The Lancaster Ledger, 1852-02-12

... V..V UIIO.UUU OI mo ROUIM. A Io.:g summer's day had just ended, and the sun teemed his lastbeaker of golden light from the crown of the Frauenburg. Th? souls of both were inter]K>netrated with the beauty and repose of the acetic around thorn. In this jnood they opened the wicket of a Uul^jburial'io'ound which lav athwart their path, and J^lncn contain one gr?*ea grave. At tno head of t;? grave rose a pillar with rough rock frag ments clumped around ijs hnsc; at tin foot sprung three tall pines which spro id their sombre branches, like hearse plun o , over the dead. The grave was that of a ? ancient forresstcr who liad taken up h final lodging amid the scenes which hi -t delighted him. As the friends enter*!, a lady, who appeared to have been reading the epitaph, retreated towards r. g. te athe opposite side of the enclosure bo'.h knew that it was Helen. 44 Fruulein!" exclaimed Fred, impulsively, 44 you are surely not afraid of us." The maiden stop|x*d and turned; the friends advanced towards her; to Heinrich she appeared the same trembling snowdrop as when he first l?held her. 44 It is a fitting place to say good-bye," said Fred. "You will hardly have an opportudity of seeing each other again ? would that I could have witnessed your union, instead of a separation !'4 44 Fred 1" exclaimed lleinrieh, "don't talk so; old memories, though subdued, are not killed." " What are the memories 1" demanded Fred. 44 Shall I tell him P a?ked lleinrieh, turning laughing to Helen. Alow 44 yes" was the maiden's reply. " Well, tiolon," said he, taking her hand, what he wants me to confess is this*, that I once loved you ; Unit for your sake 1 have struggled against that love and subdued it, aud that I now stand before ...UV. .U. I . ' ' *

tion?. Timidity is one of the constituents of prudence. Every wine man in timid; nay, lie has a large amount of timidity in hi* character. Every good man mast fear evil; he mast fear public opinion; he muat fear conscience, These are all asp<rts of that holy fear, which is the beginning of wisdom. It is, therefore, but an evil principle of action, though generally understood in an evil sense. The reason why it is understood in an evil sense is, that it is merely one extreme of character without the other?the other extreme is quite as bad. That other extreme, however, is not courage; for, as we have already seen, courage has a mixture of fear within it But the other extrctno is mere recklessness; which is ?ar more foolish than timidity, and holds as low a place iu the scala-of character. The l>est principles are not simnlo but compound principles, made up of two or more extremes or opposite*. Timidity, as we have already seen, may prompt a man to do a bold action. A timid man will run into a wolf's den to escape tho jaws of a crocodile?a brooding hcu will attack even a dog?and a mother will leap into the deep water to save a drowning child. The fear of a greater evil supplies the resolution to encounter a less, l'hcso bold actions, however, are not considered courageous. Courage resists the greater evil; it attacks the crocodile with so much fear and caution m are indispensable to render the attack judicious and successful. In the case of the brooding hen and the mother there ie only one evil to encounter?that is, the dog in the one case, and the water ia the other; but there are two fears, the fear of km of offspring, and the fear of self-danger. The excess of one fear destroys the other, and a iteming courage is the result But it

f , -, ? J..,.J.. .. v, , fashion and etiquette. In fine, he won!'! not be possessed of the attributes of a gcntleman, who, being the beau ideal of a man, must be possessed in harmonious proportion, of all the attributes of humanity, amongst which an amiable timidity of character?that is, a fear of obtrusion, a fear of saying or doing offensive things? holds a most distinguished place. Even excessive timidity will frequently be found in bold and original thinkers, so as to present a striking and paradoxical contrast of character. Every man's character has two aspects?a physical and a moral, a public and a private, a political and ecclesiastical; and the greater cultivation of the one than the other produce a disparity that puzzles the physiologist to determine to what peculiar category the individual belong. A clergyman who is quite at his ease in the pulpit, is ncrvou* and fearful when called upon to address his feHow-guests at a public dinner. He has habituated his mind into fhinilnrity | with the one sphere, but not with the other. A soldier who has courage to meet an enemy sword in hand at the peril of his life, would perhaps break down with nervous apprehension if he attempted to giv?? utterance to complimentary sentence to a lady, or tremble with fear on entering a drawing-room filled with strangers. No man would call the soldier a cow ard, and yet this fear of society is nothing more than moral cowardice. What makes him bold in the field of battle ? He Wlicvcs himself equal to the struggle that he undertakes. What makes him timid in the drawing-room f He believes himself unequal to the contest of refinement. In the rude sphere he is strong, in the refined sphere he is weak. Such one-sided men are not

, , . . tR|-~*IIU I i<H>K SO, ' in->1 !i.?rt" The inot!ic-r'i? heart was full, and Mm I give ii -r l?oy one long, .dt<--ti.-nato kiss, which was nwv-.-ii-r la liim than many words. N? m morning wan the Sal-lath. John's ruik -t w.i 111 -re a-Miity tlipi over, but In- si.-l iMl a word about tha^ for In- saw tliat iii- Mi'-tiu r at<- vrry i tt'i of it. lint oiu? or lw t>sticks of wixhI w n'JoA outside tin-door win-re ii wa- k-pt t-n-l lieknow 1 that ?>il) : >o.| and tii- might nil la* ootid i In-fore night. They h id !i money to ituv , any with t->r several days. The Sabbath scic-ol II mug. The I sun w.is shiiiiitg I.right au.!< l?ar, but the I air was c\c --ding i-old. Tin-child had no overco-it, and w.e> .--till ih-jring a pari of his -milliner clothing. Hi was in his I s??it just as Ids siipcrhtw ndtnt and hi* j teacher entered. " Who is that little pal-- faced hoy in , your ci i-s asked the suiH-tiuteudcfit of the teacher. "li s name is Jones?lie l'r\e> in Stone ' streel, and I must visit liim tiiis very week. 11.- is a wvll-beliav?-<J hoy." "L should !<ke to know ii. k"e about him, ' and I will see him after selid-l." The sujierintendent did i>t forget him, i and when the class broke up, seeing hint linger In-hind the other scholar*, went up 1 and t<>ok liim by tlie hand kindly. "You have been hen- to ichool several j Sabbaths, hive you not my I my 1" " Yes, sir, 1 came just a month ago, to- : day."

t . nun mailing i now in the fact of a lady's being engaged, the circiumtanee had occurred to nitu a t hundred times before, but he accepted it i as an evil omen in his present state of | mind. He saw Helen led to the table by i Herr Crick, a gentleman whom Tennyson i might havchndin his eye when he penned the " Character." Heinrich was one of 1 the few who had pierced the enamel which 1 surrounded this person, and found an intriguer within; and, though he had strong t faith in the capacity of the maiden to dis- i tinguish true from false, he nevertheless l would have rather seen her in any other i company than that of Herr Crick. Hancing was resumed after supper. At --r^in period of L. TP'falL of little knots or rtubon, having various devices, was placed in the middle of the room. The ladiea were led in turn to the basket; each chose a knot and presented it to soinc one of the gentlemen standing round, who took the ?'giver's hand and danced with her round the room. Those little knots were often messengers of pleasure and of hope?sometimes the contrary. Helen was led to the basket, she chose a knot, and approaching the portion of the ring where Heinrich stood, gave it?to Herr Crick who stood at his side. Up to this moment the image of the maiden had lain like a bright daguerreotype upon his brain. A canker now attacked it, and the bliss of contemplating it was no mora. He had aenso enough to know that this was a subjective phenomenon, that the maiden had not changed, 1,1.1 Kn/I ? *

wiili the greater j>ower. In a state of serious mental doubt and anxiety he made the alwve experiment. 1> it o l?-?|d one, now I. Was it courage or timidity ttiat iiuluo?4 Vomarw to cook tiiu turtle in his own oven, and eat it, without sending the first morsel, or even a morsel at all, to the idol i i It was just as much the one as the other, i It was a judicious action?it was the aim- < jile act of a thinker and a reasoncr. Po- i mare was studying ft subject, and he took < what seemed to him the most direct and i conclusive mode of coining to a solution; 1 hut he would not, probably, have found the < courage to test the jower of the idol if he 1 had not previously been impressed with a ' great fear of a higher power. It was fear, 1 then, that gave him courage! Fear give a luau courage! Yes, fear is actually the 1 source of courage; and where no fear is, courage is wanting. This seems like a paradox, but it is not one. We do not ?:y that the fear that gives courage is excessive; far from it, for then courage is overwhelmed; we merely say that a little fear or sense of danger is necessary to stimulate the courage.? \V hen we encounter danger without any sense of fear, our conduct is called reckIcasness; this is lower in rank than courage, merely because it wants that little ]Kirtiou of fear which is the immediate source of prudence in all adventurous ?e -

haps, along with her child. Perhaps she i is saved by another person, and then she ' falls into tits and remains for hours or I days in a state of helplessness. The hen ] is similarly excited ; after she has put the j dog to night, she experiences a severe convulsive fit of cackling which it is out < f her power to stop, ller courage is a vio- , lent excitement. It is based upon fear; unlike that of the game cock, which is based upon pure love of French glory, and in many respects so destitute of fear, as i scarcely to be entitled to the name of cour- j age. There is perhaps a fear in the game . cock that we are not acquainted with?a | fear of defeat and loss of character; for these animuls are greatly disconcerted, humbled, and mortified when they lose the ascendency. They become sneaks, and lose their pride and stately demeanor. We know that the fear of loss of honor will ! make a soldier engage in most advontnr-1 ous actions; to redeem a character that has been lost he will seek the position of the greatest danger, and will courageously j face an unequal foe, whom he would gladly flee from, hut dam not, because of the | dishonor that accompanies flight. How much courage is owing to this fear of j shame we know not; but we adduce the fact for the purpose of illustrating a great