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The World We Live In (Newspaper) - March 3, 1860, Cincinnati, OhioConducted by B. F. SAXFÜRÜ, Editor and Proiirictfy. ='> 4 VOL I. Olficc, North-cast corner Fourth ainl Walnut Streets.Cl.NCIXAATI, OHIO; FOR THE WEEK ENt)IXU SATLMiDAY, AIARCH B, 18(50. NO. .9. rOESTie/Y. Far the Warid Litm A*. Mattie. ■T KTOE E. WOOD. The lut^t of thi* poem when dying reiu»rk.e<l to her mother •• Dow Mother, if I wu permitted to be nn angel, and it Is right I wtU b* tkf yardiaw awpW." Mother, behold the aiigel'a hand, Extended from the other ahoro Te b«w me to the MiaafUl land. Where pain aad aorrow come no more; Awáew# w«ef|áE«—1 ehaU hweer THE OLD BACHELOR; AM* How it Happened. BY LK.\.N1>ER. [The follow ing contribution him the more welcome place in our columns, it N'ing a series of truthful incident*. e liave' the pleasure of an M-quaintance with the hen*, “ Cousin John ’ and trust our friends will appreciate his eentlBients. KPiTOEor THE World.] We have a cousin, as fine a fellow as ever lived. Ever reihdy to aid a friend, his kind heart will allow no one to suiFer. He would lose a atood dinnei \Vliat if the niclmly, Tho'glad and free, <*f birds and hronks, be lost ii]H*n mine car! IVrchiince some chiingelees frieml might linger near. To sigh for me. Kind frieiKls will think of me, Not as of one whoso hiune rail lie U here naught hut imin and sorrow dwells, •\nd grief across my bt>s<>m swells,— But an eagle hinl wt free ! Then let such sleel>« Im* mine— I.et nature’s music o'er my plai'c of rt*st Breathe out some .siuiple síuig I loved tho bt'st. ed to her studies, her watch told her that an hour was gone. 8iie (luietly resumed her task, ami was getting well under way again, when a heavier .step was heard, and her door was once more tried. Now 41r. James must be admitted. “Mary, ’ said he “do come and put on a string for me. There is not a bosom in jny drawer in order. 1 atn in a hurry. I ought to have been up town an hour ago.” Mrs. James went for her work-basket, and followed him. The tape was sowed onfihen a button had to.bo fastened, and then a rip in his glove must be mended. NIrs. Jamca took «K»    aá.Ucb»tt    away at »«atu* velt, I ■MthwjwMars. Ar« erailwi la tka llty p»i®, TWea wiU IfcU aiy rote aad how A Mdatod anwaee. ’roaad thoe, Muthar Wb«n bright Antaian flow«ra are fiwHag, And Mling 'awsth the rtmgh wiad'a breath, Aad eiewiM thy kawty pathway ahadiag— 8a4 eaaMeaM td mj early death— Thea wlU aiy happy aplrlt hover. With aagel wioga, arouad thee. Mother. When death, relantlees, cold, and grim. Comm umhy door and calU for thee. And apeech ahall fail and eyes grow dim. Thy Mattie, then thy guard will be. And o'er thy parting epirit hover. And guide thM aafo to Utsavcn, Mother.. SomA iroedbery, O. >W <A« H'orM H « Lire Im. The Hiffht Walk. I    av    j.    p.    Lxcaoix. The fleecy ciouda are gilding Acroaa the aaidaight Ay, And they diat the aaeUow aMMabaaias, Aa tear-drupa dim the eya. And, Mary, I ooming, Thia and and attent bonr. With ten» thy grave to moiatan. Ami dacA it with a floww. O, why waat Omw M raahiy Pinchad fran aay blaediag aide! Or why waa 1 forbidden On high with thee to glide I My daya had aU baen gloomy; And aU the joy I knew Waa found in ciearty That thon waat fl>A    e. Bat now that j<7 h And I am left alone Without one throbbing beeoat Baapunaiva t« mtj own. 0 no. I’m not daaarted! For, theagfa thou nrt above, 1 mean that then a apirit— Betnineat atili thy love. Fm' though thy fbraa haa cnnnbled, Beheath the aed, «e diat. Still thoa daat dwcU—an angel— Aaaong the pore and Jaat. "    Ami,    Mary,    thoagh thou canaH not Cumaaane on earth with aaa. Yet BOOB I’m fondly hoping To come dbove to thee. Meanwhile I’ll cheer my pathway By muaing on thy hrve. And oa oar bUaatol moamnta Kie thou dida’t go above. Here^jgflrit, take thia uftaring Pfncksd from t)ta flowery heath ; ’Tia from thy jgfghted lover Faithftd uto fate death, irheafarabery, O. / For At World Wt Liot In Life’fl Te«rfl. ax W. HOWARB PERRIOO. The years at lile paas awilt away, Oa tiaaa’a eternal wheel. Which ceaaaa not ita viewlem roand. For moral wo or weal; But awilUy paaaing, hour by hoar, And ateadily, day by day. The weeka, the faoaths, the yeaA his. Are paaafwg awfft away. Firat cornea the aaoraing of life’a day. Whan bwoyant hop# beata high Within tha tiieaW. and we atrive to win The goal which aaaaaath ni|^. Soon comaa tha neon at life; and fled Are the dreaaM of youthful hours, Aa we tread o’er a dmert, dreary and daik,. i isireet flowere. Then eomse the evening of life’s daya. When the lireema ofllfe are fled— And tha ho|Ma, which lit ow brenat in yonth. Are wHhared all and dead; And whan lee gaae back o’ar troubled koura Of aorrow, gloom, and pain, Wa are content—and do not whdi To pwM over them again. flt^iwFiuf. JTy.. Feb. U80. For At Wi^kfi^t Liot Im. SpMk Mindly. >T L. ■. \ A little word wiU soaaeCiaMa atir The fountains of the heart, A whiapMr eeft, and Hght ns air, WBl csHsee the tears to start. A loek Bsay crush the hope of ysnn *TOI thay wMhor iilM tha flwuura. all too wild for tears. Will for evaraaore be onra. One thoughtleea act, may plant a thorn Deep in aosae trusting Iwaaat'; T’will rankle there and must be home, ' ’Till the grave shall give it teat. Or we asay wipe the fslUng tear And bind the broken heart; And aeatter bieaeings everywhere. By acting well our part. Each hninan heart baa soaae lone grief Some hidden, secret woe, Smne pteciovn tresiaure buried deep. On the “ Isle of kmg-ago.’’ And Ob ! U is no Idle thing To smooth life’s pathway o’er; To gently touch the quivering strings. So rudely swept before. Cttimtton, Fy., Feb. 27th 18S6. Flu Hugh waa throwu, by ber death, into a mcMncholy and half iuaane stale of mind. At midnight, sumnier or win-tar Im sraa wont to wander forth to her grave and utter at iu aide strange and *>"«u**v words as if he were taikii^ wrtb a spirit.’’]    I Th* Pag*.—Frederick the Great, one day ringing hifl bell, but nobody coming, he opened the door of the ante-ehamfer and fottnd his page sleeping on a chair. In going to awaken him, he saw a written paper hanging oat of his pocket. This excited the king’s curiosity and attention; he drew it out, and found it to be a letter ñ-om the page’s mother, wherein she thanked her son for his kind assistance in sending her part of his wages ; for which Heaven would reward him, if he continued faithful to his majesty. The king iBtmediately brought a rouleau of ducats, and slipped them with the letter into the page’s poeket. Soon after, he rang the bell again, and awoke the page, who made his appearance. “Surely, you have bean asleep,” said the king. The boy stammered part of an excuse and part of a confession and putting his hand in his pocket, found, U* his surprise, the roll of ducats. He drew it out, pale and trembling, but unable to speak a syllable. “ What is the matter ?” said the king. “ Alas! your majesty,” said the page, falling on his knees, “ my ruin is intended; I know nothing of this money.” “ Why,” said the king, “ whenever fortune does come, she comes sleeping; you may send it to your mother, with my compliments, and assure her I will provide for you both. ’ or bappoRns; and wins a smile or a bleseing from all who meet him. His generous heart would have been an Eden, a paradise, to the lady who could have won bis affections. Why so useful a citisen never married, I know not, Was it because our ladies’ highest accompUshments are of the least use, save in the drawing-room ? Long years have passed since we were lads together, and still he wears that same cheerful countenance which so delighted his mates iu our early days. He has no sad forel*odings, no smiting of Conscience for covetous deeds—the past gives back no upbraiding ghost to steal away his sleep. He lives as one expectiug to enjoy the society of men, and women too, in their refined state, when we shall exchange this mortal for the spiritual state. There all is life, and life is love, and charity will become the master-spirit of every act. When visiting us, a few weeks since, I was greatly surprised to hear our cousin speak so kindly of j the ladies. I had known him as a practical man, ' always ready to turn a penny, or to put his friends | in the way of making the “dimes;" but this was I quite another question, and I asked him: “How can one who has lived so loug unblessed, cherish so much deference for tlie gentler sex ? ; Why, if you can so greatly appreciate their worth, have you not had your life adorned by this best specimen of the handiwork of our Maker?” “ A long life cannot erase,” said our cousin, “ nor can death compel to silence the notes of praise due to noble-minded, soul-inspiring woman. I do n6t speak of that class who, unfortundtely, when young were told that they were handsome. Such persons live upon one thought, and cherish but one idea. That is the reason why their round, pretty features lack expression. Their only study has been position —single position, I mean. Their aim is to attract attention whilst walking; and when seated, their languishing, subdued air, is their only argument to , excite the sympathy of the opposite sex. If, by these means, they can ever get into ‘ double position,’ the remainder of their days are passed as useless ornaments. We turn from those toys to nobler beings. If there be anything that can raise our mattery f-fact sort of thoughts above the grosser things of earth—if there be anything that can lift us heaven-ward, it is the charms of intellectual worth la womaiTs”poSrfc souil. To Such a wo mail do I owe an untold debt of gratitude. It is to her I am indebted for my present condition in society. It was the heavenly influence of her angel ministry which awoke in my young mind a wish to attain to the intellectual, a love for the good, and a desire to excel. Others may be indued with the same faculties, which may forever remain undeveloped, if lacking the genial influence of woman. Why, then, may I not ever venerate the gentler sex? Shall I answer your second question, and must I tell you why my days have been spent alone^ with no dear companion to brighten my existence, and to ad^a perfume to joys in this world of pleasure and pain, in this laud of happiness and sorrow ? ” ‘“Please do, cousin John ; tell us the whole. It will be very interesting to hear; and if the wisdom of our legislators may be improved by the history of nations, why may not the experience of a friend become a valuable chart for our children in after years?” I “ If to please a friend, or to benefit others, I must i lay my modesty aside to speak of the individual self, you will allow me to be quite brief upon mat* : ters that relate to the kingdom of the heart. Society ■ has enacted such imperious laws, and communities ' have drawn around us such an arbitrary code of ethics, that to speak of love, a man would, by many, be deemed insane—to talk of affection would qualify him for the asylum at Columbus. But I will, nevertheless, proceed with my story. Fifteen years ago, I was spending a few months in Jefferson county, New York, for amusement. I had not then l^med the worth of time, nor the value, the wealth of happiness to be gained by being useful to others —* doing as you would be done by.’ A seeker after pleasure, yet I knew not the road to happiness. It was a bright, lovely morning—the first Monday in the month of May, 1846; the tedious, cold winter waa past, the fields were being clothed in green, the birds were chanting their symphonies of joy, and I wis cherishing a hopeful ftiture. I have been thus particular in the date, because I think often of that day—the most happy period of my life—an era upon which the mind delights to dwell*—an epoch in my existence, foom which I date the beginning of a life of happy usefulness. It was on such a day as I have mentioned, that I met a lady, mRosg graceful form, accomplished manners, oombinsd with kindness and smiles, won my confiding heart.” “Why, cousin John, I did not know that the heart disease was essential to gr^aíness. Cannot a man become wise and useful without first becoming lovesick ?” “ Have I mistaken my hearers ? Have you not yet risen above the cant phrases of a thoughtless world? Cannot we converse without the ribald jesting of the vulgar?” “ Beg pardon, cousin; 1 meant not to pierce a wounded heart, nor recall painful emot ions. Please excuse the unhappy remark and let us fully understand your sentiments and how you managed that eventful hour. I am sure that if I had met with a disappointment, where the whole soul was enlisted as yours seems to have been, the scene might have had a dramatic termination.” “ To be more explicit, let me say that man is born an animal, indued with powers to rise to successive planes above the brute, if his will-principlo, “love for the good and the beautiful,” shall desire to be elevated. The first above the plane of the animal is the intellectual, the next is the spiritual, and the uppermost is the plane of celestial jo^s. Blessed will be the man who is enabled to rise to infinite day. It was the genial influence of Ellen’s ministration which awoke the mind and led the understanding to tlie rich feasts of intellectual pleasures. “ When parting with my cynosure she gave me some beautiful lines, suggested by a visit to Mount Hope Cemetery, Rochester, N. Y. They breathe the very soul of poetry. Let me repeat them, and you wil say that Ellen was no ordinary woman. A WISH. AYthea. “The man who could read tliose lines and not be moved by the writer's presence, would be beyond the pale of mercy or power of one noble aspiration. “I was compelleii to go South and to leave the sweet dale where Ellen dwelt, believing that I had a friend who loved me, it was as parting from our better self. “One year absent, and when I was soon to see home and the friend, more dear than life, tidings came that Ellen was a married woman! Did I return, alone to trace the fields ma<le glad by Ellen’s presence? No! The little warblers of the wood and shady grove would remind me of faded hopes; the rivers and running brooks would sing jvj;equiem to joys departed. Here I might say, whe« your little George becomes a man, (hoys liave no need to know,) he will learn that epaulettes and the prayer-l*ook are dangerous rivals in a long absence. “Five years were passed in foreign countries, and some business affaii-s took me again into Jefferson county. In an adjoining town I met Ellen, who was residing with her sister. She had been one year a wife, and four years a widow. She gave me her hand, her heart was too full for utterance. We were seated Itefore she could speak. “One may do things unadvisedly, which after hours give leisure to repent of," at last fell from her lips. “The sad tone with which that was spoken, and her woc-begoue coantehunGe, so truthfully representing her pained heart, caused the tears to fiow freely. Her deep contrition made me draw the pencil of forgiveness over the past. I trust that heaven has forgiven her. She has long since gone. 1 hope to become an angel, a ministering spirit to guard the inexperienced of her sex against, the folly of sacrificing confidence and abiding happiness for present gratification. All sins are punished in this world, as an earnest of what may be expected in the next, if in this life they arc not repented of and forsaken. Ellen’s broken faith hassAteeu repaid by a life of pain. Her heart, so suscepiible of the beautiful, so keenly alive to joys, has been bathed in a life of anguish, immersed in a sea of troubles! So long did she repent lier folly, and so far did she put every evil from her heart, that I expect to meet Ellen in heaven, one of the briichtnat anaela of tha blaeaoil Am I speaking for the benefit of your children, Leander? let me advise them to be cautions in niaking promises to be as lasting as time—and break them never ! A few days after my last interview with Ellen, 1 received from her feeble hand an expression of her last request. The first was penned by a buoyant heart; this was written when about to give the parting hand to all below : THE REQUEST. May I be labl, when death shall steal, With icy fingers, life awny. Within the vale, where brightly bl<K>ined, The opi'iiingdrvaniof childhoud’s day. I ask no lofty monunaent .\bove my grave to jiroudly stanil; The fragrant Howers would be more dear, Strewed by affection's gentle band. The tears that Nature kindly wee|>«. Distilled in flowers which heaven gave, Are better, truer offerings, Tlien plant them o’er my lonely grave 1 Then when ye view their graceful forms, And wander forth my grave to se<*. Bestow one pleasant thought on them, But shed no hitter tears for me ! Ellen. The Angel Over the Right Shoulder; OR, THE BEGl.NNING OF A JÍEW Y'EAR. I would that when I die, Sfoatorm might lie Where hraii9|*s wave and wild flowers bloom ; '^Kaá a clear stream glides by. There would I love to sleep. Where birds gay anthems keep ; Stirred by no memories of dejiartod days. O’er w hich w o wake to weep ! “A woman’s work is never done,” said Mrs. James. “ I am sure I thought I would get through by sundown, and here is this lamp, now, on which I must go and spend another half an hour before it will burn.” “ Don’t you wish you had never been married ?” said Mr. James, with a gootl-natured latigh. “Yes,” rose to Mis. James’ lips, but a glance at her husband, and two little urchins, who, with sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks, were tumbling over him, checked that reply. “I should like the good without the evil, if I could have it,” she said. “ I am sure you have no great evil to endure,” replied her husband. “ That is all you gentlemen know about it. How should you like it if you could not get an uninterrupted half-hour to yourself from morning to night. What would become of your favorite studies ?’’ “ 1 do not think there is any need of that. I know your work could be arranged so systematically as to give you some time to call 3’our own.” \ “ W/b11, all I wish is,” was the reply, “tLatyou could follow me round one day, and see what 1 have to do.” When the lamp was trimmed, the conv^ersation was resumed. Mr. James had been giving the subject some thought. “Wife,’' said he, ‘‘I have a plan to propose, and I wish 3'ou to promise me that you will accede to.it. It is an experiment, and 1 wish you to give i.t a fair trial to please me. ’ After hesitating awhile, as she had great reason to suppose it would be quite impracticable, she at length promised. “ This is my plan. I wish you to take two hours of every day for your own private use. Make a point of going up into your room and locking yourself in, and let the work go undone if it must. Spend this time in the way most profitable to yourself. Now I shall bind j ou down to 3'onr promise lor a month I at the end of that time, if it has proved a total failure, we will try some other wav'.” “ W hen shall 1 begin ?'’ “ To-morrow.’’ To-morrow came. Mrs. James had' selected the two hours before dinner as the most convenient for her; and as the family dined at one o'clock, she was to have finished her morning s work, be dressed and in her room by elcyen. Hearty as her efforts were to accomplish her task, the appointed hour tound her work bt.t half do.ie; yet true to her prom- dwr"’ After spending perhaps half an hour in forming her plans tor study, she drew up her table, placed her books before, prepared pen and paper, ami commenced with much earnestness. Scarcely was the pen dipped in the ink, when there was a puttciiiiK of httle feet along the hall, and a loud pouudinjr on the chamber-door. “ Mamma, mamma, I can’t find my mittens and Frank is going without me to slide.”    ’ “Go to Amy, daughter, mamma’s busy now.” “Amy’s busy now, too, and says she'can;t leave the baby.” Upon this, the child lasgan to cry. The easiest way for Mrs. James to settle the diflicultj’, and indeed the only way, was to go and hunt up the missing articles. Tlien a parley must be held with Frank to induce him to wait for his sister, and the little girl's tears must be dried, and little hearts must be set right before the children could be sent out to plaj', and a little lecture given, too, on the necessity of always putting things in their proper places. Time slipped away, and when Mrs. James returu- “ What are you laughing at?” inquired her husband. “To see how famously your plan works,” replied she. “I declare!’’ said he, “was this your study hour? I am sorry, but what can a man do? He cannot go out without a shirt-bosom.” “ Certainly not,” replied his wife, quietly. When her liege lord was fairly equipped, Airs. James returned to her room again. About half an hour remained to her, of which slie was determined to make tlie most. Once more was her place found and her pen dijiped in the ink, when there was another disturbance in the entry. Amj' had returned witli the baby from her work. She took him into the nursery to get him to sleep. New the only room in the house where Mrs. James could have a fire to herself was the room adjoining the nursery-. The ordinary' noise of the children did not disturb her, but the very, extraordinary one which Master Charley felt called upon to-^make, wheo he was fnirlj’ upon his hack in the cradle, was rather more than could be borne by most mothers, without seriously disturbing the train of their thoughts. The woi-ds of the author rose and fell with the bawling and screaming of tlie child. Airs. James closed her book until the storm could subside. Soon after quiet was restored, the children came in from their sliding, crving with cold fingers. Just at that time the l*ell rang! Mrs. James closed her book in despair! “How do you progress with j'our studies this morning ?’’ inquired Mr.    James.    | Famouslv',’’ replietl Mrs. James; “I read alx>ut i seventy pages of Germau and as many more of French."    ¡ “ Why, I am sure I did not hinder you long. ’    | “No, yours was only one of a floien interrupt : tions.”    ¡ “ Oh, well, you must not get discouraged. You , cannot expect to succeed    the    first    time.    Persist    in i it until the family learn that if they want anything of you they must come at some other time.”    j “But what is a man to do,” replied his wife, “he . cannot go down town with    a string off his    bosom, | and a rip in his glove?” “AVell, I icas in a bad fix,” replied Mr. Janies. ! “ I dare say it will not happen again. At any rate, trj' tho month out, and we will see what will come of it.”    * The second day of this trial happened 10 be a stormy one, and as the morning was very dark, Bridget overslept herself, and breakfast was one hour late. This lost hour Mrs. James could not recover. Eleven o'clock came, and her morning's work was not half done. With a mind disturbed and tl^reesed, she left things in the suds, as they were, and retired punctually to her study. She found, however, that it was impossible to fix her attcntimi    anyUiiuB "whicli rcqüTFétrmbugliC. l^j^éctedUutíes liauntcd her as gliosts do the guilty conscience. Finding that she was really doing nothing wiili her books, and wisliing not to lose the morning entirely, she commenced a letter, when Bridget came to the door of the study before she had written half a page. “ AVhat shall we have for dinner, ma'am ? There ain't no marketing come, and you did not tell me what to get.’’ “Have some steaks?”. “ We hain't got none. ’ “Well, I 11 send for some.” Now there was no one to send but Amy, and Mrs. James knew it. With a sigh she put away her letter, and went into the nursery. “ Aniv’, Mr. James has forgotten the marketing; I wish 3'ou would run over to the provision store, and order some beef steaks; I will stay with the baby.’ Amy was none too well pleased to be sent on this errand. She remarked thivt, “she must first change her dress. ’    , “ Be as q«kfk as possible, then,’’ said Mrs. James, “ for 1 am particularly engaged tliis morning.” .Vmy neither obeyed nor disobeyed; but managed to take her own time in realitv', but without anj' determination to do so.    ^ Mrs. James, thinking she might get through a sentence in German, in the nursery, took her German book in with her, but to this arrangement Charlie would by no means consent. Alamma must show him the kitties in the book, whether there or not, it was all one to him—but amused he must be. Half the second day's time of trial was gone, when Amy came in, and with a sigh, Airs. James returned to her room.^, Before one o’clock she had been called down to the kitchen twice on important business relating to the dinner, and in this day not one entire page of a letter had been written. On the third morning she rose earlj', made every provision for dinner, and for the comfort of the family, wliich she deemed necessary, and elated she entered her study precisely at eleven o'clock. Now, she was to have a fine time of it. Her books were opened, and a hard lesson summoned to the conflict. Scarcelj' had she read a lin,e when she heard the door-bell ring. “i^mebody wants to see you in the parlor, Mrs. James.” “ Tell them I am engaged, Bridget,” “ I told them you were to home, ma’am, and they gave me their names, but I did not exactly understand.” Airs. James was obliged to go—to smile when she felt sober, to be attentive when her thoughts were elsewhere. Her friends, however, seemed to find her agreeable, for they made her a long call; and when they rose to go, others came. So, in the most unsatisfactory chit-chat, all this morning went. On the next day. Air. James invited some company' to tea, and Mrs. James was obliged to give the entire morning to prepare for it, and did not enter her study. On the following day, she was obliged to keep her bed with sick-headache; and on Saturday,* Amy having extra work to do, the charge of the baby devolved upon her. Thus passed the first week. True to her promise, Airs. James patiently persevered for a month, in her efforts to secure to herself this fragment of broken time, with what success the week's history can tell. AVith its close, closed the*month of December. Being particularly occupied on the last day of the old 3'ear, in getting ready for the morrow’s festival, it was near the last hour of the day when she made her good-night call in the nursery. She went to the crib to look at the babj'—there he laj' fast asleep in his innocence and beaut}'. She kissed the rosy cheek gently, and stroked his golden hair, and pressing his little dimpled hands within her own, she drew the warm covering more closely around him, carefully tuckineji^it^then stealing one more kiss, she left him iu lus slumber.', and sat down on her daughter’s bed. She was also sweetly asleep, with her doll hugged close to her. Her liiother smiled, but soon it seemed as tf graver and sadder thoughts filled her mind, as indeed they did. She was thinking of her disappointed plans. To her, not onlj' the past month, but the past year, seemed to have been one of fruitless effort; it seemed to her broken and disjointed; even her hours of religious meditutiou had been encroached upon and distracted. She had accomplished nothing that she could see, but keep her tamil}'; and to her saddened mind even this seemed to have been but very indifferently done. She fell, she was sure, no desire to shrink from her duties, however humble they might be, but she sighed for some comforting assurance of what duty consisted in. Her pursuits, conflicting as they di'd Avith her tastes, seemed to her frivolous. She felt there was some better way of living, wliich she, from want of energy or principle, had failed to di.s-cover. As she leaiied over her child, her tears fell fast upon that young brow. How earnestly wished that young mother that she could shield her child from the disappointments and self-reproaches, and mistakes from which she was suffering; that the little one could take up life whore she could give it to her, mended by all her own experience. It would have been a great comfort to her could she have fought the battles of life for both Yet she knew that it could not. be so ; that we ) nin.st all learn for ourselves what those things aro which help make our peace. With tears still in her eyes, she gave the good-night to the child, and with soft step entered an adjoining apartment, and there fairly ki.s.sed out the old year on another rosy cheek which nestled among the pillows; then she sought her own rest. Soon she was in the land of ili*eams. She found herself traversing a vast plain; no tree.s were visi-^ble save tho.se which skirled the horizon; on their top rested a wreath of golden ciouda. Before her, traveling towards that distant light, w'as u female. Little children wrere about her, sometimes in her arms, and sometimes at her side. As she journeyed on she busied herself caring for them. Now she soothed them when weary—now she taught them how to travel—and again she warned them of the pitfalls and stumbling blocks in the w'ay; she helped them over the one, and taught them to be wary of the other ; now she talked to them of that golden light W'hich she kept constantly in view, and toward which she seemed to l*e hastening her little flock. Bui what was most remarkable, was that, all un-know'n to her, two golden clouds floated above her, on Avliich reptjsed two angels. Before each was a golden book and a pen of gold. One angel, w'ith luiM and loving eyes, peered constantly over the right shoulder, the other tlie left. They followed her from the rising to the setting of the sun. They watcheil every word, and look, and deed, no matter how trivial. When it was good, the angel that looked over the right shoulder, wrote it down, Avith a glad smile, in this golden book ; Avhen it was evil, the angel that looked over the left shoulder w rote it down in his book. 'I’heu he kept his sorroAvftil eyes on her till he found penitence for the evil ; upon which he tlropped a tear on his record and blotted it out, and both angels rejoiced. To the looker on it seemed as if tho traveler did little which was worthy of such careful record. Sometimes she did but bathe the weary feet of her children, and the angel over her right shoulder wrote it down ; sometimes she did but wait patiently to lure back some little truant Avho had taken a step in the Avrong direction, and the angel over the rigiit shoulder Avrote it down. Sometimes, Avitli her eyes fixed upon the golden horizon, she became so intent upon her own progress as to let the little pilgrims at her side languish or stray;,then it Avas tho angel over her left shoulder who lifted the goldefi pea and made the entry, following her Aviih sorrow ing eyes, seeking to blot it out. Wishing to hnsfen on her journey, she left the little ones behind, it Avas then the sorro.tving angel Avho recorded her progress. And the observer felt, ns she looked on, that this was a faithful record, and Avas to be kept to her journey s end. The strong clasps of gold on those golden books, also impressed her with the belief that they Avere to be sealed for a future opening. Her sympathies were warmly excited for the traveler, and with a beating heart she quickened her steps that she might overtake her and tell her what she had seen, and entreat her to be watchful, and faithful, and patient to the end, in her life’s work, for she had herself seen that its results would all be known Avheu those golden books should be unclasped; that she must not think any duty which fell in her w'ay to do, trivial, for surely there w'as an angel over her right shoulder, or one over her left, who would record it all. Eager to warn her of this, she gently touched her. The traveler turneil, auJ she recognized her-SBLr I .litiM'tled ajod alarmad, aba awoka, and found herself in tears. The grey light, of breaking day struggled through the half-open shutters, the door w'iis ajar, tind inorry faces were pcepiug iu. “Happy Ncav Year, Mamma—wish you Happy New Year !’’ >110 returned the merry greeting of her joyous little ones with hearty good w’ill, and she seemed to have entered on a ucav existence; she had found her way through the mazes in w'hioli she had been entangled, and light w'as now around her and about her path. The Anyel over h>r shoulder, whom she had seen, in her dream, assitxed her that her life-work Avas Iwnind up in that golden l>ook, and its results would be known—and assured her what was her duty. Noic she saw clearly eaoug]i what she could not see before—that Avhile it was right to cultivate, as far as slie could, her own mind and heart, it was equally important for her to pevl'orm faiibfuUy all the duties of Avite and mother, and to fulfill cheerfully all the offices and cares on which the comfort and Avelfare of her family depended. They had acquired a iiew' digiiity from the records of that golden pen, and they could not be neglected without danger. Sad thoughts and misgivings, and ungratified longings seemed to have taken ti^r flight w'ith the Old Year, and it was with a new resolution and a cheerful hope, and a happy heart that she welcomed the New' Y ear. XJncle Abel and Little Edward. on the edge of an avalanche. He had been committed to the nursing of his grand-mammn until he arrivetl at the age of indiscretion, and then my old uncle’s heart yearned towards him, aqd he was sent for at home. His introduction into tile family excited a terrible sensation. Never was there such a contemner of dignities, such a violator of such high places and sanctities, as this very Master Edward. It was all in vain to try to teach him decorum. He was the most outrageously merry little elf that ever shook a head of curls, and it was all the same fo him whether it was Sabbath day or any other (lay. He laiigheil and frolicked with everybody ami everything that came in his way, not even excepting liis solemn okl father; and when you saw him with his arms around the old man's neck, and his bright blue eyes and blooming check pressing out by the black face of Uncle Abel, you almost fancied that you saw spring «caressing winter. Uncle Abel's metaphysics were sorely puzzled how to bring this sparkling, dancing compound of spirit and matter into any reasonable shape, for he did mischief with an energy and perseverance that were truly astonishing. Once he scoured the floor with Aunt Betsey’s Scotch snuff, and once he spent half an hour in trying to make Rose wear her spectacles. In short, there w'as no use but the right one to which he did not put everything that came in his way. But Uncle Abel was most of all puzzled to know what to do with him on the Sabbath, for on that day Alaster Edward seemed to exert himself particularly to l*e entertaining. “ Edward must not play on Sunday,” his father would say, and then Edward would shake his curls over his eyes and walk out of the room as grave as a catechism, but the next moment you might see pussy scampering in dismay through the “best room ’’ with Edward at her heels, to the manifest discomfort of Aunt Betsey and all others in authority. At last my uncle came to th"!!’ conclusion that “ it wasn't in natur’ to teach him better, and that he Avould no more keep Sunday than the brook down in the lot.’’ My poor uncle I he did not know litrhat was the matter with his heart; but certain it was he had lost all facvilty of scolding when little Ed-Avard was ifi the case, though he would stand rubbing his spectacles a qtíBrter of an hour longer than common, when Aunt Betsey was detailing his witticisms and clever doings. But in progress of time our hero compassed his third year, and arrived at the dignity of going to school. lie went illustriously through the spelling book, attacked the catechism, went from “ man's chief end ” to the “Commandments" iu a fortnight, and at last came home BSor-diuarily merry, to tell his father he had goV to “ Ameii.'! After this he made a regular business of saying over the whole every Sunday evening, standing with his hands folded in front, and his checked apron smoothed down, occasionally giving a glance over his shoulder to see if papa was attending. Being of a very benevolent turn of mind, he made several efforts to teach Rose the.catechism, in which he succeeded as well as could be expected. In short, without further detail, Master Edward bade fair to become a literary wonder. But alas! for poor little Edward, his merry dance was soon over. A day came when he sickened. Aunt Betsey tiled her whole lierbarium, but in vain; he grew rapidly worse and woi-se. His father sickened in heart, but said nothing; he staid by his bfedside day and night,.trying all means to save wkh affecting pertinacity. “Caii tyou think of anything more, doctor? said he to the physician, when everything had been tried in vain. “Nothing,” answered 4he physician. A slight convulsion passed overinay uncle's face. “Then the Loixl’s will be done!’ said he. Just at that momenta ray of tbaoaltinft oun pi«i>«Ml the checked curtains, and gleamed like an angel’s smile across the ftice of the little sufferer. He awoke from a disturbed sleep. “Gh, dear, oh, 1 am so sick!” he gasped feebly. His father raised him in his arms; he breathed easier and looked up with a grateful smile. Just then his old playmate, the cat, crossed the floor. “ There goes pussy,” said he, “ Oh, dear, I never shall play with pussy any more.” At that moment a deadly change passed over his face, he looked up to his father with an imploring expression and put out his hands, of agony, and the sweet features settled with a smile of peace, and mortality was swallowed up in life. My uncle laid him down, and looked one moment at his beautiful face—it was too much for his pride, and lie lifted up his A'oice and wept. The next morning was the Sabbath, the funeral day, and it rose with breath all incense and with cheek all bloom. Uncle Abel wascalmand collected ns ever: but in his face there was a sorrow-stricken expression that could not be mistaken. I remenilier him at family prayers, bending ovbr the great Bible and beginning the psalm, “ Lord, thou liast been our dwelling place in all generations.” Apparently he was touched by the melancholy and splendor of the poetry; for after reading a few verses he stopped. There was a dead silence interrupted only by the tick of the clock. He cleared his voice repeatedly, and tried to goon, but in vain. He closed the book and knelt in prayer. • The en- BY HARRIF.T BEECHER STOWE. A Concert in Berlin. A Pnissian correspondent of th.e Rochester Amemi-can writes: The hall in which the concerts are held is ofelled the Ton-halle, or Music Hall, and i|F'siiaated at a distance from the Lindon,    on one of the principal streets of the cityd It does not face the street, however, as it natjfinlly would with ns, but its entrance is from an i^er court paved with cobble-stones, to which you obtain access by a nsrruw passage from the street. Thus a considerable ex-•pen.se is saved by locating the hall in the rear of the great street buildings, and in so doing the gret^ advantage is gained of an almost perfect freedoiW f^um tlie noise of tlie great thoroughfare. As IjHrid, in a former letter, the admission fee is only seven cents, but this is only the first of a number of surprises that await you. On entering the great hall you find yourself in quite a splendid audience room, 80 far as tasteful ornamentation is concerned, lighted in the day-time only by three great windows at the end of the house occupied by the orcIieiFTa. On all the other sides are two spacious galleries, one above the other, extending round the house. The arrangements for lifting are excellent, and appearance of the/trail when all the lamps are lit, is rich and pleasing in the extreme. But that which more than all else gives one a hoitre-likc jscnse of comfort, is the perfect ease and unassuming good humor of the company itself. Don't imagine for an instant that they are set up in rows of scats with numbere<J backs, or that the ladies come in opera cloaks. They do no such thing. Though the audience is always ve^y-wripct, and rich dress is by no means rare, yet pebple seem to have one object above all others in view, and that is to hear and enjoy the music, and the’Germans believe that to enjoy a musical treat properly, one must be perfectly at home. The high character of the music being security for the high character -of the audience, they are in general content to léave display in the way of dress to other occasions.    ' Suppose we take our seat in one of the galleries, and look down upon the audience. You hear a cliuking of glasses and coffee-cups, and I know, my dear madam, that you cry out, “horrors!” immediately. “Good gracious, are they all taking tea?” Certainly, or more properly speaking, their coffee. You observe that the whple floor is sprinkled with round tables, and you must remember that it is only four o’clock, P. M., and therefore you can’t dream of any dissipation wing perpetrated. These people have undoubtedly dined, and in all human probability the whole family—down to the smallest boy that could walk—came off shortly after, to the concert, and have seated themsetves quietly about one of the round tables, and are as completely happy a domestic circle as you ever saw. Thus all the youngsters are trained up to love music, and I think they prefer Vo come here with father and mother than to run wild at home. At any rate, in the intervals of music, they seem to have no lack of amusement. But I fancy I hear • you make another exclamation “ Knitting?” Certainly, madam, or if not knitting, at least engaged in that universal occupation of German ladies of all ranks—embroidering —though I must say that the old ladies seem to be making greater progress in ihei^ work than the youpg oues. Still they are, most of them, pretending'lo work, if they are not, and so are keeping up the reputation that they have of embroidering at every conceivable time and in all conceivable places. I fancy I hear you asking what those great glasses contain from which that collection of officers ; are drinking. Nothing wora* tlian b««r, 1 can ae-' sure you. And the beer is excellent, too; in fact a true German opines that beer and music were originally intended to be correlatives; the idea of the one requires that of the other to complete it. I have become so far a German that I do not always dispute this now ; in fact, thc'^barbarous notions which one acquires at home with regard to beer, become somewhat modified by a German residence. And last of all and worst of all, I think I hear you say, is this very perceptible odor of cigar-smoke. There is no danger yet, madam | before you see the There was oiie moment I»    concert, you will scarcely be able to see the orchestra at the end of the room, lor the dense cloud of that same smoke.. Did you ever hear of a German lady objecting to the odor of a good cigar? Never. They were born and brought up in smoke. They pass through smoke from the cradle to the grave. Their fathers and brothers and sons all smoke. In fact, what M. Hue says of the Chinese is more true of the Germans; the only sure sign of death here is that a man no longer smokes. You say that this endurance on the part of the ladies is one of the strange effects of custom and habit. That is not all, belieA'h me. They have a natural receptivity for smoke. In fact, they like it, and the wonder to^e is that they do not all smoke themselves. You say that you are already entirely put out with the concert, that you cannot endure all these things. Wait only a moment. Do you see that tall, pale, white-haired man, just in the middle row of those seventy performers? That is Herr Liebig, á man of simple, natural soul, a passionate devotee at ~~    of music, and a man who can render 8 symphonies, with this orchestra, of erpy of sorrow broke through his formal reverence,    of    stm and his language flowed forth with a deep and ^ shrine sorrowful pathos, which I have never forgotten. Beethoven Were any of you born in New England, iu the good old catechising, school going, orderly times? If you were, you must leniember my Uncle Abel, the most perpendicular, upright, downriglit, good man, that ever labo^r«Htix days and rcsj^*l on the Sabbath. You remember his hard, weather-beaten countenance, where every line seemed to be drawn with a pen of iron and the point of a diamond ; his considerate gray eyes that moved over the objects as if it were not best to be in a hurry about seeing; the ci^ruinspect opening and shutting of his mouth; his down-silling and uprising; all of which appeared to be performed with a conviction afore-thought, in short, the whole ordering of his life and conversation, which was, according to the tenor of the military order, “to the right about face—forward —march!’’ Now, if you hav'e supposed from all this trian-giilarism of exterior that this good man had nothing kindly within, you are much mistaken. You often find the greenest grass under a snow drift; and though my uncle's mind was not exactly of flower garden kind, still there was an abundance of wholesome and kindly vegetation there. It is true he seldom laughed, and never joked himself; but no man had a more serious and Aveiglity conviction of wliHL a good juke was in another ;anll when some excellent witticism was dispensed in his presence, you might see Uncle Abel s ftice slowly relax into an expression of solemn satisfaction, and he would look at the author with a certain quiet wonder, as if it was astonishing how such a thing could ever come into a man s head. Uncle Al*el also had some relish for the fine arts, iu proof whereof 1 might adduce the great pleasure with whicli he gazed at the plates in his family Bible; the likeness Avhereof 1 presume you never any of you saw; and lie was also such an eminent musician that he could go through the singing book at a sitting, without the least fatigue, boating time like a Avindmill all the way. He had, too, a liberal hand—though his liberality was by the rule of three and practice. He Ad to his neighbors exactly as he would be don* by—he loved some things in this world sincerely—he loved his God much, but he honored and feared him more; he was ^xact with others, he was more exact with himself—and expectetl his God to lie more exact still. Everything in Uncle AlieVs house was in the same time, place, manner and form, from year’s end to year s end.—There was old Master Rose, a dog after his own heart, who always walked as if he was learning the multiplication table. There was the old clock forever ticking away in the kitchen corner. There were the never-failing supply of red peppers and onions hanging over the chimnev. There were the hollyhocks and morning glories, blooming around the windows. There Atas the “best room " with its sanded floor, and evergreen asparagus bushes, its cupboard with a glass door in one corner, and the stand with the Bible and almanac on it in tho other. There was Aunt Betsey, who never looked any older, because she alAvays looked as old us she could; Avlio always drie<l her catnip and worniAvood last of September, ami began to clean house the first of May, In short, this was the laml of continuance. Old Time never seemed to take it into his head to practice either addition, subtraction or nmltiplica-tion on the s^m total. This Aunt Betsey, aforenamed, was tli^oalest and most efticiefit piece of human machiuery that ever operated iu forty places at once. She was always everywhere predonun-utiiig over and seeing to everything; and though mv uncle had been twice married, Aunt Betsey s riile and authority had ncAcr been broken. She reigned over his wives when living,, and reigned after them when dead; and so seemed likely to reign to the end of the chapter. But my uncle's last wife left Aunt Betsey a much less tractable subject to manage than had ever fallen to her lot before. Little Edward was the. child of my uncle’s old age, and a brighter, merrier little blossom never grew The God so much reverenced, so much feared, seemed to'draw near to him as a friend and comforter, to be his refuge and strength, “ a very present help in time of trouble.’’—My uncle arose—I saw him walk iowards the room of the departed dUe—1 followed and stood witli him over tlie dead. He uncovered his face. It was set with the seal of death, but oh, how surprisingly lovely Avas the impression!—The brilliancy of life was gone; but the face was touched with the mysteviotis, triump^nt brightness which seems like the daAA'ning of heaven. My uncle looked long and steadily. He felt the beauty of what he gazed on; his heart was softened, but he had no words for his feelings. He left the room unconsciously, and stood iyt the front door. The bells were ringing for church; the morning was bright and birds were singing merrily, and the little pet squirrel of little Edward was frolicking about the door. My uncle watched him as he ran, first up one tree, then another, then over the fence, whisking his bruai/ and chattering as if nothing was the matter. With a deep sigh Uncle Abel broke forth, “ IIow happy that creature is! well, the Lord’a^ill be done.’’ That day the dust was commithro to dust amid the lamentations of all who hiid/inown little Edward. Y'ears have passed lince’^en, and my uncle has long been gathered to his fathers, but his just and upright spirit has entered the liberty of the Sons of God. Y'es, the good man may have opinions which the phislosophical scorn, weaknesses at which the thoughless smile, but death shall change hira into all that is enlightened, wise and refined. “ He shall shine as the brightness of the firmament and as th^tars forever and ever.” Olu Chinese Si spexsion Bbioges.—Sixteen hundred years ago, the Chinese exhibited great engineering skill; and had they continued to devote themselves to improvements in the arts and sciences they would have been the most civilized nation at the present time in the world. In the second century of the Christian e:^a, according to the conciy-rent testimony of all their historical and geograpT ical writers, Shang-leang, the commander-in-chiri of the army, undertook and completed the form tion of the roads through the mountainous, proyince of Shense, to the west of the capital. HftffSrto its lofty iiills and deep ravines had rendered communication difficult and the routes circuitous. With a body of 1(10,000 laborers he cut passages over the mountains, throwing the removed soil into the yitl-leys, and where this was not suificient to raise ^fie road to the requiretl hight, he constructed bridges, which rested on pillars or abutments. In other places he conceived and accomplished the daring project of suspending a bridge b}r ropes from one mountain to another, across a deep chasm. These bridges, which are called by the Chinese writers “ flying bridges, ” are represented to be quite numerous at the present day, and are sometimes so high that they cannot bfr traversed without alarm. One still existing, stretches 400 feet from mountain to mountain, over a chasm 5tK) feet deep. Most of these “flying bridges " are so wide that four horsemen can ride on them abreast, balustrades being placed on each side to protect travelei’S. ^ ■ ^ PoLiTE.vEss AT Hohe.—Always speak with politeness and deference to your parents and friends. iSome children are polite and civil everywhere else, except at Lome, but there they are coarse and rude. Shameful! Nothing sits so gracefully upon children, nothing makes them so lovely, as a habitual respect and dutiful deportment towards their friends and superiors. It makes the plainest face beautiful, and gives to every common action a nameless but pecu- ¿ liar charm. “My son, hear the instruction of thy father, and forsake not the,law of thy mother, for they shall be an ornament of grace unto thy head, and chains of gold about thy neck. —IVoverbs i. 8 9. whicli he is the leader, in more glorious style than any man in Europe—and why ? Simply because he understands them and feels them. See ! Liebig raises his baton, and at the moment forty fiddle-bows are fitted to the strings; there is no clinking of cups now, no walking over the floor, no more talk; but a profound stillness—let us see the man who will dare\o interrupt it! Herr Liebig begins to beat the time, and in a moment more the wbolek . audience is taken up and carried on that mighty wave of the sublime movement iu Beethoven’s “I) major ” symphony—so grand, so full of beauty, yet of deepest sorrow—so calm, touching, tender at the close. On—on it takes us, till smoke and beer and all surrounding things are forgotten in the grand-eur and sublimity of the enrapturing, soul-stirring strains, and strange, pleasing thoughts arise within us—not the same, perhaps, that were in the composer’s mind when he conceived the music—but thoughts, it may be, somewhat like them. At last the music ceases, like the laart whisper of the dying wind. And now, madam, I am sure you will be contented to stay, for this is only the first part of the symphony, and the concert will be out by half-past six. Such is a description—though a faint one—of a concert at Tou-halle, and the smallness, of the priee of admission to such a concei t seems incredible. AxGLoruoBi.A. IN Spain.—In a letter to the Times a “Traveler in Spain” says: “ It is scarcely possible to give you an idea of the bad feeling entertained here towards England by all classes of society. An Englishman in Murcia, a few days ago, asked his way to the Cathedral, of a Spanish gentleman, who most courteously conducted him. On reaching the door, the sacristan was not Urbe found, and the Spaniard kindly offér-ed to go for him; but expressed a doubt as to his coming, as it was past the usual hour. ‘Tell the si^ristau,’ said the stranger, ‘that an Englishman does not ask people to work for nothing.’ ' English !’ said the hitherto courteons Spaniard, ‘ English, are you ? then I shall not stir a step for you. The English are all bad. 1 hate them all.’ Remonstrance was useless. The debt is the grand offense. They publish their own version of the English claim; they suppress all explanations; they call the English duns, usurers, etc. Then, anin, they affirm that the English are helping the moon with men and money; and I was told last night, with the utmost gravity, that when they have done with the Moors, they intend to give England a lesson t Nearly every newspaper teems v^th furious leading articles, with sarcastic fojUerffand raked up-calumnies against the £nglisj><1tnd of course, so much poisoB uncounteracted, must produce its effects." An item for moderate drinkers.—A well ksown dealer in the semi-medicinal beverage of “Schiedam Schnapps” has recently favored the public with a pamphlet furnishing the results of his own experience and observation, proving the criminal practice of the liquor trade in the general adnltemion of liquors, and the extensive concoction offs^rioas articles. He states that /rhile the returns of the New York Custom-House show an importation of 20.000 half-casks of brandy, 36,000 quarters, ^nd 23.000 eights, twenty or thirty times that nuifbber are sold to retailers and country dealers as genuine French brandy. Three-fourths of all foreign brandies and.gin are imported for the express purpose ot adulteration. The* Custom-House books show that one man who has sold thousands of gallons of a certain kind of foreign liquor, has not imported more than five pipes iu five years. He givee a list of the vegetable and luiueral poisons and acids that are employed in this work. He also states that tho greater portion(of the imported brandies is whiskey sent from this country, to be returned with a French brand ^s genuine French liquors.— y. Chronicle.

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