Indiana State Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 45, Indianapolis, Marion County, 3 April 1861 — Page 1

WEEKLY STATE SENTINEL. nuvrso a muasi ivebt wxdsxadat at tbb It 14 1. 18 nd 80 fXGHAX A DOKiHTV , PrprietN, TERM. OF WEEKLY SESTOEL. On copy DM rear 1 00

i to one ddrea, and one to tb maker of 10 00 i to one aiUrs,and two to the maker oftheclub i0 00 Thirty copies to one addre', and one copy of the WtxtLT and oae of the Dailt, to the maker oftheclub 30 00 fifty copies to one address, and two copies of the Wubxt aad two of the Daily 50 00 Additions can b-? made to Cluba at any time at the above alas. Where the paper is addressed to each subscriber separste'y, the ex:rs copies will not b sent. The postag on the WetUg Slate St BWiaf, far oate year, is aa follows: Within the County and mailed . .. Free. ... 13 cents. ... J5ents. Within the ; Within the Unitod State. iDiJLrsr smsrrnsrEL Will be sent by or express at any point for Bfty a m joth. or six dollars a year. ai: invariably in advance. Address BINGHAM A DOrC.HTT, Indianapolis. V or try. The Lover and the Echo. Lover Echo, mysterious nymph, declare Of what you're made and what you are? Echo Air: Lover 'Mxt ,iiry cliff-Uig-h, Sweet Kcbo. Echj You lie ' love, you lie ! -Thou lost resuscitate dead sounds Hark ' how my voice revives, Echo Zourxfc ! Lover I'll question thte before 1 go: Come, answer me, more apropos ! I pew Lover Tell me. fair nymph, if e'er yon saw So sweet a girl as Phoebe Shaw ? Echo Pahaw ! Lover Say, what will turn the lovely coney Into the toil of matrimony 1 Echo Money ! Lover Has Phoebe not a heavenly brow to it not white as pearl as snow t Echo Aas, Do! Lover Her eyes, was ever nach a pair Are the stars brighter than they are ? Echo They are! Lover Echo, thou liest, but can't deceive me! Her eye eclipse the stars, believe me Echo Leave me I , thou saucy, pert romancer, Who is fair as Phirbc ! answer. Sflttt Sflistfllanij. From the Home Journal, aaints. Ermincd BLajrr ut. inka. Among the persons commemorated for their piety and beneficence is Miss Kavanagh's "Women of Christianity," three only of those in mod era times are of sovereign rank two of them Queens, the one of France, the other of Prussia, and the third a Russian Empress. The first of these, Mary Lecsinka, was the wife of the least known of all the Louises who have sat upon the throne of France Louis XV. This is not owing to personal weakness, merely. No Bourbon was ever weaker, it is true; but the splendid triumphs of Louis XIV, and the terrible calamities of Louis XVI, have done much to dwarf him into insignifi cance. Nor can we excite a side interest by connecting him with either of these; the great grandson of his predecessor, the grandfather of his successor, he seems isolated from both he is a mere hyphen which connects these two memorable eras of French history. Still Louis XV was firmly seated on a throne which was then the loftiest in Europe, and the chances that Mary Lecsinka, the daughter of an exiled King of Poland, would ever sit beside him, seemed small indeed. The royal exiles were living in comparative poverty in Strasbourg, when one day Mary's father entered the apartment, and addressing his wife and daugh ter, said : "Let us kneel and give thanks to God." "Father," exclaimed Mary, "are you called back to the throne of Poland?" "No, my child, Heaven is far more favorable to us j you are Queen of France.' ' A court intrigue had accomplished this improbability. Louis was but fifteen, and betrothed to a Spanish Princess several years younger than himself. If he should die childless, the crown would devolve upon his uncle, the Duke of Orleans, the personal enemy of the Duke of Bourbon, the Prime Minister. To prevent this, the latter determined that the King should be married as soon as possible. He first fixed his thoughts upon his own sister, who wfes of royal blood, and sent his Madame de rne, under an assumed s, to sound her on the subject. But, before doing so, the thought best to sound her as to her opinion of a certain Marchioness de Prie. The young lady expressed her indignation, that her brother should keep a person of this character near him so plainly, that madame vowed the haughtv Princess should never be Queen of France. Overtures were then made to the exiled Stanislas, which being gracefully received, the Infanta was sent back to her parents, and i daughter of the fugitive King took her place on the throne of France. "Be such as you have ever been from your earliest years," was the reply of Stanislas, when his daughter asked him for advice amid the responsibilities of her new position. It is the best testimony to the virtues of her youth. It was more difficult to maintain them in the midst of the splendor, and vice, and ingenious flatteries of the French court. "Every one is doing his best," she writes to her father, "to deify me; yesterday I was the wonder of the world; to-day, I am a benignant luminary, and to morrow, no doubt, I shall be placed above the immortal ones themselves." To speak the truth to her with affectionate frankness, was ever the surest mode of gaining her affection. The Duke and Duchess de Luvnes she early selected as companions, for this reason. She called them "her honest people," spent much time in their society, and always appeared grateful when the duchess took the friendly liberty of censuring any part of her conduct. Mary had a natural taste, and some talent for raillery, which made it difficult fo her to check the witty sarcasms of the courtiers; but she endeavored to discourage scandal or slander even in their mildest forms. "Have we not, perchance, spoken ill of any one?" she often asked, with conscientious un MMMk One evening, as she undressed, previously to retiring for the night, the lamented her want of Christian charity. Twoof her attendants warmly contradicted her; but the third declared that the oueen was certainly given to injustice and uncharitableaess of speech. Mary defended her airainst her companions, who heard the accusa tioc with indignant surprise, and encouraged her to proceed. "Go od. mv cood eirl ," she said, "go on, tell me more, tell me all." "SureJv," resumed the woman, turning to the other attendants, "surely, yon must confess that her majestv is guiltv ot injustice and un charitableness of speech, whenever she speaks of herself as she has spoken this evening. It was difficult to preserve a conscientious simplicity when exposed to such adroit flatterv as this. Mary's good sense, her piety, her simplicity, and her self-denying charity, early won the esteem of those about her, but they were not quali ties which her husband could especially admire. Fortunately for her happiness, sh p eyaed also the only quality which he was (MMrlV appreciating beauty. This secured herT fr'a time, his affection. "Do you think she is handsofiier than the queen?" he would askr: when his vicious companions attempted to draw his attention to the beauties of the court. It was not till her beauty began to fade, that .'he was subjected to the usual trial of queetif that of being compelled to give a place in her household to the king's favorite She would hare been more saint than woman i she had not sometimes shown irritability under this infliction. On one occasion, when annoyed beyond endurance by the presence of Madame de Pompadour, she began admiring, with undisguised irony, the beauty of her rival; she praised her charming complexion, fine eyes, and exquisite arms, with that minuteness which is itself a slight, and, at length, asked her to sing for the admirable voice ot the favorite was not the least of those manv attractions which had seduced Louis XV. The nvarchioLess endeavored to excuse herself, but the queen, imprudently, ordered her to comply. After a brief pause, she obeyed, and, in thepresence of all the ladies of the court, sang the triumphant monologue of Armida. "At length he owns my power." The queen felt the taunt and turned pale. Mary's chief consolation was derived from the society of her children, and from relieving the poor, whose wretchedness was continually increasing, and led, in the subsequent reign, to the French revolution. Once, while walking in the Kdens of Versailles, she saw a woman with a y in her arms and followed by several children. She had a can of soup in her hand which she was carrying to her husband, a poor mason, whose wages never exceeded sixpence per day. Upon being asked by the queen how seven persons could possibly live on that, she replied:

INDIANA

VOL XX. XO. 45 "Ah! matin me, here is the secret," pointing to a key hanging from her girdle. "I lock up the bread, and try to have always some for my poor husband. It" I miuded these children, they would eat in one day what must last a whole week." It was little the queen could do to relieve the wide-spreading misery, when such immense sums of money, extorted by taxation, were lavished upon courtiers and favorites; but that little she did. She had great taste for porcelain and jewelry, but m tde it a rule never to buy without having first allowed twenty -four hours to elapse; after that space of time she seldom yielded to the temptation. "I like it," she would say, "but I can not judge of it with my eyes of to-day; I must wait for my eyes to-morrow." At a period of unusual suffering she sold all her jewels, having first caused them to be faithfully imitated, and wore for a year, unsuspected, mosaic gold and paste diamonds, uutil she was at length, able to supply their place with genuine ornaments. When complaints of her parsimony were made by grasping courtiers, she would reply: "The treasures of the State are not our treasure ; we are not free to bestow in arbitrary gifts sums exacted in farthings from the poor. Courtiers may say, 'Give to us, and reckon not what you give ;' but the people will say, 'Reckon what we give you. ery primitive and ridiculous maxims these must have seemed in an age which believed that the people were made for the King, and that the highest merit in a sovereign was to spend lav ishly for his favorites and courtiers, but if they had been adopted by Louis, they might have saved his grandson's head from the guillotine. It would have been considered by many a sore trial to be compellex to receive a daughter-in-law the child of a man who had driven a father from his throne ; bat Mary did not visit the sins of the father upon the child. She treated the daughter of Augustus, of Poland, with the utmost kindness, and was repaid by her dutiful affection. Th Queen's greatest sorrow was in the loss of her children. Six were taken from her in succession. The death of the dauphin, her only surviving son, was the last fatal blow. She uttered no complaint during her long illness. Only once she could not help saying to her medical attend ants : "If you would cure me, you must give me back my children." "The lamentations of a nation followed her to the grave," we are told. That her virtues were soon forgotten, while the people remembered only their grievous wrongs, was not strange. There were many Marchionesses de Pompadour there was only one Marv Lecsinka. Faoni "Life in the World.'' By Mi Ftederika Bremer Iff las Bremer Viait to Pope Pius . I saw at the further end of an oblong, light and very simple furnished room a man of stout but handsome figure, standing at a writing table, dressed in a long white garment, with sc-trlet lapels and cap. I made one low courtesy at the door, another in the middle of the room, in obedience to the Pope's sign to me to advance, and yet a third as I approached him and took my stand on the same little carpet with him, which I did in accordance with his friendly indication of his will. (For such persons as do not kneel to the Pope, are required by the ceremonial to make three courtesies or bows.) The portraits of the Pope are in general like him, but his full, short and broad countenance has, when seen more nearly, less expression of kindness, and considerable more of self will and . . . 1. .1 . . Ti 1 M icmper man me oriruiu exuioii. 1 ne glance 01 j the blue eye is lively, but not profound, and is i deficient in earnestness. The complexion and physique generally indicate the best of health, a good appetite and a good t ook. The Pope cast bis eye on a written paper which he held in his hand, and having inquired about my country and place of residence, added, "You have written somewhat?" Myself Yes, your Holiness; novels of domestic life more properly descriptions of life, but in the form of novels. The Pope But you are a Catholic? Myself No, your Holiness not a Roman Catholic. The Pope Then you must become one. There is no completeness or consequence out of the Catholic Church. Myself Permit me, your Holiness, to ask a question? The Pope Yes; ask it. Mvself I love, with my whole heart, our Lord and Master, Jesus Christ. I believe in his divinity; in his redeeming efficacy for me and the whole world; I will alone obey and serve Him. Will your Holiness not acknowledge me as a Christian: The Pope For a Christian? Most certainlv. But Myself And as a member of the Church of Christ? The Pope Yes, in a certain sense; but but then people must acknowledge as true everything which the Church says and enjoins. You ought not in the mean time to believe that the Pope sends to hell all who do not acknowledge the in fallibility of the Catholic Church. No, I believe that many persons of other creeds may be saved Dy living according to tne truth which they acknowledge. I believe so, most certainly. Myself It delights me infinitely to hear this from vour Holiness. Because I have cherished the hope of finding in your Holiness a more righteous judge, as regards these questions, than in many other Catholics, who say: "lou are not a Christian; you can not be saved if you do not. in all resoects, believe as we and our Church." The Pope In this thev are wrong. But vou see, my daughter, people should be able to give an account of their Christian belief ; not believe alone in generals, but believe in the separate parts of a docriue. It is alreadv something to believe in the second person of the Godhead, and in His incarnation ; but it is necessary also to believe in the institutions in which He founded on earth, otherwise there can be in reality no faith in Him. And people must believe in the Pope. The Pope is Christ's representative on earth. In Sweden, the people do not believe on Christ and his Church ; the extremest intolerance exists toward those who think differently to themselves. The king there has twice endeavored to introduce religious freedom, but they would not have it. Myself I know it, your Holiness; but Sweden in former times has suffered from Catholics in the country, and old laws still remain unrepealed in consequence. But it will not be so long, I hope. My countrymen will learn to have confidence in the power of truth and of Christianity. The Pope Your reigning Queen is a Catholic Myself Yes, your Holiness, and the noblest of women, an example to her sex, an ornament to the throne. The Pope All Christian princes and people ought to believe on the rope and obev him. Their not doing so arises from pure pride and worldlv mind. Hence State churches have arisen. The Emperor of Russia will not acknowledge the Pope, because he wishes to be Pope himself. Queen Victoria will not acknowledge the Pope, because she herself will be Popess, and so it is in every country where there is a State church. Belief in the Pope, as the head of the Christian church, is the only rational and consequent thing, it is that alone which leads to unity and clearMSB. 1 he church is an organization; a representative monarchy with its supreme head a spiritual State. If in a State, people will not obey the supreme heul, then there can be neither clearness nor order everything becomes confu sion. Myself We believe in Jesus Christ, and acknowledge Him alone as the head of the Christian Church. The Pope But Jesus Christ is in Heavan.and must have a representee on earth; and this he appointed in the first instance, in the person of the Apostle Peter, by the words vou understand Latin? Myself Procissimo, your Holiness. I have began to learn it lately. The Pope Very good; then you will under Staad the words, "tu es Petru$, et super kanc pttram adih'cabo ecelesiam meam, et porta inferni no prtrcalabunt adeersu earn. Et tibt dabo elates calorum." This dignity and this power descended from Peter to every Pope who has succeeded him, from the very earliest period of the church, down to the unworthy individual who now stands before vou. This is the belief and the doctrine of the church. Myself We in our hurch explain these words of our Savior different y. We consider that by Peter. He intended the Roch man. and that the acknowledgement that Peter made, "1 hou art j Christ , the son of the living (od! was the rock upon which Christ would build His church, against h the gates of Hell should not prev ail. we elieve that Christ left the keys to all of his Ajx.s ties, as well as to Peter, with power to bind and ' release, arad that every earnest Christian, whether it be the Pope in Rome, or a poor fisherman on ; our coasts, has part in this church of the Rock : and its privileges. The Pope But you have not either rwofiMaMSl or : absolution; you do not believe in the mass, nor in the seven sacraments, nor upon those things or ordinances which the church of Christ appoint-. . He who believes in one must believe in all. ; There is but one God in Heaven, and but one church on earth, in which he lives, by his representative, and by regulations which he has ap pointed. This you must understand, and, in or

der to become a perfect Christian not to do it by halves make an open confession thereof. Myself Loving the Lord Jesus Christ, and living according to his commandments, are, according to our belief, the essentials of the Christian! The Pope Very good. I will tell you some thing. Pray! pray For light from the Lord; for grace to acknowledge the truth because this is the only means of attaining to it. Controversy will do no good. In controversy is pride and self love. People in controversy make a parade

of their knowledge, of their acuteness, and, after all, every one continues to hold his own views. Prayer alone gives light and strength for the acquirements of the truth and of grace. Pray every day, every night before you go to rest, and I hope that grace and light may be given to you; for God wishes that we should humble ourselves, and He gives His grace to the humble. And now, God bless and keep you, for time and eternity! This pure priestly and fatherly admonition was so beautifully and fervently expressed that it went to my heart, and humbly, and with my heart, I kissed the hand paternally extended toward me. That it wns the hand of the Pope did not embarrass me in the slightest degree, for he was to me, really, at this moment, the representative of the Teacher, who, in life and doctrine, preached humility , not before men, but before God, and taught mankind to pray to him. The Pope's words were entirely true and evangelical. I thanked him from my entire heart, and departed more satisfied with him than with myself. I had stood before him in my Protestant pride; he had listened with patience, replied with kindness and finally exhorted me, not with papal arrogance, but as a true gospel teacher. I parted from him with more humility of spirit than I had come. The Pope conversed with me in French, with facility and accuracy His manner of speaking is lively and natural, as one who allows himself to converse without restraint. The Uhest He Didn't See. I was rather disappointed, if the truth must lie told so indeed we all were at home at his scanty flow of words, when he returned to us from that grim Crimean campaign. As for the general story of the war, we did not want that from him, as they might have done whose kinsman should have returned to them from so distant a scene of warfare in the old days when electric telegraph and express trains and steamers were not, and when the Times had not invented its 'Own Correspondent." We used to send him that general story, in comprehensive chapters on that journal's broad sheet, and with the pictorial panoramas of the London Illustrated iVetcs. He and his comrades read it thu.. mi I have heard him say, with curious, eager and intense delight. I think Iiis heart must have beat quick one day upon reading, in one of its very noblest chapters, his own name, scored under by my pen as 1 had read it proudly, before sending him that paper. But what we wanted were particulars ot what had personally bafallen him; for we knew that, though it was hard, indeed, to be pre-eminent in discharge of duty or daring of danger amidst that flower of the world's soldierhood, he had been noted as noteworthy, even among such, by those who had the best means of appreciating his courage and his industry. In explanation ot the latter word, I may remark that his arm of the service was one of those which our then allies desinated is "Armes Savantes," or "Scientific Arms." I have found this modest manly silence, touching personal exposure and achievement, an almost invariable characteristic of our noble fighting men. My readers will, therefore, kindly bear it in mind that the detailed and continuous narrative I put under his eyes here, is of my writing rather than of his telling, short as it is. But I have interwoven in it, so far as I know, nothing but authentic threads of recollection. I picked the matter for the spinning of them bit by bit out of his conversation, aS an old woman might pick out of a long hedge row, at great intervals, wool enough to furnish worsted for her knitting needles to work up into a stocking or a pair of mits. He had been under fire continuously for seven hours and more, on one of the most hard-fought days of all that hard-fought struggle, and as he rode away at evening towards the camp, rode bare headed, in reverent acknowledgment to Heaven, for the marvel that he was riding out of that hail of iron himself unhurt. As for the unobserved incidents of that day's danger, from which so merciful a preservation had been vouchsafed, they would be hard to reckon; upon three several occasions during those seven exposed hours, it really seemed the messengers of death avoided him, as in some legend they turn aside from the man who bears a charmed life. There was a six-pound shot, which he saw distinctly coming, as a cricketer eyes the projectile which threatens his middle wicket. It pitched right in front of him, and rose as a cricket-ball when the turf is parched and baked, bounding clean up into the air, and so passing right over his untouched head. It fell behind him, and he looked at it more than once that day, and, but for its inconvenient bulk, thought of carrvine it away for a memento. There was a four-and-twenty pound shot next, a sort of twin brofter to that which, some three weeks before, had actually tore his forage cap from off his head; but it came too quick for sight. He was at that moment backing towards the shafts of an ammunition cart a horse, w hose reins he held close to its jaws, as he spurred on his own to make it give way in the right direction. Smash! came the great globe of iron, and as the bones, and blood and brains bespattered him, he almost himself fell forward; for the poor brute was restive no longer, headless horses don't strain against the bit, although 'tis just as hard as ever to back them into the shafts. Then there was a moment, cue of those of direst confusion, of what other than such soldiers as fought that fight would have reckoned a mo ment of dismay. A moment w herein regimental order itself was in part broken and confused; guardsmen mingled with linesmen with bluecoated artillery. There had been fearful havoc among those noble servants of the deep voiced cannon, and men were wanted to hand out the shells from a cart he had himself brought up, replenished, to a breastwork. He called in some of the linesmen. One of them stood by him foot to foot, almost or actually in contact. They were handing ammunition, from one to other, as men do firebuckets when fires are blazing in a street. He leant in one direction to pass on the load he had just taken from the soldier's hand; the soldier was bending towards the next man in the chain; a Russian shell came bouding with a whir, then burst and scattered its deadly tragments itli terrific force. One of its great iron shred passed there was just room for it between his leg and the soldier's that stood next him. They looked each other in the face. "A near shave that, sir!" said the man, " N earer than vou think for, perhaps," he answered, for he had felt the rounder surface of the fragment actu ally bruise him as it passed, whereas its ragged edge had shaven, with a marvelous neatness, from his trouser, part of the broad red stripe upon the outer seem. 1 venture to give these minute details because they may help other civilians, as they helped me, to "realize. as thev call it now a -nays, more vividly the risks of a day of battle, and the large drafts they dr.fv upon a man s tund ol nerve 'id composure, just as he stands, without coming into any close encounter. But at last the firing was done, and bareheid ed, as I have said, he turned and rode back to ward the camp. It was before the famine period there, and though there was no superrluitv of food, there was food to be had, and that long day 's fighting men were in more need of it. It was dusk, and he was lighting a candle to sit down to his meal, when the voice of a French soldier called something like his name from the outside. He was himself a perfect master of that language, as the "Soldat-du-train" who stood outside found to his great relief upon his first ut terance of inquiry. The Frenchman held a mule bv the bridle, and across the creature's back lay something that looked like a he ivy tilled parti colored sack. It was a far otherwise ghastly burden. The body of an officer, stripped bare all but the trousers, the dark clothed legs hanging one way, the fairskinned naked shoulders and arms the other, the Ve toward the ground. "I was directed, mon officer, to bring this poor gentleman's corpse to you. They av you were a friend of his his name is Captain X " Even at that early stage of the campaign such shocks lo-t tin startling effects of novelty; nevertheless, there were few names among those of his friends and comrades which it could shock and grieve him more to hear pronounced under such circumstances.. The light was fetched. He raised the oor body; then with a sigh, let it once more gently down. There was a small, round hole in the very center of the forehead, where.'.t the rifle ball had darted into the brain of his hap less friend. He called an order!-, and directed him to accompany the Frenchman to the dead man's tent. He would himself soon follow anil see to his receiving a soldier's obsequies. His weariness and exhaustion were such as to render it imperatively necessary that he should first take his food, to which he returned, with what increased weight at heart, who shall rightly toll'.'

STATE SENTINEL

INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA,

It needs not that the tension of man's nerves should have been strung tight by tv. hands of battle, for him to know, from his own experience ; what is the strange, and awful, and weird feeling l of the first relaxation of them in the early after i hours of responsibility, danger, or important crisis ; of decision. If apparitions and visions of things unearthly be indeed mere fictions of men's brain, j such after hours are just those wherein the mind ; is readiest to yield to the power of illusion. j Illusion or reality more startling, more unac- i countable bv far than it? Whether ot the two was this? Tlrere entered at the curtain of his tent the dead man, toward whom, in some few minutes more, he should have been showing the last sad kindness. The light fell full and clear upon his face. He took off his forage cap as he came in. The broad, white forehead showed no longer any trace of the murderous incmsh of the ball which had slain him. Into the poor dull glazed eyes the gleam had returned, could it indeed be the gleam of returned life? Or do the eyes of ghosts gleam life like too? "What made you send that Frenchman with my corpse to me? At least, he would insist that it was mine." "X! Good heaven! Can it be vou, in deed?" "Who should it be? What ails Whv do vou stare at me so?" you, man: "I can not say what ails me; but I am surely noer some strange delusion, it is not halt an our surely, since I saw you stretched lifeless cross a mule's back, with a rifle bullet between your eyes. What can this mean? You are not even wounded." "No, thank God ! nothing has touched me for this once; but the French soldier did you then send him up, indeed?" "Indeed I did." Hideous comic tragic episode in the awful drama of war ! They discovered by-and by that their slain brother soldier wns no comrade of their own corps, but a brave officer of another arm. Neither of them had known him personally, nor had they heard before that between him and X existed, in his lifetime, the most remarkable and close resemblance sach an identity of feature as is rarely seen save in twin brothers. Now, it has struck me sometimes as I have turned over in my mind this strange but true story, that there may have been among that wearied host that night men, to whom indeed what happened appeared a demonstration of the truth concerning ghostly visitants ; men who may have known only the gallant man that tell, as my kinsman only knew the man for whom he was mistaken; they may have seen him fall, or have known of his fatal misadventure; and then they, too, may have seen his perfect image, his very self as thev needs must have reasoned it pass by them, i:i the gleam of their tent's lantern, through that November mist; pass by them though they had been dear friends and comrade-, without a word, a nod, a sign of recognition pass by them on some unearthly errand, on his way back, perhaps, to answer, in the ghost world to the roll-call of the dead. Hood's Practical Jokes. As fond of practical jokes as even Theodore Hood himself, Tom Hood was often caught in his own net, but often gae a quid pro quo. His daughter thus chronicles one: "Two or three friends came down for a day ', shooting, and, as they often did, in the evening mw ed out into the middle of the lake in an old punt. They were all full of spirits, and playe d ofl one or two practical jokes on their host, till on getting out of the boat, leaving him last, one ot them gave it a push, and out went my father into the water. Fortunately it was the landing place, and the water was not deep, but he was wet through. It was playing with edge tools to venture on such tricks with him, and lie quietly determined to turn the tables. Accordingly, he presently began to complain of cramp and stitches, and at last went in doors. His friends getting rather ashamed of their rough fun, persuaded him to go to bed, which he accordingly did. His groans and complaints increased so alarmingly that they were almost at their wit's ends what to do. My mother had received a quiet hint, and was, therefore, not alarmed, though much amused at the terrified efforts and prescriptions of the repentant jokers. There was no doctor to be had tor miles, and all sorts ol queer remedies were suggested and administered, my father shaking with laughter, while they supposed he had got ague fever. One rushed up with a tea-kettle of boiling water hanging on his arm, another tottered under a tin bath, and a third brought the mus tard. "My father at length, well as he couln speak. avc out the sepulchral voice that he was sure e was dying, and detailed some most absurd di rections lor bis will, which they were all too frightened to see the fun of. At last he could stand it no longer, and after hearing the penitent offenders beg him to forgive them for their un fortunate joke, and beseech him to believe in their remorse, he burst into a perfect fit of laughing, which they thought at first was delirious frenzy, but which ultimately betrayed the joke. Another of his j6ke3 on his wife, as recorded by herself, in a letter to England, is capital. She 'I must now tell you mv storv about the Christmas pudding. The lieutenant was with M on Christmas day, and enjoyed my plum pudding so much that I promised to make one for him. Hood threatened to play some tricks with it either to pop in bullets or tenpenny nails; and I itched over mv work with great vigilance, so that it was in to boil without any misfortune. "I went to bed earlv, telling Gardie to put it, when done, into the drawing room till the morning. Hood was writing, and says it was put down smoking under his very nose, and the mischief wai irresistible. 1 hail bought a groschen s worth of new white wooden skewers that very morning. He cut them a little shorter than the pudding's diameter, and poked them in across and across in all directions, so neatly that I never perceived anv sign of them when I packed and sealed it up next day for De Franck's man to carry to Ehrenbretstein. He came to thank me, and praised it highly. I find that while I was out of the room Hood asked if it was not well trussed, and he answered "ves" so gravelv that Hood thought he meditated some joke in retaliation, and was on his guard. At the ball the truth came out; he actually thought it was some new method of making plum pudding, and gave me credit for the woodwork. He had invited two of his brother officer-, to Irnich upon it, and Hood wanted to persuade me that the 'cardinal' officer had swallowed one of the skewers! Now was not this an abominable trick?" A Saprrnatural Premonition. I was running a night express train, and had a train of ten cars eight passenger and two baggage cars and all were well loaded. I was be hind time, and was very anxious to make a cer tain point ; thus I was using every exertion, and putting the engine to the utmost speed of which she was capable. I was on a section of the road usually considered the best running ground on the line, and was endeavoring to make the most of it, when a convictiou struck me that I MM stop. A something seemed te tell me that to go ahead was dangerous, and that I must stop if 1 would save life. I looked back at my train, and it was all right. I strained mv eves and peered into the darkness, and could see no signal of danger, nor anything betokening danger, and there I could see five miles in the day time, 1 !i-tened to the workings of mv engine, tried the water, looked at the guage, and all was right. I tried to laugh myself out of what I then cousid ered a childish fear, but, like Banquo's ghost, it would not dewn at my bidding, but grew stronger in its hold upon me. I thought of the ridicule I would have heaped upon me if I did stop, but it was all of no avail. The conviction for by this time it had ripened into a conviction that I must stop grew stronger; and I shut oft' and blew the whistle for breakers accordingly. I came to a dead halt, got off, and went ahead a little way, without saying anything to anybody what the matter was. 1 had a lamp in mv liana, ana naa cone about sixty leet, when I saw what convinced me that premonitions are sometimes possible. I dropped the lantern from my nerveless grasp, and sat down on the track, utterly uuable to stand; for there was a switch, the thought of which had never entered my mind, as it had never been used since I had been on the road, and was known to be spiked, but was open to leid me off the track. The switch led into a stone quarry, from whence stone for bridge purpose had been quarried, and the switch was left there in case stone should be needed at any MM: but it was always locked, and the switch rail spiked. Yet here it was, wide open; and, had I not obeyed mv premonitior, warning call it what you will I should have run into it, and, at the end of the track only about ten rods long, my heavy engine and train, moving at the rate of thirty miles per hour, would have come into collision with a solid wall of rock, eighteen feet high. The consequences, had 1 doue so, can neither be imagined nor described; but they could by no possibility, have been otherwise than fatally horrid. This is my experience in getting warnings from a source thai 1 MM Mt, Mi can not divine. It is a mystery to me; a mystery for which I am very thankful, however, although I dare not attempt to explain it, nor sat whence it came.

WEDNESDAY, ARPIL 3, 1861.

The H ps and Down in this Life. About five years ago, among the fashionable boarders at one of our prominent hotels in this city, were two fascinating and well-dressed ladie. and their husbands w ho mingled in the good society of that day apparently the most attractive ot the circle in which they moved. The husbands vf both being in the common parlance of the times, clever, wholesouled gentlemen always "hail fellow met" with everybody and occupying prominent position, their society was courted in their circle of friends and associates. Every lavishing expenditure was indulged in to gratifv the wishes of the ladies in extravagant dressing! and entertaining their friend. in the rounds of fash ionable dissipation. Life moved nU.i, - seemingly all sunshine, and to the less favortxl, not a cloud could be seen to mar the pleasure of their gay and happy enjoyment. A few short year passed, and are of the enchanting and once happy wives in her girlish days the pride of a doting father and mother, resident of a Southern city educated in all the accomplishments of one of the first Female Seminaries, after dragging out a miserable existence of sickness and disease, the result of former imprudence and dissipation, became the inmate of our countrv noor house. where death terminated her career. Her husband, an actor of considerable reputation throughout the country, who years before separated from her, last season, in a bar room altercation in New Orleans was shot dead. The husband of the other lady, a few years ago, was detected in a forgery, or swindling ope ration, for which Iip is now serving out a term in the Auburn prison. And now comes the last actor in this domestic drama. A few days ago, in passing through the Work-house on a tour of inspection, among the inmates of that institution, our attention was called to one who bore the ap pearance of having seen better days, and on in quiring, we found it was the unfortunate wife of the imprisoned confidence operator, and the last ol the once favored and attractive quartette. Reared in wealth and luxury, she left her happy home and parents in Philadelphia to follow the fortunes of one she had sworn to love, honor and obey. She, who once shone so conspicuously at concerts, balls, and amid the 'estive scenes, and by her accomplishments, beauty, and all that goes to make up a bewitching woman, sunk so low, seemed almost impossible! Step by step she had fallen in her career of dissipation and vice, until, from die former enviable osition she occupied in the gay world of fus'iionable life, through the in fluenee of the intoxicating cup she became the associate of the vulgar and abandoned characters, such as fill our MM Her health being so bid, through the hunianitv of those who execute the laws, on Saturday she was removed to the County Poor house, thereto receive the atten tions of those who minister to the wants of the poor and unfortunate. This is no exaggerate! , sensation item, but a plain, simple story of facts, as hundreds who read this paragraph can testify to. It is one of the every day acts in the drama of life, and illustrates its tips and downs. To-day occupying a high round in the ladder; to morrow, who knows where? And still on moves the busy world ! Buffalo Republic. rnrioui French Stery A week or ten days ago, says a Paris letter writer ,a young man, originally from the country, became engaged to marry a lady equal to him in age and fortune. She was a Parisian. He occu pies a lucrative place in one of the railway com panies' offices here. His father lives on the old family estate, wnich is situated in one of the mountain gorges near the Franco Spanish fron tier, and separated almost completely from the world. He had past for a widower above twenty years. The young man paid a visit to the old family seat, where, indeed, he was accustomed to spend Iiis MM vacations, to collect the innu inerable documents the French law requires the officer who performs marriages to have in his hands before he stamps the civil contract made belore him with its Medan and Persian charac ter. He asked his father for his mother's burial certificate. The father was extremely embarrassed by this appeal, but as no bans could be published until the burial certificate had been lodged at the Mayor's office, where the marriage was to be con tr acted, the father at last broke silence saying: "My dear boy, I have for a great many years concealed a secret from you, because its possession would prove a painful burden to you.and be cause the honor of our house is interested in its maintenance, and your tender years have hitherto rendered you incapable of preserving it. Your mother lives. She isa lunatic. Come with me, and I'll let you see her." He carried his son. who was trembling with emotion, into an old tower which formed part ol the architecture of the chateau, and they went to the top of it. The chamber on the last floor was the lunatic's cell. He opened the door, the son entered it, and kneelin at the poor woman's feet, sobbed, "Mother! mother!" in a most heart-rend ing manner. These touching appeals, which would have moved stone idols almost, made no impression on the jxior lunatic. Her stare continued as vacant "and her lips as speechless as ever. The son, his soul sick at the sad spectacle, then gently upbraided his father for denying him the melancholy solace of sharing the attentions he, the father, had bestowed upon his wife's wreck for so many years. The father repeated the excuses he had first given of his son's youth and the importance of the secret to the family's happiness. It became necessary to avow this misfortune to the bride's family; and they naturally desired to see for themselves, as the story that the wife was dead and the story that she was crazy seemed something awkward, which nee led explanation. Several members of the family went down to the distant chateau, and the poor lunatic was introduced. As soon as she saw herself surronnded by witnesses, she said iu a calm tone: "I am not mad. My husband becoming the prey of a most un reasoning jealous v, and 1 being alone in this se cluded mansion, to escape his continual scenes of violence, and to avo:d the lear I was continually under of being assassinated by him, (he threat ened more than once to kill me,) I say 1 feigned madness in the hope of enjoying something like (juiet. I preferred languishing in prison all my life to being hourly harrassed by these dreadful scenes of jealousy." You may imag ne the effect this declaration made. The persons assembled thought at first this accusation was but an additional evidence of the distracted state of her mind, for madness often borrows reason's mask, and wears it so well as to deceive even the most practiced physicians of the mind. The faculty was appeiledto. Belore it could decide, her Immm, VM had been in a state of great agitation ever since his wife charged him with her sequestration, became raving m id. His papers were inspecte 1, and it appeared that he had for years been crazy a monomaniac his frenzy arising from jealousy. His was carried to a mad house, and his wife signed the marriage contract of her son! Isn't that Venitian enough for you? To think it occurred in France, iu this year of grace? Down Hill A l it. Pirtnre. Not long since, I had occasion to visit one of our courts, and while conversing with a legal friend, 1 heard the name of John Anderson called. " These is a hard case." remarked my friend. I looked upon the man iu the prisoner's dock. He was standing up. and plead guilty to the crime of theft. He was a tall man, but bent and infirm, though not old. His garb w as torn, sparse and filthy; his lace was all bloated and bloodshot, his hair matted with dirt, and his bowed form quivered with delirium. Certainly, I never saw a more pitiable object. Surely, that man was not born a villian. 1 moved my place to obtain a fairer view of his face. He saw my movement, and he turned his head. He gazed upon me a single instant, and then, covering his face with his hands, sank powerless iMSaMMkt. " Oood God !" I involuntarilv ejaculated, starting forward, "Will" ' I hail half spoken his name, when he quicklv raised his head, and cast upon me a look of such such imploring agony that my tongue was tied at once. Then he covered his face with his hands again. I asked my legal companion if the prisoner had counsel. He said no. I then told him to do all in his power for the poor fellow's benefit, and I would pay him. He promised, and 1 left. 1 could not remain and see that man tried. Tears came to mv eyes as I gazed upon him, and it was not i.ntil 1 gained the street and walked some distance, that I could breathe freely. John Anderson! Alas! he was ashamed to be known as his mother's son. That was not his real name; but you shall know him bv no other. I will call him by the name that stands upon the records of the court. John Anderson was my school mate, and it was not many years ago not over twenty that we left our academy together; he to return to the home of wealthy parents, I to sit down for a few vcars in the dingy sanctum of a newspaper office, and then wander oil across the ocean. I was gone some four years, and when I returned I found John a married man. His father was dead, and had left his only son a princely fortune. "And, C," he said to me, as he met me at a railway station, "you shall see what a bird I have caged. My Ellen is a lark, a robin, a very princess of all birds that ever looked beautiful or sang sweetly." He was enthusiastic, but not mistaken, for I found his wife all he had said, simply omitting

the poetry. She was one of the most beautiful women I ever saw. And so good, too; so loving ard kind. Ay, she so loved John that she reallyloved all his friends. What a lucky fellow to find such a wife, and what a lucky woman to find such a husband; for John Anderson was as handsome as she, tall, straight, manly, high-browed, with rich chestnut curls, and a face as faultlessly noble and beautiful as artist ever copied. And he was good, too, and kind, generous and true. I spent a week with them, and was happy all the while. John's mother lived with them, a fine old lady as ever breathed, and making herself constant joy by doting on her "darling boy," as she always called him. I gave her an account of my adventures by sea and laud in foreign climes, and she kissed me because I loved her darling. I did not see John again for four years. Iu the evening I reached his house. He was not in, but is wife and mother were there to receive me, and two TMjrly headed boys were at play about Ellen's chair. knew at once they were my friend's children. Bvrything seemed pleasant' until the little ones wereed and asleep, and then I could see that Ellen was troubled. She tried to hide it, but a face so used to the sunshine of smiles could

not conceal a cloud. v. At length John came. His face was flushed and his eyes looked inflamed. He grasped my hand with a happy laugh, called me "old tellow,5' "old dog," said I must come and live with him. and many other extravagant things. His wife tried to hide her tears, while his mother shook her head and said: "He will sow his wild oats soon. My darling never can be a bad man." "God grant it!" I thought to myself; and I knew that the same prayer was upon Ellen's lips. It was late when we retired, and we might not have done so even then, had not John fallen asleep in his chair. On the following morning I walked out with my friend. I told him I was sorry to see him as I saw him the night before. "Oh," said he, with a laugh, "oh, that was nothing, only a little wine party. We had a glorious time. I wish you had been there." At first I thought I would say no more, but was it not my duty? I knew bis nature better than he knew it himself. His appetites and pleas 1MB bounded his own vision. 1 knew how kind and generous he was alas! too kind, too generous. "John, could you have seen Ellen's face last evening, you would have trembled. Cau vuu make her unhappy'.'" He stopped me with "Don't be a fool ; whv should she be unhappy '.'" "Because she fears you are going dowv hill," I told liim. "Did she say so?" he asked, with a flushed face. "No; I read it in her looks," I said. "teriiaps it is a renection ol your own thoughts," he suggested. "Surely I thought so when you came home," I replied. Never can I forget the look he gave me then, so full of reproof, of surprise, of pain. "C, I forgive you, for I know you to be my friend: but never speak to me like that. I going down hill! You know better. That can never be. I know my own power, and 1 know my wants. My mother knows me better than Ellen does." Ah! had that mother been as wise as she was loving, she would have seen that the "wild oats" which her son was sowing would grow no and ripen to furnish only seed for resowing! But she loved him loved him almost too well, or, I should say, too blindly. But I could say no more. I only prayed that God would guard him, and then we conversed on other subjects. I could spend but a day with him; but we promised to correspond often. Three years more passed, during which John Anderson wrote to me at least once a month, and oftner sometimes; but at the end of that time his letters ceased coming, and I received no more lor two years, when 1 again found myself in his native town. It was early in the afternoon when I arrived, and I took dinner nt the hotel. I had finished my meal, and was lounging in front of the hotel, when I saw a funeral procession winding into a distant church-yard. I asked the landlord whose funeral it was. "Mrs. Andexson's," he said; and as he spoke, I noticed a slight drooping of the head, as if it cut him to say so. "What! John Anderson's wife?" I ventured. "No," he said, "it is his mother;" and as he told me this, he turned away. But a gentleman near by, who had overheard our conversation, at once took up the theme. "Our host don't seem inclined to converse upon that subject," he remarket!, with a shrug, in quiring, "Did you know John Anderson?" "He was my schoolmate in boyhood, and my bosom frieud iu youth." I told him. He then led me to one side, and spoke as fol lows: "Poot John! He was the pride of the town six years ago. This man opened his hotel at that time, and sought custom by giving wine suppers. John was present at many of them, the gayest of the gay, and the most generous of the party. In fact, he paid for nearly all of them. Then he be gan to go down hill, and has been going down ever since. At times, true friends have prevailed on him to stop, but his stops were of short duration. A short season of sunshine would gleam upon his home, and then the night came, more dark and dreary than before. "He said he never would get drunk again; but still he would take a glass of wine with a friend ! That glass of wine was but the gate that let in the flood. Six years ago he was worth sixty thousand dollars. Yesterday he borrowed the sum of fifty dollars to pay his mother's funeral expenses. That poor mother bore up so long as she could. She saw her son her 'darling boy,' as she always called him brought home drunken manv times. And she even bore blows from him ! But now she is at rest. Her 'darling' wore her life away, and brought her gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. Oh, I hope this may reform him." i "But his wife?" I asked. "Her heavenly love has held her up thus far, but she is only a shadow of the wife she was six years ago," he returned. My informant was deej.lv affected, and so was I; consequently I asked no more. During the remainder of the afternoon I de bated with myself whether to call upon John at all. But finally 1 resolved to go. though I waited till after tea. I found John and his wife alone. They had both been w eeping, though I could see at a glance that Ellen's fate was beaming with hope and love. Hut oh. she was changed, sadly, painfully so. They were glad to see me, and my hand wa -haken warmly. "Dear C, do not say a word of the past," John urge l, shaking my hand a second time. I know you spoke the truth five years ago. I was going down hill. But I have gone as fast as I can here I stop at the foot. Everything is gone but my wife. I have sworn and my oath shall be kept Ellen and I arc going to be happv now." The poor fellow burst into tears; Ellen followed suit, und I kept them company. I could not help crying like a child. My God! what a sight! The once noble, true man so fallen become a mere broken glass the last fragment brightly reflecting the image it once bore, a poor suppliant ut the foot of hope, begging a grain of warmth for the heart of himself and wife! And how I had honored and loved that man, and how I loved him still! Oh how I hojied ay, more than hoped I believed, that he would be saved. And as I gazed upon that wife so trusting, so loving, so true and so hopeful, even in the midst of li ing death, I pra vetl more fervently than I ever prayed before, that God w ould hold him uji lead him back to the top of the hill. On the morning I saw the children grown to be intelligent lov; and though they looked pale and wan, yet they smiled, and seemed happy when their father kissed them. When I left there John took me by the hand, and the last words he said were, "Trust me; believe me now; I will be a man iienoeforth, while life lasts." A little over two years had passed, when I read in a newspaper the death of Ellen Anderson. I started tor the town where they had lived, as soon a- j o--i!le, thinking I might help some one. A fearful presentiment possessed my mind. "Where is John Anderson," I asked. "Don't know, I'm sure. He's been gone these three months. His wife died in the mad house last week." "And the children?" "Oh, they both died liefore she did." I staggered back and hurried from the place. I hardly knew which way 1 went, but instinct led me to the churchyard. 1 found four graves which had been made in three years. The mother, wife, and two children slept in them. "And what has done this?" I asked mvself. Ann a voice answered from the lowly sleeping -"The demon of the wine table!" place But this was not all the work. No. no. The next dav I saw oh! God! what was far more terrible? I saw it in the city court room. Hut that was not the last; not the last. I saw mv legal friend on the dav following the trial. He said John Andnrson was in prison. I hastened to see him. The turnkey conducted me to his cell ; the key turned in the large lock; the ponderous door, with a sharp creak, swung upon its hinges, and I saw a dead body suspended by the neck from a grating window ! I looked at the horrible face , I could see nothing of John Anderson there, but the face I had seen in the court room was sufficient to connect the two; and

WHOLE NO. 1,132.

I knew that this was all that remained of him whom I loved so well. And this was the last of the demon's work; and the last act in the terrible drama. Ah! from the first sp trkle of the red wine it had been down, down, down! until the foot of the hill had been finally reached! When I turned away from the cell, and once more walked amid the flashing saloons and revel halls, I wished that my voice had power to thunder the life-story of which I had been a witness, into the ears of all living men' Written for the Memphis Appeal. Dealt off I otic Sams. "Well, old Uncle Sam's dead. Poor fellow, he had a hard time while he lived, and I hope he's better off. Requicscat in pace. That means, I s'pose, that we must take waruin', and mind our ways." "Who was Uncle Sam, ganny, and what made him have a hard time?" "Lore a massy, children, he's seed a heap of trouble in his day, and I'm glad the old critter's out of his misery, 1 am, for you see his children turned agin him in his ole age, and when the children get to quarreling it's all up with the old folk--." "Well, tell us about it, ganny." "Well, you see a long time ago, ole John Bull, h it lives over tother side of the pond, he had a sigW. of children, and they was mighty cramped in the old hutnstid. So Sam, he come over this side of th pond, 'thout asking John's leave, and built him a house. Ole John was called a mighty close fisted old chap, and when he saw Sam he was getting along party well, he sent over some of his tea to him, but he sold it mighty high, and so Sam wouldn't have it, and flung it into the pond. Now they'd allere minded MM right well before, though they was on this side of the pond, so when they flung the tea in the water it riled the old gent purty considerable, and he sent some of his servants over to tell Sam to be have, and to try and make 'em buy his tea. Sam sent the fellows back with a flea in their ears, and told 'em to tell the old govner they wouldn't have nothing to do with him, and was going to buv their tea somewhar else. Well, a spell arter that they got along purty well. Uncle Sam had a rati of children and gram Ich i. drei I. and so he pin ted a housekeeper to cany the kes and take keer of his tea candies and sugar chists. He used to change his house keeper every four years, and sometimes they used to quarrel a sight when the time come u change ; for some of the children wanted one housekeeper and some another. Just at first Uncle Sam had mighty good housekeepers; one on u ji made a purty striped counterpin with white stars on it, and whenever any of the children got troublesome, the old man used to show um the counterpin und tell um how they'd all worked together at it like brothers and sisters, and they'd all kiss and make friends. Uncle Sim'i oldest child was a big fellownamed Jonathan. He lived on the north side of the house, and had lots of children, and they was powerful leered on the cold air ami wouldn't have no winders hardly, and them they had they kep clo'st shct all the time. The other child of Sam's was a girl named Virginity. She and her family lived on the south side of the house. They was a free and easy sort of folks and kep all their winders open, for that side was all round green fields and blossoms and blue skies. Well, when the house got too full, they used to add rooms all round ; hut arter a spell, Jonathan and his folks said V irginny kep too many open winders, and said 'twant health v nor gen teel, nor no wavs seemlv to live that wav. They tried hard to make um shct urn up, and when any of Virginny's children come over thar they wouldn't open a winder for love nor money. Well, you see ole Johu Bull, he had a sight of poor kin on his side of the pond; and Hans and Paddy they come over to stay with Sara; and arter a while they filled up all the house, and then they had to build a heap more rooms. Jonathan he told Hans and Paddy 'twant healthy this side of the pond to have the winders open, and so they shet up all theirs; and in pint of fact the critters didn't nave no money to make winders. Well, thar'd been a power of fuss and talk about them winders, but irginny and her children just laft at it, and didn't keer much, for they loved ole Uncle Sam, and didn't waut to hurt the ole man's feelings. Now it come to be time to change house keep era, and Jonathan, and Hans, and Paddy put their heads together and sed old Miss Lincoln she should be housekeeper, and she'd shet up all the winders in no time. Olo Aunt Jemimy Buchau an, she was the housekeeper then, and she didn't keer 'bout the winders much; but when it come to having ole Miss Lincoln thar at the head, V irginny and her children got mad and said she shouldn't have the keys. So they made a power fill bluster, I tell you. But 'twouldn't a come to much arter all, ef Virginny's oldest daughter, little Palmetto, that lived close to the pond, hadn't a been more spunkv than the rest. She'd helped to drive John Bull's sarvants off, in that tea-kettle fuss, and she thought it didn't become the likes of her to be put upon by Jonathan any more'n John Bull his self. So she said she'd shut up all the doors between Jonathan's folks and her, and have a housekeeper of her own, and a pantry of her own, and live to herself. Jonathan said he'd whip her ef she didn't hold her jaw; and some of Virginny's other children said Pal metto wunted a w hipping, and Jonathan had ort to give it to' her. irginny she said Jonathan shouldn't do it, and ef he touched Palmetto she'd show him the length of her foot and her fist, too. Ole Aunt Jemimy said Jonathan hadn't ought to do it, and he mustn't do it, and Palmetto must be let alone; but Jonathan whispered something in the old ooman's ear, and she jist whipped right round and said if Palmetto shet up any of them doors she'd have um opened agin. Then she shook her keys and trotted round like a old hen with one chicken, and begged uncle Sam to make Jonathan and Palmetto behave and make friends. Pore ole uncle Sam, he tried and tried. He talked to Jonathan and he talked to Palmetto, but t'want the least mite, of use. Aunt Jemimv she sent one of the farm servants round to open of the doors Palmetto 'd shut up, but Palmetto she ordered him off, and when he didn't go she flung a big stone at him. He took to his heels then and went back to Aunt Jemimy and told her, and she weut to old uncle Sam agin, and begged him to make Jonathan and V irginny quit quarrelling, and talked bout sending more men round to open the doors; but then Georgy and Floridy and Alabamy and Mississipy, Virginny's other children, they all commenced ehetting up the doors too, and talked so sassy to aunt Jemimy that she was crazy as a March hare with trouble, and most ready to throw the keys in the pond. She didn't let old uncle Sam have a minits oeace, aggravatin the old critter to make the children behave. Well, the upshot of the thing was, they shut up all the doots between the two families, und when ole Miss Lincoln got the keys, she found the pantry hadn't the leat mite of a thing to eat in it; and she didn't have nothin to keep ho i-' on ; and Hans and Paddy gin her lots of trouble to keep um quiet. Yirginnv, she want no better off tiuthcr, for some of her children had a mighty hankering arter that old counterpin of Ui.He S.i in s, caiwe the first housekeeper had it made; and you see it rightly belonged to Virginny, for she'd helped to sew on every stripe and star in it; and when they was all in she bound it round anil finished it up at Yorktown, when ole John Bull's bo was making a mighty row about that tea. But she'd let Jonathan get hold on it, and he wouldn't hear on her havin a rag even for a keepsake to remember the good houeekeeper who had it made when Uncle Sam first set up fur hisself. He said he'd won it from Virginny at Bunker Hill, Bennington and Saratoga. Then Virginny tried to put him in mind how she got it back when they played at Cowpens and Yorktown. and told him he played at Saratoga with some of her cards; but ne put his fingers in his ears and wouldn't heir a word. Pore ole Uncle Sam, he could not tell which to stay with, and he pined and pined away till the cold March winds come soon and finished him. I hope Jonathan's satis tied now with all his shet up winders, for he's just been the death of the old man with them winders, he has. Poor ole Uncle Sam. I allers loved him mighty, and I love to hear him tell how he fit old John Bull. And sakes! how proud he used to be of that ole striped counterpin. But he's out of his missery. Well its a debt we've all got to pay ef it please God we live to see it. And now children go to bed, and don't forgit to say your prayers. Pabdoxkd. Old Mrs. Knapp, she who murdered her husband near Auburn, Dekalb county, for which she was over one year ago sent to the I Vnitenti.arv fo' life, has been nardoiied out bv : Governor Morton. How, in the name of common justice, was this pardon procured? On what recommendation did Governor Morton do it? Why the "old hag," as she is, ought to have staid there a thousand years, if it were possible. She belongs to "dark ages," and is of that order of beings who ought to be under the strictest sur veillance, and yet after most brutally murdering her husband, a poor benighted old creature, and being sent to the Penitentiary therefor, she is pardoned out and sent back to be kept aa a county charge by the people of Dekalb county. Is this another Perry Randolph trick? Did her counsel again go in " just a little," and unknown to hi msel 1 how far? We shall find out. Fort Wayne Times, (Republican.')

iifliious lisrf(Ianp.

Comiu Dowk. By coming down I suino inu: Learning from the many tions, disappointments, and rebuffs which we ail meet as we go on through life, to think numbly ot ourselves, intellectasilv cially, physically, esthetically ; yet while tnus numoiy oi ourteivea and our powers, to re soive mat we snail continue to do our and all this with a kindly heart and a mind. Such L my idea of true and coming down; and I regard as a true hero the man who does it rightly. It is a noble thing for a man to say to himself, "I am not at all what I had vainly fancied myself; my mark is tar, vsrv far lower than I thought it had been: I had tan cied myself a great genius, but I find I ata only a man of decent ability: I had fancied myself a man of great weight "in the countrv, bat I find I have very little influence indeed: had fancied that my stature was six feet four, but I find that I am only five feet two: I had fancied that in such a competition I never could be in truth I have been sadlv beaten: I k (suffer me, reader, the solemn allusion) that mv Master had intrusted me with ten is his, but I find I have no more than one. But I will accept the humble level which is mine by right, and with God's help I will do my very best there. I will not kick dogs nor curse servants; I will not try to detract from the standing of men who are clever, more eminent, or taller than mvself; I will tily wish them well. I will not frrow moping, and misanthropic. I know I am beaten and disappointed, but 1 will bold on manfully still, and never give up!" Such, kind reader, u Christian coming down! Recreation of m Counfy Parson. Do Yoc Like CoxTmovrasy? I like contro versy when it is thoroughly htmsst. I do ad mire to see two large and' generous minds a proach a subject from opposite quarters, and thai to watch the new liehts that flash over it and show it in a thousand relations that were not obvious before. It lifts us out of the rata of our sect and party, in whose tread-mill we had been grinding all our lives, and mistaken it for the universe. But con ro versy with small minds is the smallest huine that is done in this world. It slides inevitable into word catching, and Mis in personalities. The moment I saw a man consciously trying to ymt my language to a di! ferent use from what I had pat it myself, I would stop short with him, and say "I am glad to com pare ideas with you, but I have no time for word catching." To say, as Dr. Johnson did, "I can't furnish meaning and brains too," is not courteous. The onlv controversy that eve vinces the coutrovertiste is a friendly compan son of beliefs, each turning the other's round and viewing it under all the angles of reflection It Is not this sort of controversy, but fighting with word-mousers, that Mr. Holmes aast have iu mind. "You know that if you had a bent tut , one arm of which was the size of a pipe stem uxl another big enough to hold the ocean, water would stand in the same high! in one as in the other. Controversy equalize fools and wise men in the same way, and the fools know it. .Wsnf. ly Relifjious Magazine." Dkau. Yet Liviko. The cedar I moat uaofui wheu dead. It is the most productive when ii place knows it no more There is no timber liV it. Firm in the grain, and capable of the finest polish, the tooth of no insect will touch it, an 1 Time himself can hardly destroy it. DiMumi,. Vn perpetual fragrance through the chambers whic it cells, the worm will not corrode the book which it protects, nor the moth corrupt the garment hich it guards; all but immortal itself, it tranfiie it amaranthine qualities to the objects around it Every Christian is useful in bis life, but the -.oxll v cedars are most useful aiterwards Li.llier is dead; but the Reformation lives. Km&. Mel vitle, and Henderson are dead, hut Scotland still retains a Sabbath and a Christian peassutt y , Bible in every house, and a school in eierv : ish. Hin, v an is dead, but his bright spirit still walks the earth in it Pilgrim's Progress ' l per is dead, but the " golden apples are -' fresh as when newly gathered in the "silie; basket" of theOlney Hymns. Eliot is dead, but the mistiotiasy work is young. Henry Mmtui -dead, but who can count the apostolic spirits who, pho unlike, have started from the funeral nib '' Howard is dead, but modern philanthropy is only commencing its career. Raises is Mad, but the Sabbath schools go on. Rev, J. Hmmittsn Thaxk You. "Mother," said a little gi:l, "1 gave a poor beggar child a drink of water and a slice of bread, and she said, 'Thank yon.' to me so beautifully . and it made me so glad I shall never forget it " Now children can do s great many things wotth a "thank you." Kind office are everywhere and at ail times needed; for there are always nek ones, sorrowful ones, poor ones, besides deai oue-, to make happv by kindness; and it goes further towards making home happy than almost any thing else. Kind offices also are within every body's reach, like air and sunshine; and it any body feels fretful, or discontented, or repining, or unthankful, and want a medicine to cure it. I would say, do a "thwnk you's" worth of kind offices every hour ou live, and vou will be u: It is a wonderful sweetener of life. Try it Flowers of Sprinq time. . Keep Yoca Chabactebs UiraroTTEn. Mone is a good thing, especially in those hard time . but there is something a thousand fold more valuable. It is character the crumi iuiisis of a pure and honorable life. This it should be a man's first aim to preserve at any cost. In such times of commercial distress, while some are proved and found wanting, others come forth tried as by fire. Hare and there one comes out of the furnace far more of a man than before Amid the wreck of his fortune he stands erect a noble specimen of true manhood. We have occasionally witnessed an example of courage in such a crisis, of moral intrepidity, that deserved all honor. Let it be the aim of every business man, above all thinp else, to keep this parity unstained. This is tne best possession this is a capital which can never be taken from him this is the richest inheritance which he can leave to his children. Kranqelist. "Whui the Devil ak not Come, He will Send. "A proverb of very serious import.ahieh excellently sets out to us the penetrative charac ter of temptations, and the certainty that they will follow and find men out in their strictest re treats. It rebukes the absurdity of supposing that bj any outward arrangements, cloisteied ie tirements, flights into the wilderness. BBS kept at a distance. 8o far from this, temptatiotiwill inevitably overleap all these outward and merely artificial harrier? which may be raised up against them ; for our great enemy is as fortnki able from a seeming distance as in close combs' , it here he can not ossär, he will send. Trench Dr. Arnold, when at La Mia m. once lost all patience with a doll scholar, whan the pupil looked up in his face and said: "Why do you speak angrily, sir? Indeed, I am doing the best I can " Years after the doctor used to tell the story to his own children, and say. "I never felt so ashamed of myself in my life. That look Mi that speech I have never forgotten." Is not this a very suggestive fsct for many parents A teachers, and for masters, too, who are ofttlmtat impatient and nnreasonsble with youths ol t mmI tW" The truth is precious ash is divine, flat truth is precious, because nothing else is so ne-i.-man's present and future welfare. There is r"t a sin, crime, wrong, or bad thing iu the VM but, sweep away the dust of earth sround it stands upon a lie, and falsehood is the foundati i of all evil. Sin came in with a lie, and the de d told our mother, as he has told manv of I" daughters since, you may sin and not suffer. Vm ruin of man stands upon a lie. Foboitk-hebs. Where without love U not to lire. How btet the words, "Forart " "Forgrre T Korgrt thr fault that mtftbl rrtranrr II- c- -hat lone vear coaM never I'orrrl I before the aeed take root, And vleM H Wtter "Dead Sea frelt f Korfive ! aa you wowM be foTjrrven, Bv man on earth, or God ia heaven. If but to give, mere Meat Is viewed ThAii t receive in earthly Wheat span encircle earth and akie. tW He who is passionate sad hasty, is gmt erally honest. It is vour old, dissembling h . p crite of whom yon should beware There's i deception in a bull-dog. It is only the cur f1 sneaks up and bites you when your hack iturned. K vbly Vice. Lord Sbalsbury recently stated as the result of his personal investigation, that all the adult male criminals in London, not i i in a hundred who live an honest life up to tli age of t went v. afterward entered upon a SM of crime. "and that almost all who cater upon such a course, do so between the age of eight and siiteen " O. the necessity of family dV eipline' O, the bleedness of early religious Irrtruction! ZW ErrECTs or DacrBBsraas ok the Oi r MM-At a roe 1 sting of the Academy si Sciences at Paris, M. Demeaux read a paper, ei hibiting in a very striking manner, the very mat proclivitv to diiease incident to children who.-e fathers are addicted to habits of intoxication. I'anlvyU erulonav insanitv. hvatavia. BBat a BBaaaT J sad catalogue of disorders of the nervous system . I have been classed among the maladies so com I municable to children. Pi rain Soma Thsoat Curt. We publish the I following ure for Diptheris, or putrid sore throat, for the consideration of any who may be interested : Mix one gill of strong apple riatafjar, oae ta I ble spoonful of common salt, one table-spoonful ' ot drained honey, and a half-pod of red pepper, (or a half tea-spoonful of ground pepper,) boil them together to a proper uuusilenry, then pour into half a pint of strong sage tea. In severe ! cases, half a tea spoonful every hour for a child one tea-spoonful for an adult. As the canker de creases, decrease the frequency of the dose.

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