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M« GRAWVILLE A FAMILY NEWSPAPER-NEUTRAL IN POLITICS^ VOLUME I. IMettS) to lb-draw, Sitontoi?, flioffeg, Jflrejmiak filxW, Scmjcifin??, K*&;3 cl pa^iiQ HGtwtss, rjjjowign amS Ifoiwlk ItikHMgwig?, 6re. 6?e. NUMBER 8. BY S. C. CLISBE, <fe A. T. BOYNTOW. MC'GRAWVILLE, CORTLAND COUNTY, N. Y. SEPT. 30 9 1847. 3S.V* ')<£&<& From I'ho Christian Parlor Magazine. Keeping Tavern Below—or 'Spire Ball and his Customers. In the town of Kingston, in the State of , there was a small tavern keep- er by the name of Ball. He was an easy, well-to-do sort of a man, who had a great longing to be rich. lie had not always been a publican, but when he started in life, he was a farmer; and still he kept his farm, and raised most of the matters from it which he wanted for his family use.— As this farming brought him in very little ready money, he took it into his head to try some other way of adding to his in- come. He lived on the corners, near the meet- ing house, and while the store, and the black-smith's shop, and the pos'-office and dozen other establishments were right there they had no tavern. Mr. Ball was tempt- ed to hang out a sign and to add the allu- ring words, \ Entertainment fjr man and beasts,\ which were common on tavern signs up in that part of the country, signis fying that sober people and drunkards co ! d both be entertained there. He thought there was no harm in sell- ing rum, especially as he was a member of the church, kept his Bible in his bar, and often talked to his customers of the t 0 the spirits in prison. Buf his surprise •blessedness of religion, and the value of iWaS g reatj ant i his confusion truly pitiable, the hope of heaven which he had iudu'ged 1 u . non he recognized in every customer that ever since ho was a boy. It was 'Square ! oarne t0 a i s bar the faces he had known in Ball's custom, 1 say, to close his bar-room ' Kingston, and all of them neighbors and at ten o'clock every night, unless the run I their families. of custom at the bar made it expedient to j « [.j a ; 'Squire, is that vou?\said a dispense with the custom ; but on ordinary • fi,.rce-looking wretch, as he came up for a head ; and altogether they made an uproar like that which had marked the early part of the evening, until the 'Square rose up in wrath, and ordered them to quit the house. Instantly they rushed upon him like so many devils,anj} seized him in their arms, and asked him as they bore him a- way, how he would like to keep tavern in hell. Before he had time to recover himself, or indeed, to get his breath so as to be able to speak, he felt himself flying through the air, as on the fiery wings of fiends ; and then, clown, down he sank, with his bar- room company, till at last, after an hour of rapid travel downwards, he was suddenly pitched into a world of darkness, so black that he could feel it. And strangely enough he could see that ihis dark world was ins habited, for the people were like so many flames moving madly amid the dismaLJoom and he could hear chains rattling :is the people crowded along, so that he soon was convinced that he was in the world cf de- spair. Here he was to keep tavern. The old customers who had brought him, had been sent as a committee to find the right son of a man to keep tavern in hell: for they often declared there was no man doing so good a business as 'Square Ball, or who had so many qualifications for the high honor of being the landlord for the hosts of the Prince of darkness. He was instantly and duly installed in office, and commenced dealing out spirits occasions lie was wont to shut up at ten, and when all wore gone, he would take his Bible and read a chapter, and then he wo'd drink ; \ When did you come I The 'Square perceived in the new com- er a man to whom he had sold liquor for kneel down and pray with so loud a voice : |jf teen ve ars, and who had died in the poor that he could bo heard by the •>>-••- — neighbor sl house. He was a sober, decent, industri- for a considerable distance around; so that l ous ma n when the landlord of Kingston he was sure they all knew he was a pray- ing man. lie got a name for this, and as it was known that he prayed in the bar- room, where he sold his rum, it was very reasonable to infer that the '.Squire was a very conscientious man in his business.— Certainly he would not pray in his bar- room, and so loud, t >n, unless that he fear- ed God, and meant to keep his command- ments. One night there was quite an affray in the 'Square's bar-room. Some of his cus- tomers were more than unusually excited. Two of them were so drunk that he put them out of the house, and when they sought to return, he drove them off with a horse-whip. And those who were not quite so drunk were even more turbulent. They finally proceeded from loud woids to fighting, and one of them was beaten so badly that they were obliged to carry him home helpless and bleeding. It was nearly midnight before the room was clear, and the landlord had more thirst for liquor than for the Bible or prayer,whcn the house was still. lie would have gene off to bed as soon as he had locked up, but the force of habit is as strong sometimes in good as in evil, and he could not be easy at heart if he should neglect his chapter and his prayer. So he took down the book, first tempted him to taste a drain, and his progress in the downward road had be- come sure and rapid from that day. Next came a female fury, a lost woman, a wild spin't, who flew at him as she en- tered his infernal tavern, and reproached him as the cause of her ruin and that of her family. \ But for you,\ said she, in a shrill clear voice that pierced his ear like a knife, \ but for you, I might have been an angel in heaven, and now I am a devil in hell. You made my husband a drunkard, and you made me a drunkard, and now we are both of us here !\ The 'Square was speechless. What could he say ? His face blazed red with shame; and in vain he tried to find some words of excuse for himself. At last he thought of his Bible, and h e gathered cour- age to say : \Did'nt I often tell you that you must repent of your sins, or you would never go to heaven ?\ \Yes I know you did, and 1 have heard vou praying half a mile off, but what good do )ou suppose the preaching or praying of a rumseller would do? All you want- ed was to get the money for your liquor, and it was nothing to you what became of the souls of your customers. But I'm and opened at random, he read the chapter' glad you are here at last. I never want- which contains these words, \NO DRUHK AKD shall inherit the kingdom of God.\— They seemed to glHen as he read them—• these words did. What did they mean ? He began to think over the drunkards whom he had known and who had died.— He called up their ns nes : he began to grow confused in his memory, and to help himself on in the work he had undertaken, he took down his book of Dr. and Cr., in which he had for years kept a running ac- count with his neighbors. There were many who had once stood in his bar, and now they were in eternity. They had died drunkards ! And the Bible told him they had not gone to heaven—they must he in hell. He looked over the list, and asked himself, \ Was this man a drunk- ard ? And this man? And then Mr. Ball would try to recollect how they look- ed the last time they were in his bar; and one after another, they would come back to his memory, and when they came they would stay ; and soon a whole group of them were there ; a horrid group ! dead drunkards! for he had seen them all dead. And now, when they rose to his view, they seemed to come from the grave and from hell, and they laughed fiercely, and swore terribly, and roared as if they were beasts let loose. They wanted something to drink and would have it ; and when the 'Square remonstated with them, and told them they had been drinking already, and that he never sold liquor to men after they had had enough, they leaped into the bar and helped themselves, and one of them leaped astride the shoulders of the land- lord, and another threw the Bible at his ed to see anybody here so much as you Did you bring your bible with you, Squire Ball ?\ \ No,\ said he, \I came away in a great hurry. Indeed, I had not thought of com- ing at all,but was seized in a moment when I had no expectation of being summoned away and was brought here against my will. I do not see why I was waited here.\ \ Why you were wanted ? You were wanted that you might see the fruit of your doings, the end of your labors; and that you might feel the fires you have kindled for the souls you have destroyed. You have come to your own place, and will know what it is to be an agent of the devil on the earth, and his slave in hell. I am glad you are here.\ While this wretched woman was raving and cursing, a troop of spirits rushed into the infernal tavern, and whom should the astonished publican behold but the compa ny who had been at his tavern at Kingston, the night before; and among them, at their head, were the two whom he had driven away from his door, after they had become so drunk that he could bear them no longer! In they came reeking with the fumes of the still, and raging with the madness of the pit: and as they entered they gave three cheers for the landlord, that made the whole region of darkness ring with hor- ror. \ Why you are here before us,\ cried one ot them. •' Caught you, too,\ said another. \ Served you right, old one,\ exclaimed a third. \ This is the place for you and your bu- sines. You'll make money here, and gel )0,ir pay in your own coin,\ said another. And so they went on jeering him till his wrath was kindled beyond measure, and he began to storm in reply. And then they laughed. \ Why you can't hurt us now. We have as good a right as you, and if you wish to have it all to yourself,we only * -, ish you could. But % on sent us here, and now we must have your company.\ The 'Squire sank down with shame and remorse. He saw his own work. There wore his victims. Once they were his neighbors, honest, industrious,upright men, until they began to frequent his house, and then they grew worse and worse, till they became quarrelsome, noisy, profane, Sab bath-breaking men, and now they were in hell, and he among them where he deserv- ed to be. Then the sp ; rit of all the men whom he had murdered by selling rum come thn nging around him, and he wish- ed that he was blind that he could not see them, or deaf that he could not hear them, but when ho shut his eyes he could see' them still, and he could hear them when his ears were stopped. It was terrible to the poor wretch, and he shrieked with ago- ny, and as he shrieked he awoke. Audio ! it was a dream ! lie had read his chapter, and had kneeled down in the bar-room to make his long, loud prayer, and had fallen asleep on his knees ; the gin that ho had drunk during the evening was too much for him and his brain was- excited. The verse he had read about: drunkards had hold of his imagination and away he had been borne to the regions of; dark despair. And now, as he awoke, the | memory of his dream was all fresh and tcr-' rihle. It was some time before he could persuade himself that it was a dream. 11<• had been asleep perhaps an hour and the scenes through w'-ich he had passed were impressed upon his mind indelibly. They were written there wiih a pen of fire.— Though it had been a dnam, it was truth that he had seen ami heard, and he knew that the lessons was for his warning and counsel. The htndloid look his lamp, now burn- 1 ing dimly and finding his way from the; bar-room to his bed-room, went to bed, bur not to sleep. There was no rest for him: that night. He tossed upon his pillow,un-j til his wife was awakened by his restless-' ness, and begged to know what was the matter. He told her the terrible dream he' had had in the bar room, and confessed that he looked upon it as the voice of God, that; had come to warn him to cease from the wicked work in which he had engaged, that of making drunkards, and shutting them out of the kingdom of God. 1 \I have told you a hundred times,\ said his wife, \ that this business was a wicked one, and that I wished that you would give it up. It is an awful thing to think of, that we are killing our neighbors and sen- ding them down to hell. Let us shut up the tavern, and do something else for a liv- ing. For my part, I would starve, rather than live by making drunkards, \And I have thought it must be a had' business that does no good, and certainly leads many to poverty, and if there is any! truth in my dream, that leads them to j hell. I have half a mind to take down the sign, and never sell another drop of li- quor.\ \Do Pall, do give it up. Here's the farm we can get a living off from that, and I'll work my fingers off, if you will only quit that bar.\ After some further deliberation of this sort, it was mutually agreed that there should be no more tavern-keeping in their house and this resolution having been once taken, the landlord and his wife went to sleep, and slept till a very late hour in the morning. And when the sun was up, and the Squire stirred himself about the house, he waited quiet for his breakfast, summoned his fam- ily to worship, which he had seldom found time before, and stepped into the bar-room to get his Bible. .But just as he entered, he heard a very loud knocking at the bar door. \ I say, 'Squire, are you sick to-day ? Why don't you open the door?\ The landlord raised a window, and throwing open the shutter, put his head out and said:—\ We are not sick exactly, but we are sick of selling rum. This tavern does not go any. more.\ The customer was frightened. \ Why, 'Squire, you're crazy,\ he ventured to say. \Not so crazy as you think,\ said the landlord. \ I learned a lesson last night, and have come to the conclusion that mas king drunkards is no business for me, and I have given it up for good. And so he did. He took down his sign that day and saved his own soul from any further guilt in the souls of his fellow men. MfEEJkWl From the Dulilin University Magazine. Venice by Moonlight. It was our last evuiing in Venice, when, having escaped the crowd still lingering on the Piazza, we look our gondola, and passed along by the broad .stream of the '-Ouial Grande.\ The light ghaming in the pure vault of heav- en was reflected buck from magnificent churches and palaces, many retaining but a sembl.iiiee of their pristine splen- dor. Not a sound was heard, but tin buz/, of the musquito' or the jjuridc of the water beneath the oar of the gonda- lier, and the many boats which passed us, dark and noiseless, added more to the mysterious character of the scene.— Away with those who would banish ro- mance and cnihusiaMii from this world of ours—who would leduce everything to their dull material notions, their day- books and ledgers—v. ho mix up Shaks- peare and cabages, a reminiscence from Dante and a cure for curns. With such there is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous. There are many of this description to be met with—of those who could not stop to behold a spl-ndidl sunset because their dinner was waiting, and who are afraid to venture out in the evening lest they might eaich rheumatic gout. The question naturally aiises, why did they undertake such a perilous ex- ploit as leaving their fi-vsides, and well- aired sheets, to encounter damp, and in- digestion, and cold on the continent.— Let us J'i.'a\V them to their unenvied ease, and glide slowly beneath the shadow of the Doge's Palace, and view the domes of iS't. Mark glistening In neaih the vault of night. 11\W off n, in the palmy days, have the throngs ol'gi lily revelers paused, enchanted by the beauty of the spot, while the thousand gondolas glanced by, filled with the votaries of pleasure, and echoing with the strains of Tasso ! These were times when Venice was indeed Queen of the Adriatic, enthroned upon her isles, ri- sing like the C.\ prian goddess from the waters, flow changed is the scene!, how gone the beauty ! Her merchants arc beggars, pensioned by the charity of Aus- tria—her sons the subjects of strangers— her commerce decayed—her spirits broken, How different from the time when she dar- ed to stand almost single-handed against mysterious career ; thou hast been the wit- ness alike of a falling and a rising empire. As the prophet of old, thou hast stood be- tween the dead and the living—a connect- ing link in the chain of centuries, between tottering Rome ond the vigorous growth of modern Europe, between the Hun and the Frank, Atlilla and Napoleon. Thy arch- itecture, thy institutions, the spirit and manners of thy people, all attest the twos fold nature of thy destiny, as placed be- tween the old and new civilization, sharing in the characteiislics of both, uniting (he immutable dogmas, the despotism of Ori- ental unity with the changes and revoltis tions of the West. We leave thee with regret ; for newer shall we look on a fair- er scene—a scene so full of teeming recol* lections, so pregnant with the memory of bright and varied fortune, as that which we now gaze upon, beneath the brilliant moonlight of an Italian skv. MIB@©E[LLAKl[E(Q)(yi© a Tlie Brave Boy. I was sitting by a window in the second story of one of the large boarding houses at Saratoga Springs, thinking of absent friends, when I heard shouts of children from the piazza beneath me. \Oh yes, that's capital ! so we will ! Come, Come on now ! there's William Hale ! Come on William, we're going to have a ride on the circular railway ! Come with us!\ '•Yes, if my mother is willing. I will run home and ask her,\ replied William. \Oh oh ! so you rnu.st run and ask your via ! An't you ashamed ? I did'nt ask my mother!\ A IJOV cable Liar. Of all the men who ever spake, old Si Slaid, of York County, Maine, was the greatest liur. It was so much a habit with him to falsify, that a truth from his mouth was an exception to a general rule of false- hood. Let him attempt to tell the most fas milliar .story, where the-truth ol\ {lie thing was all its merit, and he would he sure u spoil it by some perversion. He would commence, telling some act of his life where he had achieved something worth mention- ing, and would he sure to leave the track and bilge himself on the rocks before ho i;ot through. \Perhaps you never heaid of my fox hunt ?\ says he to me one day. I told him he had'nt. \Well says he, \that was a hunt,—I was down there in the fluid ahoeing, was an allfired hot day ; I believe it was in August, and I was aworking dreadful hard, 1 tell you, when I saw a fox run along the bottom of the lot; I down rake and arter him. Away we went, through swamps ,-, )d bushes, up hill and down dale. I found I could'nt gain on him unless [ throwed my axe away. I put that in the shed, and we kept up the race five miles if we went an inch ; but just as I had got up with the critter, and could e\en-a most.put my hand on him, he jump- ed over a fence and I arter him, and there found my sol fin a snow bank that took me to my arm pits, and the blasted skunk got away.\ Credit the Boston Post with this history of Si Slaid. AN INCIDENT.— A bachelor friend of ours says the Pittsburg Sun,on passing up Penn street, lately, picked up a thimble'. He stood a while meditating on the probable beauty of the owner, when ho pressed it to his lips, saying, '• O, that it were the \Nor I,\ added a dozen voices, \come fair lips of the wearer.\ Just as he had along with us if you'don't want to be calh d . finished, a big wencti looked out of an up- coward as long as you live. Don't you see per window and said, \ Boss, jiss please to we are all waiting ?\ frow dat in de entry, I jist now drapt it'.\ 1 leaned forward to catch a view of the children, and saw William standing with one foul advanced, and his hand firmly clenched, in the midst of the group. He was a fine subject for a painter at that moment. His (lushed brow, flashing eye, compressed lip and changing cheek, all told how that word coward wai his breast. \Will he prove himself indeed one, by yielding himself to them ?\ thought But no. \I will not go without I ask j my mother!\ said the noble boy, his voice wrankling in Our friend fainted. the banded powers of Europe ! The Bu- tr £ mbli with eniotio ,. and [ { centaur lies rotting in the deserted docks, once filled with shipping, the admiration of Europe. Her palaces are. falling to decay —many a broken column and falling cap- ital attests the perishable nature of human grcatiuss. A stranger inhabits her halls, and insults her i'alkn majesty. But away with these gloomy reflections, they suit not : such a scene as this—the beauty of the ' midnight hour. Let us summon the rec- ollections of chivalry and lomance to our : aid—let us people the solitude, and wake its pristine life within its withered form. j It is not the thought of what she is, but of ; what she has been, which should influence our spirit, when passing by so many scenes of ancient glory. Thus did the Ro- man muse, when he paused amidst the ru- ins of fallen Carthage. He sat, indeed, upon a broken column, his eye rested on the ruined temple, the fallen arch : but he regarded them not, his thoughts were far away—he held communion with those of ancient time, the spirits of the mighty dead. He thought when the Carthaginian shook in his iron gra-p the gates of the seven hilled city—when the legions were mowed down by the African sword, and Rome trembled for her empire. He thought of the last struggle of expiring patriotism, when women and children rushed to the fight, and the astonished foe quailed before the determination of despair. Had Venice perished like Carthage, her beauty might indeed have been more de- faced, her building less worthy of the ad~ miration of the stranger ; but her name should have been a watchword of freedom to remotest ages, her death-bell had waked a chord of sympathy in every patriot's heart. Again, we see the triumphant march of the Crusaders, the gonfalon of the republic, waving on the towers of Zara and Constantinople—the return of her victorious fleets, when the setting sun had witnessed the defeat and shame o\f Genoa. These are memories which incite to great and glorious deeds ; would that they had availed her to add otic more laurel to her unpolluted brow, would that she had known when hope was gone, to descend again in- to the waters from which she rose, her flag unsti'uck, her honor unsullied. Venice, farewell! long would we linger beside thy waters, charmed by the spell attached to the memory of an age coeval with the brightest scenes of Italian glory, the age of Raphael and Michael Angelo, of Dante and Tasso. Thine has been a m no cow- ard either. 1 promised her I would not go from the house without permission, and I should be a base coward, if 1 were to tell her a wicked lie.\ There was something commanding in his tone, which made the noisy children mute. It was the power of a strong soul over the weaker; and they involuntarily yielded him the tribute of respect. I saw him in the evening among the gathered multitude in the parlor. He was walking by his mother's side, a stately matron, clad in widow's weeds. Her gentle and polished manners, and the rich, full tones of her voice betrayed a southern birth. It was with evident prido she looked on her grace- ful boy, whose face was one of the finest 1 over saw, fairly radiant with animation and intelligence. Well might she be proud of such a son, one who would dare to do right, when all were tempting to the wrong. I shall probably never see the brave, beau- tiful boy again, but my heart breathed a prayer that the spirit, now so strong in his integrity, might never, never be sullied by worldlincss and sin, never, in coming years be tempted to evil. Then will he be in- deed a joy to the widows heart—a pride and an ornament to his native land. Our country needs such stout, brave hearts, that can stand fast, when the whirl- winds of temptation gather thick, and fast, and strong around them—she neods men who from infancy upward have scorned to be false and recreant to duty.— Youth's Companion. CONSOLING SENTENCE.—An individual having been convicted upon rather slight evidence, the judge proceeded to pass judg- ment as follows : \Prisoner at the Bar ! You' have been' found guilty by a jury of your countrymen of a crime which subjects you to the pen- alty of death. You say you are innocent of the charge ; the truth of that assertion is only known to yourself and your God.-- It is my duty to leave you for execution. If guilty, you richly deserve the fate which awaits you—if innocent, it will be a great gratification to feel that you were hanged without such a crime on your conscience, [n either case you will be delivered from' a world of care.\ To PREVENT DOGS FROM KILLING SHEEP. -Elijah M. Davis, of White Plains, N. Y. says his mode of protecting his sheep from dogs is to put bells on one or two sheep in each flock. He says, \ Before I put bells on my sheep I was considerably troubled with dogs but since I belled them I have not been troubled at all, while some of my neighbors who did not use the same precaution, have suffered more or less. A sheep-killing dog is a sneaking creature, and when they start up the sheep, the bell will make a noise and the dogs sneak off. If the sheep are within half a mile of the farmer's house the bells will give the alarm.\ Diogenes being asked what advantage he had derived from being a philosopher, replied, \The power of enjoying the society of myself,\ Hints for September. This is the month for seeding, and its preparation. In the region where the fly has prevailed, do not sow too early, and in' no case before the 10th. 2?rine and lime your seed—a process that many object to on account of the labor and trouble, but it is an effectual remedy against smut. The following process answers every purpose, with little labor. After a thorough winnowing through the mill, put the seed in a heap and sprinkle over it fine salt, about a peck to ten bushels, and then dash on water from a small basin or cup.till thV brine shows itself on the floor. Shovel it over two or three times, and leave it over night ; add as much slacked lime as will' adhere to the kernel, and. if not' moist en- ough add more water. It is much sooner, done than floating it in a tub of brine, and equally efficacious. If you sow late, or on soil liable to heave put more seed to the acre—and if you wish' to lay it down as a meadow, and not for a' regular rotation of grain, sow your Timo-' thy with your grain in the fall. There is no other certain method, as a dry May or June is fatal to spring seeding with that grass. Timothy is of very little use as a'\ fertilizer, and is a detriment to the wheat' crop—and is only to be tolerated, as sown with wheat, for the hay and feed which it produces. Clover is the only cheap, natuv\ ral, pabulum for wheat; it contains near-' ly all the elements required to produce it. See that your fallows are well and per- fectly drained. Do not trust alone to the\ plough : let the hoe and shovel be put in requisition to deepen and open all ob> structions. Bud yoong trees immediately, aud ush' in all cases, well formed and well n-'. pened buds, from large and well ripened' wood. A loquacious blockhead, after babbling- some time to Aristotle, observed, that he was fearful that he was intruding on his ear. No, no, replied Aristotle, I have not been listening. ForhapBthorcnbvorwasiitiineinth&hfsturyortltiGiifii.'
