« EdellinenJatka »
ses round friend and foe, hid him from my view. When 35 the battle was over, and all was hushed but the groans of
the wounded, and the triumphant shouts and rolling drums of the victorious Prussians, who continued the pursuit during the entire of the night, I quitted the shattered re
mains of the gallant regiment in whose ranks I had that 40 day the honor of standing: The moon was wading
through scattered masses of dark and heavy clouds, when I commenced my search for my friend.
The light was doubtful and uncertain; yet it was easy to keep along
the track that marked the last career of Ponsonby. 45 Shuddering, lest in every face I should recognise my
friend, I passed by, and sometimes trod upon the cold and motionless heaps, which now looked so unlike the
fiery masses of living valour” that a few hours before, had commingled, with a concussion more dreadful than 50 the earthquake's shock. Although I at first felt a certain
conviction of his fate, I afterwards began to hope that the object of my search had, contrary to his prediction, survived the terrible encounter. I was about to retire,
when a heap of slain, in a ploughed field, on which the 55 moon was now shining clearly, attracted my notice.
Literally piled on each other, were the bodies of five cuirassiers; and lying beneath his horse was the dead body of my friend. You may form some idea of my as
tonishment, on finding, by a nearer inspection, that his 60 head was supported and his neck entwined by the arms
of a female, from whom also the spirit had taken its departure; but you can form no conception of the horror I felt at beholding, in this scene of carnage and desola
tion, in the very arms of death, and on the bosom of a 65 corpse, a living infant, sleeping calmly, with the moon
beam resting on its lovely features, and a smile playing on its lips, as if angels were guarding its slumbers, and inspiring its dreams! And who knows but perhaps they
were? The conviction now flashed on my mind, that 70 these were the wife and child of my unfortunate friend;
and the letters we afterwards found on the person of the former, proved that I was right in my conjecture. Driven aside by the gale of pleasure or ambition, or by the
storms of life, the affections of man may veer; but un75 changeable and unchanging is a true heart in woman.
“She loves, and loves forever.” This faithful wife had
followed her husband through a land of strangers, and over the pathless sea; through the crowded city and
the bustling camp, till she found him stretched on the 80 battle field. Perhaps she came in time to receive his
parting sigh, and her spirit, quitting its worn-out tenement of clay, winged its way with his to Him who gave them being. With the assistance of some of my com
rades, I consigned this hapless pair to the earth, wrapped 85 in the same military cloak; and enveloping the infant,
this dear child of my adoption, in my plaid, I returned to the spot where our regiment lay.
EXERCISE 42. The Righteous never forsaken.--New York SPECTATOR.
It was Saturday night, and the widow of the Pine Cottage sat by her blazing fagots, with her five tattered children at her side, endeavouring by listening to the
artlessness of their prattle, to dissipate the heavy gloom 5 that pressed upon her mind. For a year, her own feeble
hands had provided for her helpless family, for she had no supporter: she thought of no friend in all the wide, unfriendly world around. But that mysterious Provi
dence, the wisdom of whose ways are above human com10 prehension, had visited her with wasting sickness, and
her little means had become exhausted. It was now, too, mid-winter, and the snow lay heavy and deep through all the surrounding forests, while storms still seemed
gathering in the heavens, and the driving wind roared 15 amidst the bounding pines, and rocked her puny mansion.
The last herring smoked upon the coals before her; it was the only article of food she possessed, and no won
der her forlorn, desolate state brought up in her lone bo20 som all the anxieties of a mother, when she looked upon
her children; and no wonder, forlorn as she was, if she suffered the heart swellings of despair to rise, even though she knew that he whose promise is to the widow and to
the orphan, cannot forget his word. Providence had 25 many years before taken from her her eldest son, who
went from his forest home, to try his fortune on the high seas, since which she heard no note or tidings of him;
and in latter time, had, by the hand of death, deprived
her of the companion and staff of her earthly pilgrimage, 30 in the person of her husband. Yet to this hour she had
been upborne; she had not only been able to provide for her little flock, but had never lost an opportunity of ministering to the wants of the miserable and destitute.
The indolent may well bear with poverty, while the 35 ability to gain sustenance remains. The individual who
has but his own wants to supply, may suffer with fortitude the winter of want; his affections are not wounded, his heart not wrung. The most desolate in populous
cities may hope, for charity has not quite closed her 40 hand and heart, and shut her eyes on misery. But the
industrious mother of helpless and depending childrenfar from the reach of human charity, has none of these to console her. And such an one was the widow of the
Pine cottage; but as she bent over the fire, and took 45 up the last scanty remnant of food, to spread before her
children, her spirits seemed to brighten up, as by some sudden and mysterious impulse, and Cowper's beautiful lines came uncalled across her mind
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
He hides a smiling face. The smoked herring was scarcely laid upon the table, when a gentle rap at the door, and loud barking of a 55 dog, attracted the attention of the family. The children
flew to open it, and a weary traveller, in tattered garments, and apparently indifferent health, entered and begged a lodging, and a mouthful of food; said he “it
is now twenty-four hours since I tasted bread.” The 60 widow's heart bled anew as under a fresh complication
of distresses; for her sympathies lingered not round her fireside. She hesitated not even now; rest and share of all she had she proffered to the stranger. " We shall
not be forsaken; » said she, “or suffer deeper for an 65 act of charity.”
The traveller drew near the board—but when he saw the scanty fare, he raised his eyes towards Heaven with astonishment—" and is this all your store?” said he
" and a share of this do you offer to one you know not? 70 then never saw I charity before! but madam,” said he,
continuing, “ do you not wrong your children by giving a part of your last mouthful to a stránger?”.“ Ah, the poor widow, and the tear drops gushed into her eyes
as she said it, “ I have a boy, a darling son, somewhere 75 on the face of the wide world, unless ħeaven has taken
him away, and I only act towards you, as I would that others should act towards him. God, who sent manna from heaven can provide for us as he did for Israel
and how should I this night offend him, if my son should 80 be a wanderer, destitute as you, and he should have · provided for him a home, even poor as this—were I to turn you unrelieved away.”
The widow ended, and the stranger springing from his seat, clasped her in his arms—“God indeed has 85 provided your son a home—and has given him wealth
to reward the goodness of his benefactress-my mother! oh my mother!”
It was her long lost son; returned to her bosom from the Indies. He had chosen that disguise that he might 90 the more completely surprise his family; and never was
surprise more perfect, or followed by a sweeter cup of joy. That humble residence in the forest was exchanged for one comfortable, and indeed beautiful, in the val
ley, and the widow lived long with her dutiful son, in 95 the enjoyment of worldly plenty, and in the delightful
employments of virtue, and at this day the passer by is pointed to the willow that spreads its branches above her grave.
To Printers.-FISHER AMEs. It seems as if newspaper wares were made to suit a market, as much as any other. The starers, and wonderers, and gapers, engross a very large share of the at
tention of all the sons of the type. Extraordinary events 5 multiply upon us surprisingly. Gazettes, it is seriously
to be feared, will not long allow room to any thing, that is not loathsome or shocking. A newspaper is pronounced to be very lean and destitute of matter, if it
contains no account of murders, suicides, prodigies or 10 monstrous births.
Some of these tales excite horror, and others disgust; yet the fashion reigns, like a tyrant, to relish wonders, and almost to relish nothing else. Is this a reasonable
taste; or is it monstrous and worthy of ridicule?. Is the 15 history of Newgate the only one worth reading? Are
oddities only to be hunted? Pray tell us, men of ink, if our free presses are to diffuse information, and we, the poor ignorant people, can get it no other way than
by newspapers, what knowledge we are to glean from the 20 blundering lies, or the tiresome truths about thunder
storms, that, strange to tell! kill oxen or burn barns? The crowing of a hen is supposed to forebode cuckoldom; and the ticking of a little bug in the wall
threatens yellow fever. It seems really as if our news25 papers were busy to spread superstition.—Omens, and
dreams, and prodigies, are recorded, as if they were worth minding. One would think our gazettes were intended for Roman readers, who were silly enough to
make account of such things. We ridicule the papists 30 for their credulity; yet, if all the trumpery of our papers
is believed, we have little right to laugh at any set of people on earth; and if it is not believed, why is it printed?
Surely, extraordinary events have not the best title to 35 our studious attention. To study nature or man, we
ought to know things that are in the ordinary course, not the unaccountable things that happen out of it.
This country is said to measure seven hundred millions of acres, and it is inhabited by almost six millions 40 of people. Who can doubt, then, that a great many
crimes will be committed, and a great many strange things will happen every seven years? There will be thunder showers, that will split tough white oak trees;
and hail storms, that will cost some farmers the full 45 amount of twenty shillings to mend their glass windows;
there will be taverns, and boxing matches, and elections, and gouging, and drinking, and love, and murder, and running in debt, and running away, and suicide.
Now, if a man supposes eight, or ten, or twenty dozen 50 of these amusing events will happen in a single year, is
he not just as wise as another man, who reads fifty columns of amazing particulars, and, of course, knows that they have happened?