"'"'", '" :-!'., "'-;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. TWO DOLLARS PER ANNUM. r.YTTELTQN 'WADDKLiL.. JR TERMS: Betottfr jo all i interests of ftorti) Carolina, mtatton, multure, literature, 3tos, tje ittatfeets, &r. 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. c if f '4 n . - H -V 4 ' in. i 1 - ' - -i- in j--- ' '