, by calling aloud: ‘Look out!’ when a little Frenchman who was sitting by a window in the cabin, obeyed the order by popping out his head, which received a severe thump from a pillar. He drew it hack in a great pet, exclaiming, ‘Dese Amerikins cry look out! when dey mean look in!’ Not long since, in Worcester, England, a man publicly sold his life for one shilling and a quart of ale.

.Han ners. There is but one true, invulnerable aristocracy, and that has its foundation in t good manners and sound morals, coupled < with intelligence. Indeed, where man-1 < ners and morals are right, the intelligence t is never warning. The best, conditions f •of birth and wealth are fortuitous—de- 1 i pending for their contiuance upon chances; ' but good manners and sound morn's can | be swept away by no accident or misfor- i tune, being self-sustaining an 1 imperishable. Abundant, and almost perpetual I j instances, prove that the best and noblest of men may spring from the lowest tern- i pond ranks, and that riches, and titles, |t and honors may be acquired by men of i obscurest origin. What is it, then, that I can, and may properly, distinguish men j ; in our regard, and lilt one above another, , !on the principle of aristocracy? Why. I I simply this superiority of manners and |i I morals. Just so far as men excel in this ■ I direction they are better and nobler than i the'r fellows. They are an aristocracy; ' refusing, in the very nature of things, to mix or assimilate with inferior conditions! I —just as oil refuses to mix with water, ; I The very highest enlightenment is mark- ' ed by these signs, and while no ill-man- 1 nered, bad-moraled person can be a gentleman, the real foremost gentleman in all the world is he whose manners and , morals are best. These are the base, arch and cap-stone of the highest order of man. Taking our position as granted, we sad 'ly fear for our country’s future, To the . j observing there is no other feature in our national character so marked as our ten- • I dency to trifle with, and trample on, manners and morals. This is particularly true of the younger classes—of our children and youth. Reverence and modesty have litttle to do with them. They are far enough from the example of their fa-1 tliers, and are growing worse day by day. It is a novelty now a days to see a girl or a boy make obeisance to age, or in anv wav treat it with marked respect. Not so j were their fathers and mothers taught—not so did they behave. The ill-manners of the young are become a reproach to the age in which we live--they are a blot, I a shame. If the school-master is abroad he has sadly neglected to tench his pupils what is of the utmost consequence to them and to society—good manners and I morals! Better school them more in these: even at the sacraficc of algebra and logic. Here alone is where our age is falling off ■ and back ward, and in no direction could a fall be more fatal. Let us see to it that i we do not plunge down beyond recovery.

The Advantage of Necessity. If every man were wise and virtuous, capable to discern the best use of time, and resolute to practise it, it mightbe granted, we think, without hesitation, that total liberty would be a blessing; and that it would be desirable to be left at large to the exercise of religious and social duties, without the interruption oi importunate avocations. But since felicity is relative, and that which is the means of happiness of one man may be to another the cause of misery, we are to consider, what state is best adapted to human nature in its present degeneracy and frailty. And, surely, to the far greater number it is highly expedient, that they should, be some settled scheme of duties, be rescued from the tyranny of caprice; that they should bo driven on by necessity through the paths of life, with their attention confined to to a stated task, that they may be less at leisure to deviate into mischief at the call of follv.

Squeezing the Hand. It is but lately that we understood the strange constructions that are sometimes put upon a squeeze of the hand. With some it is entirely eqivalent to a declaration of love; this is very surprising indeed, j We must take hold of a lady’s hand like ; hot potatoes; afraid of giving a squeeze, lest we should burn her fingers. Very I | fine, truly!—Now it was our ancient custom to squeeze every hand that we got 1 in our cluthes, Especially a fair one. Is it not a wonder that we have never been sued for a breach of promise? We would I not give a rusty nail for one of your | ' cold, formal shakes of the hand. Every I person who intrudes one or two fingers; for your touch (as if he were afraid of catching a distemper) should goto school : awhile to a jolly old old farmer. He shakes you with a vengeance, and shakes ( your body too, unless you should happen ’ to be as thick as himself. Well there is I nothing like it; it shows a good heart a: any rale, and we would rather a man would crush the very bones of our fingers, and shake our shoulder out of joint, than that he should poke our paw, as if he were about to come in contact with a bear or a hyena. The Indies may rest ; assured of this: that a man who will not i squeeze their hand when he gets hold of; ;of it, does not deserve to have a hand ; I in his possession; and that he has a heart 749 times smaller than a grain of mustardseed.

The Hand. she hand, in the light of comparative anatomy, most significantly marks the distinction between men and brutes. Its complex apparatus, and the relation between its performances and the mind, are so remarkable, that familiarity alone prevents their being observed with wonder. When we consider that its motions depend upon no less than twenty-nine bones, I their certainty and vigor is mavelous — Asnn instrument, it combines to an ini'’" . liable degree, the almost ant agonist qualities of great strength and extreme delicacy, freedom of movement with niceity ot actio", and perfect ease with thcr- ' otigh control. The same machine whereby the athlete raises himself to the slackrope, or the blacksmith wields a ponderous sledge, is adapted to graduate the hues upon the artist's canvas, and modify | sounds of die most exquisite musical iu- . struinents. The fingers, whose accurate sensation counts the pulsations of the invalid, when folded together, become a weapon, which, deftly managed, may I fell a resisting Hercules; grasping a ma- ; chanic’s tool, they perform miracles of jskill, and closed gently around the pen ]of genius, they act as the magnetic telegraph of the soul. The freedom of the hand’s movements is ascribed to tiie col-|lar-bone, which keeps the shoulders apart an distributes muscular effort to the arm; their fineness is owing to the wrist and , finger- bones, nnd the nervous tissue, and | their ease, seems to grow out of the union of all these I’owur and flexibility are thus equally attained, and the result is an instrument which, guided by intelligence, is adequate to the liomliest and j most exalted offices, and l.as for its sphere the whole domain both of the useful and fine arts, enabling the savage to weave j bark-thatch for his log-hut, and Raphael to light up an eteinal smile upon the lip ' of maternity; the mariner, Ly a regulated presure, to guide hrs vessels with unerring helm over tke trackless waters: and the sportsman, by the lightest touch, to bring to his feet the eagle that hovers in , the clouds.

Greatness of Heart. We hear of greatness of mind much oftener than of greatness of heart. And yet it is not in the mind that truest greatness has its seat Is it in (he heart.— From it proceeds the sense of justice, courage, patience, endurance—in a word, all the virtues which most adorn and beautify life. Caligula was a wise man, but he was a bad man, too. Modern history’ has furnished more than one counterpart in its records of tyranny. Anacreon was a great poet in his day, but he was a drunkard, and was choked to death, in old age. by a seed of the very grape whose praises he had so often sung in his revels' Byron’s intellectual greatness was sufficient to extort, from the rious Pollock the meed of melancholly praise in one of the most remarkable portraits that pen of poet has ever drawn. But Byron lived a lordly rake, and died a victim, morally, to his own folly’ Horace, the first of satirist among the Romans, was wanting in com • age, which is of the heart rather than of the head, that he thicwaway his shield, and ran for his life! And even the great Cicero, whose eloquence made senators tremble and the people worship him al most as a vol, while his style for all limes by the ini II . idly inferior Pompey was made ah. st to quake in his shoes, when personal courage was in demand! Then, again, there was Bacon— a man towering in intellect, yet groveling iu heart, and weak as a pigmv when temp tation assailed his integrity'. But turning again to tho worlds rulers contrast tlx great-hearted Cincinnnius, who went i back to his plow. as soon as his country could spare him from matters of state, j and the great arid good Washington re- | tiring voluntarily, to his farm, while a | crown for life might have been his pos | session. These were the world's truly , great men. It has had manv more ru lers, hut it has boasted none whose great ness was so uutinclured with selfishness which, in a word, was so distinctively and pre-eminently the greatness of the heart!

Anger —Considering anger and irritability of temper in relation to our bodily welfare, how greatly should we conduce to ease, comfort and well being, were we to correct and suppress all peevishness and turbulence of disposition! ‘Every creature,’says Dr. Blair, ‘is sensible to the propensity to some infirmity ot temper, which it should be his care to correct and subdue, particularly in the early part of life, else, when arrived at a statu of maturity, he may relapse into those faults which require to be diligenltr watched and kept under during the whole course of his life.’

A charity sermon was once commenced bv the Dean of St. Pauls as follows: 'Benevolence is ft sentiment common to human nature, A never sees B in distress without wishing C to ieleave him '

NO. 42.

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