The Wabash Courier, Volume 17, Number 32, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 7 April 1849 — Page 1

IOE XVE NO. 32.

PUBLISHED EVERY SATCRDAV MORNING.

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O E

From the (Wire BmnrA. FAMILIAR SOUNDS. BY 0IOVAWXI. The clatter of the village mill,

The gushing of the stream, And yonder church bell's mellow sound, And chanticleer's shrill !»cream, And melody of rippling brooks,

That o'er the pebbles pass— And languid sighing ot the breeze. Through fields of waving grass— And whistling of the whip-poor-will,

At twilight's pensive hearth- plaintive tones of some stray bird. Have each a magic power To call to mind the scenes of youth,

Wlien life itself was new And place the acts of other days, Onco more in full review.

The old familiar sounds are dear Yes, dearer than the voice Of absent friends, whose words once made

Our bounding hearts rejoice Because they change not with tlie lapse Of every rolling year But absent friends may know us not

When next they meet us here.

The materr.al and poetic sensibilities are beautifully blended in the following touching Hues, which we copy from (Irahnrrt'H Magazine.

LITTLE BOY.

BY MRS. HENRIETTA L. C01.EM",\'.

1 watchul rose, one lovely morn, Parade herself a summer queen, While by her side a bud, new-bom,

Lay locked in leaves of softest green

that fresh bud lo beauty blew, That rose lorft all its scent and hue Alas! I cried, that this should be! For I thought, dear boy, of thee and me.

1 watched a parent bird that fed Her fledgling many a vernal day, Training hi« dainty wings to spread

And lightly flit from spray to sprayAway—afar—I marked him soar, Never to own foud guidance more,

Gun care and love thus wasted be Sadly 1 thought of thee and me.

I watchod the moou rise sweetly bright, With one fair star chat liiy below, KacU lovelier shone from mutual light,

hearts united gentler flow Though moon and star in heaven divide. Timu brings them over side by side, Glorying I spoke, thus may it be! For I thought, bear boy, of thee and me.

From the IUdlimorc Patriot. FREEDOM.

The airs of lieaven blow here and there, And fan the verdant lea The opening flower loves the air

That whispers "1 am free

Awl as the eagle soars on high, O'er rock and mountain tree, Hcaeans the sun with steady eye,

And screams "I'm free' I'm free!"

The waves that raise their frothy crests Above the stormy sea. Tell the hoar rock where the heron rests,

That they are glad and free.

And as the mountain streamlet speeds Towards the mighty sea. It whispers to the trembling reeds, "I'm merry and I'm free!"

Man, the proud image of the God To whom ite bends bis knee. Alone bowato tins upheld rod, And dare*not say "I'm free!"

He cringe* at the feet of power, A docile slave is he He cannot claim e'en nature's dower,

Until his soul is free.

MTS CELL AN EOUST

The Charms of Life#

There area thousand things In this world to afflict and sadden, but how many that are beautiftiI atld good. The world teems with beauty— With objects that gladden the eye and warm the heart. We might be happy if we would. There kro ills which we cannot escape, the approach of disease, death, dr misfortune, the sundering of fearthly tics and canker-worm of grief but a vast majority of the evils which beset us might be avoided. The curse of intemperance, Interwoven fcs it is with all the ligaments of society, is one Which rteter strikes but to destroy. There is not tfrte bright page upori the record of its prOjprrw— nothing to shield from the heartiest execrations of the human race. It should not exist—it must not. l)o away with all this—let wars cmo to an end, and let friendship, charitv, love, purity and kindties* mark the intercourse between man and man.

are too aelfish, tf the world was made for us alone. How much happier should we be were

labor

much

tn.

earnestly to promote

each

other's good. God has Messed uc with a home which is not all dark. There is sunshine everywhere—in the sky, upon the esnb- thers woaki he in most hearts, if we would lwk around to. The storms die away, and a bright mm shines out. Summer drops her tinted curtain upon the earth, which is very beautiful even when autumn breathes her changing breaih upon it. God reigns inheav-

Murmur not at a being ao jwwmfal. and we can live happier than we do.—D*

Acc^,'2/«.V.w'"»

Lm AMtr

qm. THE VKRWU*T GROOMS***-—ON no occasion do MM) more prone to commit blunders, and Dlunire themselves into embarrassing predicaments SlS*lt weddings. The following i^t«Hy«c* """/in neighboring 'own. In the midst of a crowd of witnesses, the clergyman Dieted that interesting ceremony which hiodsin li« Silver dhurda of wedlock two willing heart*, I^d stretched forth hh hands to implore the blew- «. U» .«»lo» .AMhi.po.nj.lh*

fcir-.rs

to jSrt". ""h

*3* f-

FIM

tie I'hugkman. SOME PASSAGES IN THE

LIFE OF DEACON GOODMAN. Wherein is shown the inconvenience of Hot having the "Musical Ear."

Deacon Goodman was extensively known, not merely in his own parish, but through several miles of the stir rounding eountry, for his amiable disposition, active benevolence, and unquestioned piety. So thoroughly was tnd Deacon's character established, that whsn the people of the neighboring town saw him passing by, they would say—That man is rightly named, for if there ever was a good man, he is one.' And from this there was no dissenting voice. Nay 1 am wrong in saying that for there are some who never hear any body praised without an interposing and qualifying'but 'Ho maybe wellenough on the whole, they will say, 'but' Stc. &c. and then they will goon and make him out 'any thing but a clever fel. low.'

The qualifying 'but' must be interposed even in the case of Deacon Goodman. He hud a fault. He would sing in meeting. 'Call you that a faultr saiih the reader. Well then, kind reader, call it a misfortune. 'But why a misfortune?'

I will tell thee. Nature has so formed us, that some' have the 'musical ear,' and others not. Now this 'musical ear' has nothing to do with the real character, moral or intellectual but yet persons who have not the 'musical ear' ought never to sing in meeting. If they do, they will be sure to annoy others, and make themselves ridiculous. Deacon Goodman had not the 'musical ear.'— Whether it were the 'Messiah,' or the •Creation,' or Jim Crow and

rZ\p

Coon,

it was all the same to him, so far as music was concerned it was just so much singing. Whether the artist were Sivori, or Ole Bull, or poor old John Casco, it was just so much fiddling. He had not the 'musical ear,' and still less, if possible, the musical voice but yet he would sing in meeting. And the gentle and respectful remonstrances of the choir leader were met with the unvaried reply, 'Singing is praying: you might as well ask me not to pray I shall sing in meeting.'

It is now proper for the Biographer to him at another trait in the good Deacon's character. He was rather 'set in his way or in other words he was dreadfully obstinate in what he thought a good cause: and he was generally correct in appreciating the merits of the cause.

We know that musical people are apt to be sensitive and sometimes a little capricious and who has ever known a theatrical Orchestra, or even a village choir, that had not a regular 'blow up' at least once a year? Beyond all doubt. Deacon Goodman's singing was a very serious grievunce to the choir, and no small annoyance to the congregation.— Yet in consideration of his great merits ho was indulged and his regular Sunday performances, often drew forth the remark, that if music murder was a sin. Deacon Goodman would have much to answer for. But there is a point beyond which forbearance is no longer a virtue. Great pains had been taken by the choir in getting up a new Anthem (selected from Mozart) for Thanksgiving day. and the very gem of the piece was a solo which hacf been assigned to the sweetest voice, and the prettiest little girl in the vill tge. All who attended the rehearsals were perfectly delighted with the solo as sung by 'little Mary.' It was very difficult. It was marked from beginning to end, 'Andantino,' •Dolce,' Affotuoso.''Crescendo,"Piano,' Pianissimo,' with changing keys, and flats and sharps, springing out from unexpected places but she had conquered it all. Three or four accomplished singers who had come from Boston, to pass Thanksgiving in the country, and who attended the last rehearsal, were in raptures with little Mary's singing.— They had heard Tcdesco, and Biscaceianti, and Madam Bishop and yet they say, 'for a country girl, she is a prodigy.'

In due time, Thanksgiving day arrived and while the 'second bell' was ringing, news came to the village that a very serious accident had happened to tho Universalist minister. His horse had thrown him, and either his leg or his neck was broken the boy who had brought the news had forgotten which.— 'I hopo it is not his neck,' said the rich and charitable old church member.— When

Deacon Goodman heard that re

mark, he held up his hands and exclaimed/1 never!' Now the Deacon dearly loved good preaching, and the meeting house was to him a 'House of feds ting.' But his religion was of a very practical kind and although he thought but precious little of his good works, he tbotrcare to do a good many of them, and was far from believing with Amsdorf, that'good works are an impediment to salvation. So, said he to

Mrs.

Goodman, 'do you go

to the house of feasting and gel all the good you can, and I will go to the house of mourning, and do all I can.' And away he went to see, and if possible to rolieve *he Universalist minister.

In the meantime the congregation assembled, and the worship proceeded in the usual war. At lettatb came thtf anthem. It even went beyond expectation. A long 'rest' immediately pre* ceded the solo. It was no rest for poor little Mary. It was the most anxious minute she had ever passed/ She arose, bh»shif»g and trembling. H«r agitation gtcvtf tt tftfmor to hter voice, which added to the pathos of the music. It was beautiful.

Now, Deaeon Goodman always made it a rule, when any accident had de

tained him until afidr WoihshifJ had com menced, to come in vetfy softly. How different from the fashionable flourish) All were intent on the solo. Noue heard, and few saw Doacon Goodman enter his pew, and take up tho shoot on which the words of the anthont Wert printed.

Unlikothnt of many singers the Articulation of liule Mary was pdrftict. flie Deacon soon found the place and to the astonishment of the congregation, indignation of the choir, and the perfect horror of little Mary,' he 'struck in,' and accompanied her through tho whole solo. Accompanied! 1 'Oft in the stilly night,' accompanied hy Capt. Bragg's battery, would give some notion of it. Poor little Mary was sick a fortnight. 'Why dont you cut that old fellow's tongue off?' said one of the Boston singers. 'What good would it dot' said the choir leader, 'he would howl through his nose.' They were all very cross. As for the Deacon he looked around as innocent as a lamb, and thought he had sung us well as any of them.

Immediately after meeting, the choir leader called on the minister. 'Sir,' said he, 'this must stop. If Deacon Goodman sings again I do not.'

Oh I know it,' said the minister, 'I have long felt the difficulty but what can we do? Deacon Goodman is a most excellent man, and his only faults are that he is rather set in his way and will sing in meeting/'

But Deacon Goodman is a reasonable man, said the choir leaden 'On most occasionsreplied the minister. 'Do go and see him. sir, for my ntind in made up that if he sings in meeting, 1 do not.'

Deacon Goodman,' said the minister, •I have come on a delicate errand I have come to present the respectful request of the choir that you would not sing in meeting.''

The Deacon was thunderstruck: but he soon recovered. 'Singing is praying said he, 'they may just as well ask me not to pray: I shall sing in meeting.' And on the next Sunday, sure enough he did louder, and if possible, more inharmonious than ever. The men singers looked daggers at him the girls hid their smiles behind their music books. Little Mary was not there.

This shall stop.' said the choir leader. 'I will go and see him myself.' Deacon Goodman, we all most highly respect you, as you must well know: but you have not the musical ear nor he musical voice, and it is the earnest wish of the choir, and many of the congregation, that you do not again sing in meeting.'

The Deacon was again thunderstruck, but soon recovered. 'Singing is praying,' said he. 'and they might as well tell me not to pray. I shall sing in meet-

The good Deacon was dreadfully set in his way, and so it went on again week after week, in the same old way.

But an incident occurred, which contributed much to bring this singular case to a crisis. About two miles from the Deacon's comfortable dwelling, there was a wretched hovel, which imperfectly sheltered the wretched wife and children of a still more wretched drunkard.

On one of the most inclement evenings of a New England January, the Deacon and his family wero cheerfully and thankfully enjoying a glorious hickory fire Mrs. Goodman was sewing for the family, and her daughters for the Missionary Society. His son was reading the Msssachusetis Ploughman, and the good man himself was just finishing off a sermon by a distinguished divine of his own denomination, when bang went the front door, and in came his good neighbor and own beloved and respected minister. 'Why! I never!' said Deacon Goodman, 'what has brought you along in such a night as this?'— Now, this Minister had his peculiarities as well as the Deacon. Among others, he was very close mouthed about his own good deeds: Ho merely answered. '1 have been about my duty, I hope.'— The fact was he had been to visit, and talk, and pray, with a poor dying negro. 'Seems to me you are rathor crusty,' said the Deacon, 'but 1 suppose you are half frozen, and so sit down and thaw yourself out.' 'I thank you,' said tfte minister,' but I merely called to tell you that I have just left a scene of misery: and I want you to go there as early as you can in the morning. On my way here and home, I passed that wretched hovel which all know so well. 1 felt it my duty to stop and learn the cause of the terrible uproar within, I found the wretch bedting his wife and her screams and his horrid oaths made my blood run cold. I knocked the rascal down ('served him right,' said the Deacon.) and think ho will be quiet until morning: but do go as early as you can.' Od rabbit the rarmint,' said f)eacon Goodman, 'and od rabbit the eternal blasted rum shop.' That was the nearest to swearing that the Deacon was ever known to come. 'Put old Mag In the wagon.' stfid ffef to his son. 'Deacon, don't go to night,' said Mrs. Goodman. 'Do wait till morntag,' said all his dmighter*. 'Lei me go,' said his son. 'Mind your own business,'said the Deacon to all of them. *1 shall go to-iright.' When ft came to that, thcT kne* there was no more to be said. He was dreadfully 'set in his way.' He took bag, and a basket, and went down ettflrfr. ife fHW flic bag with potatoes. lie took a piece of pork from one brfrrel, and a piece of beef from another, and put them in the basket. He went to the closct and took a brown loaf and a white one. He went

TERRE HADTE,^IND.fJAPRIL.7P1849.-I

to the wood pije and took an armful of wood, and told liis soil to tdke another. All was put In tho\Vagon| he not forgetting six candles and a paper of matches Deuaoh Gckidrrittn needed no secondary motive to Christian duty y0 historical tfuth demands the concession, that tho wife of tho poor drunkard was his first love. She jilted him or us we Yankees soy, 'gave nim the mitten,' in favor of the abject wretch who was now become her tyrant. And this was thd Way he 'fed fat the ancient grudge' he owed her! The truth is, Deacon Goodman knew nothing about grudges, ancient or modeirrt. The old Adam would occasionally flare up, but he always got him under before sun-down.

All was ready, and in five minutes the DeaCon Was exposed to the 'pollings, of the pitiless storm,' But what did he care for the storm I 'I am going on God's errand,' said he to himself. 'I am going to visit the worse than widow and fatherless.' The next thing he said was, 'Oh, got out.' 'I*hut he meant for tho promptings of his own proud heart.

Misery, misery, indeed did he find in that most miserable dwelling. The poor wretch himself was dead drunk on the floor* The poor pale woman was sobbing her very heart out. The children were clamorous and but few were the words of their clamor. 'I arn cold,'—'I am hungry'—and that was all. The Deacon brought in the wood made up a fire lighted a candle and emptied the bag and basket. The poor pale wonian wept and sobbed her thanks. 'Oh, you varmint,' said the Deacon, as ho looked at the father and broke off a piece of bread for each of the children. The general commotion aroused the poor wretch from his drunken stupor. He looked up and recognized the Deacon. "Hallo, old music,' said he, 'are you here? give us a stave, old nightingale. Sing as you do in meeting. Sing and scare the rats away.' 'Why. what on earth does the critter mean?' said the Deacon. The poor, pale, grateful woman smiled through her tears. Hlie could not help it. She had been a singer in her better days she had also Heard the Deacon sing.

I do not record these incidents mere-* ly because they are honorable to Deacon Goodman, but because they are particularly connected with my stoi*y. In this errand of mercy the. good Deacon caught a very serious cold it affected his throat, and his nose, and even his lungs and gave to his voice a tone not unlike to that of the lowest note of a cracked bass-viol alternating with the shriek of a clarionet powerfully but unskilfully blown. On Saturday evening he soaked his feet in hot water drank copiously of hot balm tea went to bed and said he felt comfortable. 'Now Deacon,5 said Mrs. Goodmajp, 'you are dreadful hoarse —you tooiiH sing to-morn w. will you?' 'Singing is praying—and—'—he dropped asleep. And sure enough he did *sing to-morrow,' and it surpassed all that had gone before. 'This is the last of it,' said the choir leader,'I have done.' In the afternoon, the choir was vacant, some of the singers absent and others scattered about in the pews. The Minister read three verses of a psalm and then observed, 'the choir being absent, singing must necessarily be omitted.'— But Deacon Goodman saw no such necessity. He arose, and sung the three verses himself! lie stopped six times to sneeze and blew his nose between the verses by way of symphony! The next day he was sick abed. A parish meeting was hastily called, and a resolution unanimously passed, that 'Whereas the solemnity and decorum of public worship, depend much on the character of the music: resolved,'that hereafter, no person shall sing in meeting, in this parish without the approbation of the choir!' Rather a stringent measure but what could they do? The Minister called on Deacon Goodman, and handed him the resolution. He read it over three times: He then calmly folded tip the paper, and handed it back to the Minister. 'This is a free country yet I hope. 'I shall sing in meeting.' He said those very wordsl lie was dreadfully 'set in his way.' 'Then Deacon,' said tho Minister, 'I have a most painful duty to performs I am instructed to tell you, that your connection with the society must cease.'— The Deacon here started from his seat. Had the full moon split into four pieccs, and danced a quadrille in the heavens Orion singing and the Northern Bear growling bass, ho could not have been more astounded. He was silent. Emotion after emotion rolled over his heaving spirit. 'At length tears came to his relief,' as they say in the Novels. Ho spoke,butulmost inarticulately. '1 know I am a poor unworthy creature, but 1 hopo they will take me in somewhere.' The Minister wept himself. How could he help it? The Deacon's cold was nearly cured and about an hour after the interview, he was stfe'h mounted an old Mag, heading due north. Four miles in that direction, lived the worthy Minister of another prfrish. The Deacon found him in his study, where aliro wfls his dirughter copying music. She was a proficient in the art, and played the organ if* her father's church. She had heard of the Deacon's musical troubles, and had also heard him sing. 'Sir,' said she to the minister, 'there has been 0 Mule difficulty in our parish, which make* nre feel it my duty to Withdraw: and 1 have come to ask the pVivifdge or uniting with yours.' (At that moment the young lady vanished from the room.? 'I rrftich regret the difficulty in your parish,' said the Minister, 'and hope it will be amicably settled. But if you finally conclude to withdraw, we shall be happy to recerro you, and when it

shall ptedsd the hard to tdke good old Dedcori Or rimes to himself, (and a very few days must now give him his di^mis sion,) we shnll expect you to sit in his seat.' Afier half an hour's pleasant con versation, tho Deacon arose to take his deparuiro. At that moment, 8 boy crtmS in und handed a billet to th# MiHistdr. He glanced at the billdt, ilnd 'Dertcort. sit down one moment,' said he. He read the billet, rtitd after some hesitation said,' I have received a singular communication from our choir leader he has somehow or other heard of your intention to join our society and has heard of It with very great pleasure: but he adds that it is the earnest and unanimous Wish of the choir that you will not sing in mee~ ting,' The Deacon was again electrified, but had got used to the shdck 'Singing Is praying and I join no church whero I cannot sing in the meeting,—good day, sir.' He was vdry 'set in his way.'

Five miles West of his own dwelling, lived the good Pastor of another flock. The Deacon found him shelling corn in his crib. This Minister, although eminently pious, thought it ho harm to be a little waggish in a good cause, and for a Worthy object. Ite also had heard of the Deacon's musical troubles, and shrewdly suspected the object of his visit. 'Deacon Goodman, I um glad to see you,' said he, 'this Is not exactly ministerial labor, is it?' 'I am of a different opinion,' said the Deacon, 'any hohest and useful labor is ministerial labor hate all Dandies—the Lord forgive me^ I don't like them 'and I like a dandy Minister least of any.' 'You and I are agreed there,' said the Minister 'Come, walk into the house and see my wife she says she is in love with you for your honesty and your oddities.' 'I never!' said the Deacon 'but I thank you, I am in something of a hurry and have a little business Which we can just as well settle here.

There has been a little difficulty in our Parish, which makes me feel it my duty to withdraw, and I have come to ask the privilege of joining yours.' At his the Reverend gentleman loooked as he was very much surprised. 'Is It possible,' said he 'well, Deacon, though an ill wind for them, it is a good one for Us for it has blown you hither. We shall be most happy to receive you, especially lis our choir leader has folluwed the muhitude and gone West. We have been looking about for a competent man to take his place. Our singers are all young and diffident, and each one Is loth to take the lead. We hear that you sing the most difficult music and 'Why, mercy upon you,'said the Deacon. 'I don't know one note from another. I know that singing is praying, and I sing in meeting as I pray iri meeting*'

Excuse me my friend.' replibu tlie Minister, 'it is your modesty that now speaks you do understand music, you must understand music, or you could never sing Mozart with proper expression and did not you sing that most beautiful solo, which is Worthy of an angel's ear and Voice?' Now this was all Greek to the Deacon, and like a sensible man as he was, he always said nothing when he had nothing to say. 'You say truly," continued the Minister, 'that singing is praying.' But to those who know nothing of music, it is prayiflg ifl an unknown tongue, and I aft! sure you are not Paptist enough to approve of that music is a language, and like other languages must be learned before it can be spoken. When the deaf and dumb attempt to speak our common language they make strange noise, and still worse noise do we make when without the musical ear or the musical voice, we attempt to sing.'

Thus sensibly did that good Minister speak. The Deacon was a good deal 'stuck up,' though set in his way, he was not a fool and only needed to be touched in the right placc. 'It never uppeared to me in that light before,'said the Deacon thoughtfully. 'And yet my friend,it is the/rttc light,' said the Minister. 'And now, do let me give you a word of advice: Go homo, and take your old seat on Sunday and never again attempt to sing in meeting, For if your heart is right, your ear is untuned, and, your voice, though kind, is any thing but musical.' THe Deacon 'said nothing but thought the more.' He mounted old Mag. The Angel of reflection came down, and sat upon her mane, and looked him full in the face. Reader, does that seem incongruous?— Is this old inare's mane an improper scat fof an Angel? I am afraid yod are proud. Who once rode on an Ass?

The Deacon passed a point in the road where on one side was a sturdy oak that had been blown over by a recent whirlwind, and on the other, a flourishing willow, gracefully bending before the passing breeze. 'Od rabbit it,* said the Deactfn to himself it wtfs tlm first word ho had spoken, 'to tlfink that I should be such an dbstirftfte old fool.'

He aj/proached hrs own village. The reason for b'rs errand rflrrotfd had boen strongly suspected, and they were all on the look-out for his return. There stood the chojr leader. 'Welcome home. Deacon.' said he, 'hope We have no lofct you yet.' 'Get out,' said the Deacon, with tf good-nmured but rather sheepish look and on he went. There stood the Minister, 'Wolcome home, Deacon, I hope we have not lost you yet.' 'Get he was just going to say get out but habitual reverence for the Minister cut font sl»ort. He looked at hint, and both burst rmo a fit of laughter. The choir leader caino up and took the Deacon's hand, and joined in the merriment. "Od rabbit you all,* said he and off he went.

the front door and windows of

his own house, were his wife and daughters, and two or three of the singing girls,

'all of a titter.* They had seen and heard his interview with the Minister and knew that all was well. 'Od rabbit the whole bunch of ydu saia he, and went 18 pUt old Mag in the stable.

Dencoh GoodmaH took his old seat on Sunday, biit since that day's adventure. hls never snng in meeting. Once, and bdt oflce, did fie attempt to raise a psalm on his own private account.. He was in his barn putting some hay in the cow's manger. Now, the neighbors were always ready to do a good turn for Deacon Goodman and before he had finished the first verse, two of them t'Uslied in and asked him if his cow u)as choked/— lie never sung again. S.

From tke CinciiuuUi Globe.

fti & recent debnte in the Ohio Senate on bill to authorize Greenfield Seminary tb Confer degrdes, the speech of Mr. Hendricks is worth quoting:

Mr. Hendricks had some experience in this thing called diplomas. He yas educated in an old school hoUsd—-with-out windows, and where the degrees were conferred, not with-a seal and in Latin, but with a hickory sprout, and in English, which needed to bo felt, to be understood. The best specimen of the right kind of a diploma from Yttnkee land het tiVersaw,Wris imported in th'epersonof a long lank, green, slab sided, six-feet-two Yankee, with shirt and pantaloons, who emigrated to the hoosier state, with an ax on his shoulder—with an instrument, with which he carvcd out a diploma for himself. D. D. Pratt, of Logarisport, now ranks aniong the first of the western lawyers.

Another Yankees brouglit out liis diplomat the shape of the running gears of a one horse groccry on the Ohio river. That diploma made liis fortune, and when O. H. Smith of Indiana, Was sent to the U. States Senate, the owner of that grocery was able to vote with all the other great men who had seats there.

Another diploma from Yankee land, came out in the shape of a shoemaker's last, lap-stone and awl. Its owner, (Henderson, of Mississippi,) went to the U. States Senate.

Thebestdiploma inthe western world, or in what used to be called the "great west," (but Where the great west is now, that much talked of individual, the oldest inhabitant scarce knows, but gsjer-ses it is just this side of sundown,) arc energy and perseverance, with the motto, "root hog or die." Those Mr. Speaker are the sentiments of an individual in chuckery, let others think as they will. Mr. H. continued at some length."

The Secret of Success.

THe secret of success—what is it?— In this country, among people who are equally protected and cncouragcd, it lies in the steady pursuit of intelligence, industry, temperance and frugality. So far as outward comfort and competence Constitute wealth, there is but ci fraction of society who may not possess it, if each will but turn his hand and brain to the vocation for which his iustinct and capacity most fit him. If the great fortunes which so dazzle tho misjudging poor, be analyzed, they will lie found in nearly ninety-nine of the hundred cases to have sprung from calm, patient, and simple toil—toil which had an endurance and faith behind, and an object and hope before it. So too, with success in whatever man seeks to accomplish. A clown may stumble upon a splendid discovery in art or science, but a fixed general ltiw provides that high uchifcVmehts shall require profound and ceaseless labor. The pricc of succuss except in isolate cases, is the devotion of one's live. lie is a fool who trusts to any dream for possesion or advancement, unless he connects with it the prudent exercise of his own energy and judgment. The little stream in the mountain rock becomes a brook, torrent, a wide rolling fiver and a part of the fathomless ocean, simply by push ingsteadily and bravely forward.

"THOSE WHO DAVCK MUST PAV THI FIDDLER."— The last Inauguration Ball at Washington is represented as a most gorgeoua affair, and to many who attended father nn expensive one. The editor of the New York Mtrror writes htfme as follows in relation to it "TWefe Was scarcely a

ednx en

CoMPt'tsosv

teaton tided

are

dfesa fti the room

that did not come out covered with an enamel of spurious spermaceti. The damage done to dresses is estimated at *20,000! The i-upper and cloak rooms wore badly managed, and there w»s a large business done in the wny ot exchanging huts, over-coats, Stc. One lady lost a shawl worth $400, and a gentleman of my acquaintance came, home thfa morning With a "shocking bad hat," and the shabbiest kind of an overcoat, losing some fM) by the exchange. Addfrfg to this "profit and loss" atfctfttnt tor bouquets, $10 for a ticket, and $25 for a hack, makes the ball a rather expensive whistle."

lishvm.sr.—A

gentleman who

frequented a circus, noticed a boy among the audience who was sound iwloep every time hs happened to be in. urio'US to Know why tlie urchin should reaort to such a place for somniferous purposes, our friend went up one evening anu trceofcted him. "My litfl# frHtfw, what do yon ro to sleefMor "I can't heep awake," rejoined the boy "it is a terrible txffe to aee them doing the same thing every nlpht." "Btft whidoyoueo^ner, "Oh, I can't help it—1 must come—/

HoiSESli

mvegol a

the peace-makers," aaith (^Mjoly

^rft, but I otroe prflVed "tf c®8'' WrobS, that a peace-maker is not always Wesacd, for in endeavoring to prevent a half-mad woman residing in "Fox Creek," from annihilating her unworthy husband, I got a Woody noae trom the pawa of the husband, a severe contusion over the eye from a missile thrown by the lady was severely pinched by the children, blackguarded by a relative ot tlie family, bhiefl by the how* dog, ami finally kicked into the «trect by the whole of them. Verity, We lfve in an ungrateful world.

William Uoyd Garrison Ifes iftfarrtfed Henry Clay that he is disfsatified with his letter on Emancipation.

Mr. Clay's letter also displeases Mr. Calhoyn and that extensive party Whifch considers itself bound to sfteeze when tho great South Carolinian takes snuff.

Cufran^ lagenftity udt

A farther Attending a fair with a hundred pounds in his pocket,, took tbe tprei caution of depositing it ih the hana&of the landlord of the public house at which he stopped. Having occasion for it shortly afterwards, he resorted to mine host for the bailment, but the landlord: too deep for the countryman, wondered what hundred was meant and was quite sure no such sum had becm lodged iii his hands by the astonished rustic. After ineffectual appeals to the recollection, and finally to the honor of Bardolph, the farrier applied to Curran for advice. •Have patience my friend,' said the counsel 'spenk to the landlord privately. dnd tell him you rirb convinced, you must have left your monoy with some other person. Take a friend with you, and lodge with him another hundred in thb presence of your friend, sttid then come to me.'

We must imagine and not commit to paper, tho vociferations of the honest dupe, at such advice however, moved by the' rhetoric or authprity of tho worthy counsfel, life foliotvdd it, and returnod to his legal friend, 'And now. sir, I don*t see as I'm to be any better for this, if I get my second hundred again. But how is that to be done?"

Go and ask him for it when ho is alone,' said Curran. 'Ay, sir, asking won't do, I'ze dfrafd, without my witness at any rate,'said tlid countryman. 'Never mind, take my advicc, said the* coUfisel 'do ds 1 bid you und return to me.'

The farmer returned with his hundred, glad at any rate to find that safe again in his possession. 'Now, sir, 1 supposcf^I must be conftent—but I don't see as I'm much better off.'

Well, theft,' said the counsel, now 'take your friend with you, and ask the landlord for the hundred pounds your friend saw you leave with him.'

We need not add that the wiley landlord found he had been taken off hisj guard, while our honest friend returned to thank his counsel, with both hundreds in his pocket,

ADVANTAGE OF HABIT.—Bulwcr worked his way to eminence—worked it through failure. His facility is only the result of practice and study. Hd Wfotb at first very slowly and ttitll grbat difficulty, but he rdsolved to master the stubborn instrument of thought—and mastered it. Me has practiced writing as an art, and has re-written some of hki essays (uti(Published) niqtJ or ten times over. Another habit will show tho advantage of continuous application. Ho only works about three hours in a day— from ten in the morning till one—-sel-dom later. The evenings, when alone are devoted to reading scarcely ever to writing. Yet whdt tth amoufil of goo Idbor Hds resulted from these hours.He writes vory rapidly, averaging twenty pages a dnv of novel print.—Bcnlfcy'i Miscclluny. •?. ^,

THE IMPORTANCE OF PUNCTUATION. But few people,comparatively, are awarp of the value of ptifictutltioh, put in.somo cases a jJo'ih't here or titers alters the whole meaning of the sentence, and casionally reverses it. This last is wnljl illustrated b) tho following:—,

A barber in London had on his sign~ 'What do you think! -|f, 'I'll shave you for fioilnng, ana givo you a drifxk!'

Vfyfien any of His customers claims the promise on the sign, ho tells them they don't read it right—that ho intended it should be read thus: ,'j 'What! do you thinli I'll slirive you for nothing,

And give you a drink?'

.CSV

ENORMOUS CHEHSE.—The London pa« pers mention tlie arrival there of an enormous chcfese. The milk ot seven hundred cbtfs Was used in making it, and it weighs 1474 pounds. It is thirteen feet in circumference, four and et quarter in diameter, and eighteen incKcs in thickness. It tfas made by Messrs. Austin and Stone, farmers of Austinburgh', Ohio, dnd was offered for and ob* tained a prize at the fair of the American Institute in this city.

How To RisroER Cuint, SILK, &c., WATERPROOF.—Take one pound, each, of common alum, (sulphate of alumina,) and sugar of lead, (acetate

ot lead.) and dissolve them in bix quarts of boiling Water, well ftfixed b? atirrfng^ Whi are si osist potash. &c. Any artfefe ol dress, no matter how slight the fabric, M" well saturated[with thw liquid, and allowed to dry slowly, will boar the action of boiling water, and not permit it to pass through it.—American Agriculturist.

en cold, tlip

top portion of the mixture should be potfred off for OTB, the sedhtieni consists ot sulphates of Ic&df

A concern in Baltfmorertfrfde a shipment o^ merchandize to California (tor the purpose of gettins rid of some antiquated, unsaleable poods invoiced at $2,300. The sales ouiounted to film and the pV.»ceeds Were invested in gold at $12 an ounce. The value of thfa investment in the btatea in *1S.250 This heats Lord Dexter's adventure wV^mtag parra tfl thl W*t Indfea.

We were sfiown, yesterday,

the jewelry store of Messrs. Sullivurf & Co., a large quantity of HI Dorado' snuff—weighing nearly thirty pounds, (tof. Although it consisted of thin small scales, there were: in th® lot several lumps weighing, singly, ten and fourteen grains. It formed altogether a bright attractive pile, and would serve tof confirm our enthusiastic emigrants'irf their wildest dream's.—-St: Louis eUle.

!Kj

BFTS ox THE PRIZB FIGHT.—A' fte# York letter says: "Some of the sporting gentlemen who betted largely on the result ^1* the recent prize fight between •MtiffiWrr Hy" and Sullivan, are taking legal measures to recover tho sum* which they lost."