The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1851-09-09 00:00:00

THREE PET FRIENDS,

" Erasmus Spoonley was a rising' man I All Ripplestone
nay, Alderbury itself, our great county town, and its environs,'
were proud of Erasmus Spoonley. He was the incipient im.
mortality of the neighbourhood. Not that lie always illumined
us by his presence; no, it was enough that he had done us the
honour to be born among us, and to attend the Alderhury High
School. He was now removed to a higher arena. In fact, he
was ' at the Bar'—that mystical term, which accounts for a
man's haunting London, and obtaining a vast reputation in
private society xithout anything to shew for it. We always
asked every one who came from London, if he knew Erasmus
Spoonley ; and if he answered in the negative, which augured
himself unknown,' and met us by a counter inquiry, as to who
Mr. Spoonley might be, the invariable reply was. • One of the
most rising young men at the Bar.' It takes so long to rise
there, that it scarcely surprised any one that years passed
on, and still Erasmus had not risen. But how great was his
tame as an author ;—underatood to contribute all the best arti•

cies in the Quarterly Reviews, and to be one of the severest cri-
tics of the day! He openly avowed that he' dabbled in litera-
ture;' but anonymous—anonymous he would add, signifi-
cantly. Mr. Erasmus Spoonley was thin, pale, short-sighted,
but in all else decidedly sharp. His nose was sharp ; his teeth
were sharp; his voice, his gesture, his manner sharper still.
Young ladies called him a dear, singular looking creature, but
so clever.' Mrs. Batterhy was the reverse of Mr. Spoonley in
appearance and mind. She was ponderous in person and in
inte'lect. She read ponderous books, and affected ponderous
sciences. Het"' conversation was solid—her enemies said,
hears, ; but then, as a sort of diversion, she ever and anon
paused, and trotted out Mr. Batterby for the amusement of the
party. 'He followed up her cannonading like a scattered volley
of musketry. Perhaps my aunt had this couple in view when
she recommended me to marry a woman older and wiser than
myself. Mr. Batterby stood in just such a position : he was
remarkable for nothing except his love of gossip, until he was
taken under the care of that learned woman ; and then she fos-
tered in him a talent for telling anecdotes. He told a story
well, in a measured tone, and with nicely chosen words; more-
over, he was a good mimic. Generally, he was silent, keenly
observant of any occurrence which could he manufactured into
an anecdote. 'But there invariably came a point when Mrs.
Batterhy would close an harangue with—' Mr. Batterby will
relate the event better than I can. Tom, my dear, tell them
about Professor Tongue's visit to us.' Whereupon Tom would
dive into his memory,'and bring forth a neatly compiled record
of the transaction in question. If he told it better than com-
mon, his wife inclined her large head heavily, and drawled out,
Very good—very well done,' to his complete satisfaction."

THE LAST WO4tD is the most dangerous of infernal ma-
chines. Husband and wife should no more fight to get
it than they would struggle for the possession of a lighted
homh-shell. Married people should study each other's
weak points, as skaters look out for the weak parts of the
ice, in order to keep off them. Ladies who marry for
love should remember that the union of angels with wo-
men has been forbidden since the flood. The wife is the
sun of the social system. Unless she attracts, there is no-
thing to keep heavy bodies like husbands from flying into
space. The wife, who should properly discharge her du-
ties, must never have a soul above trifles. Don't trust too
much to good temper when you get into an argument-
Sugar is the substance most universally diffused through
all natural products. Let married people take a hint from
this provision of nature.

MENTAL EXCITEMENT.—Bad news weakens the action
of the heart, oppresses the lungs, destroys the appetite,
stops digestion, and partially suspends all the functions of
the system. An emotion of shame flushes the face; fear
blanches it ; joy illuminates it; and an instant thrill elec-
trifies a million of nerves. Surprise spurs the pulse into
a gallop. Delirium infuses great energy. Volition com-
mands, and hundreds of muscles spring to execute.
Powerful emotion often kills the body at a stroke;
Diagaros, and Sophocles died of joy at the Grecian games.
The news of a defeat killed Philip V. The doorkeeper of
Congress expired upon hearing of the surrender of Corn-
wallis. Eminent public speakers have often died in the
midst of an impassioned burst of eloquence, or when
the deep emotion that produced it suddenly subsided.
Largrave, the young Parisian, died when be heard that
the musical prize for which he had competed was adjudged
to another.

EVENING.—There are two periods in the life of man in
which the evening hour is peculiarly interesting—in youth
and in old age. In youth, we love it for its mellow moon-
light, its million of stars, its thin, rich, and shooting
shades, its still serenity ; amid those who can commune
with our loves, or twine the wreaths of friendship, while
there is none to hear us witness hut. the heavens and the
spirits that hold their endless Sabbath there—or look into
the deep bosom of creation, spread abroad like a canopy
above us, and look and listen till we can (almost see and
hear the waving wings and melting songs of other worlds.
To youth evening is delightful ; it accords with the flow
of his light spirits, the fervor of his fancy, and the soft-
ness of his heart. Evening is, also, the delight of virtu-
ous agg ; it seems nn emblem of the tranquil close of
busy life—serene, placid, and mild, with the impress of
its great Creator stamped upon it; it spreads its quiet
wings over the grave, and seems to promise that all shall
he peace beyond it.—Home Circle.
AFFECTION AND CONFIDENCE OF SINGING BIRDS.—
These little creatures, if we would narrowly watch them,
possess the most singular attractions, exhibit the most ro-
mantic attachment. Not a movement of their master or
mistress escapes their observation. They may be taught,
easily taught, by affectionate care, to come out of the cage
when called for, or to set on the finger and sing when re-
quested. A simple movement of the head, or expression
of the eye, will accomplish this; whilst the reward of a bit
of hard-boiled egg, or a morsel of loaf-sugar, will speedily
cement an intimacy terminable only by death ; the attach-
ment of birds knows no other limit. I have verified this,
times out of number. I have rarely found, during a long
experience of 25 years, any great difficulty in taming a
bird, or, indeed, any animal of any kind. Instinct, on
someoccasions very closely bordering on reason, unerringly
teaches the lower order of animals to discriminate who are
their friends, and who are their enemies. This is demon-
strable by the extraordinary familiarity, apart from all fear,
which some birds and other animals exhibit when in the
presence of their masters or mistresses, on whose fingers
I have known birds to sit and sing with the most perfect
confidence.— Wiliiam Kidd.
A GOLDEN EAGLE IN HIS NATIVE WILDS.—The late
amiable Bishop of Norwich, whose enthusiasm as a natu-
ralist is well-known, gives from observation the following
account of a golden eagle as seen in his native wilds.
Whilst climbing some high precipices, near a great water-
fall, in the volcanic district of Auvergne, there arose above
the roar of the waters a short shrill cry coming as it were
from the clouds; on looking In the direction whence it
came, a small dark speck was seen moving steadily on-
wards ; it was a golden eagle evidently coming from the
plain countries below. As be came nearer lie seemed to
float or sail in midair, only occasionally gently flapping
his wings as if to steady him. Though when first seen he
was at the distance of a full mile, in less than a minute he
was within gun-shot, and the observer having concealed
himself, the bird looked round once or twice, darted down
his legs and alighted on a rock within a few yards of him.
For a moment the eagle gazed about with his sharp bright
eyes as if to assure himself that all was safe, then for a few
moments more, nestled his head beneath one of his ex-
panded wings, and appeared to plume himself. Having
done this he stretched out his neck and looked keenly and
wistfully towards the quarter of the heavens whence
lie came, and uttered a few rapid screams; then stamp-
ing with his feet he protruded his long hooked talons,
at the same time snapping his beak with a sharp noise like
the cracking of a whip. There he remained for about ten
minutes, manifesting great restlessness, when suddenly he
seemed to hear or see something, and immediately rising
from the rock, floated away to meet his mate now seen
approaching. After soaring in a circle they went away
and were no more seen.—Bentley's Miscellany.
THE MUSIC OF NATURE.—Any ear may hear the
wind. It is a great leveller ; nay, rather, it is a great
dignifier and elevater. The wind that rushes through the
organ of St. George's Chapel at Windsor, has first passed
through the organ of some poor Italian boy ; the voice of
Alboni and that of a street singer have but one common
capital to draw upon—the catholic atmosphere, the unsec-
tarian air, the failure of which would be the utter extinc-
tion of Handel, Haydn, and all the rest. This air, or
atmosphere—the compound of nitrogen and oxygen, to
which we are so deeply indebted—sometimes plays the
musician of itself, and calls upon Handel, Haydn, Mo-
zart, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn, upon the ocean and
the forest ; and they, like invisible but not inaudible per-
formers, make glorious music. Sometimes the shrouds
of a ship, as she rolls upon the tempestuous deep, raise
wild and piercing sopranos to the skies ; sometimes the
trees and branches of a forest of gigantic pines become
mighty harp strings, which, smitten by the rushing
tempests, send forth grand and incessant harmonies—
now anthems and anon dirges. Sometimes the waves of
the ocean respond, like white-robed choristers, to the
thunder-bass of the sky, and so make Creation's grand
oratorio, in which " the heavens are telling," and the
earth is praising the glory of God. Sometimes deep calls
upon deep, the Mediterranean to the German Sea, and
both to the Atlantic Ocean ; and these, the Moses and
the Miriam of the earth, awaken rich antiphones, and
form opposite choirs, responding from side to side in
Nature's grand cathedral, praising and adoring their
Creator and Builder. Were man silent, God would not
want praise.—Cumming.

ART OF BEARING ADVERSITIES.—By way of comfort in
bearing calumny, it may be well observed that calumny
does not originate in the way ordinarily supposed ; that
there is rarely any such thing as a system of active, well-
regulated, well-aimed calumny, arising out of malice
prepense ; but that far more often it has its source in
honest ignorance, mean mindedness, or absolute mistake.
It is to be viewed, therefore, in the light of a misfortune,
rather than in that of a persecution.. The way of treating
it, is to deal with it as calmly and philosophically as with
any other misfortune. As some one has said, the mud will
rub off when it is dry and not before. It is not wise to be
very impatient to justify oneself ; and, altogether, too much
stress should not be laid on calumny by the calumniated,
else their serious work will be for ever interrupted ; and
they should remember that it is not so much their business
to explain to others all they say and do, as to be sure that
it will bear explanation, and satisfy themselves. When I
was in the habit of seeing something of official life, I used
to wonder that a great department suffered itself to be
calumniated, and made no sign ; but older and wiser heads
than mine soon convinced me that their business did not
admit of confuting every idle and erroneous statement
that was made about them, and that they were mainly to
answer to those who have authority to question them.
The same judicious maxim applies to private life. Not far
removed from calumny, and often leading up to it, is in-
judicious comment upon people's conduct, which when
addressed or repeated to them, or imagined by them, is apt
to vex them sorely. But really, if it were considered how
utterly incompetent men are to talk of the conduct of
others as they do, the talkers would often be silenced at
once, and the sufferers as readily consoled. In the first
place, bow imperfect is our knowledge of our neighbour's
circumstances. You suppose a man is rich, and he is poor
or rich, but with perils, claims, and responsibilities of
which you know nothing ; you suppose him healthy, and
he is tortured by some internal disease; you suppose him
unhappy in his domestic relations, and he is most feli-
citous ; or, on the other hand, you suppose him lapped in
the loving regards of his family, and all the while he has
a wretched and contentious home ; you suppose him a
man of leisure, and he is cumbered with cares, duties,
labours, and endeavours, of which you have not the
slightest conception. What is sour comment on this
man's conduct worth ? * * * But, in truth,
the consideration of what a world of misunderstanding,
haste, blindness, passion, indolence, and private interest,
we are in the thick of. (perhaps the beauty of it as a world
of would go some little way to cure a man from
vexing the depths of his soul, because he suffers from ex-
tortion, misrepresentation, neglect, or injustice of any
kind. He is on earth ; and men are unjust to him. How
ludicrous the compla.int l—companione qf my Solitude,.