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Nov. 15.1849. ‘ tt
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YOL. I.
[From the Dollar Newspaper.]
The Bridal ami the Funeral.
BY MERRITT N. WILLIAMS.
Joyous uikl bright in L-.iuty’s bloom,
She stood anti loudly gazed
L j’on the form of him—the one
On whom her ho]*es she raised
V. ith hopeful ey<->, arid yet it bceuied
With earnest vacant etarc,
A though elie lain would read her fit©
in language pictured tlier*.
Oh I long and eameit did ho gaze,
Then turned to I id adieu
Tojorinj frond*, re she depart*
For scenes aid trials new.
H.t plighted vow.- she would not break,
Her promise n*'er forget
To ii!:ii,tii* eliou-n of li*i
But still *hc linger# yet.
Ah ! why do tears steal down her cheek
And damp those eve I ids fair ?
A* brother.?, ei*ter?, in thc-ir turn
Embrace their si.-ter clear.
Alii why doe? griet weigh down that heart,
A kneeling to receive
A is filer's hh->.ing, mother'? ki#,
Thc dc.'.ie-t they can rive X
She rise*, arid in accent ■ sw* -t
S: e grasps each frtvntlly hand,
Ago bteatiiing forth her last adieu,
Departs ior stranger land.
For lame awau? fi one she love*,
And fearless l>y his aide
Si.e’li smooth his pathway through the vale,
A fond and trusting bride.
* *** * *
Bnt hark ! that funeral knell ring* ut
From yonder Gothic spire.
And ci” : liul i\ es are weeping now
Around the cottage fire.
AVliy vo ‘p? the aged father now ?
Why l.eafes the anguished -igdi?
Why mourn* e.-teh brother. i?ter now?
Why sorrows evwy eye 1
Approach ! and lift the funeral pall,
Tread softly round her bier ;
’Tin she, the blooming happy bride,
That li*-.? enshrouded here ;
And where i.? lie X But one short yar
Has pa-red since they were here.
He's gone before her tu that land
Where alt must soon appear.
I Vindsor, 1850.
Divorce of Josephine.
(L. <.'i.tribi:tc(l to tha TTome .Journal from a forthcoming
work by Rev. John S. C. Abbot.)
.NYtpoleon luid become very strongly ;it
taebed to his little grandchild, the son of
Horter.se, and of bis brother, Louis, the King
ol Holland. The boy was extremely beau
tiful, and developed .all those noble and spirit
ed traits of character which delighted the
Emperor. Napoleon had apparently deter
mined to .make this young Prince his heir.
This was so generally the understanding, both
iti France and in Holland, that Josephine avus
quite ;it ease, and serene days again dawned
upon her heart.
Early in the spring of 1807, this child,
upon whom such destinies were depending,
then five years oi age, Avas ‘seized suddenly
ami violently with the croup, and in a feAv
hours died. The blow fell upon the heart of
Josephine Avith most appalling power. Deep
as was her grief tit the loss of the child, she
was overwhelmed Avitli uncontrollable ang
uish, in view of those fearful consequences,
which she shuddered to contemplate. She
knew that Napoleon loved her fondly. But
she also kncAV the strength of his ambition,
and that he would make any sacrifice of his
affections which, in his vioAv, would subserve
the interests of his poAver and his glory. For
three days she shut herself up in her room,
and was continually bathed in tears.
i lie sad intelligence was conveyed to Na
poleon, when he was far from home, in the
midst of the Prussian campaign. He had
been victorious—almost miraculously victo
rious over bis enemies. He had gained ac
cessions of power, such as in the wildest
dreams of youth he had hardly imagined.
All opposition to his sway was now apparent
ly crushed. Napoleon had become the Crea
tor of Kings, and the proudest monarchs of
Europe wore constrained to do his bidding.
It was in an hour of exultation that the
mounited tidings reached him. He sal down
in silence, buried his face in Ids hands, and
lor a long time scorned lost in the most pain
fid musing*. He was heard mournfully and
anxiously to repeat to himself, again and
again, “To whom shall I leave all this*”
The struggle in his mind between hi# loa’c for
Josephine, and his ambitious desire to found
a ncAv dynasty, and to transmit bis name and
fame to all posterity, was fearful. It was
manifest in Ids pallid cheek, in Ids restless
eye, in the loss of appetite and of sleep.
But the stern Avill of Bonaparte was unre
lenting in its purposes. With an energy
which the world has never seen surpassed, he
had chosen his part. It Avas the purpose of
his soul—the lofty purpose before which
CA’orything had to bend—to acquire the glory
of making France the most illustrious, pow
erful and happy nation earth had ever seen.
For this he was ready to sacrifice comfort,
ease, and his sense of right. For this lie
was ready to sunder the strongest tics of
affection.
Josephine knew Napoleon. She knew the
power of his ambition. With almost insup
portable anguish, she wept over the death of
this child, with whose destinies her own
seemed to be so fearfully blended, and, Avith
a trembling heart, she awaited her husband’s
return. Mysterious bints began to fill the
journals of the contemplated dh’orce, and of
the alliance of Napoleon with various prin
cesses of foreign courts. In October, 1800,
Napoleon returned from A ienna. He greeted
Josephine Avith the greatest kindness, but she
soon perceived that his mind Avas ill at ease,
and that he Avas pondering the dreadful ques
tion. He appeared sad and embarrassed.
He had frequent private interviews with bis
ministers. A general feeling of constraint
pervaded the court. Napoleon scarcely ves
tured to look upon his Avife, as if apprehen
sion that the very sight of one he had lo\’ed
so well, might cause him to waver in his firm
purpose. Josephine was in a state of the
most feverish solicitude, and yet was com
pelled to appear calm and unconstrained.
As yet she had only some forebodings of her
impending doom. She watched*with most
excited apprehension, every movement of the
| Emperor’s eye, every intonation of his voice,
| every sentiment he uttered. Each day some
new and trivial indication confirmed her fears.
Her husband became more reserved; ab
j seated himself from her society; the prh’ate
access between their apartments was closed ;
he now seldom entered her room, and when
| ever he did so he invariably knocked. And
i yet not one word had passed between him and
Josephine upon the fearful subject. When-
■ j'•
over Josephine heard the sound of bis ap
proaching footsteps, the fear that he v. as
coming with the terrible announcement of sep
aration, immediately caused such violent
palpitation of the heart, that it was with the
utmost difficulty that she could totter across
the floor, even when supporting herself by
leaning against the walls, and catching at the
( articles of furniture.
f i lie months of October and November
passed away, and while the Emperor was
discussing with his cabinet the alliance into
which he should enter, he had not summoned
courage to break the subject to Josephine.
The evidence i# indubitable that he experienc
ed intense anguish in view of tho separation;
but this did not influence his iron will to
swerve from its purpose. Tho grandeur of
his.fame, and the magnitude of his poAver
wn. now such, that there was not a royal
latnily in Europe which would not have felt
honored in conferring upon him a bride. It
was at first contemplated that he should mar
ry some princess of the Bourbon familr, and
thus add to the stability of his throne-, lv con
ciliating the royalists of Franco. A princess
of Saxony aa - us proposed. Some weighty
considerations urged an alliance with the ma
jestic empire of Russia, and some advances
were made to the court of St. Petersburg,
having in view a sister of the Emperor Alex
ander. It AA-as at length decided that pro
posals should he made to the court of “\ ienna,
for Maria Louise, daughter of the Emperor
of Austria.
\t last the fatal day arrived for the an
nouncement to Josephine. It was the last
day of November, 1809, r lhe Emperor and
Empress dined at Fontainbleau alone. She
seems to have had a presentiment that her
doom was sealed, for till that day she had
been in her retired apartment weeping bitterly.
As the dinner hour approached, site bathed
her swollen eyes, and tried to regain com
posure. They sat down at tho table in si
lence. Napoleon did not speak. Josephine
could not trust her voice to utter a word.
Neither of them even feigned to eat. Course
after course \\ r as brought in, and removed un
touched. A mortal paleness revealed the
anguish of each heart. Napoleon, in his em
barrassment, mechanically, and apparently
unconsciously, kept striking the edge of his
glass with hi© knife, while lost in thought. A
more melancholy meal Avas probably never
witnessed. The attendants around the table
caught the infection, and gazed in motionless
silence. At last, the ceremony of dinner
AA ,as over, the attendants Avere dismissed, and
Napoleon and Josephine were alone. Anoth
er moment of most painful silence ensued,
when the Emperor, pale a© death, and tremb
ling in every nerve, arose, and approached
Josephine. He took her hand, and, placing
it upon his heart, said :
“Josephine! my own good Josephine!
you know how I have loved you. It is to you
alone that I oavc the few moments of happi
ness I have known in this world. Josephine !
my destiny is stronger than mv will. My
dearest affections must yield to the interests
of France!”
Josephine’s brain reeled ; her blood ceased
to circulate; she fainted, and fell lifeless
upon the floor. Napoleon, alarmed, threw
open the door of the saloon, and called for
help. Attendants front the ante-room im
mediately entered. Napoleon took a taper
from the mantel, and, uttering not a word,
but pale and trembling, motioned to the
Count de Beaumont to take the Empress in
his arms. She awis still unconscious of every
thing, but began to murmur, in tones of an
guish, “Oh, no! you cannot surely do it.
ATu would not kill me.”
The Emperor led the way through a dark
passage to the private staircase which con
ducted to the apartment of the Empress.
The agitation of Napoleon seemed now to in
crease. He uttered some incoherent senten
ces about a violent nervous attack; and find
ing flic stairs too sleep and narrow for the
Count de Beaumont to bear the body of the
helpless Josephine, unassisted, he gave the
light to an attendant, and, supporting her j
limbs himself, they reached the door of her j
bed-room. Napoleon, then, dismissing his ;
male attendants, and lading Josephine upon
her bed. rang for her waiting women. He
bung over her with an expression of the most
intense affection and anxiety, until she began
to revive. But tho moment consciousness
seemed returning he left the room. Napoleon j
did not even throAv himself upon-his bed that |
night. He paced the floor until the dawn of
the morning. The royal surgeon, Corvisart,
passed the night at the bedside of the Em
press. Every hour the restless, yet unrelent
ing Emperor, called at her door to inquire
conceniipg her situation.
“ On recoA’ering front my swoon,” says
Josephine, “ I perceived that Corvisart was
in attendance, and niy p*or daughter, Hor
tense, weeping over me. No! no! I cannot
describe the horror of my situation during
that night. Even the interest he affected to
take in my sufferings, seemed to me addition
al cruelty. How much reason had Ito dread
becoming an Empress!”
A fortnight now passed away, during
which Napoleon and Josepliinesaw but little
of each other. During this time, there oc
curred the anniversary of tlie coronation, and
of the victory of Austerlitz. Paris was filled
with rejoicing. The bells rang their mer
riest peals. The metropolis was refulgent
Avith illuminations. In these festivities Jose
phine Avas compelled to appear. She knew
that the sovereigns and princes then assem
bled in Paris Avere informed of her approach
ing disgrace. In all these sounds of triumph
she heard but the knell of her own doom.
And though a careful observer, in her moist
ened eye and her pallid cheek, would haA’e
observed indications of the secret Avoe Avhich
was consuming her heart, her habitual af
fability and grace never in public for one mo
ment forsook her. Hortense, languid and
sorrow stricken, AA’as with her mother. Eu
gene was also summoned from Italy by the
melancholy duty attending the divorce. His
first interview was Avith his mother. From
the saloon he went directly to the cabinet of
Napoleon, and inquired of the Emperor if he
had decided tho question of a divorce from
his mother. Napoleon, who was most strong
ly attached to Eugene, made no reply, but
pressed his hand as an expression that it was
so. ‘Eugene withdrew his hand, and said:
“ Sire! in that case permit me to withdraw
from your service.”
“Hoaa’,” exclaimed Napoleon, sadly, “\A-iil
you, Eugene, mv adopted son, leave me ?”
“ \ es, sire,” Eugene firmly replied. “The
son o‘ her who is no longer Empress cannot
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 28, 1850.
remain Viceroy. I will folloAV my mother
into her retreat. She must now find her con
solation in her children.”
Napoleon was not without feeling.—
Tears-filled his eyes. In a mournful voice,
tremulous with emotion, he replied:
“Eugene, you know tho stern necessity
which compels this measure. And will you
forsake me ? Mho then—should I have a
son, the object of mv desires, and preserver
of my interests—who would watch over the
child when lam absent ? If I die, who will
prove to him a father? Mho will bring him
tin ? Who is to make a man of him ?”
Eugeno Avas deeply affected, and, taking
Napoleon’* arm, they retired and conversed
a long time together. The noble Josephine,
ever sacrificing her own feelings to promote
the happiness of others, urged her son to re
main the friend of Napoleon. “ The Emper
or,” she said, “i your benefactor—your
more than father, to whom you are indebted
for everything, and to whom, therefore, you
owe a boundless obedience.”
The latal day for the consummation of the
divorce at length arrived. It was the fifteenth
day of December, eighteen hundred and
nine. Napoleon had assembled till the kings,
princes, and princesses who \\'erc members of
the Imperial family, and also tlie most illus
trious officers ol the Empire, in the grand sa
loon ol the Tuillerios. tKory individual
present Avas oppressed with the melancholy
grandeur of the occasion. Napoleon thus
addressed them:
“Tho political interests of my monarchy,
the wishes of my people, which have con
stantly guided my actions, require that I
should transmit to an heir inheriting my love
for the people, the throne on which Provi
dence has placed me. For many years I
have lost all hopes of having children by my
beloved spouse, tho Empress Josephine, it
is this consideration which induces me to
sacrifice the sweetest affections of my heart,
to consult only the good of my subjects, and
desire the dissolution of our marriage. Ar
rived at the age of forty years,. I may indulge
a reasonable hope of living long enough to
rear, in the spirit of my own thoughts and
disposition, the children with which it may
please Providence to bless me. God knows
what such a determination lias eosSmv heart;
hut there is #o sacrifice Avhich is above my
courage Avlien it is proved to be the interests
of France. Far from having any cause of
complaint, I have nothing to say, but in
praise of the attachment and tenderness of
my beloved wife. She embellished fif
teen years of mv life, and the remembrance
of them will be forever engraven ou mv heart.
Site AA'as crowned by m v hand. She w ill retain
always tho rank and title of Empress. Above
all, let her ne\ r er doubt my feelings, or regard
me but as her best and dearest friend.”
Josephine, her eyes filled with tears, with a
faltering voice, replied:
“1 respond to all the sentiments of tlie Em
peror, in consenting to the dissolution of a
marriage which henceforth is an obstacle to
the happiness of France, by depriving it of
the blessing of being one day governed by
the descendants of that great man, evidently
raised up by Providence to efface the evils of
a terrible revolution, and to restore the altar,
the throne, and social order. But his mar
riage will, in no respect, change the senti
ments ot my heart. The Emperor will ever
find in me his best friend. 1 know what this
act, commanded bv policy and exalted inter
ests, has cost his heart; but we both glory
in the sacrifices we make for the good of our
country. I feel elevated in giving tho great
est proof of attachment and devotion that
was ever given upon earth.”
Such were the sentiments which were ex
pressed in public. But in private Josephine
surrendered herself to the unrestrained do
minion of her anguish. No language can
depict the intensity of her woe. For six
months she wept so incessantly that her eyes
were nearly blinded as ith grief. Upon “the
ensuing day the council were again assent- i
bled in the grand saloon, to witness the legal
consummation of the divorce. The Emper
or entered the room dressed in the” imposing
robes of state, but pallid, careAvorn and
wretched. Loav tones of voice, harmonizing
with the mournful scene, filled the room. Na
poleon, apart by himself, leaned against a
pillar, folded his arms upon his breast, and
in perfect silence, apparently lost in glootm’
thought, remained motionless as a statue. A
circular table Avas placed in the centre of the
apartment, .and upon this there was a writing
apparatus of gold. A vacant arm-chair stood
before the table. Never did a multitude gaze
upon the scaffold, tlie block, or the guillotine,
Avith more awe than the assembled lords and
ladies in this gorgeous saloon contemplated
those instruments of a more dreadful execu
tion.
At length the mournful silence AA’as inter
rupted by the opening of a side door, and
the entrance of Josephine. The pallor of
death was upon her brow, and the submission
of despair nerved her into a temporary calm
ness. She AA-as leaning upon the arm of
Hortense, who, not possessing the fortitude
ot her mother, Avas entirely unable to control
her feelings, but immediately upon entering
the room, burst into tears, and continued sob
bing most convulsively. The AA'hole assembly
rose upon the entrance of Josephine; all
were moved to tears. With that grace which
CA’er distinguished Iter movements, she ad
vanced silently to the seat provided for her.
Sitting down, and leaning her forehead upon
her hand, she listened to the reading of the
act of separation. Nothing disturbed the
silence of the scene but the sobbings of Hor
tense, blending with the mournful tones of
the reader’s voice. Eugene, in the mean time,
had taken a position by his mother’s side. Silent
tears Avere trickling down the cheeks of the
; Empress.
As soon as the reading of the act of sep
aration AA’as finished, Josephine for a moment
! pressed her handkerchief to her weeping eyes,
and then rising, in clear and musical, but tre
-1 mulous tones, pronounced the oath of accept
ance. She then sat do\A’n, took the pen and
I affixed her signature to the deed which sun
| dered the dearest hopes and the fondest ties
which human hearts can feel. Poor Eugene
j could endure this language no longer. His
i brain reeled, his heart ceased to beat, and he
■ fell lifeless upon the floor. Josephine and
I Hortense retired with the attendants, who
bore out the insensible form of the affection
ate son and brother. It AA’as a fitting termi
nation of this mournful but sublime tragedy,
j But the anguish of the day was not yet
S over. Josephine, half delirious Avith grief,
J had another scene still more painful to pass
I through, iu taking a final adieu of him who
I had been her husband. Josephine remained
i in her chamber in heart-rending, speechless
grief, until the hour in which Napoleon
usually retired for the night. The Emperor,
restless and wretched, had just placed him
self in the bed from which he had ejected his
most faithful and devoted wife, and the at
tendant was on the point of leaving the room,
when the private door of his apartment was
slowly opened, and Josephine tremblingly
entered. Her eyes were swollen with grief;
her hair dishevelled, and she appeared in all
the dishabille of unutterable anguish. She
tottered into the middle of the room, and ap
proached the bed—then Irresolutely stopping,
she burst into a flood of tears. A feeling of
delicacy seemed for n moment to have ar
rested her steps —a consciousness that now
she had no right to enter the chamber of Na
poleon—but in another moment all the pent
up love of her heart burst forth, and, forget
ting every tiling, she threw herself upon the
bed, clasped her arms around Napoleon’s
neck, and exclaiming, “My husbaud! mv
husband! ’ sobbed as though her heart were
breaking, ‘i he imperial spirit of Napoleon
was for the moment entirely vanquished, and
he also wept most convulsively, lie assured
Josephine ol his love, of ardent and undying
love. In every way he tried to soothe and
comfort her, and for somo time they remain
ed locked in each other’s embrace.* The at
tendant was dismissed, and lor an hour they
continued in this last private interview. Jo
sephine then, experiencing an anguish which
few hearts have ever known, parted forever
from the husband whom she had so long, so
fondly, and so faithfully loved.
The beautiful palace of Malmaison, which
Napoleon had embellished with every possi
ble attraction, and where the Emperor and
Empress had passed many of their happiest
hours, was assigned to Josephine for her fu
ture residence. Napoleon also settled on her
a jointure of about six hundred thousand dol
lars a year. She was also still to retain the
title and the rank of Empress Queen.
The ensuing day, at eleven o’clock, all the
household of the Tuilleries were assembled
upon the grand staircase,and in the vestibule,
to witness the departure of their beloved mis
tress from scenes where she had so long been
the brightest ornament. Josephine descend
ed, veiled from head to foot. Her emotions
wore too deep for utterance, and she waived
an adieu to the affectionate and weeping
friends who surrounded her. A close carriage,
with six horses, was before the door. She en
tered it, sank hack upon the cushions, bu
ried her face in her handkerchief, and left
the Tuilleries forever.
Doing* at Our School ’ouse.
“First class of vagabones, rise!” thunder
ed our schoolmaster. Well, the vagabones
rose. “Now answer ever}- question correct
ly, or I'll break every bone in your bodies,”
was the next prommeiamiento of the old au
tocrat of our red school house. .Sapient old
pedagogue! thy years were many,and full of
knowledge. Looking back through a long
vista of birch rods, I can see his restless grey
eyes darting in quick glances from pupil to
pupil, in search of the “graceless scamp” who
threw the last spit ball with such wonderful
precision as to barely escape his nose, and
stick fast on the wall. Ami now I recollect,
he had a most perplexing squint—a squint
accommodating; for if he appeared to he
looking directly at one, that one might “go
it,” and no longer fear of being detected ; for
his optical focus was otherwise directed ; but,
if his eyes were fastened in one direction,
one could not tell where, then be wary, for
it might be on you. Glorious old master! if
your eyes squinted, your heart was as true
as the noodle to the pole—your affections had
no squint; you thrashed all alike; and all
alike shared your wonderful store-of knowl
edge. This was the last day of the quarter—
for a week our individual storehouse of lore
had been progressing through the various
stages of mental ventilation and renovation ;
our memories jogged; dormant ideas awa
kened, and our energies scoured up to a high
state of brightness by copious applications
of the master’s.brick dust of erudition. We
were in prime order.
“John B row*, what do you understand by
acoustics 1”
“Why, a stick to drive cows with,! s’pose.”
“Get out, you young vagabone ! Sarah,
you are John’s youngest sister?”
“Yeth, thir.”
“What is acoustics ?”
“I know, thir—it ith, it. itb the art of ma
king a noith, and hearing a noith.”
“You are right—explain it.”
“Yeth, thir. If’ you stick your finger into
your mouth, and then pull it out thuddenly,
the cold air rutheth into thevakkum and pro
dutheth a thound that thriketh on the tympan
of the ear, which maketli the thound audi
ble, and it ith called thience of a coutli
thixth.”
“You are quite right, Sarah. You may
take your books and run home. Wiley Chase,
what is the currency of the United States?”
“Cash and money.”
“What are its denominations?”
“Coppers, bogus, and bungtown cents,
pennies, lips, fourpence’a’pennies, levies, nine
ponces, Spanish quarters, pistareens, and
shinplasters.”
“That will do. Jones, what is the stand
ard weight of the United States?”
“Scale weight, and wait a little longer.”
“What is a hundred weight?”
‘‘One hundred and twelve pounds.’"*
“Simon, how many kinds of motion are
there'?”
“Four.”
“Two ; voluntary and involuntarv.”
“Simon says there’s four.”
“Whatdoes Simon say they are?”
“Point, point up, point down, and wig
wag.”
“Y r ou rascal! I’ve a mind to wigwag your
jacket! Hadn’t you better describe the mo
tion of my stick?”
“I can, sir.”
“ \nd its effect ?”
“Yes, sir. Up stroke and down stroke —
the up stroke regular and easy —the down
stroke spasmodical, electrifying, and its ef
fects are strikingly indescribable.”
“Y~ou understand that, I see. Susannah,
what is matter ?”
“There is nothing the matter with me, sir.”
“I ask you, wkat is matter, matter?”
“Y r es, sir—matter is everything that has
substance. There’s animated and vaccine
matter, and—”
“No matter about the rest. Speaking of
i vaccine matter, puts me in mind of sotne
i thing else. There has been a case of small
: pox appeared iu this village, or rather vario
; loid ■which is the botanical name of small
! pox and Mr. Scalpel says he lias some prime
vaccine matter, ot his own manufacture,
warranted to take—and ho will vaccinate the
whole village at eight cents apiece, and take
his pay in potatoes. All recollect, and when
you go home tell your parents. Gtorge
Smith,'do you recollect the story of David
and Goliah?”
“\es, sir—David was a tavern keeper, and
Goliah was an intemperate man.”
“Who told you that?”
“Nobody. I read it, and It said that David
fixed a sling for Goliah, and Goliah got
slewed with it.”
“Wasn’t Goliah a giant, a strong man?”
“Yes, ho was a giant, but had a weak
head.”
“How so ?”
“Why, to get so easily slewed.”
“Yes, George—that was undoubtedly ow
ing to the strength of the sling. W asn’t
David a musician ?”
“Yes, sir—he played psalms on the harp,
a favorite instrument with the Jews, and at
the present day it is called a Jewsharp. 1
have ono in my pocket; hero it is ; place it in
your mouth thus, breathe on the tongue gent
ly, then strike with your finger this w ay—and
the psalms in harmonious corncob, fructify on
the ear as natural as thunder.”
“That’s sufficient ; you can pocket your
harp. Simeon, how many points to the com
pass ?”
“Ono! father broke the other off opening
an oyster.”
“Thirty-two. Can von box the compass ?”
“No, sir.”
“Master!”
“Well, Isaac, what do you want?”
“I guess he turn box it, for i seen him box
ing with Jack Smith this morning, and lie
hit him first rate, him, right in the nose ; ves,
he did.”
“Squat yourself down! Jane, what ii
time ?”
“Something that flies, any how.”
“Haw do you make that out ?”
“Why, tempus l'ugit.”
“Latin—it means that time flies, and how
can time, if it flies, he any thing else than
something that flies ?”
“Excellent! What is the meaning of re
quiescat in pace ?”
“Rest quiet cats in peace.”
“Well, Jane, at Latin you are perfectly
an fait—which, translated, means perfectly
awful; it is a great phrase from the classics,
and applicable to this class, particularly.
Now take off your jackets, and I will give
you ‘ rewards of merit.’ Those who gut
more than their merit, can keep the overplus
as a token of my special affection for them ;
and those who get less, can have the mis
take rectified by mentioning it to me—you
will find me quite obliging. Pope s<jys, ‘as
the twig is bent the tree is inclined;’ and
that is very true, for I have used up whole
trees thrashing your jackets for you.”—.Y.
Y. I met.
Parental Authority among the Romans.
Such young men of the present day as
consider themselves too tightly restrained by
the checks of parental authority and solici
tude, may, perhaps, by comparing their own
circumstances with those of the Roman youth,
as related in the following paragraph, find
not a little to console them*for their imagined
state of subjection :
“ Roman parents possessed an exorbitant
power over their children. A father could,
with impunity, suffer his infant son to perish.
When grown up, he could imprison, send
him hound to work in the country, or even
put him to death, without assigning a cause.
No son could acquire property without the
consent of his father; so that with a parent
of a cruel or capricious temper, the condi
tion of a slave, in some respects, was more
tolerable. A slave could be emancipated hr
a single act. A son, however, in order to be
come free, or his own master, was first to be
sold into slavery, usually to a friend, and
then re-sold to the father; after which, being
on the footing of a slave, lie was to be man
umitted with the same formalities. When
the son was promoted to any public office,
the parental care was suspended, but by no
means abolished ; for it continued to bo ex
ercised during the father’s life, not only over
iiis children, but over his grand-children and
great-grand-children. A daughter, by mar
riage, passed from the power of her father
to that of her husband. In the days of the
emperors, however, flic* rigor of these institu
tions was considerably mitigated.”
Stream* ot Influence.
Could men see distinctly the streams of
influence, which daily, and hourly, and stead
ily flow out from their conduct in all direc
tions, blessing or withering their friends, their
children, their relatives, their neighbors, and
all with whom they come into contact, how
much more w'atchful and circumspect would
they be than they now generally are. When
war come to examine the constitution of so
ciety, we shall find ourselves surrounded by
an atmosphere of influences in which every
element is in constant, vigorous reaction.
Here man speaks, and eloquence is heard ;
he desires, and art becomes his handmaid ;
he defines and resolves, and law reigns; he
reasons, and philosophy ascends her throne;
he unites his will with the will of his fellow
men, and a world of his own appears.—
Every action draws after him a train of
influences. Every individual is a centre,
constantly radiating streams of influence.
From the first moment of his active exist
ence, his character goes on daily and hourly,
streaming with more of moral influence.
A power which operates involuntarily; for
though he can choose in any given case what
he will do, yet he cannot choose what in
fluence it will have. It operates universally,
never terminating on himself, but extending
to all within his circle, emanates from each
of these again as from a fresh circle, and
thus transmitted on in silent yet certain effect
to the uttermost parts of social existence. It
is indestructible; not a particle is ever lost,
but the whole of it is taken up into the gen
eral system ; it is always in operation some
where. And the influence which thus blends
and binds him up with his race, invisible and
impalpable as it is, is yet the mightiest ele
ment of society.
O’ YVhat is idleness? A public mint,
where various kinds of mischief are coined and
extensively circulated among the most des
picable of the human race.
Genius.
tis an oW trick of would-be great men
to try and pass for really groat men by aping
the faults and follies of the “sons of fame.”
| A contemporary thus, ridicules those who
j would claim to be great orators because they
have a wart like Tuliv, or stammer like Dc
uiQSthenes—or who would set up for fine
poets, because they can roar a catch with
Horace, or empty a-cask of Ifalernian:
“Some men think that in imitating flic fol
lies, vices or eccentricities of distinguished
characters, they catch the spirit of their gen
ius; like those poor players who ‘ out-herod
Herod’ in aping the mannerisms of Kean, or’
the versatility of Garrick. A writer may
wear ‘ soaplocks,’ ams yet lack the graphic
powers, the fidelity to nature, the touches of
tender pathos, the irresistible humor and
buoyancy of spirit of Charles Dickens'.
Farther, every man who drinks gin and
turns down his shirt-collar is not, jjcr conse
quence, a Lord Byron.”
The Gospel.
This is the word preached ; it is neither
spent in its descent from Heaven, nor wasted
in its transmission through ages—fresh and
beautiful and holy as at first; repeated eve
i r . v Sabbath, read in every Bible — the elo
quence of many thousand pulpits, and tho
music of many tongues. It is Heaven’s ju
bilee, sounding in tho cells of tho great prison
house ; it is the light of eternal day shining
through the gratings. Christ crucified is tho
commencement, the end, and the coronal of
Christianity—a truth that endures forever ?
it is enshrined in glory. Languages change,
ceremonies vary, sacraments are temporary;
Sabbaths, like* little pools, will be swallowed
up in the ocean of eternity ; praj-er will con
tinue only while there are wants, and a min
istry while there is ignorance; but around
this dissolving world, one thing abides—tho
\\ ord ot the Lord, that endures forever.—
M hatevor opposes this must perish, whatever
contends against it must be crushed. Infi
delity—the word of man, however musical
in utterances, will he hushed—its airy frost
work, however glittering in the
will be dissolved. The gospel is divine iu
its birth and eternal in its destiny. Christi
anity enunciates truths that are above the
tidemark of time, and rooted in the attributes
of God; it cannot he extinguished, for God
is its light; it cannot die, for God is its life.
Virtue Promotes Christianity.
A truly Christian life is better than large*
contributions of wealth for the propagation of
Christianity, ‘the most prominent instruc
tion of Jesus on this point is, that we must
let men see in us that religion is something
real, something more than high sounding
and empty words, a restraint from sin, a bul
wark against temptation, a spring of upright
and useful action ; let them see it, not an
idle form, not a transient feeling, but our
companion through life, infusing its purity in
to our common pursuits, following us to our
homes, setting a guard round our integrity
in the resorts of business, sweetening our
tempers in seasons of provocation, disposing
us habitually to sympathy with others, to pa
tience and cheerfulness under our own afflic
tions, to candid judgment, and to sacrifices
for others’ good ; and we may hope that our
light will not shine uselessly, that some slum
bering conscience will be roused by this
testimony to the excellence and practicable
ness of religion, that some worldly pro
fessor of Christianity will leave his obliga
tions and blush for his criminal inconsis
tency, and that somo in whom the com
mon arguments for our religion may have
failed to work a full belief, will he brought
to tho knowledge of the truth, by this plain,
practical proof of the heavenly nature of
Christianity. Ever}- man is surrounded with
beings who are moulded more or less by tho
principles of sympathy and imitation; and
this social part of our nature he is bound
to press into the service of Christianity.
The Man ol Integrity.
It will not take much time to delineate
tho character of tho man of integrity, as by
its nafiir* it is a plain one, and easily un
derstood. He is one who makes it his con
stant rule to follow tho road of duty, ac
cording as the word of God, and the voice
of his conscience pointeth out to him.
He is not guided merely bv affections,
which may sometimes give the color of
virtue to a loose and unstable character.
The upright man is guided by a fixed prin
ciple of mind, which determines him to es
teem nothing but what is honorable, and to
abhor whatever is base and unworthy iu
moral conduct. Hence you find him ever tho
same; at all times the trusty friend, the af
fectionate relation, the conscientious man of
business, the pious worshipper, tho public
spirited citizen. Ho assumes no borrowed
appearance. lie seeks no mask to cover
him; for he acts no studied part, but he is
in truth, what he appears to be, full of
truth, candor, and humanity. In all his pur
i suits he knows* no part but the fair and di
rect; and would much rather fail of success,
than attain it by reproachful means. Ho
never shows youa smiling countenance, while
he meditates evil against you in his heart.—
He never praises you among your friends,
and then joins in traducing you among your
enemies. Y*ou will never find one part of
his character at variance with another. Iu
his manners, he is simple and unaffected ; in
all his proceedings, open and consistent.
Boston Notions.—Theodore Parker, an
eminent writer and preacher, thus expounds
his views to tiie good people of Boston.—
Hear him hold forth :
“It is plain to me that it is the natural
duty of citizens to rescue ever;/ fugitive stave
from the hands of the Marshal, who essays to
return him to bondage; to do it peaceably if
they can, forcibly if they must, hut by all
means to do it. * * * But this I say sol
emnly, shat I will do all in my power to res
cue any fugitive slave from the hands of any
officer who attempts to return him to bond
age”
(jYr “Never get in debt!” said Mrs. Par
tington, solemnly, and she raised her tea
spoon with an emphatic air and held it thus,
as if from it were suspended the threads of a
fine argument on economy, discernible to her
eye alone, and she were watching an oppor
tunity to make it tangible. “Never get in
debt, no matter whether you are creditable
or not; it is better to have a crust of bread
and water and a herrin’ or two, than the
stalled ox cut up into rump steaks and owe
for it. Think of our neighbor, Mr. Smith,
what a failin’ he had, and he had all his goods
and impertinences taken on a mean process—
mean enough, Heaven knows —and his poor
wife reduced to starvation, shushon tea, and
a calico ground, and he gone to California.”
!Cr Within a circle of the city of London,
the radius of which does not exceed five
miles, there are now living about two mil
lion.; and a quarter of human beings.
NO. *lB.