text: !■_L1,_■ .1-.■■_J_J-1JJA»---!-L"-tL-LL- --i-lg—L!----I—- — ~ . ~ ' E /nniiln Sruwpnprr: Drnntriltn 3$nrn[iftj, (JEkratinn, Jfcirarr, $rts; (jliansriarats, Jfiiijuntijci, flgriraliarr, Crniprrantr, Sntarstir nnft /nrtiga Mtm, &t.—SalirprnMt nf ^5nrtq nr frrt. i* ... : -> : ♦ v .i* - ^ t : ■. •< V ' ’ ■ ' ** /•£ t, .jpp \ , _ , . ,’-»-■•;■,••- ---■■■■' : • ■ ■ —— ■• . .. ■■ ■ ---—7 . ■■ ■ - '■■■-■■-- ■ ' ':#Mr : _. ... r-i-rr-rr^—- '7^r——- ~ - . - T $1.00 IN ADVANCF! BRIDGETON N. J. SATURDAY, MAY 17. 1856. VOL. IX—NO 428 - I.JIJ 4 „. ... •# -:«■ ~n£.‘, M <’3 SSSSSSSS -■-ill! HIM ■ m1!1 i ■ pur «gMa»y>aaeM!g-J If* . .._____ TERMS. ty The West Jersey Pioneer is pub lished every Saturday Morning, at $1.00 per year,in advance,or $ 1.25 at the cud of the year. AD VERT1SEMESTS Will be inserted for 40 cents a folio of 100 words, for the first insertion; 20 cents for each subsequent insertion. A liberal deduc tion will be made upon all advertisements ex ceeding five folios in length, and which are insertedfor a longer period than tlirceiuonths. No advertisement of a folio or less will be in serted a single week, for less than 50 cent*. ty All letters and communications must be post-paid, and accompanied by the au- ! thor’s name, to insure attention. Office -Brick Building,Corner of Com inerceand Pearl Streets. (Cljnitf $ mini. From tlie State Gazette. NEW JERSEY. DEDICATED TO THE EDITORS OF NEW YORK. Sneer at New Jersey if you will—keep back no bitter word; Expose her faults and follies too—let every sin he heard; Mention her name with burning scorn—add falsehood as you may— Revile, denounce, and curse her too—bring up the black array. She asks no charitable word—no kindly hand to guide— Fawns not in mean servility, nor strive a wrong to hide, But boldly stands to face the storm, the billows and the blast— Strong in her own integrity, and proud of all the past. No other soil has sons more true, or daughters more divine; Whether they dwell by Hudson's rocks, or beneath her Southern pine. Go—search the world with eager search, to find a braver band Than those who nobly fought and fell to save their native land. Think on that fearful winter night, when not a single star Shone on the bloody tracks of those who crossed the Delaware, Dream as you may of Marathon, and of Thermopylae; But know that henceforth Treneton's name is ho lier far than they. What need to tell again the tale of Princeton’s bloody fight; Where gallant Mercer bravely fell in battle for the Right, What need to sing the olden song of that immortal day, When Monmouth’s plains were wet with gore, Where slaughtered foes lay? These memories to us are dear, and whensoever, shall come Another band of enemies to smite our cherished home, Here by each rock—on every plain—by every stream and hill, Shall Stand a host of Jerseymen valiant and fearless still. Thousands of true men still are left—they have not perished all; On Frelinghuysen rests the robes of Southard and of Wall, Stockton and Vroom, and Dayton too—aid time would fail to tell Of all the noble Jerseymen we love and honor well. Let but the battle rage again, or anarchy arise— Let wrong or outrage lift its front in triumph to the skies; Here by New Jersey’s shrines of old shall stand New Jersey’s sons, Ready as ever in the past to join her Washingtons. When storm and darkness in their wrath, swept O’er the solemn sea, And weltering surge and whelming waves are howling on the lea, When the last beacon-light expires along the treacherous shore, And sounds the sailor’s drowning shriek above the breaker’s roar— When the last prayer is on his lip, and o’er his sinking head, The whirling billows bear him down to sleep among the dead. Oh! in that hour of agony, how welcome to his ear To hear the shouts of Jerseymen, and know that help is near. Of all the brave, fraternal States of this, our native land, New Jersey stands as proudly up as any of the band, Thank God!—her banner bears no blot—her children no disgrace; Thank God! in all that’s just and true she lags not in the race. One of the old Thirteen, her name stands as first stood— Foremost in all that’s pure and right, and virtuous and good. And in the future it shall stand, as in the stirring times and firm in war—New Jersey to the last. A lad wishing to turn sailor, applied to the captain of a vessel for a berth. The captain wishing to intimidate him, handed him a piece of rope and said; "If you want a good sailor, you must make three that rope." "I can do it," readily responded the boy; "Here is one, and here is one, that makes two. Now, herd's the third, and he threw it overboard." "I shall never get out of this scrape alive," as the hog said when they were rubbing the bristles off his back with clam shells and scalding water. Gen. Jackson's Last Visit to Nashville. One of the most impressive scenes that are to have read of, is described as follows in a late number of the Louisville Watchman and Evangelist, and its authenticity is vouched for by Rev. Dr. Schon, in a communication published in the Nashville Christian Advocate. We copy the article entire. It is as follows: "It is well known that General Jackson, late in life, made a profession of religion, and joined the Presbyterians. It is said, by those who had an opportunity of observing his daily walk, that ever afterwards, until death summoned away the old soldier to that land were wars never come, he was consistent, meek, and devotedly pious. His house became a house." —a home—for the ministers of Jesus, in which the voice of devotion and the morning hymn were not unfrequently heard. “Though the ex-President was a Presbyterian, he exercised true Christian charity towards all other orthodox denominations. He often went to hear Methodist and Baptist preachers, and ever made them welcome at the Hermitage. “In 1844, his health became very feeble; and it was evident to all observers that his pilgrimage was well nigh ended. Very seldom, now, was his venerable form seen beyond the precincts of his own yard or garden. Ministers of different persuasions visited him daily; and he was pleased to converse with them on religious topics, in almost every instance inviting them to pray with his family before leaving. Gradually his tall and manly form, bent beneath the accumulated weight of many years, and he was approaching that home appointed for all living. “It was in November of that year the Methodist Annual Conference held its session in the city of Nashville, only a few miles from the Hermitage. A few days previous to the commencement of the session, he expressed an inclination to visit the city and to spend two or three days with distinguished and eloquent divines who generally occupied the pulpit on great occasions. His physician, with some reluctance, gave consent, provided the weather should be propitious.” “When Friday morning downed, the weather was very fine. The sky was as bright, and mild as if no murky cloud had ever obscured its heavenly blue. The sun sowed the earth with orient pearl, and bathed the steeples and towering cedars and adjacent heights in a flood of molten silver. About ten o’clock, the well-known carriage of the ex-President was seen to draw up near to McKendree Chapel; and the old man, with short form and snowy locks, attended by his faithful servant, entered the church! The General passed the night in the city, and attended church on Saturday. “It was now generally known that he was in the city; and the expression that most probably this was his last visit to Nashville escaped not the lips of a few. Soon after the opening of the Conference, on Saturday morning, one of the preachers offered the following resolution, which was unanimously adopted: “Resolved, In respect to our distinguished fellow citizen, ex-President Jackson, now in this city, and the high offices he has filled, and the many services he has rendered our country, that the Conference request the presiding bishop to appoint a committee of three to wait upon him, and invite him to visit the Conference room at such a time as may best suit his convenience, and receive a personal introduction to all the preachers.” “The committee was appointed, and the General fixed the time for nine o’clock on Monday morning. The Conference room being too small to accommodate the hundreds who wished to witness the introduction, one of the churches was substituted, and an hour before the time, filled to overflowing. Front seats were reserved for the members of Conference, which was called to order by the Bishop, seated in a large chair in the altar, just before the pulpit. After prayers, the committee retired; and a minute afterwards entered, conducting the man whom all delighted to honor. They led him up to the Bishop’s chair, which was made vacant for Bishop’s chair, which was made vacant for him, the Bishop meanwhile occupying an other place within the altar. “The Secretary was directed to call the names of the members of Conference, which he did in alphabetical order, each coming forward and receiving from the Bishop a personal introduction to the ex-President, and immediately retiring to give place to the next. This ceremony had nearly been completed, without the Secretary read the name of Rev. T.An elderly gentleman, with a rather heated face, clad in a suit of jeans, came forward. Few seemed to know him. He had always been on circuits on the frontier; and though always at Conference, he never troubled it with speeches, but kept his seat, and said little—that little, however, was always to the purpose. Mr. T. came forward and was introduced to General Jackson. He turned his face towards the General, who said, “It seems to me that we have met before,” The preacher, apparently embarrassed, said; “I was with you through the Creek campaigh—one of your bodyguard at the battle of the Horse Shoe—and fought under your command at New Orleans.” The general arose slowly from his seat; and throwing his long, withered, bony arms around the preacher’s neck, exclaimed: “We’ll soon meet where there's no war—where smoke of battle never rolls up its sulphurous ashes.” It never before, or since, have I seen so many tears shed as then flowed forth from the eyes of that vast assembly. Every eye was moist with weeping.” “Eleven years have passed away since that day. The old hero has been more than ten in his silent and narrow home. The voice that cheered the drooping fight, and thundered in the rear of routed armies, is silent forever. The old preacher, too, has fought his last battle, laid his armor by, and gone home to his eternal rest.” Whatever you would have your children become, strive to exhibit in your own lives and conversation. TEMPERANCE CE. From the Newark Mercury. A Glimpse of Life. Some years ago, while residing in another part of the State, we had the pleasure of forming the acquaintance of an Englishman, with whom we spent many pleasant hours. He was a man of great intelligence, well read and traveled, and possessed all those attributes of Character which made the Englishman the noblest of men “in the olden time.” By profession, he was a chemist, and his services commanded at all times an excellent income. When we met him, he was in some respects an adventurer in our land, having left his wife and babes in their English home, to seek for them a new and better dwelling-place under the Banner of the Stars. With that true heroism which leads us to suffer all things for those we love, he toiled on day after day, and week after week, accumulating the means which were to enable those he had left behind to follow him to our shores; and the day wherein, by previous appointment, he was to transmit his earnings to his wife, came quickly on. But alas! it came with a cloud upon its brow! In former times, our friend had been given up to strong drink, and had almost wrecked all that was dear, upon the strand of Drunkenness. Through some Providential interposition, however, he was saved and when we met him, had not tasted drink for years. But on the very morning of the day when he was to start the message, "Home" over the waters, a phantom came and stood in his way, and stayed the purpose of his heart. In his walk to his daily labor, he met an old and cherished friend,—one whom he had not seen for years, and in the joy of the moment, asked by that friend to drink to the health of the "daysLang Syne," he thoughtlessly consented—and in an hour was waiting in the mire—his money gone, his sweet purpose, which had sunk to him for days and weeks, forgotten—a man with a beast's nature writhing in his breast. From that hour, until we lost sight of him, he continued to Follow after strong drink, working only at intervals, and never communicating with his wife at home. This was years ago. Yesterday, in our wanderings in the street, we met this man — this man whom God crowned with the halos of His Divinity, and gave a nature akin unto the angels, but whom the liquor traffic made a brute. And it was a joyful meeting! For he stood again before us as when we first saw him — a man in God’s own image — a sober, upright man, with no cloud upon his forehead — no burden of shame upon his back. As we stood with our band linked in his, all the Fast came upon us; as a picture it stood before us, and we looked upon it with humid eye’s, questioning him the while of his remembrance. After we went asunder in the Golden Years, (so he told us,) he continued his excesses for some months, as before. At last he was so far reduced that he was unable to procure work in any department of labor, and then for the first time he looked back seriously upon the path he had traveled, and forward upon the fate that awaited him. At times he felt that he would love of all things to reform, but no star shone cheeringly upon him, and so he groped on as before in darkness. But a hand was feeling for his in the gloom, and clasping it at length, led him out in the Day. His wife, oppressed by doubt and anxiety as to his fate — knowing nothing and fearing all, had broken away from her home-anchorage, and obtaining means from a retinue, with her babies had crossed the ocean and commenced her search for the lost. Proceeding at once to the point whence his Last letter was sent, she learned of his aberration from the temperate path, and at last, after many days of toil and suffering, found him in a grogery, led him forth with affection’s hand, soothed and comforted and nourished him— fanning the while the spark of manhood lingering yet within him until it blazed out with its old glory, and he, the son, was a Man again. And he took us yesterday to the home where he has enshrined his wife and jewels, and there, sitting at her feet with his little banners clustering round him, he repeated the story of his fall and his redemption. And we know that while that true wife of his realm remains with him, and those children stand around him with her image in their faces, he will continue to walk in the straight path, and wear the spotless crowning of the temperate man. Who shall say that Woman's influence is of no account—that Woman's love is not the holiest of all holy things, and the strongest of all things powerful, in this world of ours? For the West Jersey Pioneer. RURAL THINGS-No. II. To us, of this shore, and it may be the same with all country people, every season has its peculiar attractions. Just now is the migration of the birds; those that have sojourned with us during the winter, are leaving, while others that left in the fall, are slowly returning. The severity of the winter, and the backwardness of the spring, have caused some to be a little more dilatory in their coming, than usual, while there are those here punctual to their day. All the various families have their own way of doing things; some have their leaders, and are guided, and directed, in large flocks; others make their journey singly; while again there are those that greet us in pairs, some reach us exhausted, as though their march had been made in one continuous flight; others come to us, we know not how, probably by making short stages from bush to bush. Many come only in the night, though one would hardly suppose them night-birds. At times only the females of a particular family are here, and then we have noticed only the males. All have their own peculiar manner of flying, too, and their own peculiar voices. No two kinds move alike, look alike, or have the same habits. Their nests are all differently constructed, and there is just as much variety in everything that pertains to them, as there are different kinds of birds. The great Maker of all things, seems here to have offered the beauty of all coloring, and the variety of all motion, while the form of the bills, the wings and the tails, are not less diversified. It is curious to perceive the different cuts of these appendages. Here is the sharp tail, the doubly-forked tail, the lyre-shaped tail, the concave or boat-shaped tail, the plume tail, the long-tail; and many more, if we had names to designate them. Fish Hawks and Eagles. Where there are so many kinds of birds, it is difficult to fix the mind upon any one of them, without having it disturbed by the remembrance of another. The Fish-Hawk, and Eagle, for instance, although their habits are very unlike, (one being migratory and the other remaining with us the entire year; one rearing its young in the early spring, before all other birds, and the other in mid-summer)—generally when here are found not far apart. The latter depending in a great degree upon the former, for his supply of that food he is unable to catch himself. I shall therefore keep them in my mind as they appear before me, and write of them together. For twelve successive years I have noticed the coming of the Fish-Hawk to this neighborhood on the 25th day of March. Though all may not be so exact in their coming, I have invariably seen or heard of at least one being here on that day. Whether they journey in pairs or not, I am unable to say. But they are always mated within a few days after their arrival, and may be seen as though no time were to be lost before the season of incubation, busily carrying sticks, cornstalks, oyster grass and other rubbish to rebuild their nest, which were occupied probably by the same birds the year before. It is not however for this purpose alone, that the nests are kept in repair; they are used as a kind of general headquarters where the fish are carried to be feasted upon, and where it would appear they glory in seeing how many bones can be picked and scattered around them. When idle, it is here they spend all their time, occasionally rising and circling by way of stretching their wings, so as to remind you of some rich old fellow and his wife, who are satisfied with the abundance that is around them, though determined to live in a plain way, because they have been accustomed to nothing better. When the farms were cleared by the first settlers of our country, now about two hundred years ago, a few of the largest oaks and bickerels were left standing as shades for the cattle near the salt meadows. Most of these have been dead for some years, and exactly suited for the nests of the fish-hawks, which never build upon those that are green, it only thus blasted and withered can be found. Now, these old trees are beginning to fall, and new homes must be sought. Lately the hawks have in many cases erected their habitations in the forest, behind our dwelling, where they are required to labor harder, than when settled nearer their fishing grounds. It is not the labor, however, of which they would complain, for they are industrious creatures, being out every day in all weathers, whenever the tides are making upon the flats, and they can hope any success. You would be surprised at their knowledge of the ebbs and flows of the waters in which they fish. They will remain at home entirely contented till the tide is two or three inches over the flats, and the basins of the sounds are being filled, when they may be seen gathering from every direction and now slowly sailing around, or hovering as though determining whether to dive down at something in the water which may be a fish, a little too deep, a little too large, or not of the kind they wish; and then again they will set their wings and go zigzagly headlong till the water is almost reached, that which they have sought may have moved till their aim was lost, and now they will again recover their flight. and go on in a straight line to a new ground, where similar maneuvers will be repeated till one is again stopped by the sight of a new prize, and now directing his aim with greater precision, he is heard to plunge into the water, from which he soon bears in his claws the flouncing fish. When they have eggs, or young to protect, one of the pair always stands guard upon, or about the nest, while the other is thus engaged fishing. The great resort of the fish-hawks is the small islands, or beaches which border our Atlantic shore. These are about three miles from the main land; on the side next to the surf, dozens of their nests are in sight at a time. Many of them are so near the sand that has become heaped over the trees, that you may look into them as you pass, while in many instances, the old birds, which may be upon their eggs or young, will not allow themselves to be disturbed. If they should take the trouble to raise upon their wings, they will merely fly a few circles around you, as though to enquire your errand, and scrutinize your appearance, before going back to stand upon their brush pile. To kill one of these birds near the farms is considered very cowardly, so that they are not often disturbed, except by some cockney, who may think, when he has bagged one, that he has performed a great exploit, till he bears it to the hotel for exhibition, where he is laughed at for his ignorance, till he will be entirely contented to let the fish-hawks rest forevermore. The Bald Eagles are the great persecutors of the fish-hawks. These terrible robbers may be seen every day at this season of the year, perched upon some lone, dead tree, or slowly circling in the air, waiting for the less powerful but more enterprising hawks to supply them with food. As the “sitting victim” is borne to the shore, like a privateer, the eagle may be seen hurriedly bearing down upon the prize, when the chase is commenced and the hawk is overtaken with a velocity that will astonish the beholder. The struggle is obstinate, and conducted with equal address on both sides. The hawk, feeling her inferiority, pushes hard for her retreat, but at every effort is cut off by the eagle, till now she will rise high into the heavens, where finally wearied so that she can hold out no longer, the fish is seen to come tumbling through the air, from which it is caught in the claws of the victor before it reaches the ground. The eagle will not condescend to touch the fish after it has fallen to the earth. This is the more surprising, when we remember it is here his food is generally taken. Under ordinary circumstances, he will feed upon the dead fish of the strand, or flesh of any kind wherever discovered. I have thought when observing them turn so disdainfully from that which had dropped from the claws of the fish-hawk, they appeared mortified at the failure they had made so as to lose their appetite. They show this too by the rapidity they uniformly fly to another neighborhood that they may be secure from further observation. I suppose no one could see the eagle so disappointed without imagining that his shoulders were seen to shrug, with the dissatisfaction, if not contempt, he feels for himself now in want of those powers with which he had believed he was endowed. He has been accustomed to doing things his own way. He is the king of birds, has faced the hardest winters, and breasted the heaviest gales. He knows his superiority. Now thus to be out-done by a miserable fish-hawk, is more than his proud spirit can endure. Many a time when I have seen this noble bird enter the field with so much courage, pride and velocity, have I thought of Napoleon Bonaparte, in his engagement at the battle of Austerlitz; and then when I have seen him quit it with so much mortification, I have recalled the same grand spirit now humbled, as he quit the field of Waterloo. In this vicinity, the oagles are not quite as common as usual. A nest which has been occupied by a pair of them for the last twenty years, which is in sight of my dwelling, I am sorry to see in this spring abandoned. There are never more than a pair, or two at most, in a neighborhood of five or six miles in extent. A year or two ago, there came among us an Indian chief, from the tribe of the Delawares, which now make their home somewhere at the headwaters of the lakes, who destroyed many of our eagles to obtain their feathers, with which to adorn his head. It is said he killed seven in one morning. One would have supposed he could have found enough of these birds in his wild home of the north, but he informed our people that they were more common here than there. The tribe to which he belonged formerly occupied this part of the world, and the old chief may have been influenced in his killing propensities, by feelings of associations too poetic to be understood by us. The chief of the Delawares, is welcome to visit his old hunting grounds, and the white man will greet him as a friend when he comes, but we hope he will permit the bold eagle, with his proud heart, to occupy the forest of our shore, that he too may not be destroyed. "The places that now know him, will know him no more." R. C. H. Cape May, C. H., April, 1856. Good Humor.—Keep in good humor. It is not great calamities that embitter existence; it is the petty vexations, the small jealousies, the little disappointments, the minor miseries, that make the heart heavy and the temper sour. Don’t let them. Auger is a pure waste of vitality; it is always foolish, and always disgraceful, except in some very rare cases, when it is kindled by seeing wrong done to another; and even that noble rage seldom mends the matter. Keep in good humor! No man does his best except when he is cheerful. A light heart makes nimble hands and keeps the mind free and alert. No misfortune is so great as one that sours the temper. Until cheerfulness is lost, nothing is lost. Keep in good humor! The company of a good humored man is a perpetual feast; he is welcomed everywhere—eyes glisten at his approach, and difficulties vanish in his presence. Franklin’s indomitable good humor did as much for his country in the old Congress as Adam’s fire or Jefferson's wisdom; be clothed with wisdom with smiles, and softened contentious minds into acquiescence. Keep in good humor! A good conscience, a sound stomach, a clean skin, are the elements of good humor. Get them, and keep them, and—be sure to keep in good humor! She looked higher. Mrs. Swann, don't like it much, I guess she looked higher. Looked higher, Katy is handsome, do; doubt, well educated, accomplished, stylish even if you please. But pray, how "high" should her widowed mother look? Would she marry her daughter to a seraph! It seems to me that there were no very encouraging results from the connections that of old took place between the "sons of God"—an angels, as they are commonly supposed to have been—and the daughters of men. Mrs. Swann should be satisfied if her daughters find human husbands, should she not, and be thankful that they are not inhuman, instead of grieving that they are not superhuman! "But this Mr. Williams is only a merchant and I think that the widow has somehow wished that to secures lawyer or a minister, if not somebody rich enough to save them all from working." Only a merchant, indeed! My cousin Sarah, there is a worse smell of unjust and snobbish aristocracy about that fleer of yours, in three words, than in a whole room full of dukes. Only a merchant! The question should be whether he is a MAN! But I don’t mean that exactly. He has no position. He is not secure in business. He has only commenced business a year ago. Katy is wiser than her mother, cousin Sarah! She didn’t wish to marry a Position—people who marry a Position generally find it an Imposition, and a pretty sad one. I happen to know Mr. Williams; and he and Katy are living a wise life. His earnings are fair and not enormous. He has chosen the happiness of a home for his youth humble though it be, rather than to wait alone for riches enough to buy him a place and a fashionable wife when he shall be too old to enjoy one or to love the other—if there were to be either enjoyment or love in the two such curses. "Vouthful home! Who wants to live in a man with a wife?" Ah, cousin Sarah! You hanker after a suit of rooms at the Clarendon, perhaps, or the Metropolitan; according to the wise distinction of the little girl, you wouldn’t live; you would board. A hundred dollars a week would be nothing, would it? There are too many chances, cousin Sarah, that the husband who would permit such fantastic doings would be nothing too. I tell you, women ought to marry Men, not Dollars, nor Houses. You don’t care! You think Mrs. Swann was right? You think you wouldn’t be found during your housework? I tell you Mrs. Swann is a goose. I dare say you don’t care. And I’ll tell every young man I see, that you don’t care. You’ll look higher, too, I presume. Remember that the fellow who looked higher than was wise, in his star-gazing, tumbled into a ditch—and served him right. Go in the spirit and spend an evening at John William’s house. See him come home, tired; see him forget weariness, vexation, and everything but his happiness, in the bright atmosphere of his little library—an atmosphere brightened by the sweet presence of his Katy mare than by the pretty shaded study lamp, perfumed more by the love that lingers there than by the bouquets of real live flowers, or the rose and geraniums in the window. See them sit down together and read the book that he has brought home, having selected it because he thought it would please her. Hear the sensible way in which they discuss it; he dealing with the logic, manlike, and she with the profounder feminine institutions, seeing and judging the truth and falsehood, and letting the logic alone. Hear her singing—and him singing with her. See the cozy supper-table. Consider the delicate pleasures of the sociality which seems divinely ordained to be compensation for the coarseness inherent in the idea of food—the pleasant, chatty talk of the “home and foreign” Events of the day — the quaint conceits which Williams sometimes utters in that dry way of his — the ringing laugh of sweet voiced Katy. Cousin Sarah, hold your tongue. Not a word. Parties, theatre, concert opera, all may go! Not that they are utterly bad, but if I were a woman, I should say give me a man for a husband and a home to live in, before all the money, and dress, and big houses, and hotels, and flourish and flummery in the whole world. And Mrs. Owann insists on “looking higher” for her other daughters, she had best begin forthwith to set traps to catch angels for them, since Man won’t satisfy her.—Life Illustrated. GOING TO BED. Going to bed we have always considered one of the most sober, serious and solemn occupations, which a man can be engaged in during the whole twenty-four hours. With a young lady it is altogether a different thing. When bedtime arrives, she trips up stairs with a candle in her hand, and—if she had pleasant company during the evening—with some agreeable ideas in her head. The candle on the toilette, and her luxuriant hair is speedily emancipated from the thraldom of combs and pins. If she usually wears water curls, or uses the “iron, her hair is brushed carefully from her forehead and the whole mass compactly secured; it not, why then her lovely tresses are soon hidden in innumerable bits of paper. This task accomplished, a night-cap appears, perhaps edged with plain muslin, or perhaps with heavy lace, which hides all, save her own sweet countenance. As soon as she tics the string, probably she takes a peep in the glass, and half blushes at what she sees. The light is out—her fair, delicate form gently presses the couch—and like a dear, innocent, lovely creature as she is, she falls gently into a sleep, with a sweet smile on her still sweeter face. A man, of course, under the same circumstances acts quite differently. Every movement in his chamber indicates the coarse, rough mold of his sullen nature. When all is ready, he snuffs out the candle with his fingers, like a cannibal, and then jumps into the bed like a savage. For a few moments he thinks of all the peccadilloes he may have committed during the day—vows a vow to amend soon, groans, turns over, stretches himself, and then all is silent, save the heavy groans of the elumberer. How Some People Marry and Live A young man meets a pretty face in the ball-room, falls in love with it, courts it, marries it, goes to housekeeping with it, and boasts of having a home and a wife to grace it. The chances are nine to ten he has neither. Her pretty face gets to be an old story — or becomes faded, or freckled or fretted — and as the face was all he wanted, all he wanted, all he gained for, all he sat up with, all he gained for, all he swore to love, honor and protect, he gets sick of his trade, knows adored faces which he likes better, gives up staying at home evenings, consoles himself with cigars, oysters, and politics, and looks upon his home as a very indifferent boarding house. A family of children grow up about him; but neither he nor his “face” knows anything about training them, so they come up better skelter; made toys of when babies, dolls when boys and girls, drudges when young men and women; and so passes year after year, and not one quiet, happy, homely hour is known throughout the whole household. Another young man becomes enamored of a fortune. He waits upon it to parties, dances the polka with it, exchanges billet-doux with it, pops the question to it, gets “yes” from it, takes it to the parson’s, weds it, calls it “wife,” carries it home, sets up an establishment, with it, introduces it to his friends, and says (poor fellow) that he, too, is married and has got a home. It is false. He is not married; he has no home. And he soon finds it out.— He’s in the wrong box but it is too late to get out of it. He might as well hope to escape from his coffin. His friends congratulate him, and he has to grin and bear it.— They praise the house, the furniture, the era, the new Bible, the new baby—and then bid the “fortune,” and he who husbands it, good-morning! As if he had known a good morning since he and that gilded fortune were falsely declared to be one! Take another case. A young woman is smitten with a pair of whiskers. Curled hair never before had such charms. She sets her cap for them; In the midst of the bustling city, the dear Miss is overcome with magnanimity, closes the bargain, carries home the prize, shows it to pa and ma, calls herself engaged to it, thinks there were never such a pair of whiskers before, and in a few weeks they are married. Married! Yes, the world calls it so, and we will. What is the result? A short honeymoon, and then the unlucky discovery that they are as unlike as chalk and cheese, and not to be made one though all the priests in Christendom pronounce them so.—Life Illustrated. Did he not say Beans? Two travellers put up for the night at tavern. Early in the morning they absconded without reckoning with their host, also stealing from him a bag of beans. A few years after, they passed the road in company again. Again they asked for lodgings at the same inn. The identical landlord was yet at his post. In the evening the landlord was in one corner of the bar room, talking in a suppressed voice to one of his neighbors about a swarm of bees. His two dishonest guests were seated in another part of the room, and distinctly hearing the talk about bees, one said to the other: “Did he not say beans?" “I think he did," was the reply; and quickly they were missing. This beau story is worth something. When I hear a man scolding about the personalities of editorials, I can not help thinking about the beans. When the church-going man complains that the minister means him, this anecdote about the beaus will pop into my mind. On ten thousand occasions I notice people whose consoiences are not easy, saying to each other, by various modes of communication: “Did he not say beans?" though perhaps the writer or speaker was no nearer to the subject on which their minds were excited, than the sound of the word “bees” resembled that of “beans." A SOFT PILLOW. Whitfield and a pious companion were much annoyed one night, at a public house, by a set of gamblers in the room adjoining where they slept. Their noisy clamor and horrid blasphemy so excited Whitfield’s abhorrence and pious sympathy, that he could not rest. “I will go into them, and reprove their wickedness,” he said. His companion remonstrated in vain. He went. His words of reproof fell apparently powerless upon them. Returning, he laid down to sleep. His companion asked him rather abruptly:— “What did you gain by it?” “A soft pillow,” he said, patiently and soon fell asleep. Yes, “soft pillows” are the reward of fidelity—the companion of a clear conscience. It is sufficient remuneration for doing right, in the absence of all other reward. And none know more truly the value of a soft pillow than those parents whose anxiety for wayward children is enhanced by a consciousness of neglect. Those who faithfully rebuke and properly restrain them by their Christian deportment and religious counsels, can sleep quietly in the day of trial. Parents! do your duty now, in the fear of God, in obedience to this law, at every sacrifice; and when old age comes on, you may lay down upon a soft pillow, assured of his favor who has said: “Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” A Man With Mine Wives.—The notorious Nathan Brown, the most remarkable bigamist ever known in America, was brought by officer Elliot the other day, from near Jeffersonville, Indiana, under a requisition from Gov. Chase. He is reputed to have nine living wives! His practice has been to live with each about three months, get hold of their property and desert them. He is now safe in Butler county jail, at the instance of his seventh wife, a resident of this city. The old sinner is 53 years of age, and has married three wives within two years.—3am icton (intelligencer). 