Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, February 03, 1859, Image 1
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ilwism'8RisT,\o^etor.} An Independent Journal: For the Promotion at the Political, Social, Agricultural and Commercial Interests of the South. |s2peeahheh,nrabvaece.
VOL. 57 ~ YOBKVILLE, B. C., THURSDAY, FEBLIJATRYI^IS59. 5.
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Cjjuite |j0ftr]|.
THRILLING VERSES.
The circumstances which induced the
writing of the following touching and thrilling
lineb are as follows : A young lady in
New York was ip the habit of writing for
the Philadelphia Ledger on the subject of
Temperance. Her writing was so full of
pathos, and evinced such deep emotion of
soul, that a friend of hers aocused her of
being a maniac on the subject of Temperance?whereupon
she wrote the following
lines:
Go feel what I have felt.
Go bear what I have borne?
Sink 'neath the blow a father dealt,
And the cold world's proud scorn;
Then suffer on from year to year?
Thy sole relief the scorching tear.
Go kneel as I have knelt,
Implore, beseech and pray?
Strive the besotted heart to melt,
The downward course to stay :
Be dashed with hitter curse aside,
Your prayers burlesqued, your tears defied.
Go weep as I have wept,
O'er a loved father's fall?
See every promised blessing swept?
Youth's sweetness turned to gal'?
Life's fading flowers strewed all the way,
That brought me up to woman's day
Go see what I have seen.
Behold tbe strong tnun bowed ?
With gnashing teeth ; lips bathed in blood,
And cold ana uvm ?r"i? ,
Go citcli his withered glance and sec.
There mirrored his soul's misery.
Go to thy mother's side.
And her crushed bosom cheer;
Thine own deep anguish hide;
Wipe from her cheek the bitter tear;
Mark her worn frame and withered brow;
The grey that streaks ber dark hair now;
With fading frame and trembling limbs;
And trace the ruin back to him
Whose plighted faith, in early youth.
Promised eternal love and truth.
But who foresworn, hath yielded up.
That promise to the cursed cup ;
And led her down, through love and light.
And all that made her prospects bright
And chained her there,' mid want and strife,
That lowly thing, ft drunkard's wife?
And stamp'd on childhood's brow so mild,
That with'ring blight, that drunkard's child.
Go hear, and feel, and see and know,
All that my soul hnth felt and known,
Then look upon the wine cup'B glow,
See if its beauty can atone?
Think if its flavor you will try,
When all proclaim, "'tis drink and die!'
Tell me I hate the bowl.
Hale is a feeble word;
I loathe?abhor?my very soul,
With strong disgust is stirr'd,
When I see, or hear, or tell.
Of the dark beverage of hell!
|tit Original JStorg.
Written for the Yorkville Enqtiirer.
k L ( & I
BY TIMON.
With a single bound, Went worth was at
her side. Leaning over, he tenderly raised
her in his arms, and directed by his hostess
bore her into an adjoining apartment. There
he watched with breathless interest, every
movement of her pale features, while various
restoratives were administered. At length
Bhe revived slightly, and looked wildly about
in order to assure herself that her senses
had not deceived her; that the apparition
she had seen was indeed a reality. Her eyes
met those of Wentworth. Oh ! the deep
devotion, the yearning love, the melting,
soul-harrowing tenderness that beamed forth
from those blue orbs, even as the mists of
death were gathering before them. Almost
maddened by the sight, he clasped her wildly
to his breast, as if to snatch her from the embrace
of death. But it too was late, sorrow
had preyed upon her mind, until her wasted
frame was tottering upon the verge of the
grave; until its frail earthly casket could
no longer contain the spirit; aud now the
sudden transition from grief to joy, was more
than she could bear. The delicate instrument
had been completely shattered by the
shock, and among its loose and broken
chords, the cold, skeleton fingers of death
were wildly sweeping. Again that look of
L! a. 3 ? A nflcflorl r?lnwflr
ioeuiug leuueruuss, auu out
to bis bosom, as if to find warmth there from
the icy touch of death. Her lips breathed
his name, and her pure, young spirit took
its flight "to that silent laud where the good
sleep, and the beautiful."
CHAPTER VII.
It was a calm winter evening. Not a
cloud obsured the sky, and the gentle breeze
scarcely rustled the dry leaves as it played
above them. Woodlawo was sleeping ia quiet
| placid beauty; there was scarcely a sound
; to break it's Sabbath stillness. The sun was
! just sinking below the western horizon, and
j the tall oaks were throwing their long shadI
ows across the lawn. Everything was in
; harmony with the mournful 6cene that was
j about to be witnessed. Suddenly a funeral
procession emerged from the mansion, and
wound its way slowly and mournfully across
the lawn to the family burial ground. There,
i upon the very spot that had witnessed the
happiest and saddest scenes of her life; the
spot that had witnessed her grief for the
' dead, and the first going forth of thatdeath|
less love, which had withered her young
life in its bloom; the spot that had been so
often hallowed by her prayers and her tears,
was the grave of Alice Vernon. As the
words of the burial service rose slowly on
the evening air, they mingled with the gentlo
miirninrinors nf the honk nearbv. and the
J 1
low, stifled sobs of those who wept for the
departed. Among those who surrounded the
grave was Harry Wentworth. During the
scene he stood leaning upon the arm of Ernest
Graham. Bowed with grief, woru and
haggard; it seemed as if years instead of
days had placed their marks upon his frame.
When thecoflio was lowered into the grave,
and the cold earth rattled with hollow
sound upon it, he felt that hope, happiness
and peace were buried forever with that cold
and silent form. His heart was in her grave,
and his earnest prayer was, that death might
soon claim its earthly tenement, and consign
it with her to the tomb. And when he
turned to leave the grave, it was with a shudder
that he thought of again mingling in
the scenes of the cold and heartless world.
Wentworth felt that while life and strength
remained, the world had claims upon him
which could not be entirely disregarded. He
knew that it would be no less sinful than
cowardly, to repine at the lot that had been
assigned him, and fail to meet the responsibilities
that devolved upon him as a member
of society. But as the various objects
of human desire, and the various incentives
to human ambition, passed in review before
his uiind, he turned from them with unutterable
loathing and disgust. Fortune held out
her allurements, but her most precious gifts
possessed no charms for hirnj his richest
treasure bad passed away from earth, aud
with it had fled all his desire for fortune's
tavors. .Measure spreaa its eucnammeuis
before hitn, and with its bewitching smiles,
beckoned him onward in its -pursuit; but
pleasure's voice could not dispel the gloom in
which his soul was shrouded. Fame offered
its honors and rewards as a prize worthy of
attainment; but the trump of fame could
never drown the tones of that small voice
which was heard in his inmost soul, whispering
of hopes blasted, happiness ended,
and joys forever fled. How fleeting after all
is the breath of fame ! yet does genius sell
its birthright, and the mind sqandcr wantonly
its sacred energies, to catch the tumultuous
hosannas of the multitude, which signify
nothing, and when life is past, to sleep
beneath a monument, "which tenches no
moral, but the futility of that pride which
hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and
to live in an inscription." For this, does
fame's votary kneel in abject reverence at her
shrine, hailing every breeze that wafts his
own praises to his ear, as from Elysian bowers,
little dreaming that it is the fatal si:
moon's breath which fanshis wan cheek, and
will soon sound his requiem.
It is only when the heart has been bruised
and broken by overwhelming misfortune; it
is only wheu we stand by the grave, and
see it close upon all that was dearest to us
on earth, that we feel the utter worthlessness
of ail worldly distinctions, and the
vanity of all human desires. Then it is,
that we regard the glory of earth iu its true
light, as an empty, fleetiug bauble?
"A name, a jester's lying story!
A rose stuck in a dead man's breast!
A joke scrawled on an epitaph !
A grin at death's own ghastly laugh 1"
In moments when the bright sun of prosperity
is obscured by the storm clouds of
adversity, or wheu the scenes of time are
fust fading away before the light of eternity,
we feel that the honors and applause of the
world can bestow no abiding happiness;
that it is better to fill an humble station in
life, and whom death summons us hence, to
have our grave bedewed with the few tears
ofaincerity and truth, than polluted by the
lamentations of a hollow syeophautie hypocrisy.
"Toll not the bell of death for me,
When I am dead ;
Strew not the flowery wreath o'er me
On my cold bed.
Let friendship's sacred tear
On my fresh grave appear,
Gemming with pearls my bier?
When I am dead.
No dazzling proud array
Of pageantry display,
My fate to spread;
Let not the busy crowd be near,
When I am dead,
Fanning with unfelt sighs my bier,
Sighs quickly sped,
Deep let the impression rest
On some fond, loving breast;
Then were my memory blest
Wheu I am dead.
Let not the day be writ,
Love will remember it,
Untold?unsaid."
ntlAPTHR VTTT
Several years had passed since Alice Vernon
had been laid in the graveyard at Woodlawn.
A simple marble slab marked her
last resting place. The grave had not been
neglected by those in whose hearts the memory
of the dead was stil! sacred. Beautiful
flowers had been plauted around it, and the
place exhibited every mark of the most careful
attention. It was a fit resting place for
one whose whole life had been an embodiment
of virtue and simplicity. In Summer,
when the flowers were in bloom, and the
large oaks completely sheltered the spot from
the rays of the suq, tempering the noon-tide
heat into the mild air of evening; when
birds were warbling their "wood-notes wild"
ia the o'er-h&Dgiag brandies, and the oon
tinual noise of the water-fall floated through
the still air, it might have rivaled iu picturesque
beauty, some of those famous vales
and grottos of old, where Apollo and the
Muses were wont to spend in gentle dalliance,
the sultry noon-tide hours, and through which
they wandered in the cool eveoing-time. At
such times, we can almost fancy some Naiad
of the neighboring brook, singing, as Bhe
tripped lightly about the grave, the Peri's
song for Al Hassan's daughter.
"Oh fair as the flowers Su close to thee growing,
How light was thy heart, till love's witchery came,
Like the wind of the south, o'er a summer lute
blowing,
And hushed all itsmusic, and withered its frame."
It was now winter, and the sighing of the
?lrtnflnoo hronnhno nf fliA
VYILIU UIIUU^II bUC ibUUboo h/iuuvi*\,o v* VKV
trees, sounded like a requiem for the departed.
The shades of evening were falling around,
when there was heard among the dry
leaves, the sound of approaching footsteps.
The gate of the enclosure was opened, and
a person who seemed familiar with the plate,
entered. His form was bent, grief hud worn
deep furrows on his cheek, and disease had
written its ghastly characters upon his features.
Despite his altered appearance there
was little difficulty in recognizing him as
Harry Wentworth. . Approaching Alice
Vernon's grave he seemed for a time overwhelmed
by the flood of recollections that
came rushing upon him; joy, grief and love
were sweeping in a wild torrent over his soul.
To those who would fully understand his
feelings, we would say in the beautiful words
of Irving: "Go to the grave of buried love
and meditate. Theresettle the account with
thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited?every
past endearment unregarded
of that departed being who can never, never,
never return to be soothed by thy contrition.
If thou art a child, and hast ever added a
sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered
brow of an affectionate parent?if thou
art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond
bosom that ventured its whole 'happiness in
thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness
or thy truth?if thou art a friend, and
hast ever wronged in thought, word or deed,
the spirit that generously confided in thee?
'if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one
unmerited pang to that true heart which now
lies cold and still beneath thy feet;?then
be sure that every unkind-look, every ungracious
word, every ungentle action, will
come thronging back upon thy memo ry, and
knocking dolefully at thy soul?then be sure
that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant
on the grave, and utter the unheard
groan, and pour the unavailing tear; more
deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing."
What an eventful life did Wentworth live
again, in those few moments that ho stood
by Alice Vernon's grave! His mind reverted
to the past, and he saw that there had
been spent the brightest, and the darkest
moments of his life. The time when he
had first visited the spot, and one grave only
was there ; and the time when another had
been made, and his "heart had beeti crushed
in the closing of its portal." As he
looked forward into tho future, it did not
require "the raptured ken of prophecy," to
tell him that yet another grave would soon
be there, side by side with hers. Approaching
the grave, he knelt silently upon it, and
seemed to hold communion with the spirit
of the dead?
"Alice lo!
Thy lover kneels upon thy verdant grave,
And calls upon thy name. The breeze that
blows
On bis wan cheek, will sopn sweep over him
In solemn music, a funeral dirge,
Wild and most sorrowful. Now lest he stands,
The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew
wmcti oatnes ins acmug icujpii;s gnco ouiv
omen
Of speedy dissolution. Alice, soor.
Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thiae,
And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death."
GOV. HAMMOND'S LETTER.
At the banquet given io the Revere House,
in Boston, on the 18th inst., in honor of the
birthday of Daniel Webster, many letters
from distinguished gentlemen who could
not be present, were read. Among them
we find one from the Hon. J. H. Hammond
which we append :
Washington, Dec. 1858.
Dear Sir: lam very grateful to you and
to those whom you represent, foryoi\r polite
invitation to attend your dinner in Boston on
the 18th pros., in honor of Mr. Webster's
birthday; and for the kind assurance accompanying
it in which I have full confidence.
My duties here, however, so entirely engage
all my time that I must respectfully
decline your invitation.
* You say that in the Revolution Massachusetts
and South Carolina stood "shoulder to
shoulder." It would be well for the world
if they stood so now. And why do they
not ? To have brought about their present
relations, one of them must have erred much;
possibly both, another age, will decide between
us.
Born and bred in South Carolina,of which
State my mother is a native?my father is
a Massachusetts man, a college friend of Mr.
? __JJ J - J T J 4^
WeDSier?aoa aesuuuuuu x urn jnuua tu ouy
from your earliest Puritan immigrants. In
the antagonistic positions of these two small
but noble States I have personally much to
to regret?as a patriot still more. I wish the
breach could he filled up and obliterated. If
we have done you wrong, if we have been
the aggressors, I think I can assure there is
not a man in South Carolina who is conscious
of it; not one who would deprive
Massachusetts of a single political right; not
one who would thwart in the least any of her
peculiar and legitimate interests; and could
it be shown that we have done any of these
things, not one but would desire to make
prompt and ample reparation. If the same
spirit animates the people of Miissaohusetts
to the same extent, we may justly hope that
?the deluding falsehoods of political aspirants
trampled under foot?our two States
may yet stand "shoulder to shoulder," the
pillars of constitutional republic, wisely and
justly administered for the protection and
advancement of all, without special priviliges
or endowments to any section, class of
individual, but insuring to all and each the
full development of themselves.
I have the honor to be, most respectfully,
your obedient servant, J. H. Hammond.
Peter Harvey, Esq., Boston.
jfkeltatmts ?tobing.
From the Homo Journal.
CANINE SAGACITY.
A frieod of mine, William P. Gould,
Esq., of Green County, Alabama, owned,
many year" ago, a Newfoundland dog of remnvkable
size und beauty. Carlo, for that
was his cognomen, possessing an uncommon
share of the docility, sagacity and adhesive
atts.chment for persons characteristic of his
race, was, of course, a prime favorite with
his master and the family. His usual places
ftf t'rtPAwf irorn fVlA wnr/l nn/1 Info 1 m r*^ o/linfnlo
\jl itcui i nciv biic juiva auu IUIO iuiiuguiai\;i^
around the faimily residence. -Beyond these
he seldom strayed, either in the pursuit of
game or to follow a person he liked.
His masterwent, one day, into the woods,
near the house to shoot squirrels. Carlo,
impelled by an uncommon freak*oL playfulness
or affection, followed him, Dut kept
some distance in the rear, as if conscious
that, being uninvited, he came unwelcome
to the sport. A few caressing words and (
pats upon the head sufficed to restore his
confidence, and he trotted along close upon
the heels of his master, stopping when he
did, but never venturing to circle through '
the woods in quest of game.
A large fox squirrel ran up a tree close by (
the sportsman, who levelled his gun and
shot it dead. The noise which it made in (
falling upon the dry leaves attracted the (
uotice of Carlo, who rushed forward, seized ,
the carcass, and began to shake and rend it
with great violence. The voice of his mas- j
ter commanding him to put it down was un- j
heeded. The destructive instincts of the
dog triumphed over his habit of prompt obe- ,
dience, and he tore the squirrel into fragments,
and scattered them upon the ground
at, the base of the tree.
Irritated at the disobedience of his favorite,
the sportsman whipped him severely
with a branch he tore from a bush, holding
hitr h-v the lpnther onllnr whinh war fasten
ed round his neck. The dog howled most
piteously during the infliction of the punishment,
and ran back borne the moment he
was released.
It was quickly noticed by tho family that
some great change had come over the gay
and frolicsome Carlo. He discontinued his
almost constant visit to the house to receive
the caresses of the family. With drooping
head and tail, and most reuful expression of
face, he glided mournfnlly about the premises,
and, when called, especially by his master,
would hasten to bide himself from sight
in some covert place about the yard. He ,
showed, by his actions as plainly as words
could have spoken it, that he felt himself to ,
be i n deep disgrace. As he persistently rejected
all overtures of reconciliation made ;
by his master, the affair seemed to be as incapable
of adjustment, as it was of explana-"'
tion, between the offending and offended 5
party. ^ ,
After several days spent in this way, Car- ]
lo disappeared, and was not to be found |
anywhere upon the premises. Could it be <
possible that he had gone into voluntary exile
to atone for his fault? Or had he, imi- (
tating the folly of lordly man, made way |
with his own life to cancel his disgrace and ;
escape the taunts of hia fellow dogs ? There
was do conjecture in the family 39 to the
cause of his disappearance, and no end to
the search for his retreat. But he came not
at the accustomed call, and there was neith-- ,
er footprint nor sign to tell whither he aad
gone.
In the evening of the second day of his
absence, his master was seated in the front |
piazza of the family mansion, engaged in
reading, when Carlo suddenly walked in
with a large fox squirrel in his mouth.? ,
Goi Dg straight up to his master, he deposited ,
the carcass at his feet, looked up into his
face, and gave a few short, cheerful yelps, i
waggiDg his tail all the time, and looking ,
the very picture of canine content and delight.
The squirrel had evidently just been
killed, as the body was still warm, and show- ,
ed unmistakeable signs that life had been {
extinguished by the pressure of teeth and i
claws. . J
Carlo at once recovered his cheerfulness,
anc. resumed his former habits. He had i
erred, repented and atoned for his offence, i
and remained ever after to the end of his <
days a privileged favorite in the family of i
his owier. i
Strange as this instance of canine sagaci- 1
ty may seem to those who deny to dogs eren
the faintest glimmer of the rational faculty, <
it is nevertheless not more strange than true,
since the facts herein detailed are related
by ODe of the most respectable families in i
the South. How Carlo came in possession
of the squirrel has never been satisfactorily
ascertained. All the probabilities are in J
favor of the supposition that he caught.ii; in t
the woods by stratagem or by the fleetness ]
of his foot. i
Ry what process did the sagacious animal 1
reach the conclusion that his offence was to ^
be atoned'for by the return of a whole squirrel
for the one he had torn? Yea, more. ?
How came he to knov or believe that the 1
offence either required or admitted of at- 1
tonement at all, and especially of attoneujeot '
by the restoration of like for like ? There's (
the rub. For ourselves, we neither concede ?
nor deny a qualified rationality to the lower 1
orders of creation, but define our position in *
relation to the question by saying, in the *
language of good old Sir Roger de Coverly, c
that "much may be said on both sides of it." ?
j. w. t. 1
g
A Pretty Conceit.?We saw yesterday, )
in the parlor of a friend, a very beautiful <
conceit. It is of course the fancy of a lady, ?
and consists of the bun of a pine tree placed i
i bimii?! ! < ? ihiiih*pmi
in a wine glass half full of water, and from
between the different layers of the burr is
shooting forth green blades, bright, beautiful,
refreshing. For a little thing, we have
seen nothing that so. pleased us with its
beauty and novelty. And the secret is this:
the burr was found dried and opened; the
different circles were sprinkled with grass
seed; and it was placed in a wine glass, with
water in as above. In a few days the moisture
and nourishment gave the burr life and
health, and different circles closed and buried
in themselves the grass seed, an,d a few
days more gave to the seed also life, sprout,
and growth; and now a pyramid of living
green, beautifully relieved by the sombre
hue of the burr, is the result?as pretty and
novel a parlor ornament as we have for a
long while seen. .We do not know whether
the idea was original with the lady, but we
do know that its success is beautiful.? Troy
Times.
SPEAK GENTLY TO EAdH OTHEtt.
'Please to help me a minute, sister.'
<0 don't disturb me, I'm reading,' was
the answer.
'But just hold this stick, won't you, whileI
drive this pin through ?'
?I can't now, I want to finish this story,'
said I, emphatically; and my little brother
turned away with a disappointed look, in
search of somebody else to assist him.
He was a bright boy of ten years, and my
only brother. He had been visiting a young
friend, and had seen a wind-mill, and as
soou as he came home his energies were all
employed in making a small one; for he was
always trying to make tops, wheelbarrows,
kites and all sorts of things, such as boys
delight in. He had worked patiently all
the morning with a saw and jacknife, and
now it only needed putting together to oomplete
it, and his sister had refused to assist
him, and he had gone away with his young
heart saddened.
I thought of all this in fifteen minutes- after
he left me, and my book gave me no
pleasure. It was Dot intentional unkindness,
only thoughtlessness, for I loved my
brother and was generally kind to him ; still,
I had refused to help him. I would have
pone after htm and anoraea tne assistance
be needed, but I knew ho had found some
one else. But I had neglected ail opportunity
of g^ddening a childish heart.
In half an hour he came bounding into
the hous\ exclaiming, 'Come, Mary, I've
got it up ; iust see how it goes !'
His torn s were joyous, and I saw that he
had forgotten my petulance, sol determined
to atone by unusual kindness. I went with
him, and sure enough, on the roof of the
wood house was fastened a miniature wind
mill, and the arms were whirling around
fast enough to suit any boy. I praised the
windmill and my little brother's ingenuity,
and he seemed happy and entirely forgetful
of my unkindncss, and I resolved, as I had
many times before, to be always loving aDd
gentle.
A few days passed by, and the shawow of
a great sorrow darkened our dwelling. The
joyous laugh and noisy glee were hushed,
and our merry little boy lay in a darkened
room with anxious faces around him, his
cheeks flushed and his eyes unnaturally
bright. Sometimes his temples would moisten
and his muscles relax, and then hope
would come into our hearts, and our eyes
would fill with thaukful tears. It was in
one of these deceitful calms in his disease
that he heard the noise of his little wheel
and said :
'I hear my windmill.'
'Does it make your head ache?' I asked,"
'Shall we take it down ?'
'Oh no,' replied he, 'it seems as if I were
out of doors, and it makes me feel better.'
He mused a moment, and then added :
'Don't you remember, Mary, that I wanted
you to help me fix it, and you was reading,
and told me you could not V But it didn't
make any difference, 'mamma helped me.'
0, how sadly those words fell upon my
ear, and what bitter memories they awakened
! How I repented as I kissed little
Prank's forehead, that I had ever spoken
unkindly to him. Hours of sorrow went by,
and we watched his couch, hope growing
fainter, and anguish deeper, until one week
from the morning on which he spoke of his
childish sports, we closed the eyes once so
sparkling, and folded his hands over his
pulseless heart. He sleeps now in the grave,
and home is desolate, but the little windmill,
the work of his busy hands, is still
swinging in the breeze, just where he placed
it, upon the roof of the old wood-shed; and
every time I see the tiny arms revolving I
remember the lost little Frank; and I remember
also the thoughtless and unkind
words I
Brothers and sisters be kind to each other.
Be gentle, considerate, and loving.?
Examiner.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN'S LETTER
TO THOMAS PAINE.
This interesting document is taken from
Nile's Register, vol. 30, page 397. It was ,
written after Mr Franklin had read the first
-?-4. AT ? Dn Inn'n 11 A r\f T? OO Q " OflH I '
purii ui i*ir. x aiuc o ui XW/U.7VUJ mm?.
llustrates fully the seDtiment of this distia- ,
;uished man on the windy theories of Thomas
Paine: ,
"Dear Sir :?I have read your manu- ,
icript with some attention. By the argu- :
ncnt it contains against a particular Provi- ,
lence, you strike at the foundation of all reigion.
For without the belief of a Provi- ,
lence that takes cognizance of, and guards j
ind guides, and favors particular persons, (
here is,,no motive to worship a Deity, to ,
"ear its displeasure, or to pray for its protec- }
ion. I will not enter into any discussions {
)f your principles, though you seem to de- ,
lire it. At present I shall only give you (
ny opinion, that though your reasonings are
mbtle, and may prevail with some readers,
fou will not succeed so as to change the gen- j
>ral sentiment of mankind on this subject; t
md the consequence of printing this piece <
viil be a great odium upon yourself,'mischief \
I to you, and no good to others. He that
spits against the wind, spits in his own face.
But were yon to succeed, do you imagine any
good will be done by it ? You yourself may
find it easy to live a virtuous life without the
assistance afforded by religion. You have a
clear perception of the advantages of virtue
ami the disadvantages of vice, and possess
strength of resolution sufficient to enable you '
to resist common temptations. But think
how great a portion of mankind consist of
weak and ignorant men and women, and of
inexperienced, inconsiderate youth, of both
sexes, who have need of the motives of religion
to rest* ain tbem from vice, to support
their virtues and retain them in the practice
of it until it becomes habitual, which is the
great point for its security. And perhaps,
you are indebted to her, originally,?that is,
i i:_i?_ -j?v
10 jour rungiuua euuuauuu,?ivi iuc ubuiio i.
of virtue upon which you justly value your- a
self. You might easily display your excel- a
lent talent of reason upon a less hazardous c
subject, and thereby obtain rank with our t
most distinguished authors." c
That was sensible advice given by Dr. i
Franklin to Tom Paine, not to print his t
"Age of Reason," as it would be a great c
odium upon himself and produce no gpod to t
others. This copy has been read by multi- r
plied thousands since, but no good has ever <
been done to any body, but the subtility of t
the reasoninghas wrought incalculable injury, f
This remark of Franklin is worthy of a pas- i
sing notice: ?
"You yourself may find it easy to live a i
virtuous life without the assistance afforded
by religion. You have a clear perception of t
the advantages of virtue and the disadvant- i
ages of vice, and possess strength of resolu- t
tion sufficient to enable you to resist common ?
temptation." (
Tom Paine did not find it very easy to live 1
a virtuous life! With all his "clear percep- \
tions of the advantages of virtue," etc., and
his "strength of resolution," he lived a
wretched, wicked, depraved life, became a
vagrant drunkard, outraged all the decen- s
cies of life, sent one broken-hearted wife to I
a premature grave, compelled another to ?
seek a refuge from his brutalities by a di- 8
vorce, and finally ? died a scathed, blasted,
profane, gutter drunkard,?died alone, a- *
bandoned of man and forsaken of God,?of 1
delirium tremens. c
The life and death of Paine should be a y
warning to all young men who would throw '
off the restraints of religion. It is fit and a
proper that the lager-beer infidels, who re- *
pudiate the Bible, discard the Sabbath and 1
Christianity, should celebrate the birth-day, (
and {pud the virtues of such a man. it ne
had devoted his excellent talents to a more '
praiseworthy object, and had conducted hira- *
self properly, he might have left a name t
worthy of being enrolled-among the great
and good of earth. *
RESTORATION TO LIFE. t
The Birmingham (Eng.) Post gives the *
annexed particulars of the singular case of 1
a girl, named Amelia Hinks, 12 or 13 years
of age, who resided with her parents in
Bridge street, Nuneaton, England, and c
dwindling away under some unaccountable r
complaint, some weeks ago, as her friends ^
imagined, died. The corpse was then re- f
moved to another room. The body was rigid j,
and icy cold. It was washed and laid out '
with the usual deathly accompaniments, t
penny pieces being placed over the eyes, and
the coffin was ordered. For more than 48 0
hours the supposed corpse lay bteneath the
winding-sheet, when it happened that her g
grandfather, a very aged man, came from j,
Leamington to the neighborhood of Nunea- t
ton. On going with a female relative to see j
the corpse, the old man removed one of the
copper coins, and although the eye remained
closed, he fancied bo saw a movement be- ?
neath the lid. The woman with him at first *
ridiculed the idea, but on looking more close- ^
ly, she, too, observed a movement. The
medical attendant was then apprised of the
circumstance, and, although he at first treat- ^
ed the matter as a delusion, the application y
of an instrument in the region of the heart E
soon convinced him that there was life within ?
\
the apparent corpse. The body was then
removed to a warmer room, and the existence fl
of life soon became apparent. By degrees j.
animation was restored?a loud sneeze pla- j
cing the fact of her being a living subject
beyond all doubt. When speech was res- j(
stored, the girl described everything that had
taken place from the time of her supposed t
death. She knew who closed her eyes and
placed the coppers thereon. She also heard e
the order given for her coffin, as she lay in g
her death-clothes. At first, on her restoration
she refused all sustenance, and on some
aliment being forced upon her, she became ^
frightfully excited; and, though in a state ^
nf fiitrema debilitv. it reauired great force v
# " A w
to hold her. Since that period her conduct ]
has been very strange. She entertains a
wish to destroy her father and mother; and,
on one occasion, when they were asleep, in
the same rbom with herself, she arose from ^
her bed in the dead of the night, went down
stairs for a light, and having first destroyed, Qj
by burning, some needle-work, which she
knew her mother "set great store" upon, she '
set fire to the curtains, and then retired to j(
her bed, from which it was thought impossible
she could have moved. In fact, so mys-'
terious was the origin of the fire that her pa- hi
rents were at a loss to account for it, until si
the girl herself confessed to having been the la
;ause. She now lies in such a state that st
she can neither be called alive nor dead, the sv
former state being only ascertained- by a cc
jareful examination of her pulse. Were it le
not that there is no motive for deception, m
ind the parents being creditable people, we bj
should imagine there was some ruse in this ni
7ctj extraordinary affair, which is causing sq
jonsiderable interest. w
te
B&* A physician, after a post-mortem ex- rc
imination in a case of infanticide, reported
;hat he was unable to discover whether the J
;hild was alive or not at the time of its vs
leath. tc
<Good Night/ 'Good Night, Papa I'
?These are the words whose music has not
left our ears since the gloaming, and now
t is midnight. 'Good night, darling I' God
)less you; you will have pleasant dreams,
;hrough t toss in fever, haunted by the dehods
of care that harrass me through the
lay. Good night!' The clock on the man*
le struck twelve, and no sound was heard
n the house save the regular breathing of
hose little lungs in the next room, heard
hrough the door ajar. Wo dropped our
)en, folded our arms, and sat gazing on the
arcy fire, while the whole nanorama of a life
>efore as, with its many 'good nights.' It
s a great thing to be rich,, hot At- is ? rich
hing to have a good memory?provided
hat memory bears no unpleasant fruit, biter
to the taste; and our memory carries us
>ack to many a pleasant scene?to tbe little
,rm chair by the fireside; to the trundle bed
,t the foot of the bed; to the lawn in front
if the house and the orohard behind it; to
he butter-cups, and the new clover, and tbe
thickens and tho swallows, and the birds*
tests, and the straw-berries, and tbe many
hings that attract the wondering eye of
ihildhood, to say nothing of the mysteries of
he starry skies, and the weird gloom of the
norning forest. But, then, there were the
good night,' snd tho little prayer, and the
lowny bed, on which slumber fell as a snow
lake, only warmer, and such dreams as only
risit perfect innocence! The household
Good night 1' Somebody, in whose brain
ts rioh music still fingers, has written this:
'Goodnightl' A loud clear voice from
he stairs said that it was Tommy. 'Dood
light!' murmurs a little something from the
rundle-bed?a little something that we call
Fenny, that filled a large place in the oentre
if two pretty little hearts. 'Good night!'
isp3 a little fellow in a plaid rifle dress, who
?as named Willie about six years ago.
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soal to keep;
If I should die before I wake"?
ind the bundle in the trupdle-bed has drop>ed
off to slaep, but the broken prayer may
;o up sooner than many long petitions that
et out a great while before it.
And sn it was 'f?nnd niodit' all around the
~ " * O" O
lomesteadj and very sweet music it made,
oo, in the twilight, aod very pleasant meltdy
it makes now, as we think of it; for it
?as not yesterday and the day before, but a
ong time ago?so long that Tommy is Thomis
Somebody, Esq., and has forgotten that
le ever was a boy, and wore what tbe brarest
and richest of us can never wear but
)nce, if we try?the first pair of boots.
And so it was 'good night' all around tbe
louse; and the children bad gone through
he ivory gate, always left a little ajar for
hem?through into the land of dreams.
And then the lover's 'Good night/ and
he parting kiss 1 They are as prodigal of
he hours as the spendthrift of his coin, and
he minutes depart in golden showers, and
all in dying sparks at their feet. <Good
ught/?N. T. Atlas. ^
SLEEP.
The first sensation ot drowsiness is nature's
iall for sleep. Waking shows the body is
ested. After the degree of strength, of
rhich the sta?e of the system is capable, is
estored by sleep, longer stay in bed only reaxes.
He perverts reason, who, by a habit
f artificial excitement, keeps awake so late
bat he is not ready*to rise by day-break?
lature's undoubted signal for quitting repo&e,
bedience to which secures a desire to rest
t the fit hour. Some people close their
hutters against it. George III, consulted
lis household physicians, separately, as to
he modes of life conducive to health and
ongevity; as to the importance of early
ising, there was full coincidence. Old
teople, examined as to the cause of their
ongevity, all agree that they have been in
UU UflUlb Ul gUlUg IV wvi vutij JLU uvuut*
ated people, a degree of fever, or something
esembling it, comes on towards evening;
ping very early to bed is of great conscience
to tbem. Rising an boor or two carter
than usual often gives a vigor which
:otbing else can produce. Many people, at
raking, feel a disposition to rise; tbey lose
t by indulging a letbargio state, or lolling
while. We lose vigor by lying in bed in
lealth, longer than for sleep ; the mind is
ess tranquil; the body is less disposed for
efreshing sleep; appetite and digestion are
esscned. After long or late mental exertion
leep is a watch; the thoughts continue
hemselves, effecting useless fatigue. Some
eople cannot go to sleep; others wake too
arly. Without spirit to rise, they hope to
nd refreshment in an additional nap; anther,
and another, leaves them more lanuid;
they fancy themselves unfit for exerion
until they have taken a breakfast, which
bey make no effort to merit. Nothing
reaks up the strength sooner than want of
leep at the hour nature obviously designed
>r repose, marked, as well by the regular
?turn of day and night, as by our own feeligs,
if not prevented by artificial habits.
>abor, which is light in the day, is burthen>me
in the night. The accumulated itimuli
f the day are sufficient for the temporary
shaustion of the system : the rest of night
requisite to recruit us for each successive
*yLand
Measure.?Every farmer should
ive a rod measure, a light stiff pole, just
xteen and a half feet long, for measuring
nd. By a little practice he can learn to
ep just a rod at five steps, which will aneer
very well for ordinary farm work. Asirtain
the number of rods in width and
ngth of a lot you wish to measure, and
ultiply one number by the other and divide
j one hundred and sixty, and yon have the
imber of acres; as one hundred and sixty
TJ-'
[ are roas mase a square acre, ju yvu
iah to lay off one square acre, measure thiren
rods upon eaofa side. This lacks one
id of full measure.
J@*Tbe best method for a man to reap adintages
in love matters, is to turn his hand
i the cultivation of wztst property.