The Southern museum. (Macon, Ga.) 1848-1850, December 23, 1848, Image 1

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VOL.. 8. THE ' aßsrsaon 8 Will l‘e published eccryS.ITLRD.IY Morning, .It the Corner of Walnut and Fifth Streets, IS TIIE CITY OE MACON, UA. BY H.II, B. HABKISOX. T E ft M S : For the I’apcr, in advance, per annum, $2. If not paid in advance, $2 50, per annum. If not paid until the end of the Year $3 00. QT ,\dv Ttisanicnts will be inserted attheusu.il rites—and when the number of insertions de sired is not specified, they will be continued un til forbid and charged accordingly. [FTAdvertisers by tho Year will be contracted wit!) upon tlie most favorable terms. ETSalciof Land by Administrators, Executors or Guardians, are required'by Law, to be held on thetirst Tuesday in the month, between the hours of ten o'clock in the Forenoon and three in the Af ternoon, at the Conrtllou.se of tlie county in which the Property is situate. Notice ot these Sales must be given in a public gazette sixty days previous to the day of sale. XT*Sales of Negroes bv Administrators, Execu tors or Guardians, must be at Public Auction, on the first Tuesday in the month, between the legal hours of sale, before the Court House of the county where the Letters Testamentary, or Administration or Guardianship may have been granted, first giv ing notice thereoffor sixty days, in one ofthe pub lic gazettes of this State, and at the door of the Court House where such sales are to be held. O’Notice for the sale of Personal Property must be given in like manner forty days previous to the day of sale. Of/’Notice to the Debtors and Creditors ofan Es tate must be published lor forty days. Q* Notice that application will he made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land or Ne groes must he published in a public gazette in this S.ate for foitu months, belbro any order absolute can he given by the Court. Q. j’Cita rioNs for Letters of Administration on an Estate, granted by the Court of Ordinary, must ha published thirty days —for Letters of Dismis sion from the administration ofan Estate, monthly for six months —for Dismission from Guardian ship forty days. (£j"Rci.k.s for the foreclosure of a Mortgage, must he published monthly for Font months — for establishing lost Papers, for the full space of three months —for compelling Titles from Ex ecutors, Administrators or others, where a Bond hasbeen given by the deceased, the full space of three months. from the Savannah Georgian. To iny Sister after Her Marriage. God bless thee, Sister ! —though thy place, Close by my side is vacant now, 1 often see thy genlle face, Thy loving smile, thy placid brow ; lu thought thy voice is on mine car With all its tenderness of tone ; God bless thee, Sister ' ever dear, l ct nearest since thou art gone : Like vines that.spring from the same spot, Am! with each other intertwine. For years we shared a common lot, My joys, my griefs, my hopes were thine ; And thou my sadder heart woiild'st cheer With the sweet sunshine of thine own— Go I bless thee ! thou wort ever dear, Bui dearest now, since thou art gono. New tics are spun around thy heart, New scenes have opened to thy view, Ye thou wilt never tear apart The love that with our childhood grew ; Though life a robe of bliss should wear, And speak as with an angel's tone, The past will seem as bright as dear, Nay, dearer still, since it is gone ! The impress of our younger years Fades latest from the human heart, Its joys, its griefs, its smiles, its tears, in distant hours remembered start ! The words which we were wont to hear, The cadence of a father's tone. To each of us will still be dear, Nay, doubly dear, since he is gone. God bless thee, Sister ! not a tic That hound our hearts is broken yet ; If life for thee should wear a skv Os gloom—behold ! my sun is set ! Os brightness—lo ! my sky is clear ! For still in spirit .ve are one ; God bless thee ! thou wert ever dear, Yet dearest now, since thou art gone. 1817. To my Sister after Her Xieath. And thou art gone ! Yes, thou art gone ! U ilbout a word of sad farewell— Without a parting look or tone And gone, how far, oh ! who can tell ? Or say how lone, how dark and drear Thy pathway to tlie spirit land, Compunionless—with none to cheer Or journey with thee, hand in hand ! That thou hast left thy wonted place, That I no more shall see thy form, Or gaze upon thy gentle taco, Or hear thine accents soft and warm, Oh ! this were of itself a woe A grief to fill a flowing cup, For God alone can fully know How hard it is to give thee up ! But oh ! the grief is sadder yet, In deeper shadow veils the eye, Like clouds which, when the sun is set, Blot starlight from the azure sky, lo think that thou , the gentle, mild, The soft, the tender, timid one, ' pon that journey long, and wild, And terrible, should'st go alone ! Tl'on, made to love, and to he loved, lolean upon a stronger arm, W here cr thy gentle footsteps roved— irn s ~( ( from every harm, Oh'i'a’' , | t | U,, 'r- , ° ll 'mk that thou Oh. doubly dear, dependent one! A path whose horrors n„„e may know, Or tell on earth,should’st treiid alone ! Act not alone! down, sinful thought, Fhat still would reach beyond iKe -rave ! Oh . not alone ! since she was tauglit lolean °n Him who Hied to save Oh not alone ! His stall'and rod, Nm firmly held as failed her breath ; blm Waiked with God, and calmly trod ne \alc of shadows and of death 1 The sun ,8 bright—the sky j s blue yJ; And mourn tli.ne angel spirit’ gone ! H U. J. From Peterson's Magazine. Bread upon the Waters. liY T. 8. ARTHUR. A lad was toiling up a hill, near the city, I under the weight of a heavy basket, on j the afternoon of a sultry day in He had been sent home with soma goods to a customer who lived a short listance ! in the country. The boy was lightly I built and his burden seemed almost be yond bis strength. Many times lie sat ! down to rest himself on his way up the hill. Hut it seemed as if lie would never reach the summit. Each time he lifted 1 tlie basket it felt heavier than before.— The hoy was about half way up the hill u ith his basket, when the gentleman over took and passed kirn. He had not gone on many paces, when he stopped, and itiming tound to the lad, looked at him for a moment or two, and then said kind »y—, “ 1 hat’s a heavy load you have. Come, let me help you.” And the gentleman took the basket and carried it to the top of the lull. ‘There. Do you think you can get along now V said lie, as he sat she basket down, ‘or shall I carry it a little further V ‘Oil no, thank you sir,’ said the hoy, with the glow of gratitude on his young face, ‘1 can carry it very well; and 1 am very much obliged to you.’ ‘You are right welcome, my lit tie man,’ said the gentleman, and passed on. Twenty years from that time a care worn man, well advanced in life, sat mo tionless in an old arm chair, with his eyes fixed intently upon the glowing grate. He was alone and appeared lo be in a state of great abstraction. In a lit tie while how ever, the door of the room opened, and the light form of a young and lovely girl glided in. ‘Papa,’ said a low sweet voice, and a hand was very gently laid on the old man’s arm. ‘ls that you, dear V he returned with a sigh. ‘Yes, papa,’ and the young girl leaned against him, and parted with her delicate fingers the thin, grey locks that lay in dis order about his forehead. T would like to be alone this evening, Florence, said tlie old man. ‘1 have a good deal to think about, and expect a per s n on business.’ And he kissed her tenderly ; yet sighed as he pressed his lips to hers. The girl passed from the room as noise lessly as she had entered. Tlie oilman had been calm, before her coming in. but the moment she retired he became agi'a ted, and walked the floor uneasily. lie continued to pace to and fro, for nearly half an 1 lour, when he stopped suddenly and listened. Ihe street door bell had rung. In a little while the man entered the room. ‘Mr. Mason,’ he said, with a slightly perceptible embarrassment. ‘Mr. Page,’ returned the old man, with a feeble, quickly fading smile, ‘Goad mor ning,’ and he offered his hand. 1 lie TTsrtoi g i us j ed the old mails hand and shook it warmly. Put there vas no pressure in r eturn. ‘Sit down, Mr. Page.’ The man took a chair, and Mr. Masbn sat down near him. ‘\ou promised an answer to my propo sal to-night,’ said the former after a pause. ‘1 did,’ returned the old man ; ‘but 1 am as lit le prepared to give it as 1 was yesterday. In fact, I have not found an opportunity to say anything to Florence on the subject.’ The countenance of the visitor fell, and something like a frown darkened upon his br.>w. There i was an embarrassing silence of some minutes. After which tlie man called Page, said “Mr. Mason, I have made an honorable proposal for your daughter’s hand. For weeks you have evaded, and do still evade an answer. This seems so much like tri fling, that 1 begin to feel as if just cause of offence existed.’ ‘None is intended I do assure you,’ re plied Mr. M. with something deprecating in his tone. ‘Put you must remember, Mr. Page, that you never sought to win ihe young girl’s affection, and that, as a consequence, the offer of marriage which you wish to make her, will be received with surprise, and it may be disapproval. I wish to approach her on this subject, with proper discretion. To be too precip itate, may startle her into instant repug nance against your wishes.’ “She loves you, does she not ?’ inquired Page, with a marked significance of man ner. ‘A child never loved a parent more ten derly,’ replied Mr. Mason. ‘Give her then, an undisguised history of your embarrassment. Show her how your fortunes are trembling on the brink of ruin, and that you have but one hope of relief and safety left. The day she be conies my wife you are relieved from all danger. Will you do this V The old man did not reply. Ho was lost in a deep reverie. It is doubted whe ther he heard all that tlie man had said. ‘Will you do this V replied Page, and with some impatience in his tone. Mason aroused himself as from a dream and answered with great firmness and dig nity. MACON, (CA.i) SATURDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 23, ISIS. ‘Mr. Page, the struggle in my mind is over. lam prepared for the worst. 1 have no idea that Florence will favor your suit, and not use a single argument to in fluence her. In that matter she must re main perfectly fide. Approach her as a man, and win her if you have the power to do so. It is your only hope.’ As if stung by a serpent, Page started from his chair. ‘You will repent this, sir,’ he angrily retorted, ‘and repent it bitterly. I came to you with honorable proposals for your daughter’s hand, you listened to them, gave me encouragement, and promised me an answer to-night. Now you meet me with insult. Sh\ you will repent this.’ Mr. Mason ventured no reply, but mere ly bowed in token of bis willingness to meet all consequences that might come. For a long time after this angry visitor had retired did Mr. Mason cross the floor w ith measured steps. At last he rang the bell, and directed the servant who came, to say to Florence he wished to see her. When Florence came, she was sur prised to see that her father was strongly agitated. ‘I have something to say to you that must not he long concealed.’ Florence looked wonderingly into her father’s face, while her heart began to sink. Just then a servant opened the door and ushered in a stranger. He was a tall, fine looking young man, just in the prime of life. Florence quietly retired, hut not before the stranger fixed his eyes upon her face and marked its sweet expression. ‘Pardon the intrusion, sir,’ he said, as soon as the young girl had left the room, but facts that I have learned this evening have prompted me to call upon you with out a moment’s delay. My name is Greer, of the firm of Greer, Miller &, Co.’ Mr. Mason Lowed, and said— ‘l know your house very well, and now remember to hate met you more than once in business transactions.’ ‘ Y es, you have bought one or two bills of us, replied the visitor. Then, after a moment’s pause, lie said in a changed tone — ‘Mr. Mason, I learned to-night, from a source which leaves no room to doubt tlie tru h of the statement, that your affairs have become seriously embarrassed. That you are, in fact, on the very verge of bankruptcy. Tell me frankly whether it is indeed so ; I ask from no idle curiosity, nor from a concealed and sinister motive, but to the end that 1 may prevent the' threatened disaster, if it is in my power to do so.’ Mr. Mason was dumb with surprise at so unexpected a declaration. He made two or three efforts to speak, but his lips uttered no sound. ‘Confide in me, sir,’ said the visitor.— ‘Trust me as you would trust your own brother, and lean upon me if your st rength be indeed failing. Telime, then, is it as 1 have said ?’ ‘lt is,’ was all the merchant could utter. ‘How much will save you ? Mention the sum, and if within the compass of my ability to raise, you shall have it in hand to-morrow. Will twenty thousand dollars relieve you from your present embarrass ment ?’ ‘Fully!’ ‘Then let your anxiety subside Mr. Ma son. That sum you shall have. To-mor row morning I will see you. Good eve ning.’ And the visitor arose and was gone be fore his bewildered auditor bad sufficient ly recovered his senses to know what to think or say. In the morning, true to his promise, Mr. Greer called upon Mr. Mason, and tendered him a check of 810,000, with his note of.hand for thirty days for SIO,OOO more, which was almost the same as mo ney. While the check and note lay before him upon the desk, and ere he had touch ed them, Mr. Mason looked earnestly at the man who had suddenly taken the cha racter of a disinterested, self sacrificing friend, and said : “My dear sir, I cannot understand this. Are you laboring under some error V ‘Oh no. You once did me a service that lam now only seeking to repay. It is my first opportunity, and I embrace it eageily.’ ‘Did you a service ! When ?’ ‘ I wenty years ago,’ replied the man, ‘I was a poor boy, and you were a man of wealth. One day I was sent a long dis tance with a heavy basket. While toiling up a hill, with the hot sun upon me, and almost overcome with heat and fatigue, you came along, and not only spoke to me kindly, but took my basket and carried it to the top of the hill. Ah, sir, you can not know how deeply that act of kindness sunk into my heart, and I longed for an opportunity to show you by some act of kindness, how grateful I felt. But none j came. Often afterward I met you on the ; street, and looked into yitur face with pleasure; but you did not remember me. Ever since I have regarded you with dif ferent feelings from those I have enter tained for others; ahd there has been no time I would not have put myself out to j serve you. Last night I heard of your embarrassments, and immediately called upon you. The rest you know.’ Mr. Mason was astonished at so strange a declaration. ‘Do you remember the fact to which I refer ?’ asked Mr. Greer. “It has faded from my eternal memory | entirely; but your words have brought back a dim recollection of the fact. But it was a little matter, and not entitled to the importance you have given it.’ ‘To me it was not a little matter, sir,’ returned Mr. Greer. ‘1 was a weak boy, just sinking under a burthen that was too heavy, when you put forth your hand and carried it for mo-. 1 could not forget it. And now let me return at the first oppor tunity, the favor, by carrying your bur den fir you, which lias become too heavy, titiiil the hill is ascended, and you regain your own strength.’ Air. Mason was deeply moved. Words failed him in his effort to express his true feelings. The bread cast upon the water had returned to him after many days, and he gathered it with words ami thankful ness. The merchant was saved from ruin.— Nor was this all. The glimpse which Mr. Greer had received of the lovely daughter of .Mr. Mason, revealed ;» character of beauty that impressed him deeply, and he embraced tlie first opportunity to make her acquaintance. A year afterward he led her to the altar. A kind act is never lost, even though done to a child. THougHt. • Gay Thought a wreath is strung for thee, Form’d of gifts from the young and free ; A chaplet made of sweetest flowers, • Gather'd 'mid the summer bowers ; An off’ring transient as the snow. Which melts beneath the sun's warm glow ; A tribute destined soon to fade, As life is ting'd with autumn’s shade, / When youth's bright visions darker grow, And joy gives place to griefand wo. The captive quails before thee, Thought ! And, though his chains in steel be wrought, They burst with a convulsive strain, As mera’ry wakes sad scenes again, Os honor, glory, fame long past ; Os ev’ry hope that's lading fast. O ! '(is u solemn hour like this, When lost are former days of bliss, He feels a wish, a ling nng fear, Os future life, and drops a tear! When round the sick man’s dying bed The giant steals, with awful tread ; When life’s short dream is closing fast, And nv'ry breath is deemed his last ; When future ages meet his sight, And gently brighten death's dark night ; When weeping friends and children round Lager catch each murmuring sound; The blissful thought of heav’nlv love llis spirit guides to realms above. Tint Truth beautifully expressed. The mere lapse of years is not life. To eat, and drink, and sleep; to be exposed to darkness and the light, to | ace around the mill ot habit and turn the wheel of health ; to make reason our book keeper, and turn thoughts into implementsoftrade: this is not life. In all this, hut a poor fraction of tlie consciousness of humanity is awakened ; and the sanctities still slum ber which make it most worth while to he. Knowledge, truth, love, beauty, good ness, faith, alone give vitality to the me chanism of existence ; the laugh of mirth which vibrates through the heart; the 1 tears which freshen the dry wastes within; the music which brings childhood back ; the prayer that calls the future near; tlie doubt which makes us meditate ; the death which startles us with mystery ; the hard ships that force us to struggle ; the anxie ty that ends in trust —these are the true nourishment of our natural being. Tiif, Quaker Bridle. —A Methodist and Quaker were travelling in company, when tlie Quaker reproved the Methodist for i heir boisterous manner of worship.— ‘Why,’ said he, ‘we can take more plea sure in our private rooms of meditation, where we think of nothing worldly during our stay.’ ‘Sir,’ said the Methodist, ‘if you will take a private room, stay one hour, and when you return, say that y<,u have thought of nothing worldly, I will give you my horse,’ which proposal was accepted. After the time had expired, his friend asked him if he claimed the horse. ‘Why,’said he, ‘I could not help thinking what I should do for a bridle to ride him home with.’ Frightening a Rogue.— ln the St. Louis Recotder’s Court recently, Alexan der McManus was fined $5 for stealing wood from the steamer Hannibal, and was asked to “fork up” by his honor. “C-c-an’t do it,” stuttered he, “a-a-aint got -p-p-pewter, your Honor.” “Are you a married man ?” inquired the recorder. “N-ii-n not exactly s-s-s-so far gone yet, sir.” “Well, I wall have to send you to the workhouse,” said the Recorder. “T-t-t-taint nothin t-t-t-to go ih-there,” said Alick, “I-I-I’m used to it; but when you t-t-t-talked about m-m-marriage, old fellar, you f-ff-frightened me !” 9 , Cookery Book —“Has that cookery book any picture* ?” said Miss M. C. to a bookseller. “No madam, none,” was the answer. “Why!” exclaimed the witty and beautiful young lady, “what is tho use of telling us bow to make a good dinner if they give us no plates ?” marriage and Money. ‘Come—come,’ cried Mr. Lovecash, a wealthy, miserly man, hut the rather do ting fatherof Alonzo Lewis Lovecash ; ‘I sec by the polish of your boots, and the pai ticular fix of your dicky, that you think qf riding over to Mr. Philbrick’s to-night —courting , l suppose, if I must speak out. Zounds, man ! what upon earth can make you persist in running after that por tionless girl Alzina ? I have told you a thousand times that her father is as poor as a church mouse—not worth a thousand in the world—all, all because of her pret ty figure and face. There is Lydia Screw and Julia Twist, and deacon Dotham’s Nancy, all good girls—fathers plenty of money, and what moro can you want ? The horses I want early, so you cannot j have them to ride five miles to-night to \ Philbrick’s. No ! nor ever shall again if j I can prevent it.’ ‘Father,’ replied Alonzo Lewis, ‘I have once told you candidly that I loved Miss Alzina Philbrick. Not for her ‘pretty face’ alone, as you insinuate, hut for those high and amiable qualities which can only render us happy in domestic life. She is modest, sensible, and industrious ; anti even yourself must acknowledge that she has a highly cultivated mind and an amia ble disposition; and this mo ney is a poor business, and those who practice it seldom find enjoyment with it.’ ‘Pshaw! what of all that moralizing? The girl it poor, and that is an offset to all her fine qtalities ; Lydia Screw and J ulia Twist, it is true, at present have some gossipping habits, but there is deacon Do tham’s Nincy, a steadier girl, never trod shoe leather ; always at home, always at work, always at church on Sundays; not to Legated at for' 'her beauty, for she inva riably wears her veil over her face, and—’ T world wear a veil over my visage, too,’ cried Alonzo, ‘if X thought it as shocking as Ido hers. A low forehead, a pugnote, like a woodchuck, pig’s eye, no manners, and a look of so much envy, ill-will, selfishness, ignorance and mean ness ; Inside being siatlernly with all her wealth—and—’ ‘Stop, stop young man, I thought (hat you considered yourself too much of c gen tleman t* speak so slightly of a lady. A fiddlestick on your love and admiration of Alzina Philbrick. These things count nothing when a man once gets married ; but a hundred cents always counts for a dollar. Love can never put you into a good mercantile business—furnish a house in style—introduce you into fashionable society—allay hunger or thirst, or replen i.-fli a wardrobe. But deacon Dotliam’s cash can do all this. But hear me, sir— if you persist in going to Philbrick’s, nev er look to me for a farthing ! Repentance of your folly may come too late, and you may starve on your love and nonsense.’ Alonzo Lewis bit his lips for awhile in silence, then said— ‘Sir, since it is your wish and desire, I will go to deacon Dotham’s and see what transfer 1 can make of my affections to M iss Nancy.’ ‘Now,’ said Mr. Lovecash, you begin to talk rational. It is but six miles to Deacon Dotham’s, and the horses and car riage are ac your service. I shall be out of town for three weeks, and I wish you success in arranging your affairs by the time of my return.’- At the end of three weeks, Alonzo in formed his father that his bargain was closed, and he w as going to marry. ‘I do not know my son,’ said Mr. Love cash, ‘about your marrying Nancy Do tham. I have been to the city, and have found out that Mr. Philbrick has just come into the possession of one hundred thousand dollars willed him by a rich relative lately deceased. Besides, you said that you loved Miss Alzina Philbrick, and I have come to the conclusion that lore, after all, is an important item in the business, ahd I cannot think you will live happily with out it. Love is to happiness, what the main spring is to a watch; without it, in domestic life, all is irregularity and disor der. And beside, Nancy Dotham will not have more than fourteen thousand dol lars, when her father dies; and Miss Al zina is an only child.’ ‘No, father, no,’ said Alonzo Lewis, ‘you preferred Nancy Dotham with her money and imperfections, to the accom plished Miss Philbrick, with her good equalities, and her poverty. I have now gone too far to recede with honor. To morrowevening I contemplate being mar ried in a private manner at the minister’s in A., and it is arranged to meet the wed ding party here immediately after; think ing it would be a pleasure to you, and that you will be prepared to receive Miss Do tham as the daughter of your choice.’ Mr. Lovecash groaned aloud, when he thought of the splendid fortune he had lost by his selfishness. Miss Nancy Do tham he had always despised in his heart, and his wife and daughters were extreme ly mortified at the thought of receiving her as a relative, and were determined to treat hei so coldly that her stay in the family would he short. Just at this crisis, a neighbor came in with the astounding news that Deacon Dotham had failed, and had not enough to pay fifty cents on the dollar. Mr. Lovecash gave his son one long and despairing look, hut he could not expostulate. Alonzo stepped into the car iage and drove off to visit his bride ele«t. The next evening but one, when all the invited guests were assembled in the | drawing-room at the bouse of Mr. Love cash, and Mrs. Philbrick among the num ber; but no Alzina, who sent an excuse, hut it was evident to all that she felt too much interested to he a spectator of that happiness in which she could never share, | and all pitied her disappointment. The | carriage of Alonzo Lewis at the door, but but none of the friendly greetings of the family met them there. They kept their seats in silence. Alonzo entered the drawing room with his bride hanging upon his arm, who wore a thick lace veil over her face, reaching to the floor. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said the bride groom, ‘allow me the happiness of intro i (lacing to your acquaintance, Mrs. Alon j zo Lewis Lovecash.’ | After the formality of shaking hands, j the elder Mrs. Lovecash whispered toiler husband and daughters, saying, ‘I think her a fine figure after all, and she bows gracefully; but oh! when she removes that veil, which you praised her for wear ing; from that hated face, I am faint from the very thought.’ A look of anguish passed over the fa ther’' face, and he heaved a deep sigh.— Soon refreshments were announced, and Alonzo led his almost silent bride to tlie ta bles. The mother and daughters whis pered to each other that her wedding cos tume become her much, and really im proved her appearances ; and were she to keep her veil down, she might be tolera ted ; but her pug nose, and pig’s eyes, and ugly look will give us hysteric fits' Just then she threw back her long veil, and tho family and guests were paralysed with as tonishment on beholding the beautiful and intelligent face of Alzina Philbrick, now Mrs. Alonzo Lewis Lovecash. Acclama tions of joy and surprise rang through the house, aiul even Mr. Lovecash, the father confessed that lie could love her as a daughter, even if her father was poor as a ‘church mouse.’ 10™ Agcsilaus, king of Sparta, being asked, ‘What things bethought most pro per for boys to learn,’ answered, ‘Those winch they ought to practice when they come to be men.’ A wiser than Agesi latts lias inculcated the same sentiment: ‘Train up a child in the way hcshould g<>, and when he is old he will not depart from it.’ A Hint. —Does your arm pain you much sir ? asked a young lady of a gentle man who bad seated himself near to her in a mixed assembly, and thrown bis arm across the back of her chair and slightly touched her neck. ‘No miss, it does not, but why do you ask ?’ ‘I noticed it was considerably out of place, sir,’ replied she; ‘that’s all.’ The itrtn was removed. IG7* When Aristotle was asked, ‘What a man could gain by telling a falsliood ?’ he replied, ‘Not to be believed when be speaks the truth.’ r S' When young, we trusted to our selves too much, and we trust others too little when old. Rashness is the error of youth, timid caution that of old age. 03- Ad vice, like snow, the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and deep er it sinks into the mind. I3' ’ Pride is a dainty occupant of our bosom, and yet ever feeds on the mean ness and infirmity of our kind. lO™ He is a great simpleton who sup poses that tho chief power of wealth is to supply wants. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it creates more wants than it supplies. f Love is the offspring of beauty, and marriage the child of calculation. — 1. 03” YV omen are like flowers—when their beauty withers, they are deserted. t W Friendship loves to keep company with wealth, but does not care about the association of poverty. Fir He who has not sympathy for tho misfortunes of otheis, ’is not deserving of the name of man. IC7* Lovers overlook foibles, but bus bands point them out. |C7* Getting married is often the cause of getting in debt, and always of getting into trouble. lO™ At a colored party, Sambo asked Dinah if he should help her to some ofthe breast. “Now, ain’t you ’shamed Sambo, to say breast afore the ladies 1 I’ll take a piece ob turkey bosom.” Things Lost Forever. —Lost wealth may be restored by industry ; the wreck of health regained by temperance; forgot ten knowledge restored by study, aliena tion soothed into forgetfulness; even for feited reputation won by penitence and virtue. I'ut who ever again looked upon his vanished boors, recalled his slighted years, stamped them wilh wisdom, or ef faced from the record of eternity the fear ful blot of wasted time ? \o. 1.