THE ticking of a clock has always been a solemn sound to us, and yet we have ever had a kind of foudness for it. Far back in childhood, as we still well remember, we did not tire sitting before the tall clock in the corner, watching the apparently careless balancing motion of the secondhand, and counting the ticks up to sixty. Even now we retain our old love in this regard, and not unfrequently find ourself meditative before the clock; our eyes noting the swing of the pendulum through the transparent glass, and our ears feeding on the familiar ticks by which seconds, minutes, hours and at length lives are measured-and then many earnest thoughts glide through our mind. In this mood we have sometimes been allured into a philosophizing on time-how it is, and what it is. But in this we have never been able to make much progress; for the more we thought the less we seemed to ourselves to know. In fact, others seem to be in the same case; and we have never been able to meet with either man or book that could much instruct us in regard to the how and the what of t me. The only conclusion to which we ever could come is, that time is a great mystery! We know not what it is-we cannot define its nature. To us it is the flow of being, the current of existence, "the stuff that life is made of." This we know: Time is solemn. The music of the clock has something of the dirge in it. Time is the vast ocean without shore, on which float planets, stars and suns, till the storms which rise on its bosom sink them all forever. It is before all things created, underlies all created things, and bears all created things away. It will make the heavens old -it will at last lay them aside as a worn-out garment. It is a stream which bears us and all things on to God; or breaks them and us upon its surface. On earth it is the all-subduing victor. It bears away generations and buries them strata upon strata. It dissolves empires, and changes all their glory into a mere dream of the past. The proudest monuments of nations disappear on the surface of its silent, solemn flow, like snow flakes on the bosom of a stream. Our poor transient mortal life is but as a bubble that has scarce time to reflect a sunbeam before it breaks and flees away in the irresistible current. All flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man-the highest bloom which he is able to reach-as the flower of grass. Time is precious, and has a value untold. Though it sends adrift all that is mortal and earthly-though fragments dash against fragments on its surface and sink in its depths, it has a golden flow. Its years, months, weeks, days, minutes and moments are diamonds as to their value, and may be exchanges for imperishable riches-and the wise will so use this priceless coin. Time is precious to us because we have so little of it. Our portion of it on earth is as a floating vapor-as a passing shadow--as a tale that is told-as a dream when one waketh. A good part of what was so little at first, is already gone. Spent in infancy and childhood when we knew not its value. Spent in sleep, to refresh and sustain our mortal life. Spent, alas! often in sin, and thus used in a way that is worse than waste. A small portion remains-how little none can know! One-third of that will again be spent in sleep-one-third in necessary earthly business, and in cares of this life. The fragment that remains will be devoted-to what? Some will apply it unto wisdom-oh, how few! Others will so apply a very small portion of it. Still others will divide it between slumbers in the night and worldliness by day. Much will go in idleness -much in mere amusement-much in vanity—and in many cases all in sin! Thus will the process of waste go on till the lamp of life flickers in the socket-till the sand has fallen to its finish-till the sun goes down -till the dial's gnomon point to the twelfth hour-and all is over! The Prepared or not-wise or foolish-it is the end. The solemn experiment of life has been made. The time of probation is ended. harvest is past! and the angel announces, Time gone, the righteous saved, the wicked damned, And God's eternal government approved! We cannot too highly value time. The young should take care of it with more jealousy than that with which the miser watches over his gold. Nothing is of more value, and yet how freely and vainly do we often spend it. We lavish the priceless coin where it wins us nothing but future sorrow. We take no note of time But from its loss; to give it then a tongue I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours. Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. It is the signal that demands despatch: How much is to be done! My hopes and fears A dread eternity! how surely mine! Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? PIOUS FRIENDS. BY THE EDITOR. THE stars that nightly shine above our head Are lights in life's dark home to cheer and bless, WASHINGTON IN TEARS. AT the close of the Revolution it is well known that Congress was unable to meet its obligations to the army. Division of counsel existed as to the best method of raising the necessary funds to pay off the army before it was disbanded. While thus the hopes of the unpaid army were alternately elevated and depressed, some traitorous person scattered an anonymous circular among them, fomenting the dissatisfaction already existing, and leading to open rebellion. The individual who was suspected to have been the author of this paper was General Armstrong. Washington summoned all the officers into his presence to hear an appeal which he had prepared, and a copy of which is found in Marshall's Life. Neither wild lands, however rich, nor continental paper, however legal, would purchase bread or clothing. The minds of the army had become embittered by poverty and disappointment, and their principles corrupted by the infidel French literature which flooded our land, and poisoned all the fountains of society. On a certain day the loyal and disloyal gathered around the camp of the "Father of our country." General Gates, against whom charges made had been withdrawn, presided. General Washington arose with his manuscript in hand, to read a rebuke to treason; but tears suffusing his eyes, prevented him. What a scene for some American Vernet! He grasped the scroll, dashing away the tears, and essayed again to read. But all was silent. His noble frame heaved with emotion. In order to suffer his agitated feelings to subside, be began hunting for his spectacles. "Pardon me, gentlemen," he said, "I have grown gray and blind in the service of my country!" What a rebuke were these words to the concealed promoters of treason! Many who before might have faltered, were now melted by those tears. They gathered closer and closer around the noble form, and when he closed, they resolved to stand to the death by their devoted leader. Those tears, under Providence, may have saved our country. THE SABBATH: Sydney Smith pronounces the following sonnet one of the most beautiful in the English language: With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, Which slowly wakes while all the fields are still. And echo answers from the hill, And softer sings the linnet from the thorn, The Skylark warbles in a toneless shrill, Haillight serene; hail! sacred Sabbath morn. The gates that lately sighed along the groves HUMBUG. BY THE EDITOR. OUR readers are familiar with this title. As the shameful work continues the exposures must continue. We hold it to be the solemn duty of journals devoted to the true interests of their readers to speak out without weariness on this subject. Their name is legion and they go forth over the land in filthy abuudance, like the lice of Egypt; and though we have no hope that any amount of protest and exposure will effectually stay the tide so long as there are such a host of silly persons to patronize them, yet there are many innocent persons who by a constant spread of light on the subject, may be guarded against their impositions. An esteemed young friend has taken the pains to write to a number of these humbugs, for the purpose of getting at the secret of their schemes, and has kindly placed their answers to his letters in our hands. So plainly does the imposition lie on the surface of these letters that we are surprised the bait is not as once discovered; and yet so cunningly is the affair often managed, that it succeeds with thousands. In examining these letters of our young friend, we find that No. 1 is from a pretended Reverend gentleman, who kindly proposes to cure Nervous Debility-the very class of persons who in that state are easily entrapped in any scheme that promises relief. He expresses great anxiety that the patient may not be imposed upon; should he entrust the preparation of the Pills to druggists, they might put into them instead of the proper ingredients, (which are costly) some cheaper drugs. Hence "he encloses a pill of the genuine kind, made by himself." He thinks it better that the patient send direct to him, enclosing the amount, which may be sent at his risk! Who does not see that the object is to sell his pills made of what? No. 2 is from Gracy de Lormes for fits and dyspepsia. All the ingredients can be had at any drug store, except one, the Blue Vervain. This is the bait. To get it the patient must send to the Humbug and " enclose!" If the reader will inquire after the Blue Vervain, he will find that it is a European plant growing by the way-side, possessing no medical virtues whatever, and for this reason "it is not found in the drug stores." No. 3 is from Prof. James T. Horne, informing the applicant that after years of patient labor and chemical analysis he has discovered how he can "shorten nature's process," and "make honey precisely as the bees make it!" This is, if not a decidedly rich, still a positively sweet discovery. He will send a small pot of the honey as a specimen for 37 cents; and the cost of the receipt is only $5! He firmly adds, taking less than $5, I cannot do it." His mode of making honey, however, differs from that of bees in this, that he uses "slippery elm," whereas the bees rely mostly on flowers. Perhaps this is done in order not to infringe on the ancient patent right of the bees. But for this the bees as for will care little, since they work "all for love, and nothing for reward," whilst he makes honey to make money. No. 4 is from Mrs. Mary Dewitt, for the cure of Nervous Debility. The principal ingredient in the pills is "St. Ignatius' Bean." She tells the patient how to make the pills-part of the process is, "with a gentle heat, evaporate to the proper consistency for forming pills.." That is enough of itself to frighten even a Philadelphia lawyer from an attempt to understand the process. On the head of all this, the patient is assured that "the preparation of the extract is a very troublesome process." This is poor comfort; but then there mercifully follows, if it is preferred," on receipt of $1, I will forward by mail the pills ready made." Of course this will be preferred by the ignorant dupe. No. 5 is from P. O. Boyd, who will cure Dropsy in forty-eight hours. All the ingredients for the cure can be obtained in the drug stores-except one-the Chian Turpentine. This is collected in the island Chio or Scio (where is the spirit of Homer!) The annual production is very small, therefore very little or none reaches this country. Nevertheless he has it always on hand for his own customers! Be cautious, "persons who have not been in the habit of mixing the ingredients, are apt to neglect some point. One of the articles being very dear, leaves an opening for spurious combination, and your whole anxiety and trouble may be a failure; so you must be very particular, in order to insure success." Bette obtain it from him-"$5 must be enclosed." In this style the thing goes on through eight of these letters. They are all on the same key. This will suffice to show in what way the bait is always sugared over so as to catch the unwary. The reader may be sure that in the case of any of these quack doses, in whatever shape their pretensions may be presented, and whatever guards may be set around the imposition, there is a catch in them somewhere, by which he will be drawn into the hands of the Humbug and defrauded out of any money he may send. WINTER. BY J. H. D. I HAIL thee winter! Let the croaker sing To mountain summits, where, on spotless snow, And where his robes with icy jewels glow. I love thine icy crown, thine hoary hair That waves beneath, so stately and so grand; I love thy noble brow, for tender care |