"'"'", '" :-!'., "'-;v;,-. s f ' ! ,' : : - -""v; , . ',",-.f ' : . v " ' "':1.
CALVIN H. WTXEY,
irn.LIAM D. COOKE.
J
A F AM I LY NEWSPAPER NEUTRAL IN POLITICS.
EDITORS.
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PER ANNUM.
r.YTTELTQN 'WADDKLiL.. JR
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TOL. TL NO. 51.
RA LEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA, SATURDAY, NOV. 19, 1853.
WHOLE NO 103.
i
jrth
and
SELECT POETRY.
V - i1 roar the New York Daily Advertiser.
;' TO C.B. .
I heard you say the other flight,
"Oh for a glimpse of Heaven!
Its japper walls, its streets of light,
' Its sainted ones that walk in white.
From early error shriven
And as they solemnly unfold,
To catch the glorious strain
: - w -
That swells from every heart of fire,
That thrills from every burning wire
Till with the tones ot lip and lyre,
Heaven's arches ring again
To mnrk the Seraphim uncrown, ;
And fling their wreaths immortal down,
And veil each radiant face ; -t
Before the rainbow and the throne,
Before the hi;h and Holy One,
Upm that " sea of glass." ,
. Then ever after in your soul,
To keep that glorious vision whole,
, To bear upon your brow a ray
? ir rom that far clime of perfect day;
To keep your spirit pure and free
From taint of ever worldly care,
As cloudless as the upper air
.Forever echoing to that rare
Star-haunting melody !'
And could you bear to look again,
Upon the;fairest scenes of earth?
To listen to the noblest strain,
By human lips sent forth ?
: To wake and. wait, to Watch and pray,
And in the longest hour to say,
"Father, thy will be don?"
With patient heart and spirit stilled,
Awaiting in the harvest field
The setting.of your sun?
To linger on, perchance for years,
Until the messenger appears,
Waiting with fast and falling tears,
The light that does not dawn?
To watch upon that river's strand,
With feet half-buried in the sand, ' )f
The star-eyed ferryman row o'er
Your lpved ones to that thither shore !
To Tcnow that they are crpwn'd and singing,
'Te olmMt I)... -rtrix. 1 11 o " ' 'O
In that illuminated air ?
While 6till you stand alone, alone,
The chill waves with perpetual moan
Surging around you there
To know tho glory of that plain,
And ypt to drag life's weary chain,
Keep down the strong desire ;
Meekly and patiently to wait
ihe unfolding of that jasper gate,
The low voice" Come up higher."
Only the shining ones that wing,
With palms and silver-clasped wings,
In amaranthine bowers
The sav'd, the wash'd, the purified,
Could be:ir to wait Jiat sullen tide.
Thr.ough life's long weary hours.
Dear Carrie ! when at last you stand
Within the golden morning 1 'nd,
With the first song your voice shall swell
' To him Who doeth all things well ;"
Shall mingle thanks, that Heaven was kept,
Hidden from thoe who watch'd and weptf'
Saying " Twas well we could not see
The glories of eternity !"- i
SELECTED STORY;
THE
PEASANT GIRL OF POITOU:
OR, THE COUNTESS d'aUUAV.
When Sir "Walter Scott tiist met a lady to whom
he was attached, after her elevation by marriage
from a comparatively humble to a very lolly. rank, j
he felt extremely ,'anxious to learn whether or not
she was happy in her new condition. He knew
hhe had sustained no serious ills, but he bad seen j
hv PvrwriMnr0 Kav 'that, nnr bimin;s ' ia miih i
more often-affected by evils which we cfeate for
ourselves, in spite of the blessings of fortune, than
by real and severe ills". He illustrated the remark
by reference to the case of the gentleman who, ia
the midst of all manner of comforts, was rendered
utterly . miserable by the daily sight of neighbor's i
turkey. We have found a little story in one of the i
foreign journals, which so forcibly illustrates the !
same maxim, that we are tempted to translate it. !
M. de Manleon. a v.mntr French ntlemln' left i
the school at St.-Cv.- at th arrt of twentv-one. !
with.
au
eiiMcni s
commission in his possession.
His mother had obtained fV.r 1,5,, i0,v.nf hnr I
for three months. ar,,l om t PW-t ,m4;m i
ofl for that period to Poitou, anxious to enjoy his
beloved Lsociety while she could. They left the
capital together in a post:carriage, and travelled a
great part of their journey without anv remarkaHe
adventure.: At length, a little incident occuned
.which greatly interested M. da Manleon. The
travellers reached a steep hill on their way, and M.
de Manleon leaped out to relieve the horses, leav
ing his mother inside. He had scarcely walked a
tew paces, when he found himself surrounded bv
i i e ..: ' i y
band of village children, who, as is wont in th i
rural districts of France, offered him bouquets of i conduct, and entreated with , tears to be carried
flowers, expecting some little remuneration in re-1 ack to Pierre. But my'mind became calmer ere
turn. But as soon as they noticed the lady, they ! lng- ':.".'
flew to the coach .side, and . threw their flowers to I " My incaution could only be excused in a vil
ber. One child alone remained a girl of thirteen j lagegirl ot fifteen. But I was in safe suidance. It
or so, whose uncommon beauty arrested forcibly the
notice of M..de Manleon. She was a brunette of a
-clear and shining complexion,' with an admirable
form, and teeth as white as ivory. She stood smil
ing before the young man, but timidly kept her
hand, afraid to present them.
" Wbat i& your name, my dear f said the of
ficer. " Maria, sir," answered the girl. - M. de
Manleon spoke'no more, but stood gazing at the
child, thinking to himself that nil the portraitures
of youthful' beauty which he had ever seen were
oufdone by the work of nature before biro.7 'Mane's
eyes were iasi 6n! the ground, and she did not ob
serve the closeness! of his gaze, but others did. v A
i J?UDS v,,laljad4'C fifteen wxteeaped;roi.Mdnan. thafc4anB2lW i boar of flowei
hffway
full of anger aud jealously. M. de Manleon had little
time to notice tfris addition to the scene, for the
voice of his mother was beard calling; on him to
come and proceed. The young officer hastily took
the bouquet of Marie, and having- emptied his
purse of its whole contents into her hand?, he obey
ed his mother's call, and soon saw the villagers no
more. . ,
M. de Manleon. when he had time to reflect on
the past incident, repented, not of his generosity
but of the way in which he had exercised it. A
small medallion, containing his own likeness and
that of another dearly cherished person, had been
in the purse, and had gone with the rest of the
contents. To reclaim it would have been difficult ;
and the young officer was forced to submit to the
loss in silence.
For ten or twelve years, M. de Manleon continu
ed in the arm)', lie at last left it to enjoy the
pleasures of a retired, or at least a private life, to
which he bad ever been attached. After spending
some time with his mother in the country, he came
to Paris, and there mixed with moderation in the
social enjoyments of the great world. One evening
a friend asked him !to go to a party, and allow
himself to be presented to Madame 'd'Auray, -wife
of Count d'Auray, a! lady of con.sumate beautv,
and whore all Paris 1 spoke of as- the happiest of
women. There was. said M. de Manleon's friend,
a sort of pleasing mystery about her, too. M.
d'Auray had. suddenly appealed with her in Paris
and presented her to bis relatives and friends,
without skying aughttof her birth or name to any
one. She was, nevertheless, universallv loved and
admired. M. de Manleon permitted himself to be
persuaded into a visit to the mansion of this happy
paragon of female loveliness- When he was pre
bi'uieti io i;ei, a uuiinjaea" iuoa sirut-K ijtiij tj
had seen her before, , -but he could not remember
when or where. The udea made him thouglltful
and he retired to the recess of a window, where he
for a time stoi.d alonel
A soft and sweet voice at his side made him
hastily turn round. '-IIave you been lately in
Poitou, sir ?'' said thet Countess d'Auray, for she
it was who spoke. s
" Not lately, madams," answered M. de Manleon':'
" our property there was sold. Are you acquainted
with Poitou, may I aslt ?"
" I am, sir," said the countess; and as she spoke,
she took a bouquet of flowers from the window,1
and held them up before him, with a stnilo. A
light broke i:i upon M.: de Manleon's mind.
u What '" cried be, fare you can you be "
"Poor little Marie, sind no other," answered the;
i countess
'' Ah ! I was happy then !"
i
j The little
incident of the wayside formed the
basis of an immediate friendship between M. de
Manleon and the countess, who remembered him
well thruugh tho medallion. The last exclamation
r
I of the lady had startled him,. coining as it did from
j one whom all deemed happy. Afterwards, when
! they were bettei acquainted, he got an explanation
j from herself. l" I remember," said the countess,
"that Pierre was byiside at the time when you
saw me on the road. That young peasant was my
fiover, and though scarcely old enough, you would
suppose, to entertain siich a feeling sincerely, yet I
?ved him also. Two years rolled away, and our
love continued to exist and increase. 1 was lifteeu.
0n (Pierre and quarrelled, and I, thinkiug
be had shown much liastiuess aud bitterness of
temper, would make nb concessions to him, tuqugh
perhaps myself in the vyrong. At that very time, a
young gentleman sawl me by the wayside, as you
did, when passing. He seemed struck with my ap
pearauoe indeed, greatly so. The -compliments
WU1CQ oe Paiu m l wuu -inuuipu to
1ierre aud tIie-v ul ,nade him jealous,
Tlje y0UI,S gleuian of whom I have
sPokcn returned, and j told me that he could not
forget me. He asked me to go with him,.aud he
i-i i i t i .:. i. i.
wyuld make me a great lady
You would now
say, sir, that I stood a fearful chance of falling into
the gulf of ruin and misery. Not so ; the young
ffenUeman had a soul too noble, too honorable, to
be the cause ot misery to anv one, and his views
for me were in accordance with that spirit I
listened to him with mingled feelings. I was an
orphan; no one was ; near me to caution or to
counsel. Pierre was my only tie to my birthplace,
and it was on his account that I felt distressed. I
gave him opportunities to renew his addresses j
but his anger and jealously prevented him from
doing so. I yielded tp the pressing suit ,'of the
other, and was whirled off in a carriage' from
Poitou. Before I had'gone far, I repented of my
was to a school near Paris thatT was conveyed by
the Count d'Auray, who, as you may imagine, was
the person now alluded to. For five years I remain
ed in perfect seclusion', enjoying the best advant
ages of education. At! times the count visited our
seminary, and I learned to love him fondly. How
could it be otherwise! In my benefactor I saw '(tie
tenderest of lovers, and most amiable of merf--.young,
handsome, and accomplished. Pierre was
forgotten, and I became the Countess d'Auray
Ah! Monsieur de Manleon,'1 continued the count
ss, " can you conceive, after this recital, the caus-i
of the secret gef that preys upon roe ? Pierre
the cause. Oldflfeelings 'hava jreturned upon me
iw of flower-
rrBgurefto myself tKT
happiness I have lost as excelling that possessed ;
I dream of being a peasant's wife, the owner but
of a cot, a cow, and a little garden ! These
thoughts haunt and pursue me. Yes, sir, they
make me miserable me, who so dearly love my
husband ! What madness !"
As the countess said this she shed abundance
tears. M. de Manleon pitied her sincerely ; but he
said-r" Madam, this misery is but the result of an
excess of happiness. You are absolutely satiated
.with blessings."
" Ah ! Monsieur de Manleon," continued the
countess, " but think how much poor Pierre Billon
regrets me! Perhaps he has died of grief : and it
was I, too, who was in the wrong in the quarrel
which separated us.'' M. de Manleon continued for
some' 'time to talk and reason with the lady. lie
tried the force of ridicule, and painted Pierre, not
as the flower-gathering boy of her fancy, but as a
coarse, uneducated clown, whose society would be
intolerable to her cultivated mind, and who lived
i. a. - -. . I I .1 1 i i r i l f
i in a suite very uhiiko ine uapums or Menooeus or
! her Aracadian dream. He would probably be
T 1
married, said M. de Manleon, long ago, ani possi
bly. was vicious, and beat his poor wife. All this
sort of reasoning only drew a sigh from the lady.
She was silenced, but not convinced.
In timeM.de Manleon became an intimate friend
and constant victor of the Count d'Auray and his
lady. He saw that the latter inde' d loved her hus
band most fondly, and in his presence forgot all htr
distress ; but jt returned to her in solitude. One
day, while M. de Manleon was seated with the
countess, Conversing upon the usual subject of
tjieir tete-a-tetes, the Count d'Auray entered, pale
and agitated. The countess sprung up. Her hus
band embraced her, saying to M. de Manle.ou
jiiioM my consolation when 1 am vexed.'"
' " What has happened," said the countess, anxi
ously. .r
"Not much, my love," was the reply : "only
we .must economise. ' I must sell some part of my
property, keep but one carri; go, and give dinners
but once a month. I have lost
a large sum of
jnoney.
" Thank heaven it is nothing worse !" cried the
countess.
" How did this loss occur, may I inquire !" said
M. de Manleon.
"Folly on one side, and villainy on another,"
answered the count. " I had for some time enter
tained the thought of purchasing in the funds, and
meeting at the house of one of mv friends a certain
,Z ml -
broker named Monsieur Deniicvers. who was iv-
i commended as an active man of business. I iutru t
ed him with the means of making the necessary,
purchase. This worthy broker took my money
with great coolness, and next day went off, no one
knows where."
"Have inquires been made ?" said M. de Man
leon. " Oh, yes ?" auswered- the count; " we have at
least had the satisfaction of discovering who he
was. His history is rather odd. He was first a
peasant, became next a village clerk, and finally
settled in Paris as a sort of low agent in the brok
erage way. He wormed himself there by degrees
into the confidence of so many people as to get
large sums into his hands. You know the rest.
By the by," continued the count, addressing his
wife, "he is.a countryman of yours. We learned
that he came from Poitou, and that his name was
not Dennevers, but Pierre Billon. The rascal has
left a wife, too, an excellent woman, whom he
abused and neglected, completing his rascality to
Her by carrying off with him another person, an ia-.
famous character. But 1 must go to consult further
with my fellow-sufferers." So speaking, the count
departed.
M. de Manleon looked at the countess. " What
think you now, madam ? a villain a wretch !"
" Oh ! Monsieur de Manleon," cried the count"
ess, with tears in her eyes, " how sensively ungrate"
ful have I, been to Heaven for its mercies ! . I am
cured ! I am happy ! And vou-, my friend"
"Ah, madam, I passed the wayside in Poitou
two years too soon !" cried M. de Manleon, with a
smile. ;
The Future. Miss Gouch says : " In the cold
est heart is concealed a vein of romance in the
wisest head is hidden a latent wish to pry into fu
turity. Oh! the future, the future the dim,
misty, shadowy future ! what an irresistible charm
it possesses for all mankind ! The past fades from
our memory the present we feat to enjoy, be
cause. of the future ! How anxious we all are, from
the prince and philosopher to the peasant and
! slave, to look a little way up the. mysterious vista
of time and eternity. From the ancient and proud
astrologer, who wore out his eyes in gazing upon
the stars, and his mind in calculating their influ
ences, down to the old woman who draws her
humble auguries from a pack of cards and a tea
cup, all have had theii dupes and disciples."
Francis Pigg, of Indiana, has run away from
Mrs. Pigg and four little Piggs. The Post says,
he is a Hog.
I MlobKLLAHKUUS,
The Pauper Dead of New York. It may
be truly said that we are often more unaware of
an occurrence in our own vicinity, than those
which are transpiring at a distance. Probably few
of our citizens are acquainted with the manner in
which the poor of this eityare stowed away after
,T .
- f -hiU A Aa a A, rV .&nttZTf&ymh f Galbeism ur xugh E
those who have fought life briskly and profitably
enough to gain " the few shining pebbles" which
are necessary to purchase a resting-place in that
aristocratic city of the dead. The poor, who have
been forced to succumb in the battle of life to over
powering influences it may be while fighting vi
gorously, aye, even desperately, with their grim
enemies, poverty and want, and have at last fallen
in the strife, bereft of friends and fortune are bu
ried in Potter's Field, in large trenches dug for the
purpose their only epitaphs being a number on
their coffins, which "is entered on the cemetery re
gister like the arrivals at a hotel. The trench in
which the bodies are placed, it is stated, is two
hundred feetin length, fifteen in width, and fourteen
in depth, and inta this ar packed three thousand
coffins, in six, and smnetimes eight, tiers. One pit
is now full, and another has been commenced,
which already contains about four hundred bodies.
Some sixty or eighty are interred here, evcrv week.
According to the rules at. Potter's Field, it appears
that after a person has been buried,' his friends may
claim his remains, and the authorities are bound
to search among the vast number of coffins until
they find tho right one. It would appear that the
process of attaining the body, is very much like
the manner in which a. person finds ja friend at a
hotel.' We can imagine a weeping mother, who,
having lost a son, and having been at the time of
his death, too poor to bury him decently, at length,
by ha'd labr and careful saving, has scraped to
getl er a sufficient sum to ransom-his body from
a pauper's grave, and bury him beside other loved
ones in a less frequented spot. She goes there,
and with trembling hands, looks over the register,
until she reaches 47, the number of his coffin.
Patrick, the Waiters of this hotel of the dead, to
see if No. 47 be in. But the process of getting
No. 47 is not so easy a matter as may be supposed.
Frequently a great many coffins have to be hauled
over before they come to the one for which they
are searching ; and last summer, in one instance,
one hundred were removed, and six. days were ex
pended, in seeking for the body 'of a man who had
been dead six weeks ! Such is the New York Pot
ter's Field upon Ward Island New York Pa
per. A Talk about Roosters. The ordinary varie
ties of the domestic fowl" are completely overshad-,
owed, literally and "metaphorically, by the Shanghai.
Like Marcia, the Shanghai rooster " towers above
his sex," and, like every thin r on stilts in this
world, attracts a corresponding degree of admira
tion. Yet he is a gawky colossus, made up. " lame
ly and unfashionably ;" as " shaky about the knees "
as Dickens's giants, and coarse in flesh as he is
unseemly m .appearance. The Chinese are a won
derful people in some respects. Bv a diminuendo
process they reduce you any species of tree to the
size of a cabbage, or vica versa ; exaggerate a small
bird or animal, by cultivation, to an extraordinary
bulk and altitude. The basis of the domestic cock
and hen is, we believe, the jungle fowl. of Asia, a
mere bantam. The jungle cock measures, when he
is on his dignity, about eight inches in height,
while the shambling Shanghai rooster, which never
stands upon its diguity, for it has none, can feed
from the top of a flour barrel. " Size is the meas
ure of power, other conditions being equal," say
the phrenologists. Now, by this rule, the Shanghai
being six times the size of the bantam, ought to
lick said bantam, "other conditions being equal."
But. they aint. The Shanghai is such a poor spunk -less
creature that a plucky little creature in feather
breeches will thrash him in presence of his assem
bled harem in less than three minutes. We speak
by his card, for a neighbor of ours rears Shanghais
and another neighbor cultivates bantams, and be
tween the feathered families there is ill blood.
Among the oriental brood there stalks a monstrous
rooster a knock-kneed, bobtailed, ungainly ogre,
with a deep asthmatic crow, that sounds like the
bellowing of a bull calf through, a worsted stocking,
and a gait tha't reminds you of a Kentucky giant.
Between him and the "bashaw of the bantams the
collisions are frequent, but in all cases the mandarin
of the Shanghais, after a few ineffectual demonstra
tions, turns in his track, and vamoses with prodig
ious strides, the bantam hanging on to his shirt tail
feathers like " Cuttie Sark " to the caudal append
age of Tam O'Shanter's mare, until the hold tears
out, whereupon the victor elevates his crest and in
dulges in a falsetto cook-a-doodle-doo ! We re
joice in these triumphs of pigmyism over gawkyism ;
for the fact is, that the mis-begotten celestial has a
vile habit of crowing with all his might every ten
minutes or so, from 2 o'clock, A. M., until daylight,
and hence our hatred of Shanghais. . We hope that
when the Chinese rebels reach Shanghai, they will
annihilate the breed. N. Y. Sunday Times.
: The Love of Home. It is .only shallow-minded
pretenders who eVer make the humblest origin,
matter of personal reproach. Taunt and scoffing
at the humble condition of early life affect no body
in this country but those who are foolish enough
to indulge in them. .
Fashionable French. A dowager of Down-
derry, invites some dozen of her male and female
fashionable acquaintances to tea and a dance after
wards, what do you think she calls her tea-party ?
A the Dansante-a dancing tea. Does tea dance ?
Can it dance ? Is not this libel upon honest bobea
and souchong, slang pure, unadulterated, unmiti
gated slang ? The slang of the fashionable world
Jls mostly imported from France; an
unmeaning
lonable conversation, and fashionable novelsand
accounts of fashionable parties in the fashionable
newspapers. Yet, ludicrously enough, imme
diately the fashionable magnates of England seize
on any French idiom, the French themselves not
only universally abandon it to us, but positively
repudiate it altogether from their idiomatic voca
bulary, f you were to tell a well-bred French
man, that such and such an aristocratic marriage
was on the tapis, he would stare with astonish
ment, and look down on the carpet, in the star
tled endeavour to find a marriage in so unusual a
place. If you were to talk to him of the b4au
mondc,he would imagine you . meant" the world
which God made, not half a," dozen streets and
squares between Hyde Park C.rn;.-r and Chelsea
Bun House. The the Jansau'te would be complete
ly inexplicable io him. If you were to point out
to him the Dowager Lady Giimguffin, a-iing as
chaperon lo Lady Amanda Creamville, he would
imagine you wen: referring to the Petit Chaperon
Ro'i-i; Little Red Hiding Hon,!. He might
just understand what was meant bv vis-a-vis,
entremets, and some others of the filving horde o
frivolous little loieigu :dangisms hoveling about
fashionable cookery and fashionable furniture;
but three-fourths of them would seem to him as
barbarous French provinciali-ms, or, at best, but as
antiquated and obsolete expressions, picked up out
of the letters of Mademoiselle Scuderi, or the tales
otXrebillou the younger. Dickens' Household
Words.
Doctors If we examine the life of the practic
ing physician, we rind it gilded and shining oft the
surface ; but beneath the spangles, how much pain
and hardship ! The practicimr nhv.-ir.iai i
the martyrs of modern society : he drinks the cup
of bitterness, and empties it to the dregs. He is
uner the weight of an immense responsibility,
and his reward is but too often injustice and in
gratitude. His 'trials begin at the . very gates of
his career. He-spends his youthful, years in the
exhausting investigation of Anatomy : he breathes
the air of putrefaction, and is daily-exposed to all
the; perils of contagion. Yiew him in the practice
of his difficult art, which be has acquired at ihe
rislc of his life ! lie saves or cures his patient ; it
is the result of chance, or else it is alleged that it is
nature, and nature alone, that cures disease, and
that the physician is only useful for form sake.
Then, consider the mortifications he has to under
rro, when he sees unblushing ignorance win the
success w hich is denied to his learning and talents,
and you will acknowledge that the trials of the
physician are not surpassed in any other business
of life. There is another evil the honourable phy
sician has to contend with a hideous and devour
ing evil, commenced by the world, sustained by
the world, and seemingly forevennore destined to
be an infliction upon humanity. This evil is
Quackery, which takes advantage of that deplor
able instinct which actually seeks faslsehood, and
prefers it to truth. How often do we seethe
shameless and ignorant speculator arrest tiie public
attention, and attain fortune, while neglect, obs
curity, and poverty are the portion of the modest
j practitioner, who has embraced the profession of
medicine with conscientiousness, and cultivates it
with dignity and honour. Professor Carnochan.
Am Irish play-bill. By his Majesty's company
of Comedians. Kilkenny Theatre Royal. (Posi
tively the last night, because the company go to
morrow to Waterford.) On Satursday, May 12,
1793, will be performed, by desire .and command
of several people in this learned Metropolish, for
the benefit of Mr. Keams, the manager, The Tra
gedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, originally
written and composed by the celebrated Dan Hyes,
of Liraerich, and insarted in Shakspere's Works.
Hamlet, by Mr. Kearns, (being his first appearance
in that character, and who, between the acts, will
perform several solos on the patent bagpipes,
which play two tunes at the same time.) Ophelia,
by Mrs. Prior, who will introduce several airs, in
character, particularly, " The Lass of Richmond
Hill " and " We'll be happy together," from the
Rev. Mr. Dibden,s oddities. The parts of the
King and Queen, by directions of Rev. Father
O'Callogan, will be omitted, as too immoral for
any stager Polonius, the comical politician, by a
young gentleman, his first appearance iu public
The Ghost, the grave-digger, and Laertes, by Mr.
Sampson, the great London Comedian. The
characters to be dressed in Roman shapes. To
which will be added an interlude, in which will be
introduced several slight-of-han'd tricks, by the
celebrated surveyor Hunt. The whole to con
clude with Mahomet, the Impostor. Mahomet,
b Mr. Kearns. Tickets to be had of Mr. Kearns,
at the sign of the Goat's Beard, in Castle street.
(The value of the tickets, as usual, will be tak-,
en out (if required) in candles, bacon, soap, butter,
cheese, potatoes, etc., as Mr. Kearns wisnes, m
every particular, to accommodate the public. N.
B. No smoking allowed. No . person whatever
will be admitted into the boxes without shoes or
stocking.
Public Worship is Oldes Times The fol
low ing extract.is taken from a historical sketch of
Old Milford, Connecticut : 1
The pastor being in the. pulpit, which towered
high, and was surmounted by a huge sounding
board, the luling elder on an elevated seat before
the pulpit, facing the audience, and the deacons on
their seats, somewhat less elevated,, than .hU, the
heads of families Qptaia(re&ts in. the bod-r of the
-.u-cjr tuum most conveniently --dispose tnemseives,
the pastor opened the service with a prayer of at
least fifteen minutes long, which was followed by
the reading and explanation of a chapter of holy
writ, which was followed by the psalm given out
by the elder, in which all the congregation wfio
could sing joined, which was followed by a sermon
an hour or more in length, measured by the glass,;
with which, and another prayer, and the benedic
tion, the meeting closed. The entire services oc
cupied three hours. They met at nine o'clock in
the morning and two in the afternoon, and cele
brated tho Lord's Supper once a month, at the close
of the morning service.
Every Sabbath there was a contribution, previ
ous to the taking of whi-h,-one of the deacons in
turn, standing up. said, " Brethren of the congrega
tion, now there is tin:e remaining for contribution
to the Lord, wherefore as 'the Lord hath prospered
you, freely offer-." The bx was not passed from
seat to seat, as with us, but was placed on a stand
or table, near the pulpit those, disposed toc.ntrib-
j ute came forw-nd and. deposited their otferinr,
j consisting not of money merely, but notes of baud,
: and articles which could be profitably appropriated
to the use of the church.
The Jewish Sadbath. It is unlawful to rid :
on horseback or in if carriage to walk more than
a mile from their dwellings to transact business
of any kind to meddle with any tool to write
to play on any musical instrument to bathe
comb the hair and even to carry a'pin in their
clothes which is tin necessary. These and a "Teat
many others', are complied with- by the most rigid.
There is one command in the law of Moses, to
kiudle no tire throughout your habitations upon
the Sabbath-day." (Exod xxxv, 3.) Consequent
ly, they never light a fire or -a candle on the Sab
bath day, nor eat food prepared on that day all
must be done on Friday. As it is impossible to
spend the Sabbath in cold-climates without fire or
lio-ht, the Jewish families, who keep servants make
it a point to have a Gentile in their i vu service to
do these things; and "among the humble classes, a
number of families generally unite in securing the
service of a Gentile neighbor for the day. Noth
ing could wound the conscience of a Jew more than
to be (Under the necessity of putting fuel on the
rire, or snuffing his candles, on the Sabbath. The
British Jews.
i i.
"Give us this Dav our 1aily Bread." It
is honorable to get a living by honest industry, and
it is but right that every one should have the
chance of so doing. It is a disgrace for any one
to eat the bread of idleness, if not absolutely forc
ed to do it. in which case it is-humiliating as well
as enervating in the extreme. To a sensitive be
ing there is nothing which tends more directly to
blast the soul and body than a feeling of uncer
tainty and dependence. It bows such a being into
the very dust, and makes happiness a mockery, life
a burden. Oh: the longing and pining for inde
pendence -the desire to feel that our destiny is in
our bands, and that we may walk abroad in perfect
freedom, breathing the fresh air and enjoying the
beauties and bounties of nature as one of her dar
ling children, with none to say, "why do you so?"
There is an eternal desire in the human breast to
feel dependent on God alone to have our destiny
unlinked with that of any other erring dependent
mortal, further than we choose from our own free
will. It is terrible to feel that others have unnat
ural power over us, from which it is impossible to
extricate ourselves to feel that we are dependent
on others for the bread we eat, for the very main
tenance of our existence. And, oh ! how much
more terrible is the idea that others still are depend
ent on us are looking up to us for the privilege
of living. Heaven have pity on those poor mor
tals who, from youth, age, or sex, are incapable of
engaging successfully in the great battle of life, and
are left the needy dependents of one who must
" Beg a brother of the earth
To give him lief to toil,
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poer petition spurn,
Unmindful though a weeping wife
And helpleas of&pring mourn.
Albany Transcript.
Who shall say what new fires are to break out
Europe and America from brave natures demand
in
ing an appropriate sphere? Would that so pwer-
ful incentives were fitly directed ! Would that a
truer Christian civilization existed among us, giv
ing a sphere for every generous faculty and noble
sentiment rnaking the path of life stirring as a
military march, yet gentle and humane as the
dove of heaven.
Let us remove temptation from the path
of youth," as the frog said to his companions,
plunging into the water, when he saw a boy pick
ing up a stone.
. i
i
It is not the fear of Hell or the Devil that makes
i the saints, but the love of Heaven.
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