{ title: 'Herkimer County Democrat. (Frankfort, N.Y.) 1843-1854, June 22, 1853, Page 1, Image 1', download_links: [ { link: 'http://www.loc.gov/rss/ndnp/ndnp.xml', label: 'application/rss+xml', meta: 'News about NYS Historic Newspapers - RSS Feed', }, { link: '/lccn/sn83031097/1853-06-22/ed-1/seq-1/png/', label: 'image/png', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn83031097/1853-06-22/ed-1/seq-1.pdf', label: 'application/pdf', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn83031097/1853-06-22/ed-1/seq-1/ocr.xml', label: 'application/xml', meta: '', }, { link: '/lccn/sn83031097/1853-06-22/ed-1/seq-1/ocr.txt', label: 'text/plain', meta: '', }, ] }
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Pefkiiiief €0ttixto ^ E R M 8 - . f 2 A T E A R . “ ^Liberty, “F r a t e r n it y , a n d Failality^^ |1 50 1 !^ A D V A N C E ; ¥OLOTE II. HIEKBIIE, WEDNESBi-T 1OEIH0, M M 22, 1855. lU M B E R 4 | f e f r t i 'w t r ^ a m r t s W m n tv & t, BUBLISHED EV-ERY ■WEnNESDM.Y MQRNWf. jarerJkimer* Co.^ N , S’. Ut0!B55RT EAUL, i „ C, C. WI'EHBRSTINE,? BR oi R ietors . ■^R M S .—The Deftiocrat w ill he left at the Residence o f village subscribers at .$2,00 a year. Mail subscribers, $2,'00 per year, dr $1 50 in hdvancew _ ________ _ ____ Itatcs -o# Aidtvert|SiJts. I>ne square or less, one iiisettidn,. . .$0 50 '^adhssubsequefti? insertion, .............. - 0 25 One square 3 months, ................. .. 8.00 One square 6 m o n ths, ............. .. 6-60 t)ne square one year, ................. . ... . .. 8 00 liberal deduction will'be made to those ^'ho advertiseby the year. flgQttK AND : JttB FRIHTING In-all ite branches, executei with, neatness and dispatch, and on reasonable terms. S E I E 'C T P O I f R ‘ 1 . BY ■W'lBI.lAM CtrLBEN BRYA.NT. I gazed upon tbe glorious sky And the green mountains round; And thought that when I came toTie Within the silent .ground, ’Twere pleasant, that in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound. The sexton’s hand, my grave to make, The ricn, green mountain turf should break. A cell within the frozen mould A coffin, borne through sleet. And icy clouds abov'e it rolled, While fierce the tempest beat— Away 5—I will not think o f these— Blue be the sky, and soft the breeze, Earth green beneath the feet, And be the damp mould gently pressed Into my narrow place of rest. There through the long, long Summer hours, The golden light should lie,. And thick young herbs and groups of-flowers Stand in their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale close beside my cell; The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife, bee and humming bird. And what if cheerful shouts at noon . Come, from the village .sent. Or songs o f maids, beneath the moon With fairy laughter bfent? And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of ray low monument? I would the lovely scene around Might know no -ladder sight nor sound. I know, I know, I should noi. see The season’s glorious show. Nor would its brightness shine‘for me, Nor its wild music flow; But if, around m y place o f sleep. The friends I love should come to weep, These to their softened hearts should bear The thought of ivhat has been. And speak of on.e that cannot share The gladness of tbe scene: Who se part, in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills. Is—that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice. THE T A ll-TELLEH. . T H E P O O R L A W Y E R . I had taken my breakfast and was waiting for my horse, when, in passing up and down the piazza, I saw a young girl seated near the window, evidently a visitor. She was very pretty, with auburn hair and blue eyes, and was dressed in white. I had seen nothing of the kind since I left Richmond i and at chat time I was too much of a boy to be struck with female beauty. She was so delicate and dainty looking, so different from the hale, buxom brown girls of the woods—and then her white dress, i t was so dazzling! Never was a poor youth so taken % surprise and suddenly bewitched. My heart yearn ed to know her, but how was I to ac- eost her? I had grown wild in the woods, and had none of the habitudes of polite life. .Had she been like Peg gy Hugh, or Sally Pigman, or any oth er of ray leathern dressed belles of the pigeon-roost, I should have aj^roadhed her without fear; nay, had she bee® as fair as Shirt’s daughters, with their looking-glass lockets, I should not -have hesitated; but that white dress, and those auburn ringlets and ‘blue eyes, and delicate looks quite daunted, while they fascinated me. I don’t know what put it into my head, but I thought, all to once, I would kiss her. It would take a long acquaintance to arrive at such a boon, but I might seize upon it by sheer robbery. Nobody knew me here. I would just step in, and snatch a kiss, mount my horse and ride off.— She would not be the worse off for i t ; and that kiss—I should die if I did not get it. I gave no time for thought to cool, but entered the house and stepped l^htly into the room. She was seated with her back to the door, looking out of the window, and did not hearmy ap proach, I tapped her chair and she turned and looked up. I snatched as sweet a kiss as ever was stolen^ and vanished in a twinkling. Tbe next mo ment I was on horseback, galloping homeward, my very heart tingling a t what I had done. After a variety of amusii^ adven tures, Ringwood attempts the study of law, in an obscure settlement in Eefa- tucky, where he delved nl^ht and day. Ralph pursues his studies, occasionally argues at a debating society, and at length becomes quite a genius, and & favorite in the eyes of the married la dies of the village. I called to take tea one evening Vfith one of these ladies, when, to my sur prise, and somewhat to my confusion, I found with her the identical blue eye whom I had audaciously kissed. I was formally introduced to her, but neither of US betrayed any sign of previous ac quaintance, except by blushing to the .eyes. While tea was getting ready, the iady of the house went out of the room to give some directions, anAleffc ■us alone. - Heavens and earth! what a situation ! I would have given nil the ■pittance I was worth, to have been in the deepest dell in the forest. I felt the necessity of saying something in excuse 'for my former rudeness—I could not conjure.up an idea, nor utter a word. Every moment raatters-be- came worse. At one time I felt tempt ed to do as I had done when I robbed her of the kiss—bolt from the room and take flight—-but I was chained to the spot, for I really longed to gain her good will. At length I plucked up courage, on seeing her equally confused with my self; and walking desperately up to her, I exclaimed: “ Ihave been trying to muster up something to say, but I cannot. I feel that I am in a horrible scrape. Do have pity da me and help me out of it.” A smile dimpled about her mouth, 'and played among the blushes 01 “ her cheek. She looked up with a shy, but arch glance of the eye, that-expressed a volume of comic recollections; we both broke into a laugh, and from that| moment all went on well. i Passing the delightful description that succeeded, we proceed to tbe de-. nouement of Riqgwood’s love affair— the marriage and settlement. That very autumn I was admitted to the- bar, and a month afterwards we were married. We were a young coqple —she not more than sixteen, and d^not quite twenty—and both almost without a dollar in the world, 't’he establish ment^ was B&elL suited to our cireum- stances; a low bouse with two small rooms, a bed, a table, a half a dozen chairs, a half a' dozen of knives and forks, a half-dozen Spoons—everything in a small way : we were so poor, but then so happy. We had not been married many days when a court was held in a country town about twenty-five miles distant. It Was necessary for me to go there and put myself in the way of business but how was 1 to go? I had expended all my means on our establishment, and then it was hard parting with my wife so Soon after marriage. However, go I must. Money must be made, or we would soon have the wolf at our’ I was repeatedly employed in other door. I accordingly borrowed a horse and borrowed a little cash, a»d rode off from my door, leaving my wife stand ing at it, waving her hand at me. Her last look, so sweet and becoming, went to my heart. I felt as if I could go through fire and water for her. I ar rived at the country town in a cOol, October evening. The inn was crowd ed, for the court was to commence on the following day. I knew no one, and wondered how I, a stranger, a mere youngster, was to make way in such a crowd, and to get business. The public room was throng ed with all the idlers in the country, who gathered on such occasions.— There was some drinking going for ward, with a great noise and consider- ble altercation. Just as T entered the room, 1 saw a rough bully of a fellow, who Was partly intoxicated, strike an old man. He came staggering by me, and elbowed me as he passed. I ira- meSietely knocked him down and kick ed him into the street. I needed no better introduction. In a moment I had half a dozen rough shakes of the hand, and invitations to drink, and found myself quite a personage in this rough assemblage. The next morning tbe court opened —I took my seat among the lawyers, but felt as a mere spectator, not having any idea where business was to come from. In the course of the morning a man was put to tbe bar, charged with passing counterfeit money, and was asked if be was ready for trial. He answered in the negative. He had been confined in a place where there were no lawyers, and had not an op portunity of consulting any. He was told to choose from the lawyers pres ent,. and be ready for trial on the fol lowing day. He looked around the court and selected me. I could not tell why he should make such a choice. I, a beardless youngster, unpracticed at the bar, perfectly unknown. I felf dif fident, yet delighted, and could almost have hugged the rascal. Before leaving the court he gave me one hundred dollars in a bag, as a re taining fee. I could scarcely believe ray senses, it seemed like a dream.— The heaviness of the fee spoke but lightly in favor of his innocence—but that was no affair of mine. I was to be advocate, not judge or jury. I fol lowed him to tbe jail,' and learned from him all the particulars of the case.— From thence I went to the Clerk’s of fice and took minutes of the indietment. I thferi examined the law on the subject, and prepared my brief in'my romn.*— All this occupied until midnight, when I went to bed-and tried to sleep. It was all in vain.- Nover in my life was I more wide awake.- A host of thO’ts and fancies kept rushing thfoi%& my mind; the shower of gold that had so bountifully fallen an my kpr^heiidea of my poor little wife at home-*-that I was to astonish her with my good for tune I But the awful responsibility I had taken, to speak for the first time in a strange court, the expectations the culprit had‘formed of my Mehts, all -those andra erowd of similar notions, kept whirling throi:®h my mind. I toss ed about all night, fearing the morning would find me exhau^tod and incoippe- tent—in n word, the day dawned on me a miserable fellow. I got up feverish -and nervous. J walked out before breakfast, striving to collect my thoughts and tranquilize my feelings. It was a bright morning —I bath^ my forehead and my hands in a beautiful running stream, but I could not allay thefever heat that raged within. I returned to breakfast, but could not eat. A single cup of cpffee formed my repast. It-was time to go to court. I Went with a throbbing heart. I believe if it had not been for thoughts of my little wife in her lonely house, I should have given back the man his hundred dollars, and relin quished the cause. I took my seat, looking, I am convinced, more like a culprit than the rogue I was to defend. When the time came for me to speak my heart died within me. I rose em barrassed and dismayed, stammered in opening my cause. I went on, from bad to worse,\andfelt as if going down hill. Just then the public prosecutor, a man of talents, but somewhat rough in his practice, made a sarcastic re mark upon something I had said. It was like an electric shock, and ran ting ling through every/vain in my body.— In an instant my di&dence was gone. My whole spirit was in arms. I an swered with promptness and bitterness, Tor Ifelt the cruelty of an attack upon a-novice in my situation. The public prosecutor made a kind of an apology, Thia,:for a man of his redoubtable pow ers, was a vast concession. I renewed my argument with a-fearful glow, car ried the cause triumphantly, and the man was acquitted. This was the making of me. Every body wa« curious to know who the new lawyer was that had risen among them and bearded the Attorney general at the first offset. The story of my debut at the inn, on the preceding evening, when I had knocked down the bully and kicked him out of the door, for striking an old man. Was circulated with favorable euca^ration. Even m f beardless chin and juvenile countenance was in my favor, for the people gave me far more credit than I deserved.-^ The chance business which occurs in our courts came thronging upon me. onuses, and by Saturday night, when the court closed, and I bad paid my bill at the inn, I found myself worth a hun dred and fifty dollars in silver, three hundred dollars in notes, and a horse that I afterwards sold for two hundred more. ' Never did a raiser gloat more on his pelf, and with more fielight. I docked the doftr of my Voora, piled the money in A heap on the table, and my chin up on my hands, and gazed upon it. Was I thinking of the money? No, I was thinking of my little wife at home. Another sleepless night ensued, but what a night of golden fancies and splendid air-castles. As soon as morn ing dawned I was up, mounted the bor rowed horses, which Ihad come to court on, and led the other one, which I re ceived as a fee. All the way I was de lighting myself with thoughts of sur prise which I had in store for my little wife, for both of us had expected noth ing but that I should spend all the mon ey I borrowed, and return in debt. Our meeting was joyous, as you may suppose, but I played the part of an In dian hunter, who, when he r-eturns from the chase never, for a time, speaks of his success. I seated myself at an old desk in one cornerj and began to count over my money and put it away. She came to me before I had finished, and asked me who I bad collected money for. “ For myself, to be sure,” repUed I. with affected coolness. ” I made i t a t court.” She looked at me for a moment, in the face, incredulously. I tried to keep my countenance and play tbe Indian, but it would not do. My mucles began to twitch—my feelings ajl at once gave way, I caught her ininy a^ms, lauded, cried and danced about th^ roomlikea; crazy man. From that time forward, -we never wanted for money. Q[?* Fasten a nail oi^a key to a string, and suspend it from your thumb and finger, and the nail -will oscillate like a pendulum. Let some one place his open hand under the nail attdtt will change to a circularunotion. Then let a third person placehis hand upon your shoulder and the nail becomes in a moment stationary. We leave it to tbe philosopher to explain the why and wherefore. ID*' There is a man in Grant coun ty, Hentudky, Who is so very’ miserly,^ that when he sends his negro arrant down into the cellar for apples, he makes him whistle all the way down to the apple box and back, to prevent him eating any of the fruit. {E7* Nothing begets confidence soon er than punctuality. ' Ytmog men re member this. IJDLXfiALS. Shone soft o’er idll \and dale, When friends, mute with grief, Stood around the death-bed Of my poor lost b il l j Dale, Chorus —Oh L illy dear L illy, sweet L illy Bale, Now the wild rose blossotpa O’er the little grefin grave,, ’Neath the frees in the flowery dale. Her cheeks that oUce glowed With the rose-tiat'w health, By the hand o f disease bad turned .pale^ And the death dat*|P was on The pure wbit'e brvw O f my poor lost Lilly Bale. Chorus —Oh Lilly, dear L illy, §-c. \ I go,” she said, To the land of rest, And ere my Strength shall fail, I’ll tell you where, , Near my own dear home. They must laypoqr Lilly Bale. Chorus —Oh Lilly, dea:^ Lilly, ^-c. “ ’Neath the chestnut tree, Wheie the wild flowers grow, And the streamearn ripplesipples: forth thro’ the vale, r Where the wild birds Warble Their songs in Spiing, There-lay poor Lilly Dale !” Chorus— Q\i Lilly, dear Lilly, 4\^. j n s c f u m CAHovA’s m s x L ove . In the story of his early love, if a Juvenile and vague aspiration may be so termed, there was -^something of ro mantic and melancholy interest, which seems long to have shaded with per ceptible coloring his future musings.— While pursuing his studies in the Far- setti Palace, on first arriving in Venice, he one day beheld a female -somewhat older than himself. And very beautiful enter the gallery, accorapanfed by a friend or attendant, who daily depart ing, soon after returned again before the hour of closing, leaving the former to pursue her studies, which chiefly consisted in drawing from antique heads. Chance first ptac«d the youth ful pair near each other, and some itantly to select as models such sub jects as brought him nearest the fair artist. Time thus rolled away, and the youth found his bosom penetrated with new, delieious, but imdefibable sensa tions. • He knew not*#hy'fi©'wi«he6Mo be near her, or why he delighted to gaze on her mild and lovely counte nance—so pale and delicate, yet so full of feeling—nor could he tell why the furtive glance was so often directed to her sylphlike form and graceful move ments ; but he felt that with such a be ing he should be forever happy, al though incapable of defining his ideas of that happiness. One day the ob ject of his silent admiration was absent —another and another passed;. still she did not appear. Antonio -was in consolable ; but he shrunk from inquiry, for he feared that every one already any days elapsed in this uncertainty, during which he was as indefatigable in study—for she had once, while lean ing on the shoulder of her companion, praised iiis works as being “ assai belle” —words never forgotten though an swered only by a silent obeisance, and he hoped again to attract her notice.— At length the attendant again appeared —alone and habited in deep mourning. The heart of the youth failed a t the sight; but summoning courage as she passed in departing with, a port-fojio, he ventured to inquire for her friend. “ La Signora Julia,” replied she, “ is dead 1” “No more was asked, and noth ing more was said. Who Julia was, Canova never knew; but her name, her image, long remained engraven on his memory.—iijTe of Canova. A S u f f ic ien t R eason . —Jim Brown (that isn’t his name, by-the-by, but we hate offensive personality,) is a shrewd Vermont horse-jockey. A sharp fellow is Jim Brown,—cunning as a fox—a prodigious brag—and the , most eaqpert man for a plausible excuse' in a sudden emergency, that can be found in the fourteen counties of the statf. \A While ago Jim bought a “ new horse,” ■ which he supposed Was a re markably “.fest crab,” and capable of the smartest kind of trotting that could be seen “ any where^ round,” until, a good deal to his chagrin, (Jim’s, not the I horse’s,) he found that he was mista ken. However,. before the truth came to light, on the day of his neWi,pur- chase, Jim brought out bis horse, and with much vaunting of his great speed, put hiift on the course^. ^ “,Bet you fire dollars,” said J im ,'“ he does the mile in 2.6G I’^ One o f the boldest of the bystanders “ took the bet,” and off started the pojiy at a regular “ cow- gate,” obviously “ doing his .possible,” and “ coming in” in just 5.S0! The shouts of derision which rose Oh the air were terrific, and Jim was tbe picture of amazement and mortification.’—: “ Well, Jim,- how do you explain tJuit t What’s the excuse now .2” cried twenty voices a t once. “ Why, I’ll tell you, boys,” Said Jim, solemiily, attd “i^th great deUbbralion OT mah«or-A“ the. tact Is, the distance is con^derably too long for the horse to go it in such-a very short time!” The apology was. at once ingenius and .iifgenubus, and under a second roar of laugbler, Jim rode from the field.— Bost, Post^ X HOWABD PAYNE. A correspondent of the Coitm Plant (published in Baltimore,) in one of his letters Trom Washington, gives the fol lowing brief sketch of one Whose name is as little •known to the world, as a sin gle emanation of his genius as 'widely appreciated: “ As I sit in my garret here (in Wash ington) watchihg the course of great •mena:nd-the destiny of party, I meet Often with strange contradictions in this eventful life. The most remarkable was that of J, Howard jPayne—author Of “ Sweet Home !” I knew him per sonally. He occupied the rooms under me for some time, and his conversation was so captivating that I have often spent whole days in his apartment.— He waiS an applicant for office at the time—Consul at Tunis—from which he had been removed. What a sad thing it was to-see tbe poor man subjected to the humiliation of office seeking. Of evenings we would walk along the streets, looking into-the lighted -parlors as we passed. Once in a while we would see some family circle so happy, and forming so beautiful a group, that we would both stop—and then pass silently on. On such occasions he Would give me a history of his wander ings-—his trials, and all 'the cares incident to his sensitive nature and poverty. “ How often,” said he once, “ I have been in the heart of Baris, Berlin, London, or some other city and heard persons singing, or the hand or gan playing “ Sweet Home,” without a shilling to buy the next meal or a place to piit my bead. Tbe worid has liter ally sung ray song until every heart is familiar with its melody. Yet. I have been a wanderer from my boyhood.— My country bas turned me ruthlessly firom office —and in my old age, I have to submit to humiliation for bread,”— Thus he would complain of his hapless lot. His only wish was to die in a for eign land and be bpried by strangers and sleep in obscurity. \1 met him one day looking unusu ally sad,—bave you got your Consu late?” said I. “ Yes—and I leave-in a week for T u nis—I shall never return.” “ The last expression was not a po litical faith. Far from it. Poor Payne— his wish was reulized. He died in T u-. nis. Whether his remains have been brought to bis native country, I know not. They should be, and if none oth;:^ efjB will du it, let the homeless fhrougb^ out the world give a penny for a monu ment to Payne. I knew him and will give my penny, and for an inscription the following : H er e L ies J. H oward P a y n e . The Author of Sweet Home.\ A wanderer in life—he whose song was sung in every tongue. And found an echo in every heart— N ever had a H ome ! He Died in a Foreign Land. ^ It is a singular fact that very few persons in America know that the au thor of Home” was an American. If you ask nine persons out of ten. even among those who have any knowledge of musical history, they will tell you Sir Henry Bishop, or some such per- soD must have the credit. The truth is, this song was almost the only thing that Payne ever did that is entitled to remembrance, The author was a ma ker of melodramas, and musical plays. Home, Sweet Home,” was a song in one of them. Payne did not remain in the country to see the piece perform ed, and the first time he ever heard his own song was in the streets of a great European city. Its pathetic appeal to a srentiment which exists in every hu man-bosom, gives it an immediate ocho over the whole world, which has not nor ever will die away. T he M a n th at L oves a L ooking - G lass .— Out upbn the man that loves a looking-glass. See him as he stands there-— ^now moving forward— -now backward—now turning his head this way, now that-i-and tell me if the van ity of women eclipses his. Ay ! and there is the charcoal for his whiskers —the curling toiigs for his hair. There the last new fashion of neckcloth that must be tied just so, if he looses his breakfast. And now he is ready pois ing delicately upon his elegant curls a fine new beaver. See him lift it—bow to that handsome face in the mirror— adjust it as all fops wear their hats, on one side; pull the earlock on a line with his eyebrow—turn a dainty lock over his r i ^ t eye—draw on bis gloves, scent h is handkerchief, &c., never once lifting his eyes from that fflorious image that answers his silly smites. It.m a t ters not if in tbe next room a poor, sick sister ^ i t s Ms attendance to pro cure her some trifling delicacy; his looking-glass must be worshipped fir^. 'Out fipori the man we Jay, who loves a looking glass. Such a one is no true father, husband, son or lover. Show Min to us, and we wifi sbow you a man careless of everybody’s codifort but Ms own, neglectful of business. A flatter er, and as brainless as he is insipid.— Olivt Branch: ID^ “ Why don’t you take a seat' Within the b arl” asked one gentlefiian of another. “ For the Lest reasdn in the world,” replied 'the other. “My after saying it.— Clikctgo Hem, A CITY ON THE TOPS OF TEEES- It is not easy to give the reader an idea of this remarkable city, (Amster dam) Crossed and recrOssed by canals •in all directions—a city half water and ■half land—^fai ivMch the canals are tbe streets and highways, leading towards the open sea, which seems to hold the nity in its arms. It is only by means of substantial dikes and .sluices, elabo rately cohStructed aiid carefully repair ed, and guarded, that the sea is kept back—and but for these, this city, con taining upwards of ten thousand in habitants, Would inevitably be submerg ed and destroyed. Four great canals ■run across the city parallel curved lines, and, crossing these, are a series of oth er canals, converging in the harbor like the lines of a fan. Large basins occur here and there at intervals. The build ings in the best parts of the city are magnificent—many of them of great age, beariiig rich and grotesque orna mental work on their fronts. You would scarcely believe that the soil un der these majestic buildings was only loose and soft mud! Yet it is so; and it is only by -means of piles of wood driven farfiown.thrbugh the sand into the solid stratum ‘beneath, that a foun dation has been gained. Hence Eras mus said of Amsterdam, that the in habitants, like crows, lived on the tops of trees. Any one who merely pays a passing visit to Amsterdam, as I did, cannot fail to be thrown into a state of perplexity and maze by the apparent inextricable complicity of the city, its innumerable bri%es. its endless suc cession of canals and interminable brick streets. The canals and -bridges so much resemble each other, that the 'Stranger without a guide feels as if he were wandering in a labyrinth; he los-- es all recollection of the points of the compass; and. as I did, he will soon, probably lose his way. The most in teresting public building in Amsterdam is the Stadt-house, formerly occupied by the famous Bank <Sf Amsterdam,'but now used as a royal palace. The great feature of its interior is its grand hall, lined with white Italian marble, said to be the finest hall of the kind in the world. The smaller apartments in the palace contain some fine modern Dutch paint ings, to which the public are freely ad mitted. One painting, representing the hero, Tan Speyk, applying the match to blow up his vessel at Antwerp, rath er than allow it to, be taken, by the Bel gians, is'one that lives ibng in the mem ory of him who has seen it. To those who have leisure, the Museum, or Na tional Picture Gallery, is well worthy of a visit. But pictures can be seen at home, and are not a novelty. The real interest of Amsterdam is in its streets, its bustle and commerce, its bridges and canals,, and the many striking and pe culiar features of this city of the sea— features which are nowhere to be found characteristic of any city in Europe, north of Venice. T he J ews . —The EeV. Mr. Duffield, of Detroit, who has spent the Winter in the East, in a Letter from Jerusalem, . The blindness which has happened to Israel still continues. It is wonder ful to see the extent and power of it. One of the most affecting sights I have witnessed during iny travels, was en countered yesterday P , M. I repaired to the appointed spot to hear the lam entations of the Jews over their deso lated temple, and scattered nation.— The site of the ancient temple is now occupied by the Mosque of Omar. No Christian or Jew is allowed by the Mus- selmen to enter its precincts. The nearest approach that the Jews can make to it, is to the large and massive stones of the wall which Solomon built from the bottom of the narrow valley or ravine, called the Tyropean, for the purpose of sustaining and forming the terrace or arches, which were built out from the base of the rock on its four sides, and on which the temple on Mt. Moriah was originally constructed. I saw thirty-five Jews, standing or seated, near these stones, all of them bowing, and restlessly swinging to and fro. while they Tead their scriptures in the Hebrew, and some weeping bitterly as they utter their wail of distress.— One man sobbed as if Ms heart was ready to break, while he stood reading and trembling with emotion in his whole frame. Women with white scarfs thrown over their heads, passed mourn fully along the wall; some k iss^ the stones with their Jips, others lai^Their hands on them and then kissed their hands, whilst most of them sat in a squatted or Turk-like position reading parts of their liturgy in Hebrew. I ventured, with a courteous salutation, to look upon thie page, from which an. aged man was quietly reading. He po litely pointed his finger to the place.—■ He was reading tfieBstb, 59th and 60th Psalms. The whole scene was so deep ly moving, exhibiting in. such a .power ful light the sad reality of' the .Jews great national sorrow, and caused sifch - great rush of solemn thoughts in my lind, that I was quite overcotoe hy it. EELICS IN JERUSAIEM. We were not long installed in ouT quarters at Signor Stephano’s hotel, when we were beset by dealers, in all sorts of relics, crosses of pearl and ol ive-wood, fruit-bread from M.e'cca, ear rings of asphaltum from the Dead Sea, polished flint and petrified olives from the Mount of Olives and the Garden of Gethsemane, and small trinkets mamir factored of St. Sebe. These relics which are purchased in great quantities ‘by the pilgrims, form an important source of revenue to the Convents of Jerusalem. A considerable portion of the population also obtain a living by making and vending them. The most skillful carvers of pearl are said to be the inhabitants of Bethlehem. Some ■very beautiful specimens are carried a- bout by the Jewish pedlers who fre quent Frank quarters. The pearl is imported on the back of camels frohi Cairo and the Isthmus of Suez. lu general the designs are taken from th.^ pictures in the various convents, and' considering the rude instruments used in executing them, and the prevailing ignorance of the principles of art, they are wonderfully well done. I Saw many that gave me a high opinion of the natural ingenuity of the Arabs.— Olive beads and the fruit-beads of Mec ca and Bethlehem are hung for sale in all the bazzars. A few piasters will purchase quitd a collection. Enough of walking sticks, paper cul^ers^^and snuff-boxes, purporting to be cut from the ancient olive-trees in the Garden of - Gethsemane, are Sold annually to freight a ship. It is rare to find anything ifi the way of a relic that caii really be traced to the original olives, for being only eight in number, walled Ground and well guardedi nO portioii of them can be taken without permission fron^ the.guardians,-who afe careful not to destroy a very profitable soiirce of in- of Gethse mane; twigs and leaves, arid pieces of roots can be bought by a litlle |)ersua- sion and a little backsish to overcome any lingering scruples of conscience on the part of the custodian.5. Wicked as it was to' dp it, I thought so much of my friends a t home that I violated my own conscience and that of an old priest several times in order to get a good supply of the sacred relics.— Notes o f a late Traveller. ' The matt that first introduced a fanning mill into Scotland* was de- noufibed as an atheist. In the opinion oT the fogies of that geiieraiidh, it waS “flying into the face of the Lord-—and getting up gales of wind where Provi dence willed a calm.” B utt ^ M aking . —Miss Emily says' in the Ohio Cultivator, “ I have for several years had the entire care of the milk department in my father’s family. I therefore read with great interest, whatever related to making butter and cheese, and I found much that was dif ferent from what I had been in the habit of practising. One ease of this kind was directions for making butter in ■winter, according to what is called the Russian method, by which it was said that butter could be made in win ter as in summer, and with as little ch'urtting. So I set about trying tbe ex periment, and the result exceeded mv qiectations. My new practice is aS flows: Before I go to milk I put a kettle, say one-third full of water, and large enough to let the milk pail into it, on the stove, where it will get boiling hot by the time I come in with the milk. I then strain the milk into another vessel, and wash the pail (which should always be of tin,) then pour the milk back into the pail, and set it into the kettle of boil ing water, till the., milk becomes scald ing hot, taking care not to let it boil, then pour it into crocks or pans, and set it away in the cellar for the cream to rise ill the usual way. Cream pro cured in this way seldom require twen ty m.inutes to churn, while by the com mon practice the poor dairy maid may churn for hours,.and then perhaps have to throw all away, as I did on two oc- casionsi before I happened to gain this valuable information. So much, Mr. Editor, for one instance of the advan tage that a young lady may derive from reading an Agricultural paper.” ^ , The process given above will answer in summer as well as in winter. A couple of sons of the Emeral(f Isle, met near the Custom House one day, when], after the usual salutations; one said to the other ; “ Well, Patrick, poor Horton’s dead;”—ailuding to one of their companions, who died very suddenly. *‘0, yes, it’s very sickly here; a great many have died here this year that never died before.” ID* i t is a coifimon observation that no man m content with bis own Coridi- tiorf; though it be the best, nor JisSat- isffed with his own wit, though' it be the worst. T or TfiE L a d ies .— A m a tt’s perplex ities and gloominess are increased a hundred foM when the companion of his life mores ahojit with a continual scowl upon her brb’iV. A pleasant, cheeVful wife is a fafribew set in the sky When her httsbahd’s mindis tossefi with storms and .tempests f blit a- dissatisfied ahd frbtfirt wife in the hour Itohble, is like one Of those . fiends Who'le duty is, ac cording To fable, to torture the lost ' 'ID\ ** Tete, are Jou into them sweet meats again?” “ No, marm, them tweetmeats are into me,” -■ I
