Vermont Watchman And State Journal

From the Albany Daily Advertiser.

THE LAST BELL.

It was a beautiful morning in the month of May, 1825, I was sitting by Helen Harris, the only girl that I ever loved, and I believe the only girl that ever loved me—any how, she was the only one that ever told me so. We were sitting in the piazza of her father's house, about a quarter of a mile from the landing place, waiting for the bell of the steamboat to warn me of the moment that was to part my love and me.' It came to pass in the course of my history, that in order to accumulate a little of this world's gear, that I might be better prepared to encounter the demands of matrimony, I was destined to cross the blue Chesapeake, and seek in the metropolitan city the wherewithal so much desired. How many swains have been compelled like me to leave home, and the girl that they loved, in search of gold! and, how many have been disappointed! But to the piazza.

Well, we were sitting in the piazza, and talking of our love, and separation, &c. We were waiting for the unwelcome sound of the steamboat bell, and you may rely on it, we talked fast and abbreviated our words into such sentences that nobody but ourselves could understand them.— The first bell rang, and I sprung to my feet, and trembled like an aspen. Oh, George, wait till the last bell rings,' said Helen, as the big bright tears came over her blue eyes. 'Do no such thing,' answered the hoarse voice of Mr. Harris, as he rose like a spectre from the cellar, where he had been packing away his cider— 'George, never wait for the last bell.' I was off like a deer, and arrived at the steamboat merely in time to go on board before she was pushed off from the wharf.

My career in the search of pelf has in a degree, been successful; but I believe I am not the old farmer told me 'never to wait for the last bell,' that I now should have been as poor as the morning that farewell shivered from my lips upon the heart of my lovely Helen. Any person who has lived at a hotel even for a single day, knows the danger of waiting for the last bell. "I did it once, and lost my dinner. The first stroke of the dinner bell since then has always found me at the table. For six months I was a clerk, and never waiting for the last bell secured to me the affections of my employer, who offered me a partnership, which I accepted, and in every instance when the bell rung, I was ready.

I had almost forgotten to tell you, that Helen Harris is my wife, and she will never repent the morning I took her father at his word, and ran over the field to get to the boat in time. "When I arrived at Baltimore, I called on some gentlemen to whom I had introductory letters, and they recommended me for a situation; one was soon offered, which had been refused by four young men who were waiting for the last bell, and which I accepted—it was the making of me. Haste for the first bell; accept the first offer, and keep it till you get a better. Life is short, and he who puts off' until the last bell, will, as Farmer Harris predicts, 'come out at the little end of the horn.'

Young ladies, I have a word for you. In the street I live, there is a lady who has been seven years in choosing a partner for life. She has had several respectable offers, but she was waiting for the 'last bell,' and she is now likely to remain to the last a belle, for she is turned of' thirty, and it is more than probable that she must abide her blessedness for ever. Now I beseech all of you who may read this sketch, whenever you may feel a disposition to postpone any thing which should be done now, to remember the words of Farmer Harris, 'Never wait for the last bell.'