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VOL. I.
THE
SOWSESILH' ££nSTS3£i^XC 9
Will be published erery SJITL liDJi F Morning,
.'ll the Corner of IValnut and Fifth Streets,
FN THE CITY OF MACON, CA.
BY WM. B. IIAKItISON.
r E It M S :
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A Gem for the Season. —The I'pllow-ng
may tig read at the present moment with more
then ordinary relish. It is une of the most
beautiful poems in the language. The imagery
is chaste, natural, and altogether appropriate :
Death of tile Flowers.
1!Y W. C. BRYANT.
The melancholy days are come,
The saddest of the year,
Os wailing winds and’naked woods,
And meadows brown and sere,
Heaped iii the hollows of the grove,
ill ! withered leaves lie dead,
They r istle t . the eddying gust,
And to the rabbit's tread :
1 lie robin and the wren arc flown,
And from the shrub the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow,
Through all the gloomy day.
Y\ here are the flowers, the fair young-flowers
That lately sprung and stood
In brighter light and soli or airs,
A beauteous sisterhood ?
Alas! they nil are in their graves,
The gentle care of flowers,
And lying in their lowly bed,
Willi the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie,
But cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth
Thu lovely ones again.
The wild flower and the violet,
They perished long ago,
And the wild rose and the orchis died
Amid the Summer glow ;
But on the hill the golden rod,
Aad the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sunflower by'the brook,
lii Autumn beauty stood,
fill fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven,
As lalls the plague on men,
And the brightness of tlicirsmilc was gone
From upland, glade and glen.
And now, when comes the calm midday,
As still such davs will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee
From out tin ir wintry home,
\\ lien the sound of dropping nuts is heard,
Though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light
r The waters of the rill ;'
I ho south wind searches for the flowers
Whose fragrance late he bore,'
And sighed to find them in the wood
And by the stream no more.
And when I think of one who m
et 'youthful beauty died—
"•‘t lair meek blossom that grew up
A*'d laded by my side ; “ ‘
w r \ f < U moist earth we laid her,
\Vl»en th e forest east the leaf, *
And we wept, that „nc so lovely
felioiild have a lift so brief; '
‘ l mmCL ' t ' l that one
Like that young friend of ours
Ho gentle and so beautiful,
Should perish with the ilowers.
Let ns Hope for Brighter Hays.
Let us hope for brighter days !
Wo have struggled long together,
Hoping that the summer’s rays
II ! g,lt *“oceed the wintry weather .
ILquiig till the summer came,
l hat to us seem’d winter still.
Summer—winter—all the same '
J-o our hearts so cold and chill !
Let us hope for brighter days 1 *
Surely they must come at last
■As we see the solar rays, ’
• « VVh ? n . l !'° s,orm !m» hurried past ■
So as, mid the storm, we know
I hat the sunbeam will succeed
Let us not our hope forego 1
In our darkest hour of need.
The W ise Thought.
A First Hate Irish Tale.
BY MRS. S. C. HALL.
She was sitting under the shadow of a
fragrant lime tree that overhung a very an
cient well, and as the water fell into her
pitcher, she was mingling with its music
the tones of her ‘Jew’s hup,” the only
instrument upon which Norah Clary had
learned to play. She was a merry maid
en of “sweet seventeen;” a rustic belle,
as well as a rustic beauty, and a “terrible
coquette and as she had wlmt iti Scot
land they call a “tocher,” in England a
‘ dowry,” and in Ireland a “pretty penny
o’ money,” it is scarcely necessary to state
in addition, that she had—a bachelor.—
Whether the tune —which was certainly
given in alia —was or was not designed as
a summons to her lover, 1 cannot take up
on myself to say ; but her lips and lingers
had not long been occupied, before her lo
ver was at her side.
» “We may as well give it up, Morris
Donovan,” she said, somewhat abruptly ;
“look, ’twould he as easy to twist the top
ofthe great hill of iiowtli, as make father
and mother agree about ?ny one thing.
They've been playing the rule of contra
ry these twenty years, and it’s not likely
they’ll take a turn now.”
“It’s mighty hard, so it is,’’ replied
handsome Morris, “that martied people
can’t draw together. Norah, darlin; !
that’wouldn’t I o the way with us. It’s
one we’d he in heart and sowl, and an ex
ample of love and ”
“Folly,” interrupted the maiden, laugh
ing. “Morris, Morris, we’ve quarrelled
a score o’ times already; and a bit of a
breeze makes life ail the pleasanter. Shall
1 talk about tho metry jig I danced with
I’iiil Kennedy, or repeat what Mark Doo
iaii said of me to Mary Grey ! eh, Morris!”
“Leave joking now, Norry; God only
knows hmv 1 love you,” he said, in a voice
broken by emotion ; “I’m yer equal as fai
ns money goes; and no young farmer in
the country can tell a belter stock to his
share than mine ; yet, I don’t pretend to
deserve you for all that; only 1 can’t help
saying that, when we love each other,
(now don’t go to contradict me, Norry,
because ye’ve as good as owned it over
and over again,) and yer lather agreeable
and all, to think that yer mother, just for I
dir-’ment, should he putting betwixt us
for no reason upon earth, only to ‘spite’
her lawful husbaml, is what sets me mad
entirely, and shows her to be a good for
“Stop, Mister Morris,” exclaimed No-j
rah, laying her hand upon his mouth so j
■:s effectually to prevent a sound escaping; j
“it'- my mother ye're talking of, and it j
would he ill-lilood, as well as ill-bred, to ,
hear ;i word said against an own parent, j
Is that the pattern of ycr manner, sir ; or i
did ye ever hear me turn my tongue ..gainst
any one belonging to you l”
‘l ask your pardon, my own Norab,’ he
replied, meekly, as in duty bound; ‘for
the salvo of the lamb, we spare the sheep.
\\ hy not ! and I’m not going to gainsay,
but yer mother ’
‘ihe le t.- 1 said’s the soonest mended !’
again interrupted the impatient girl.
‘Hood even, Morris, and God bless you ;
they’ll be after missing me within, and it's
little mother thinks where I am.’
‘Norah, above all the girls at wake or
pattern, live been true to you. We have
grown together, and since we were the
heigth ofa rose-bush, ye have been dear
er to me than anything else on earth. Do,
Norah, for the sake of your young heart’s
love, do think if there’s no \vay to win
yer mother over. J 1 ye and take me with
out her leave, sure it's nothing I’d care
for the loss of thousands, let alone what
ye ve got. Dearest Norah, think; since
you’ll and > nothing without her consent, do
think—fur once be serious, and don't!
laugh.’
‘1 m not going to laugh, Morris, * replied
tlie little maid at last, after a very long
pause—‘l’ve got a wise thought in my
bead for once. 11 is reverence, ■your un
cle, you say, spoke to father—to speak to
mother about it? I wonder (and he a
priest(that he hadn’t more sense ! Sure,
mother was the man ; hut I’ve got a wise
thought. Good night, dear Morris —good
night
The last sprang lightly over the fence
into her own garden, leaving her lover
per ,/m at tlie other side, without possessing
an idea of what her ‘wise thought’ might
be. When she entered the kitchen, mat
ters were going on as usual—her mother
bustling in style, and as cross ‘as a bag ofi
weasels.’
‘Jack Clary,’said she, addressing her
self to her husband,, who sat quietly in the
chimney corner, smoking bis dodeen, ‘it’s
well ye’ve got a wife who knows what’s
what! God help me ! I’ve little good
of a husband, b irring the name! Are
yc sure Black Nell’s in the stable ?’ The
spouse nodded. ‘The cow and the calf,
had they fresh straw V Another nod.—
‘Bad cess to ye, can’t ye use yer tongue,
and answer a civil question V continued
the lady.
‘My dear,” lie replied, ‘sure one like
you lias enough for ten.’
’] his very just bservation was, like
most truths, so disagreeable, that a severe
storm would have followed, had not No
rah stepped up and whispered in bis ear,
‘I don’t think the stable door is fastened.’
Mrs. Clary caught the sound, and in no
JI VCOA, (GA.,) SATURDAY IIOKNING, DEU’E.’IBESi t>, 1848.
gentle terms ordered her husband to at
tend to the comforts of Black Nell.
‘l’ll go with father myself and see,’ said
Norah.
‘That's like my own child, always care
ful,’ observed the mother, as the father
and daughter closed the door.
‘Dear father,’began Norah, ‘it isn’t al
together about the stable I wanted ye, but
—but —but the priest said something to
you to-day about—. Morris Donovan.’
‘Yes, darling, and about yerself, my
sweet Norry.”
‘Did ye speak to mother about it ?’
‘No, darling, she’s been so cross all
day. Sure Igo through a dale for peace
and quietness. If I was like other men,
and got drunk and wasted, it might be in
rasun ; hut . As to Morris, she was
very fond of the boy till she turned like
sour milk all in a minute. I’m afraid even
jhe priest ’ll get no good of her.’
‘Father, dear father, said Norah, ‘sup
pose ye were to say nothing about it, good
or had, and just pretend to take a sudden
dislike to Morris, and let the priest speak
to her himself, she’d come round.’
‘Out of opposition to me, eh V
‘Yes.’
‘And let her gain the day, then ?—that
would he cowardly,’ replied the farmer,
drawing hitnself up. ‘No, I won’t.’
‘Father, dear, - you don’t understand,’
said the cunning lass; “sure ye’re for
Morris; and when we are—that, is, if—
I mean—suppose —father, you know what
1 mean,’ she continued, and luckily the
twilight concealed her blushes—‘if that
took place, it’s you that would have yer
own way.’
‘True for ye, Norry, my girl, tiue for
ye ; I never thought of that before !’ and,
pleased with the idea of tricking h s wife,
the old man fairly capered for joy. ‘But
stay a while— stay ; aisy, aisy !’ he re
commenced, ‘how am 1 to manage ? Sure
the priest himself will be here to-morrow
morning early; and lie’s out upon a sta
tion now, so there’s no speaking with him;
lie’s no way quick, either; we’ll lie both
ered entirely if he comes in a sudden/.'
‘Leave it to me, dear father—leave it
all to me !’ exclaimed the animated girl ;
‘. nly prick up a spirit, and whenever
Morris’name is mentioned, abuse him
but not with till yer heart, father—only
from the teeth out.’
When they re-entered, the fresh boiled
potatoes sent a warm curling steam to the
very rafters of the lofty kitchen; they
were poured out into a large wicker dish,
and on the top ofthe pile rested n plate of
coarse w hite salt; noggins of buttermilk
were filled on the dresser; and on a small
round table a cloth was spread, and some
delf plates awaiting the more delicate re
past which the farmer's wife was herself
preparing.
‘What’s for supper, mother?’ inquired
Norah as site drew her wheel towards
her, and employed her fairy foot in whirl
ing it round.
‘Plaguy snipeats' she replied, ‘hits o’
hog chickens, that you've always such a
fancy for; Barney Leary kilt them him
self.
‘So 1 did,’ said Barney, grinning;‘and
that stick with a hook of Morris Donovan’s
is the finest thing in the world for knock
ing ’em down.’
‘lf Moiris Donovan’s stick touched them
they shan't come here,’ said the farmer,
striking the poor little table such a blow
with his clenched hand as to make not on
ly it, hut Mrs. Clary jump.
‘And why so, pray !’ asked the dame.
‘Because nothing of Morris’, let alone
Morris himself, shall come into this house,’
replied Clary; lie’s not to my liking any
how, and there is no good in his bother
ing here after what he won't get.’
‘Excellent !’ thought Norah.
‘Lord save us!’ ejaculated Mrs. Clary,
as she placed the grilled snipes upon the
table, ‘what’s coming to the man !’ With
out heeding his resolution, she was pro
ceeding to distribute the savory birdeens,
when to her astonishment, her usually
tame husband threw the dish and its con
tents into the flames ; the good woman ab
solutely stood for a moment aghast. The
calm, however, was not of long duration.
She soon rallied, and commenced hostili
ties. ‘How dare you, ye spalpeen, throw
away any of God’s mate after that fashion,
and Ito the fore ? \Y hat do you mane, 1
say V
•1 mane, that nothing touched by Mor
ris Donovan shall come undor this roof;
and if I catch that girl of mine looking at
the same side o’ the road he walks on, I’ll
tear the c-ye3 out of her head, and send
her to a nunnery !’
‘Y ott will! And dare you say that to
my face, to a child o’ mine! You will,
will ye ! —we’ll see, my boy ! I’ll tell ye
what, if I like, Morris Donovan shall
come into this house : and what’s more,
be master of the houso, and that’s what
you never had the heart to be yet, ye poor
old snail!’ So saying, Mrs. Clary endea
vored to rescue from the fire the hissing
remains of the burning snipes. N orab at
tempted to assist her mother; but Clary,
lifting her up, somewhat after the fashion
ofan eagle raising a golden wren with its
claw, fairly put her out of the kitchen.—
This xvas the signal for fresh hostilities.
Mrs. Clary stormed and stamped, and Mr.
1 Clary persisted in abusing not only Mor
ris, but Morris’ ancle, Father Donovan,
until at last the father’s helpmate swore,
ay, and roundly too, by cross and saint,
! that, before the next sunset Norah Clary
| should be Norah Donovan. I wish you
j could have seen Norry’s eye, dancing
with joy and exultation, as it peeped thro
the latch hole ; it sparkled more brightly
than the richest diamond in our monarch’s
crown, for it was filled with hope and love.
Ihe next morning before the sun was
fully up, he was throwing his early beams
over the glowing cheeks of Norah Clary ;
for her wise thought had prospered, and
- she was hastening to the trysting tree,
where, liy chance, either morning or eve
ning, she generally met Morris Donovan.
I knownot how it is, but the moment the
course of love begins to run smooth, it be
comes uninteresting, except to the parties
concerned. So it is now left forme only
to say, that the maiden, after a due and
i proper time consumed in teasing and tan
! talizing her intended, told him her saucy
plan, and its result. And the lover has
tened upon the wings of love (which I
beg my readers clearly to understand are
swifter and str..ngei in Ireland than in any
other country,) to tell the priest the ar
rangement, well knowing that his reve
rence loved his nephew and niece that
was to he (to say nothing of the wedding
sipper, and the profits arising therefrom)
too well, nyt to aid their merry jest.
YVliat hustle, what preparation, what
feasting, what dancing, gave the country
folk enough to talk about during the happy
Christmas holydays, 1 cannot describe.—
Hie bride ol course looked lovely and
sheepish; and the bridegroom—but bride
grooms are always uninteresting. One
fi:ct, however, is worth recording. When
Bather Donovan concluded the ceremony,
bes ire the bridal kiss hud passed, Farmer
Clary, without any reason that Ins wife
could discover, most indecorously sprung
up, seized a shilleluh of stout oak, and
" hilling it rapidly over his head, shouted
‘Cany me out! by the powers she’s beat!
we’ve won the day! ould Ireland forev
er ! Success, hoys ! —she’s beat! she’s
beat!’ The priest too seemed vastly to
enjoy this extemporaneous effusion, and
even the bride laughed outright. Wheth
er the good wife discovered the plot or
not, I never heard ; hut of this 1 am cer
tain, that the joyous Norah never had rea
son to repent her wise thought.
Tun Printer.— A printer is the most
curious being living. He may have a hank
arid coins and not be worth a penny—have
small caps, and have neither wife nor chil
dren. Others may* run fust, but he gets
along swifter by setting fast. He may be
making impressions without eloquence,
may use the lye wibout offending, and be
telling the tru ll; while others cannot stand
when they sit. he can set standing, and
even do Doth at the same time—use furni
ture, and yet have no dwelling—may make
and put away pic, and never see a pie in
his life—be a human and a rat tit the same
time—m ap press a great deal and not ask
a favor—may handle a shooting iron, and
know no’hing either about a cannon, gun,
or pistol; he may move the lever that
moves the world, and yet be as far from
moving the globe as a hog with his nose
under a molehill—spread slice's without
being a housewife; lie may lay bis form
upon a bed,, and yet be obliged to sleep
on the floor; he may use the t without
shedding any blood, and from the earili
he may handle the ***; he may lie of a
rolling disposition, and yet lie may never
desire to travel; he may have a sheep's
foot, and not be deformed, never be with
out a raw, and know nothing of law or
physic; he always correcting his errors,
and growing worse every day ; have em
—s without e'er having the arms of a
lass around him ; have his form locked up,
and at the same time be free from jail,
watch house or any other confin •meiit.
How to Look Young. —An aged per
son being asked how he had managed to
retain his youthful appearance so well as
he had done, said, “1 never ride when 1
can walk; 1 never eat more thin one dish
at dinner, and never get drunk. My
walking keeps my blood in circulation,
my simple diet prevents indigestion, and
never drinking ardent spirits my liver nev
er fears being eaten up alive ! ’ But lie
forgot to add one of the greatest causes of
lasting youth, viz : “a kind, unenvious,
contented heart.” Envy and discontent
can dig as deeply in'o the human face as
time it-elf!
Matrimony.— From a work entitled
“Family Lectures,” by Mrs. N. Sproat,
we make the following beautiful extract,
which we recommend to the particular at
tention of our readers of both sexes :
“A great proportion of the wretched
ness, which has so often embittered mar
ried life, lam persuaded, has originated
in a negligence of trifles. Connubial hap
piness is a thing of too fine a texture to be
handled roughly. It is a sensitive plant,
which will not hear even the touch of un
kindness—u delicate flower, which indif
ference will chill and suspicion blast. It
must bo watered by tlie showers of tender
affection—expanded by the cheering glow
of attention, and guarded by the impreg
nablo barrier of unshaken confidence.—
Thus matured) it will bloom with fragrance
in every season of life, and sweeteu even
the lonelitiess of declining years.”
Tile Yoiitti of tHe Heart.
BY MRS. C. M. SAWYER.
“Shall I over grow old ?” said a fair little girl
As she stood by a fond mother's knee,
And tossed from her forehead the c! ,ing .
r curls,
And turned up her bonny blue e’c.
“Shill I ever grow old, as the beggar has done
'V ho yesterday came to our door?
And nevef again look on the light of the sun,
And see the sweet flowers no more I
Will my face be all wrinkled with sorrow and
care,
And m v pretty brown tresses turn white
Oh, mother, 1 in sure that 1 never could ,>ear
To become such a sail looking sight
On her fair little daughter the mother looked
down,
And her face wore a sorrowful smile,
A« she smoothed back the beautiful tresses of
brown
And gazed in her blue eyes the while !
“Oil, yes, mv dear child !”—anu the tears ga
thered fast,
As she spoke in the mother’s dark eye
“The charms we so prize in our youth cannot last,
And wrinkles and age will draw nigh !
This beautiful forehead, so placid and white,
This cheek ofthe carnation bloom,
Must yield up the delicate tints to the blight—
The precursor that points to the tomb !
To wrinkles these dimples at length will give
place,
These locks will he sprinkled with grnv,
And who is there, then, could discover a trace
Os the beauty my child wears to-day !
“But the youtli of the heart”—and the mother’s
dark eye
Grew soft as tho eve of a fawnp—
“Mo y live in its greenness when age has come j
nigh.
And the rose and the lily arc gone !
That youth ! ’tis an evergreen—nourish it well
With the dews of affection and love,
And still in thy bosom unfading ’twill dwell,
When the spirit ascendeth above !
Oh, the youth of the heart ! —’tis more precious
than gold,
For it cheers e’en decrepitude’s wav,
And makes the world bright to us when wo are
old,
As it was in life’s earliest day !
Then grieve not, my child, though thy cheeks
should grow pale,
And thy beautiful tresses turn gray—
But guard well the youth of thy heart, that it fail
Nor die with thy beauty away !”
A Touch of Nature.—A letter writer
wbo strolled into a pawnbroker's shop in
New York, describes a scene as follows :
We noticed among tlie group an inter
esting girl, about seventeen years of age,
in faded, yet deep mourning. There was
an expression of anxious melancholy ni t
on her pale and beautiful countenance
which riveted out attention. She was not
among those that were bidding, bur was
undoubtedly waiting untilsome article was
offered weich she was desirou* of possess
ing. At length the actioneer offered a
miniature and locket. The pale girl start
ed, and rushing towards the counter, ex
claimed in a voice of deep anguish—
“Oh! don’t sell them, sir, for mercy’s
sake keep them a little while longer. 1
shall bo able to redeem them. 1 shall in
deed.”
“\Y 7 hat is bid for them continued the
auctioneer.
“Do not bid !” almost shrieked tho girl.
“1 had to pawn them to get bread for rny
little sister ; it is my mother’s miniature
and my mother’s hair which that locket
contains—my poor dear mother,’who gave
it to me when she was dying. Oh! do
not sell it—pray don’t.”
It is impossible to describe the sensa
tion produced by this appeal among the
assemblage. There was not a solitary
bid for the articles: but we saw an elderly
gentleman in the simple garb ot a Quaker,
go to the desk, and in a few minutes af
terwards wc saw that pule giri press his
hand to her lips, and after eagerly kissing
something which he handed to her, she
rushed from the room.
Scene ix a School-Room.— “First cla-s
iu philosophy, como up. Well, Ichabod,
what are the properties of heat ?” “The
properties of beat, sir, are to bake bread,
boil water, cook eggs, and’—“Stop—Next
What arc the properties of heat l “The
properties of heat is to warm your toes,
when they gets cold, by holding ’em to the
fire, and so forth.’ “Next— What are the
properties of heat Solon V “The chief
properties of heat is that it expands bo- (
dies, while cold contracts them.’ “Very
good, Solon. Can you give me an exam
ple V “\ r es sir :In summer, when it is
hot, the day is long; in winter, when it is
cold, it gets to be very short.” “Go head.
Solon ; boys take your seats ;’ and the
learned pedagogue was lost in wonder,
that so familiar an instance of illustration
should have escaped his philosophic mind.
A Beautiful Superstition. —Among
the superstitions of the Senecas is one re
markable for its singular beauty. When
a maiden dies, they imprison a young
bird, until it first begins to try its powers
of song, and then loading it with kisses
and caresses, they loose its bonds o ver her
grave, in the belief that it will not close
its eyes or fold its wings until it has flown
to the spirit land, and delivered its pre-*
cious burden of affection to the loved and
the lost.
A Russian VVedoixg. —The marriage
ceremony, however solemn it may he ac
counted, as one ofthe offices of the church,
is so cloaked with theatrical effect as tx>
lose much of its spiritual sanctity. It
i would seem that the external senses rather
than the feelings of the heart or mind were
to lie wrought upou ; or perhaps it is con
sidered that the feelings are only impress
ed by the agency of the senses. Be this
as it may, marriage is a drawing-room
scene, under priestly auspices ; lay frivol
ities are inter-mingled with ecclesiastical
pageantry ; and the theatrical effect is en
hanced By its being an evening perform
ance. The exterior of the church is illu
minated ; but the brilliancy outside is
eclipsed by the blaze ofthe interior, which
s'added with candles and chandeliers,
looks more like a saloon of pleasure than
a place of worship.
The guests and friends invited to be
present appear in full dress, and are mar
shalled to tlie respective sides of the build
ing appropriated to them by a master of
ceremonies for the occasion : the friends
of each of the contracting parties being
grouped together on each side, leaving
;he centre free ; for there are neither
pews nor seats of any kind in the Russian
ehurelies. The entrance of the bride
groom is welcomed by a chant from the
choristers, who take a leading part in the
ceremony, no itistrumerual music being
allowed in the Greek churches; and a
bridesman immediately hurries to tell the
bride her intended is awaiting her. This is
often intimated gracefully and silently by
the presentation of a boquet of flowers.—
On the bride’s arrival, the choristers again
chant a welcome, and she lakes her place
among her friends.
The dress of the bride is as sumptuous
as jewels and the most costly articles can
make it, if the means of the family admit
of such a display. She is ushered into the
assembly by a kind of procession, headed
by one of her own family, bearing before
him the richly ornamented picture of her
saint, which is destined to occupy a cor- -
tier of her future apartment, and which,
during the ceremony, is placed on the
high altar, or reading desk, covered with
rose-colored silk, and ornamented with
silver fringe and lace, is placed in the cen
tre ofthe parquette, at which the priest
officiates. The service is long, and con
sists in reading the lives of Abraham and
and Sarah, an exhortation to the new cou
ple, and much singing. The rings are ex
changed at the betrothal, and therefore
that symbol forms no part ofthe service.
The pair, bearing lighted tapers in tlieir
hands, and having large gilt crowns held
over their heads, walk twice round the al
tar, grasping the priest’s robes, and, du
ring tho exhortation, they stand on a largo
piece of rich si: k, which becomes the per
quisite ol the priest. This portion of tho
c* remony being concluded, the sacrament
is administered, and the new married
couple proceed to the grand altar, where
they prostrate themselves, with forehead
to the ground, before the various pictures
of tlie saiuts, atul kiss them, with many
crossings and genuflections. The con
gra' ulations of tlie friends now follow; tho
line of demarcation is broken through, and
all parties assembled, both men and wo
men, kiss each other.
A brilliant upper awaits the whole par
ty at the house (generally) of the parents
of the bride ; dancing is kept up to a late
hour, and nut unfrequently the pleasures
ofthe table degenerate into excesses. Su
perstition permits only of certain days for
the performance ofthe marriage ceremo
ny, care being taken to avoid the eve of a
feast or particular prayer day. Previous
to tlie marriage the betrothed parties are
naturally subject to the quizzings and sly
jokes of their friends, including one singu
lar custom, to which they are expected to
conform. At the dinner table, if any one
in filling his glass cries, “Garkoe, garkoe,”
(bitter, bitter,) the bridegroom elected is
considered bound to remedy the alleged
evil by kissing his intended.— Thompson s
Life in Russia.
Irish Help.— ‘YY'hy, Bridget, you have
baked this bread to a crisp.’
‘An’ su c, my lady, I only baked it three
hours?, according to the resaite.’
‘Three hours t YYDty, the recipe said
but one.’
‘Yes, mem ! one hour for a large loaf,
and I iiad three small ones, and so I baked
cm three hours, jist.’
The Age or Women. —Nothing is
more vain than for a woman to deny her
age ; for she cannot deceive the only per
son that cares about it, herself. If a man
dislikes a woman because he thinks her
of the age she is, he will only dislike her
the more for being told she is younger than
she seems to be, and consequently looks
older than she ought to do. Tho appear
ance of her face will weigh more than that
of her register.
OCf For men to resolve to be of no re
ligion tilPall are agreed in one, is just as
wise and rational as if they should deter
mine not to go to dinner until all the clocks
pi town strike twelve together.
OP Always speak the truth. A falso
assertion, or one breach of trust is suffi
cient to destroy confidence forever.
|C7* A man’s soul and the sole of his
boot, are often used the same way—trod
den under foot.
NO. 2.