Newspaper of The Democratic Advocate, April 26, 1873, Page 1

Newspaper of The Democratic Advocate dated April 26, 1873 Page 1
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$2 PER ANNUM. Srlert |3oetrp. RESULT OF FEES THOUGHT. A doubting doubter doubted long, Hi* double at Brat aesiutd very utrong; But ftoon he doubted of hi* doubt, j 1 And then a boat of doubta broke out; Could he theee doubta his own doubts rail ? Had he felt any doubts at all? i ] Was his first doubt a doubt or not? Were all the rest true doubts or what ? So ’midst them- doubtful ins and outs, These doubta, and doubts about his doubts, Doubt upon doubt his doubts did shake, Fresh doubts did doubtful answers make, Till this was all he could find out, That he undoubtedly did doubt. POKTEY. The world is full of poetry ; the >ir Is liriuf with ita spirit, end the wave. Dunce to the music of it* melodic*, And speckle in it* height ncs*. Earth is veiled, And mantled with its lienuty; and the walls ' That close the universe with crystal in, Are eloquent with voices that proclaim The unseen glories of immensity, In harmonies too perfect and ton high For aught but beings of celestial mould. And speak to man in one eternal hymn. Unlading beauty and unyielding power. , ihingfi Abroad. thm >he -Veie York Obierrrr. ENOLISHBPORTS. it nr.ssT nsv, isq., or tiii: saw voaa bah. i Every people will have their aporl*. and the character of a people can, in many re spects, be determined by their national ! amusements. A Roman amphitheatre. I with its wild beaats and contending gladi ators, indicated the cruel and bloodthiraty temper of the thousands who gated upon | them. The sport* of the chase are aaid also to | indicate the pluck and prowess of the English people. Among all the character istic spectacle** of England none is more impressive to a stranger than a “meet” 1 in some rural town, in front of some an cient castle, in the heart of England; and no one can fully understand the English character till he baa seen it. It is cm-I phatically an English spurt, and while hone-racing has become a national sport \ in all countries, fox-hunting can he seen ! in all ita glory only iu England. The , hunts iu Italy, Austria and Maryland, arc only feeble imitations. The reason is. that 1 it is a pastime which can tie sustained ; only by a cultivated, rich and well organ ised community. I have seen the "meet'' ( on the Roman Campsgna. but it dues not rompare with the chase in England. Be-1 fore I had seen the hounds in full chase, : I thought what a foolish, unmeaning and unmanly sport for 5(1 or 100 men. as many horses, and 40 or 50 hounds, to spend one whole day in running down one poor inno cent fox or stag. and. when wearied out, U> kill the poor animal and bear home its* tail as a trophy of the prowess of 100 men. So I thought before the hunt. 1 came to the “meetand when I saw the 40 or 50 hounds, on the track of the slag, come rushing by in full cry, and the riders, with red coats and high-top boots, on their splendid hunters, following at their high est speed over fences, ditches and fields, all shouting with excitement as they stretched away in a long line over the wide field, I think, if 1 had had a horse. I should have joined in with them. Noth ing in the way of sport can exceed the beauty of the chase as I saw it one beauti ful morning, in England, about 40 miles from London. The “meet" was on the top of a hill, near an old church in Hor sham. You could sec for miles in every direction—the whole landscape diversified with irregular fields of grass and grain, with patches of woods, and farm-houses surrounded by large stacks of hay aud grain scattered here and there, and now and then a fine residence in the distance surrounded by a large park and lawn beautifully green even in winter; while the country roads, witli sleep sides lined with hedge rows and holly, wound irregu larly over the whole landscape like a wreath of green. The slag was brought to the “meet” in a wagon. Around him were assembled the country gentlemen, the farmers, the workingmen and boys of the whole vi cinity for miles. He was let loose, and away he went over fences, across hedges aud ploughed fields, towards a wood, with head erect and a defiant air. He was allowed, for fair play, fifteen minutes’ start of the hounds. A pack of about 40 dogs were then let loose. They took the scent one after another in a long line, with a continual cry; and then the men. already mounted, followed on. The men and boys on foot, all shouting, join in or cut across the lot* to intercept the course of the stag. Soon (he cry of the dogs ceases. They have lost the scent. They go wandering around, as in a mase, in every direction. The trainers, wearing red caps, with a .horn, at last, by dint of shouting, calling this dog and that by name, bring them all Slack on the old trail until the scent is since more found, when all the hounds .again set up their cry and are off again. What surprised me most was, that the people of the whole country joined in this sport. Land proprietors, Members of Parliament, nobility, farmers in their sunooks on their small cobs, workingmen and boys—in short, the whole community joined in the sport. The stag was said to lie coming towards the public road at the foot of the hill. As we drove down wo heard the hounds approaching us. They crossed the road in full cry just in front of our carriage. Then came on the riders. I expected to see some neck -breaking leaps, for the bank from the field into the road was high, and a fence also shut it oif; but ns the men, one after another, came to the fence, they halted, looked for a good place to leap, and then looked to the other aide to aee where they would bnd. It was not quite The Democratic Advocate. the wild, reckless leaping we have been !. wont to associate with the chase, although it was a fine sight to see them (tome down . some eight or ten feet into the road. Aside from one or two being unhorsed there were no mishaps. The most reckless rider and leader of the chase was au American, who is well known in New York. They followed the stag till night before they I brought him down, and then he was cap tured aud nut killed. He was taken homo aud reserved for another chase. The stag is not ordinarily killed. The dogs are kept from him, but poor Reynard general ly yields up his life in the contest. The hunt sometimes makes sad havoc I with tile soft-ploughed fields of the farmer, I for if the fox chooses to cress them they | are badly cut up; and though the law of England protects a man's field as much as his own house from intrusion, yet woe be | *° •h® man who dares to interfere with the sport of the nation. He would lie put under the town pump, ns one of the coun try gentlemen told me. if he should at : tempt it. ■ *is surprising how general thus sport has become in England and Scotland. It : is more general and popular than ever before. It was pra|ihesied, twenty years ago, by a great sportsman, that railroads would destroy this manly sport in England by rendering men so effeminate that they could not endure the fatigue and exposure required by the chase; but if auy one could sec the list of “meets," filling whole columns of the London J*reu, ho would see that modern facilities for traveling have rendered the hunt a more general sport than ever before. Fox and stag hunting is now thoroughly | organised by every county in England. The gentlemen of the county form an | association, and keep their packs of ! hounds, generally three of fifty in each, ! They have their keepers and trainers. One of the gentlemen is chosen leader for the I year. The place to “ meet" for nearly ! every day in winter is appointed and no | tico given in the sporting papers. Any | one can come. ! The ordinary hunt is made up of the ' nobility, country gentlemen, formers, law | yers, officers, artists, workingmen,—in | short, anybody and everybody who chooses ito come. This is one of the fiest features lof the sport. There is here a general i mingling of society on au equality. If any serious injury is done to the crops or ’ fences of any former he is paid from the 1 general purse. The hounds run every | other day during the winter, The facilities of traveling arc such that ' u man may leave London in the morning, gel to the “ meet’’ by noon, and return I again to dine at 8 iu the evening. His | horses are sent the day before or go with i him on the ears. Great numbers of law ! yers, judges, merchants, literary gentle men aud artists, who do a good deal of mental labor, go out every week for health and recreation. The train, well , filled with red coats and horses, will run out l>o miles in one hour and deposit their men and horses in the very heart of the hunting ground of England. In old times they had to travel on the top of a coach all night for this purpose. The conse quence is, that now there are probably ten limes as many persons indulging in this sport in England as there were forty years ago. It is the proper thing for a gentle man to go in a fiery red coat, with high top boots, and on a fine horse. Thera am nine packs of slag hounds. 123 packs of fox hounds and 84 packs of harriers in England alone. The capital invested iu this sport would very much surprise any one. Suppose each pack to represent 100 men (and some have over 200,) we have 21,600 men engaged in the sport. Each sportsman has an average of two horses; this makes 43.000 horses, which, on an average, are worth in Eng land, S6OO each, which brings the value of horses alone to 121,500,000, The keeping and appointments of the horses is certainly as much more, making $43,000,000. The value of the hounds, expense of keeping, ! of keepers and trainers, would amount to as much more. The outfit of the gentle men and traveling expenses would certainly , amount to S2OO per year, making over $40,000,000 more. So that we can see i how England alone yearly invests and I spends over $125,000,000 in this sport, to ■ say nothing of time. I ran easily imagine seme good man 1 saying, Why this Waste of money and p time?—how much good it would do in , support of charities. Rut hear the Eug i lishmun's side of the argument. The hunt ' is not cruel, for 100 men get their sport I out of one fox, and, when he is killed, ■ skin him and eat him, sell his skin, and i cut his tail off as a trophy. It gives life i and health to a whole people. It saves i the best brain of the nation. It cultivates i a brave, daring and chivalrous spirit. It . dcvelopes manly, dashing courage, among ■ the young men. It unites to its manly ; sport all classes of society and is a bond . of peace. When the hounds arc running, i the lords, the gentlemen, the farmers, the ; merchants, the lawyers and judges, the I butchers aud hskers, the doctors and mil i lors. the blacksmiths and sailors, all join s in one common race and in an intercourse and freedom of maimer which cannot lie s found in cities ur in any other countries. I As to danger, sometimes a man may get f his neck broken, as did the Duke of Dor r let; but it is calculated that in England, i in a season, 1,200,000 men and hones go y out in the chase of the fox, and yet it is aaid there is not, on an average, a bone s broken in each hunt or a man killed in all I. the hunts once in two years. Mr. Anthony s Trollope, who is a great lover and defend ■ er of fox hunting, oays that “the inch i. dents of a sedentary life are more danger a ous than those of fox hunting." Then, t again, high authority tells us that the 1 practice of this princely sport is the best i, preparation for the hardihood, daring ami y chivalrous courage required on the field nl i, battle. The Duke of Wellington con e stonily repeated the well-known epigram e on fox hunting: “It is mimicry of th WESTMINSTER, MD. SATURDAY, APRIL 26, 1873. art of war;' —aud the veteran warrior, long after be had left forever the bloody scenes of the battle field, enjoyed this more innocent mimicry of war in the chase of the fox. Another English officer of note at the present day, Sir Garnet Wool sey, leaches young officers that field sports J are n better training for practical service B than hooks, and the following the hounds t titan Cresar’s Commentaries or .lomini’s 3 “Art of War," f Such are some of the Englishman's ar- it gumenls in favor of his favorite national 1 sport. If all people must have amusement, o what, he asks, is more conducive to murals, health, pluck ami prowess, than the glori ous pastime of following the hounds and the fox ? Lord Cairns, the late Chancellor mid one of the greatest and best men of England, defends the fox hunt ns one of the best amusements. He never held his court on Saturday, but spent the same in the sad dle in pursuit of the fox. This he did, and docs now conscientiously, on account of his health. Whatever the merits of the argument may be, whether in favor of the hunt or against it, I nm very much of the opinion that were I an English country gentleman, with leisure aud money, I should not be able to resist the excitement of the hunt t when I should see every day the red coats ( in full gallop over the fields and hear the ) deep hay of the hounds in full pursuit of , the “ little red rascal Charley." , One thing 1 am assured of, if Americans ( would work less and play more they would , live longer and stronger lives, physically , and mentally, and boa greater and better ( nation than they now are. It is certain we arc becoming degenerated by the ex- j citement id money-making ami by brain ] work. The adage, “It is better to wear ( out than to rust out,” has no application , to America. No man has any more right , to break the law of God, which is written on his physical constitution, than he has to break one of the Ten Commandments. Power of the Preaa. For good or evil the press of the country wields a mighty power. It shapes and controls public sentiment by a silent iiifiu ence always at work. A good paper is like the pure sir—it imparts health and purity wherever it goes, A bad paper is like the noxious gas that steals unnoticed from the earth carrying its pestilential breath to corrupt and destroy whole communities. Yet good men arc to be found who permit bad papers to enter their household to poison the minds of their children. The seeds of depravity arc scattered by the evil hand, and no effort Is made to prevent it. Parents may not approve the senti ments uttered by these papers, but many appear insensible to their had effects, aud neglect to apply the correction. While they are careful to provide for the physi cal growth of their children they neglect their moral training. They provide fresh air and wholesome food fur the body, yet allow the mind to feed upon the poisonous elements of a corrupting literature. This should be stopped at once. The paper that contains immoral sentiments should be ns carefully excluded from the family circle as if it came from the pest 1 house stamped with certain contagion and 1 death. A rigid exclusion of these organs of wickedness from the decent familcs in our land, would confine them within limits where their influence would soon bo lost. , They might still tend to encourage vice, ' but their power to corrupt and destroy 1 would be gone forever. Every good citizen i should have at least one family paper. It i should ho chosen from among the many as * a friend would be, or a daily companion. ! Its tone should be elevated; ita sentiments r pure; its integrity unquestioned. With , such a silent companion in your family, ■ you can feel confident that good im f presaions are being formed iu the minds of ; your children. These impressions may r not be noticed in a day, or year, hut in i sensibly they will mould the character , that is to lead the youth through the i temptations of early manhood, protect and ■ advance him through active life, and sus r tain him in honorable old age. r , Sporting Anecdote. * If this is a true story which the ’ Bracken County, Ky., Chronicle tolls, it certainly is singular: * “Just after the last snow fell a little son ' of Mr. Alex. Keene took his gun and * started out after school one afternoon to " aee if he could scare up a rabbit. He 1 went up over Baker’s hill,near the cemetery, 1 and, not finding any rabbits, was coming 1 home, it being about dusk, when he accidently ran into a flock of partridges 0 which raised and started to fly down tho 8 hill, but being blinded by the snow the 8 entire flock brought up plump against the 1 side and roof of a tobacco barn with such ' force that fourteen of them were killed. ? The boy brought them home, when it was found that the craw of every bird was *’ berated. They had just had a big feed of e grain, aud the shock of coming in contact 0 with tho barn bursted their craws, aud they were captured. This is rather a n singular circumstance; nevertheless it is * true.” e- ■ (. Rabbit Übkidino.—ln the West of It Ireland the landlords have turned their r- attention to rabbit breeding, and wc are I, told that they find it more profitable than ;o sheep breeding. The manufacturing towns is consume enormous quantities of rabbits for food. In Manchester a dealer reports 11 that ho sells on the average during the y season 1,000 pairs of rabbits every Botur -1 day morning, and from 250 to 350 pair i- every other morning, in addition to alarge r- lot of game. Here is a hint for us. When ■, our sheep farms fidl, we can try rabbit le breeding. As mutton and beef command t such high prices in thickly populated dis d tricta, and as the prices seem to be in >f creasing all the while, possibly it would a- be a good thing to experiment with rabbit in culture here as they do in Great Brit iC tin fvrf Field and Farm. & Ikaf from the fast. “ IA BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN. |’ |fi This battle was fought on the 25th of, J, June, 1314, in the reign of King KdwarJ \ t HeconJ of England, ami we will preface , a the following interesting account of it, by 11 Mias Jam; Porter, with the following a familiar lines from Scotland's justly re- g nowned poet, Robert Rums, which pur- t, port to be “Bruce’s Address to his Army," i on the eve of this conflict; c “Scots, wha line wi Wallace bled I Scots whom Bruce has often led 1 ' Welcome to your gory bed, 1 Or to victory I ( Now's the day and now's the hour I See the front of battle lower, 1 See approach proud Edward's power, t Chains, and slavery I j Who, for Scotland's king and law, ' Freedom's sword will strongly draw, I Freemen stand and freemen fall, t Let him follow mo 1 Who will be a traitor knave, Who, so base as be a slave, Who will till a coward’s grave ? I Let him turn and flee!" “At the hour of the midnight watch, 1 the trum|>cts of approaching heralds re sounded without the camp. Robert Bruce 1 hastened to the council-tent, to receive the 1 now anticipated tidings. The communica tions of Ilambleton had given him reason to expect another struggle for his king dom ; and the message of the trumpets declared it should boa mortal one. At the head of a hundred thousand men, Edward had forced a rapid passage through the lowlands, and was now within a few hours' march of Stirling, fully determined to bury Scotland under her slain, or, by one decisive blow, restore her to his empire. When this was uttered by the English herald. Bruoc turned to Ruthvcn, with an heroic smile, and said, “Let him come, my brave barons! and he shall find that Bannockburn shall page with C'ambus- Kenueth !" The strength of the Scottish army did not amount to mure than thirty thousand men against this host of Soulh- I runs. But the relics of Wallace were there 1 His spirit glowed in the heart of 1 Bruce. The young monarch lost not the 1 advantage of choosing his ground first; and j therefore, as his force was deficient in cavalry, he so took his field as to compel the enemy to make it a battle of infantry alone. To protect his exposed flank from the innumerable squadrons of Edward, he dug deep and wide pits near to Bannock burn ; anil having overlaid their mouths with turf and brushwood, proceeded to marshal his little phalanx on the shore of that brook, till bis front stretched to St. I Ninian's monastery. Bruce stationed him ■ self at the head of the reserve; with him were the veterans Ixickawc and Kirkpa trick, and Lord Bothwell, with the true tsmguevillc, and the men of Lanark ; all determined to make this division the stay of their little army, or the last sacrifice for Scottish liberty and its martyred cham pion's corpse. There stood the sable hearse of Wallace ; and the royal standard, struck deep into the native rock of the ground, waved its bloodrcd volumes over the sacred head. “By that Heaven-sent palladium of our freedom," cried Bruce, pointing to the bier, “we must this day stand or fall. He who deserts it, murders William Wallace anew.” At this appeal, the chiefs of each battalion assembled around the hallowed spot, and laying their hands on the pull, swore to fill up one grave with their dauntless Wallace, rather than yield the ground which he had ren dered doubly precious by having made it the scene and the guerdon of his invinci ble deeds! When Kirkpatrick approached the side of his dead chief, he burst into tears, and his sobs alone proclaimed his participation in thesolemnity. “My leader in death, as in life 1" exclaimed Bruce, clasping his friend’s sable shroud to his heart, “thy pale corpse shall again redeem the country which cast thee, living, among devouring lions I Its presence shall fight and conquer fur thy friend and king!" Bruce, having placed his array, disposed the supernumeraries of the army, the families of his soldiers, and other apparently useless followers of the camp, in the rear of an adjoining hill. By day-break the whole of the Southron army (the English were called Southrons by the Scots, in those days) came in view. The van, con sisting of archers and men-at-arms, dis played the banner of Earl do Warrennc , the main body was led on by Edward himself, supported by a train of his most redoubtable generals. As they approached, the Bishop of Punkeld stood on the face of the opposite hill, between the abbots of Cambus-Kenn’cth and Inchaffracy, cele brating mass, in the sight of the opposing armies. He passed along in front of the Scottish lines, barefoot, with the crucifix in bis hand, and in few but forcible words exhorted them, by every sacred hope, to fight with on unreceding step for their rights, their king, and the corpse of William Wallace. At this adjuration, which seemed the call of Heaven itself, the Scuts fell on their knees, to confirm their resolution with a vow. The sudden humil iation of their posture excited an instant ' triumph in the haughty mind of Edward, and spurring forward he shouted aloud. “They yield!" “They cry for mercy 1" replied Percy, trying to withhold his i Majesty, “but not from us. On that i ground on which they kneel they will be i victorious or find their grave." The king i contemned the opinion of the carl, and inwardly believing that, now Wallace was - dead, he need fear no other opponent (fur > he knew not that even his corpse was in i array against him) he ordered his men to t charge. The horsemen, to the number of 1 thirty , thousand, obeyed; and rushing - forward, in the hope of overwhelming the - Scots ere they could rise from their knees, I met a different destiny. They found t destruction, amid the trenches and on the - spikes in the way; and, with broken ranks and fearful confusion, they fled or fell under the missive weapons which poured | on them from a neighboring height. I)e ■ Valence was overthrown and severely ‘ wounded, and being carried off the field ; filled the ranks with dismay, while the 1 king’s division was struck with consterna tion at so disastrous a commencement of : an action in which they had promised themselves so easy a victory. Bruce seised the moment of confusion, and seeing his little army distressed by the 1 arrows of the English, he sent Bothwell round, with a resolute body of men, to drive those destroying archers from the height which they had occupied. This was effected; and Bruce coming up with his reserve the battle in the centre became close, obstinate, and decisive. Many fell before the determined arm of the youth ful Scottish king; but it was the fortune of Bothwell to encounter the false Monteitb, in the train of Edward, The Scottish earl was then at the head of his intrepid Lanark men : “Fiend of the most damned treas on," cried he, (let it be remembered that Monteitb was the man who betrayed Sir William Wallace into the hands of Ed ward's myrmidons, who slew him, for al leged high treason, in the town of London, at the behest of Edward,; “vengeance is come 1” and with an iron grasp, throwing him into the midst of the faithful clan, they dragged him to the hearse of their chief, and there on the skirts of its pall, the wretched traitor breathed out his treacherous breath, under the strokes of a hundred swords. “So," cried the veteran Ireland, “perish the murderers of William Wallace!—" “So,” shouted the rest, “perish the enemies of the best of men !” At this crisis the women and followers of the Scottish ramp, hearing such triumph ant exclamations from their friends, im patiently quitted their station behind the hill, and ran to the summit waving their scarfs and plaids in exultation of supposed victory. The English, mistaking these people for a new array, had not power to recover from the increasing confusion which had seised them, on King Edward himself receiving a wound; and panic struck with the sight of their generals fulling around them, they flung away their arms and fled. The King narrowly es caped ; but being mounted on a stout and fleet horse, he put him to the top of bis speed, and reached Dunbar, whence the young Earl of March, being as much at tached to the cause of England as his father had been, instantly gave him a passage to England. The Southron ramp, with all its riches, fell into the hands of Bruce. But while his chieftains pursued their gallant chase, he returned his steps from warlike triumph, to pay the last honors to the remains of the hero whose blood had so often bathed the field of Scottish victory. So long had been the conflict, that night closed in before the last squadrons left the banks of Bannock burn.” This great and decisive battle secured the independence of Scotland, fixed Bruce upon the thrum; of that kingdom, and was the greatest overthrow which the English nation had received since the conquest. The unhappy king was murdered in the most brutal and barbarous manner, by his most licentious queen, Isabella, in concert with her equally infamous paramour. Mor timer, on the 21st day of September, 1327. The revolting details of thisking's death are too sickening for the reading of decent people. A Remarkable Pig. John Standiford, of Shelby county, Ky., a soldier in the war of 1812, tells a mar velous story of a pig. It was. to use effeminate language, of the softer sex, and the gentleman who owned it was sharpen ing his knife to cut its throat at the time it fled from the farm where it had rooted up grass and wallowed in the mire. Pos sibly it had a presentiment. At least it followed in the wake of a company of volunteer cavalry riding towards the North. Coming to the banks of the Kentucky River it begged in pig-language to be rowed over the stream, and the soldiers granted the request. It then followed the troopers, trotting when they trotted, and walking when they slowly walked. It must have been of the lean, long-legged kind, for otherwise it could not have traveled so resolutely and so far. “It followed us,” says Mr. Standiford, “through Cincinnati, on through Illinois ; there we went into camp. A short time after we again took np our line of march, followed by the pig to Sandusky, thence to Fort Meigs, thence to the river Raisin, ftom there to Pigeontown, and then to Detroit, where the army camped for some time. The expedition was then conducted around Lake Superior; then we marched up the river Thames, the pig still following; thence across the swamps to Harris and Johnston’s battle-ground. It swam one mile and a quarter at one time, and about a mile at another. During one of its per formances it was lamed by a hone, when ' onr commander hpd it sent back to Detroit and kept till we returned. Capt. Watkins called for our shotc, and it followed him home toSholbyville, Ky. When he passed the gentleman's house to whom it belonged he remarked that he bad brought bis pig home ; the gentleman told him to keep it, as 1 it was too much of a military hog for him.” Mr. Standiford concludes with the state ment that the pig often slept in his tent, 1 and that it was never known to put its ' nose into a dinner plate. As pigs have an ’ unceremonious way of sticking their noses > into everything, dinner plates especially, 1 when the opportunity is afforded, this ' campfollower was governed by an exoep ' tional code of good manners. The soldiers ' loved the animal. They could not do ' otherwise, when it stood before them a 1 stirring example of patriotism and culture. ? We venture to say that wo shall never see e the like of that pig again.— Turf, Field and ■ /firm. 1 e Some men are born great, some achieve s greatness, and some have greatness thrust 1 upon them. 6uri ®lio. =as= i Improvement of the Memory. , Memory is the most useful of all the faculties of the mind, and yet the most | neglected. It Is that peculiar intellectual ( power which enables us to retain the j knowledge of facta and events, and by the aid of recollection, to call them up for use at pleasure. The terms memory and re collection are not synonymous. The for- j mer implies the power of the mind to re tain, without the volition to call up; while ' the latter is the direct result of volition and ( implies the power to recollect or summon ( up for immediate use, whatever of the past , may have been impressed upon the senses. , Memory is the storehouse of the mind and j is to a man's intellect, just what the sav ings bank is to his finances. It is a safe repository of capital for occasions of emer- ' gency or for current use. No power of the mind is more capable of rapid and un limited improvement than the memory, where proper andjudicions efforts arc made to that end. It is a faculty which moat persons earnestly covet, but for which few people are willing to encounter the labor necessary to acquire, and the abuse of which everybody deplores. Rochefoucauld says, “Every one complains of his memory, no one of his judgment." A bad memory, is a letheun pool beneath whose waters our ignorance may be buried and which will serve on all occasions to excuse us from all that we never knew. It is a convenient scape-goat for all our intellectual short comings. Tire impressions made upon the mind by which the vividness of event* is permanently retained depends upon habit* of close attention. Men who read hastily and without thought make but little per ceptible progress in knowledge; while those who read slowly, weighing every thought with care, seem to leap forward with supernatural strides. Again, men who read indiscriminately without judg-1 ■ ment or classification of knowledge, make 1 . ! but little speed in mental advancement, i , | This is occasioned by the fact, that such a •' course makes the mind a mere lumber .! room, and gives rise to a confused and em -1 barrassed memory. The individual who i possesses such an unfortunate faculty is , more to be pitied than he who can attri . butc all hi* defects to an utter inability to , ; remember. There is no doubt that the i ’ majority of men could secure to them- I selves the ability to remember everything f; valuable, if they would set about to ac -1 1 quire it, for after all, it i* only an acquired , j habit, and is a certain reward to those who t seek it. It is said that Cyrus acquired a . memory which enabled him to call by name, f all the soldiers in his army. Hortensius, ; a Roman orator, was able to repeat an en s tire discourse, immediately after he had . written it without omission of a single word. Seneca could repeat two thousand 1 names in the order in which they had been . announced to him. Victor Purdy, an , English collier, committed the entire biblc , to memory. In order to cultivate this habit of remembering, the faculty must be . kept in constant exercise, by committing , to memory something useful every day, t for, unless constantly occupied, the power , is rapidly lost by disuse. Then the habit f of close attention and careful observation , must be secured by continual practice, f And, lastly, knowledge roust be classified. That is, the various departments of infor mation must be kept distinct in the mind, and each item of knowledge, as fast as it is acquired, must be assigned to its partic ’ ular place. Thus will every new fact find its appropriate station, and, by being asso -8 ciated with similar knowledge already ac quired, will be permanently retained almost without effort. Of this classification there 1 will be, first, the business or profession of an individual which must necessarily, oc cupy the largest portion of his thoughts. * Information in that connection from force of circumstances, is so easily assimilated that is seems to come by intuition, and ' immediately assumes its peculiar corner. Then will follow his intellectual recreations 8 which may be divided among all the branches of knowledge he may find it con venient or proper to pursue, the natural sciences, chemistry, astronomy, mathema tics, general literature or otherwise. Each of these departments of information must have it* distinctive place in the mind in order that kindred knowledge may cluster 0 around it, for the mind quickly grasps the 8 fruit* presented to it in clusters. Thus by constant exercise through the frequent re currence of thought to the topics thus 1 classified in the mind will the memory bc ' c °me strong and knowledge will accumu j late to an unlimited degree. p A Rabe Gift.—Comparatively few J people possess the useful gift of pleasing in company, but now and then we meet t with a person so exactly formed to please, that he will gain upon every one that hears j or behold* him; this disposition is not t merely the gift of nature, but frequently t the effect of much knowledge of the world, 1 a command over the passions. The . true art of being agreeable, is to appear I well pleased with all the company, and f rather seem entertained with them, than to ’ bring entertainment to them. A man thus . disposed, perhaps, may not have much learning nor any wit; but he has common sense, and something friendly in behavior, ’ it conciliates men’s minds more than the , brightest part* without this disposition; s and when a man of such a turn comes to old age, he is almost sure to be treated ’ with respect. B Effect or Change or Texpkbatube a on Health. —Throughout Europe, gen a erally, the maximum of mortality occurs , at the end of the winter, and the minimum e in the middle of summer. The Registrar j General of England calculates that a change of the mean temperature of the air from 40 degrees to four or five degree* e below the freeiing point destroy* from it three hundred to five hundred of the pop ulation of London. VOL. VIII.—NO. 24 Snake-Charming in Sum. On being invited by * Siamese family to eee name amusement*. writes* tom eler, the perfortnmuee began by tbe magieun j taking a email pearl box out of bis bosom, | opening it and holding it toward some ( butterflies. They seemed to observe the downy cotton with which the box was ( lined, and in circling curves they moved ( toward it and crouched down, with wings rtill outspread, upon the dainty couch pre- ( pared for them. The juggler closed tbe ( box at onoe ; and as be did so, we saw , seated upon the top a live canary, that ( carrolled forth sweet songs until its little t* rest seemed ready to split, as if striving . to compensate for the departure of our J butterfly favorites. Suddenly the song of joy was changed to piercing notes that ( betokened horror or alarm; and we saw at the conjurer a feet a deadly cobra de ca pcllo, coiled aa if for a spring, and with j its glittering eyes fixed on the bird, that ( seemed spell bound to the spot, either too j frightened or fsscinated to move. The ( man waited till the snake was in the very set of springing, and then, with a few j words spoken in low musical tones, and s gentle droning movement of the hand, he ' seemed to throw the cobra into the aame trance-like state that the bird bad evinced, ! while the latter roused up and flew eagerly into the jujprler's bosom; which had been opened for its reception. From this same capacious receptacle, apparently exhaust- ! less in its resources, was drawn out anoth er cobra; and after allowing them time to make each other’s acquaintance, some times inciting them to anger, and again soothing to quietude by his soft words and droning motions, the juggler wrapped them Doth about his nock and anna, and stood with exultant pride, allowing them to touch his nose, the tip of his tongue, and in one instance even the pupil of his eye, with their vibrating tongues. But all this while he held a small lute in his hand ; and when words seemed to fail, he played a few notes on the instrument, which soon reduced the reptiles to a state of dreamy quiescence. After performing various daring feats with them, to show tbe audience that the snakes bad been in no way mutilated, he threw a large chick en between them. Both struck at it, and it died in abont five minutes. I afterward saw more of this snake charming in Bankgkok; and in this par ticular branch of jugglery the Siamese are said to excel all other Orientals. I have seen them hang half a dosen different kinds of serpents—cobras, hooded sun snakes and vipers—about their necks at once, placing a whole coil of them in their bosoms, and even taking the reptiles beads in their mouths. Then they will place seme ten or fifteen of aa many different , species in a deep basket with a long, nar row neck, and without looking in, thrust I down their hands, draw up one or more, toy with it for a while, and then throwing it back, take up another, and 10 on as long as they can obtain paying spectators. These jugglers devote themselves exclu sively to the study and practice of their profeeeian, and each company tries to ont ’ do all others in dexterity and daring. [ They are highly esteemed, exert large in fluence in the cummunity, and are accred ited by their credulous compatriots with authority over all diseases, which they profess to summon or drive off at will, as well as evil spirits, ghosts and genii. Despite the palpable absurdity of these pretensions, the reality of tbe power they claim over venomous reptiles admits of not I the shadow of a doubt, though how this power is maintained is not so easily shown. It is doubtless, to some extent, the effect of music, which is always employed by the ” juggle™ to throw the reptiles into a sort , of spell during their performances, aided also by a monotonous waving to and fro of the charmer's body—a motion that seems to 101 l the snakes into s dreamy, mesmeric , trance, in which they can be kept for days | together. In addition to this, the snakes are very carefully tended, never suffered to become hungry, nor yet fed to such re pletion as to occasion either- torpor or a 1 habit of hankering after the blood. The ! jogglera also keep their bodies smeared with some oily substance, the nature of which they will not divulge; but we may infer that it is something for which the snake has a natural antipathy or that exerts a narcotic influence on its nerves. These combined influences seem quite sufficient to produce tbe marvellous power exercised ' by Oriental anake charmers It is abso lutely certain that the poisonous fangs are not extracted, as some have asserted, but that the reptiles are brought wholly un mutUated into the arena. I hare myself seen charmers perform with snakes they have never before touched, and which have ' been returned to me perfect aa I handed ' them over. Soma of these are now bot ' tied in my cabinet. ’ Alligator-charming is also effected by * music, and is resorted to frequently by 1 soothsayers and fortune tellers to decide whether an undertaking is to be lucky or ’ unlucky. Offerings are thrown into the ! river, prayers are made, and then in nndia sembled awe the petitioners await the * monster’s decree, that is to send them off ’ happy or the reverse. If he appears to 1 answer to the call, the omen is good. If 1 his alligatorehip, however, should happen 1 to be sleepy or absent, and fail to respond ’ his petitioners depart in sadness, and never hesitate to give up the proposed underta ’ king, whatever it may be. In this coo -1 nection I mention fortune-tailing, in which 1 ill Oriental natives have such unlimited confidence that a betrothal in marriage, a journey or feast—■ ftot, anything of ! even small importance—is never entered ■ on tUI the soothsayer haa been sought or 1 the “ fortunebook” consulted, i „ Genius is the gift of the Deity, ft dm -1 covets itself without effort, and is unknown r to the possessor. . i Frankness speaks of the present ae if ► they were absent, and kindness of the ah sent as if they ware present. THE OREATBT BERNARD. bt > UAM.EB meaner. Although the St. Bernard convent hi, aa I dare say yon know, the highest in habited spot but one in the world, the as cent la extremely gradual and uncommonly easy ; really presenting no difficulties at all, until within the last league, when the ascent leading through a place called the valley of desolation, is very awful and tremendous, and the road is rendered toil some by scattered rocks and melting snow. Tbe convent is a most extraordinary place, full of great vaulted pamages, divided from each other with iron gratings; and present ing a scries of the most astonishing little dormitories, where the windows are so small, (on account of the cold and snow,) that it is as much as one can do to get one's head out of them. Herewe dept; sop ping, thirty strong, in a rambling room with a great wood fire in it act apart for that purpose ; with a grim monk, in a high black sugar loaf bat with a great knob at the top of it. carving the dishes. At five o'clock in the morning precisely, the chapel bell rang in the dismelest way for matins; and I, lying in bed close to the chapel, and being awakened by the solemn organ and tbe chanting, thought for a moment I bad died in the night and passed into the unknown world. I wish you could see that place. A great hollow on the top of a range of dreadful mountains, fenced in by riven rooks of every shape and color, and in the midst a black lake, with phan tom clouds perpetually stalking over it. Peaks and points, and plains of eternal snow and ioe, bounding the view and shut ting out the world on every side; tbe black lake reflecting nothing; and no human figure in the scene. The air so fine that it is difficult to breathe without feeling out of breath ; and the cold so exquisitely thin and sharp that it is not to be described. Nothing of life or living interest in the picture, but the grey, dull walla of the convent. No vegetation of any sort or kind. Nothing growing, nothing stirring. Everything iron bound and froaen up. Beside tbe convent, in a little outhouse with a grated iron door which you may unbolt yourself, arc the bodies of people found in the now who have never yet been claimed and are now withering away —not laid down or stretched out, bnt standing up in corners and against the wall, some erect and horribly human, with dis tinct expression on their faces; some drop ping over on one side; some tumbled down altogether, and presenting a heap of sknlls and fibrous dust. There is no other decay in that atmosphere; and then they remain daring the short days and the long nights, the only human company out of dams, withering away by grains, and holding ghostly possession of the mountain where they died. It is tbe most distinct and individual place I have ever seen in this transcendent country. Bnt, for the Saint Bernard holy fathers and convent in themselves, I am sorry to say that they are a piece of as sheer bnmbng as we ever learnt to believe in, in our young days. Trashy French sentiment, and the dogs, (of which, by the bye, there are only three remaining) have done it all. They are a laxy set of fellows, not over fond of going out themselves; employing servants to clear the road, (which has not been important or much used as a pass these hundred yean; rich, and driving a good trade at inn-keeping; the convent being a common tavern in everything hut the sign. No charge is made for their hospitality, to be sore; hot yon are shown to a box in the chapel, where everybody pate in more than oonld, with any show of face, be charged for the entertainment, and from tfaia the establish meut derives a right good income. As to the self-sacrifice of living np there, they are obliged to go there yonng, it is trne, to be inured to the climate; hat it is an infinitely more exciting and various life than any other convent can offer} with constant change and company through the whole summer; with an hospital for invalids down in the valley, which affords another change; and with an annual begging-journey to Geneva and this place , and all the place* round for one brother or other, which affords farther change. The brother who carved st our sapper could speak some English, and had just had Pichciclc given him I —what a hum bug he will think me when he tries to understand it I If I had any other book of mine with me, I would have given it him, that I might have had some chance of being intelligible. Fun at Home. r Don't be afraid of a little fun at home, , good people. Don’t shat np your houses I lest the sun should fade your earpsts, and . your hearts, lest a happy laugh should shake down some of the musty cob-webs . there. If yon want to rain your aims, let , them think that all mirth and social en- I joyment most, be left on the threshold r when they come home st night. When once a home is regarded aa only a place . to oat, drink and sleep in, the work is bc . gun that ends in gambling-honan and f degradation. , Young people must have fun and relax r ation somewhere. If they do not find it , at their own hearthstones, it will be sought | hi other, and perhaps teas profitable places, r Therefore let the fire burn brightly at night, Mid make the home ever delightful . with all those little arts that {areata so i perfectly understand. Don't reptvmi the | buoyant spirits of year children; half an , hour of merriment wand the lamp and . F firelight of home blots oat the remembrance I of many a care and annoyance daring the i day, and the best safeguard they can take , enceoa

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