Washington telegraph., 1854-11-08
Song of the old Tea Kettle


"The reco.lections OF the old family Tea Kettle
call up from the vacuum of memory a myriad of
pleasing and melancholy associations lnsignif-
cant though they appear, they are interviewer
with all the finest and happiest OF chldhood's his
tory il every bosom; for human nature, in its
iginal elements, is always and everywhere the
same. Childhood's capacities for mental enjoy
ment are but limited; tihes suffice for their bliss,
and the memory of past pleasures brings back
halt our Joys"
':The song of the old Tea Kettle does in truth
call up pleasant memories from the long past; OF
the old log house, the quiet fire place. the crane
in the jam, the great logs blazing the hearth of
cold winter evening, and the house dog sleeping
quietly IN the corner and the cat nestled confid-
ingy beside him. Oh! the days OF old, the days
OF old! They call back with these memories the
circle that gathered around the hearth of our
homes when We Were young-father, mother,
brothers, sisters, playmates, and friends. How
quietly some OF them grew old and ripe, and then
dropped into the grave! How silently Others
stole away in their youth to the homes OF the
dead, and how the rest have dritted away on the
currents of life, lost to in the mists and shad-
ows of time! Even the home and the hearth are
gone. They
"Batted with time and slow decay
till at last they were wiped out from the things
that were.
The song of the old Tea Kettle' is pleasant
memory, but that OF the cricket that made its
home in the crevces of the jams of the great stone
fireplace is peasanter still He was ALWAYS
there. He was not silent. as the outdoor crick-
cts are, through the spring months and down
to the close Of August, piping only in sadness
when the still autumnal evenings close in their
brightness and beauty over the earth; but he
sang always, and his chirrup was heard at all
seasons. In the winter the fire warmed him. in
the summer he had cool resting place and he
oh FIJI
And this reminds us of an anecdote Of venera-
bic minister who passed years ago to his rest
He was Scotchman, and when speaking III his
ospn church at Salem in Washington county, he
indulged in broad Scotch, which 20 those who
used to it exceedingly musical and
ed from a visit to Vermont. We stopped over the
Sabbath at Salem, and attended worship in the
neat little church of that pleasant village. There
were no railroads in those days
The venerable minister-or his locks were
grey and time had ploughed deep furrows down
his cheeks and drawn palp3le lines across his
brow-was, as memory paints him, the per-
sonification of earnestness sincerity, and truth
The text and the drift Of the sermon we have for
gotten the little fragment that fixed itself in
our memory from the singular figure OF speech by
which he illustrated his meaning. He was speak
ing of the operation OF the spirit upon the human
heart and how gently it won from their sin
lul ways. lie Sdlu IL Was net DOlSlerOuS Ike Jne
rush OF the tempest; it was not fierce like the
lightning; it was not loud like the thunder, but it
was still sma' voice. like a wee cricket in the
wa'a"
We regard the cricket that chirruped in the
wall an institution-one OF the past, 10 be sure
swept away by the current oil ppgress whose
course Is onward always, every thing, OBJ
iterating every thing. hurting the matters of to-
day into history or buryn them in eternal obliv-
ion. In this country there is nothing tixed never
has been since the first white man who swung his
against the outside forest tree; since the first
green field was opened up TO the sunlight from the
deep shadows of the old forests that had stood
there grand, solemn, and boundess since this earth
was thrown from the hand of God There will be-
nothing 6xe4 for centuries TO come. The tide O
progress viii sweep onward in the future as it ha:
done in the past Onward is the great watchworc
OF America and American institutions; onward
and onward over the ancient forests; over the log
houses that stood in the van of civilization; owe
the great fre-paces; over the 'old tea kettle;'
over the cricket in the wall; over the old houst
dog that slept in the corner; the loved face
that were clustered round; over every thing prim
tive, every thing, reader, that you and lovet
when we We're little children, and that comes
floating along down the tide OF memory brigh
visions of a returnless past. l.4lbany Register.