The daily crescent. [volume] ([New Orleans, La.]) 1848-1851, 1851-11-15

uio l'no OF tne road ~ 10 bo found between Ver-
viep and Liege, including the heausiful railway
bridge over the Neuse, the undulasine hilIs and
valleys, rivuets and water falls tunnels and aque.
ducts, the varying landscape, and the constantly
changing scenery, altogether presenting panora.
mic view Of very uncommon description.
From the NewYork Weekly Sun.
Skeleton in Every House,"
Every house may have the Skeleton" il it
chooses; but every house should have one thing
vastly more pleasant; q good natured, sensible,
tidy, Old Lady. This important fixture should al
ways be, If possible, grandmother, or. as next
liability, comfort and convenience Of well regu-
lated household is the Old Lady that If this system
OF housekeeping become general, 1t will become
quite natural to fnd under head Of wants" in
nswspapers, inquiries for proper old ladies TO sup
ply the lack Of dear old folks gone to the better
home. Indeed, old ladies' discovering themselves
in demand, would keep in preservation much longer,
nor begin to make winding sheets and grave caps
full ted yesrs before the great reaper came TO gather
in the shocks Of corn fully ripe. Old ladies' arc
needed. Providence designed such to fill a large
space In the domestic circle; class remarkable as
living not for themselves bat for others-the most
beautiful specimens Of dsinterested love on this
side Of Heaven! tr
Why--the very sight of nice, dear old lady,
done up in antique cap and time worn spectaces-
(her own grandmsther's may be) is enough Of it.
self to put sunshine into ones heart She is the
soul of all home virtues and affections
venerable lass-the life Of HEARTH stove and fire.
side; and now mere than ever, since the literal
affairs have yielded to CRATES and furnaces! Gold
marble statues and warm Italian paintings are well
enough for ornament, taste infancy, Imagination !;
but the Old Lady is the best ornament, and to
family, worth all the works of chisel and pencil
since the birth Of the arts. She cools summer,
warns winter, shades the bright light, lights up the
dark, the soul of sympathy, mourning with your
sorrow, smiling with your joy! :.
Who pillows your head in sickness puts oil in
your ear for ear-ache mufies your face in cotton
tor tooth. ache tucks shawl around the lounge
and bushes all noises, that weary and exhausted
you may snatch an hour Of sleep? Who does ten
thousand nameless kindnesses ?-the Old Lady,
Who, pray, keeps the odds and ends from waste
who mends, patches, alters, sews on buttons,
darns unforeseen holes in collars and bosoms saw.
ing from veIation, and by dhblets redeeming the
rent @ Of house once year a--the Old Lady.
Who keeps house when parents-{cbildreD
themseves)-ar away, guarding the flock of little
ones, and at night gathering them all to her mo.
therly breast as a hen her chickens under her
wingsl Bah! you migrate! don't tell US grandma
spoils the children! She only iempers a discip.
ne correct, yet perhaps too severe, and with love
soothes children "provoked to wrath" into rea.
son and obedience. And oh how the children do
love her. She is twice mother. They know it;
and when she lies down in the grave, they bow
like drooping flowers, and wet the earth from the
gushes Of broken heart!
The Old Lady embodes the wisdom of several
generations, and her experience is helpful to mar
ried sons and daughters; and what eaiion when
bousehoid points to such old lady as proof of
their worthy stock and the excellence Of her ances.
tors! She gives nobility to the family.
The Old Lady il supposed, however, to be q
Christian lady, whose hoary head is, indeed, a
crown OF righteousness. But what about the old
gentleman Dear old man, he has his uses bur
he Is not quite so domestic. He il apt to turn
sour; is rather helpless; and, on the whole, spite
OF my natural gender, | should prefer some time
hereafter, becoming at old woman" rather than
an old man. a-.-. RosR Hull.
The Dying Boy,
Passing along one Of the narrow streets Of New
York City on a hot Sunday afternoon of the sum
mer just gone, we observed group of boys and
girls surrounding a boy of eight years or there
abouts, whose pale face and emaciated features
indicated that he was sufferer. Poverty was
manifest in each and all of that collection, but in
his case 1t scanned more bitter. He wore but
single garment, much like loose gown, gathered
Ut the neck, and hanging around him without
oe,t he had neither shoes nor stockings. His
pale forehead contrasted with mass Of dark brown
hair, combed back on his head, and his thin deli
cate ears would have satisfied the most aristocratc
Judge OF high birth. He was seated on the door
stone OF one of those houses in which poor fami-
lies are crowded to sufocation, and the other chill.
dren sat on the pavement, or stood around him.
;, AL this we saw as we approached and passed
The group for we did not pause, and we heard but
! single sentence of the conversation The sick
boy was speaking, and his voice was very sad, and
very cheerful, too that indescribable union of
cheeriulness with sorrow, which all have met with
IN one or another instancs-and he was saving.
" II could only be buried in the country, think
should be -" content was doubtless the last
hut 4 L.
we had passed on. We went to churoh--but that
voice haunted MS; and though the text was stir
fing passage, and the sermon eloquent, we confess
hat the ringing of those melancholy tones was
ouder, and we might as well have been at home.
ihi: is simple incident in ITSELF not manufactured
oe the occasion but we have related it exactly as
occurred, and now we propose to moralxe on it
little. The boy was dying. That was clear.
His face looked like it., and in his soft dark eve
here was CLEAN Of light not earthly; and in his
voice and in his prophetic wish there was a tone
Ike this tone we hear in dreams which come from
'cross the river. He had doubtless lived in the
country once perhaps had been born there, and
mad learned to walk with his tiny feet, crushing
rloles. Perhaps he had loved the blue sky up
lmong the mountains, and doubtless the trees had
'ften led his eyes up from their topmost branches
% the far home of all our dreams. s0'''1
d. He had slept in some small house by a brook.
'lde, had been lulled to sumber by the wind, max
lad been woke every morning by the swallows
'assing ms window, and the whistling quail in the
gram fields across the valley, or perchance by two
opins that returned yearly to their nest in the old
'ppe Tree, and that sat every morning on the old
Sei pole and sang till they reused him from his
'iorious dreams. Perhaps-but no. We are un-
supposiDg all country homes alike, and
We confess that we have been thinking of our own
Without any perhaps at all, he was now " walk. |
ng the cold and starless road of death" No more
birds would wake him to gladness in the morning.
10 more musical waters sing him to slumber at
llgbtfall The spring-time had come the mead
'ws would be yellow and white with the butter.
ups and daisies, and the forest would be sweet
With the delicate anennone and woodbne the gra
would grow up green and tall and wave in the
'unshine, and the lark and bob-a.lnk would fill |
ne ar with their shrill and happy voices, but not
or MIN lie might not hope to walk in the old |
ane under the willow trees again, nor again to sit
With his little feet cleaning in the brookIet while |
ne rlpples flashed over them. But if he might not
ook on all those things again with his dimming |
yes, or hear all those sounds again with his heavy
ars, or feel all those glad thrObs again with his
'oung but gushing heart, it would still be pleas
mt beautifully pleasant to sleep the long sleep out
here. 10 lie down near the brook sids for the
ast time, where the branches were waving. and
he sunshine stole through them down into the |
'rass, where the winds were making forever the |
anne old music, and the stream was singing the
anne old song!
TWAS a bitter thought to die in this hot place.
Vnere not even the sky is blue, and where the |
vind Is always laden with impurities; but to be |
here, to lie through long centuries, where
ne unceasing roar, day and night, shakes the |
souna ana browns the voices Of the air and water,
q L.