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THE
jKlffie ,published trery S.lTL'RD.lY~Morniii«,
.11 the Corner of lYaUrt and Fifth St. ceis,
IN THE CITY OF MACON, GA.
BV HABKISON & MYERS.
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THE COURSE OF I, IFE.
TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH.
O ! let the soul its slumber break,
Arouse its senses and awake,
To see how soon
Life with its glories glides away,
And the stern footsteps of decay
Come stealing on.
How pleasure, like the passing wind,
Blows by, and leaves us nought behind
But grief at last;
How still our present happiness
Seems to the wayward fancy, less
Than what is past.
Our lives like hasting streams must ho,
That into one engulfing sea
Are doomed to fall ;
The Sea of Death, whose waves roll on,
O’er king and kingdom, crown and throne,
And swallow all.
Alike the river’s lordly tide,
Alike the humble riv’let’s glide,
To that sad wave ;
Death levels poverty and pride,
And rich and poor sleep side by side
Within the grave.
Our birth is but the starling-place,
Life is the running of the race,,
And death the goal:
There all our steps at last are brought,
That path alone, of all unsought,
Is found of all.
Where is the strength that mocked decay,
The step that rose so light and gay,
The heart’s blithe tone ?
The strength is gone, the step is slow,
And joy grows weariness and woe
When ago comes on.
Say, then, how poor and little worth
Are all those glittering toys of earth
That lure us here; •
Dreams of asleep that death must break,
Alas ! before it bids us wake,
Ye disappear.
CIUWCE OF DEATH.
BV WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.
Might I, without offending, choose
The death that I might die,
Id fall, as erst the Templar fell,
Beneath a Syrian sky.
1. pon a glorious plain of war,
The ha nners floating fair,
My lance and fluttering pennoncel
Should marshal heroes there !
the solemn battle-eve,
With prayer to be forgiven,
Id arm me for a righteous tight,
Imploring peace of Heaven.
High o er the thunders of the charge
Should wave my sable plume,
And where the day was lost or won,
There should they place my tomb !
Aitond your church,” the pnrson cries ;
To church each fair one goes;
I lie old go there to close their eves,
The young to eye their clothes.
THE SOUTHERN MUSEUM.
BY HARRISON k MYERS.
From Godry's Lady’s Booh.
THE IRISH PATRIOTS.
til GRACE GREENWOOD.
The rebel patrio sos Ireland, O’Brien,
Meagher, McManus, O’Donobue, and
others, at this present time, (November,
LS4S,) and in their present position, form
a spectacle of fearful interest. In the earn
est, concentrated gaze of the world they
stand—for them the hearts ofmillions throb
with irrepressible admiration—for them
tears of mournful apprehension and indig
nant sorrow fall, and prayers of passionate
entreaty ascend. But from no Christian
country goes forth to them a more full and
perfect sympathy than from our own, the
land of a Washington, the asylum of an
Emmett. They seem to us so much the
incarnation of Irish freedom, that we can
but fear that in their exile, or death, she
shall be exiled or perish forever. But no
—as God livetb, no ! Rather shall the sa
crifice of their young lives, with all that
made them beautiful and glorious, gift
their dying country with “newness of life”
—with vigor and power, and a hope grand
and solemn, and eternal as the heavens.
While she may number such heroic sons
among her living, or her dead, she may not,
she will not despair, though she clank
chains on every limb—though she were
bound to the earth with a thousand thongs.
Whether these heroes meet the death of
shame upon the scaffold, or drag out a
wretched existence as the galley slaves of
tyranny, their imperishable names, exalt
ed and sanctified, shall pass into the watch
words oft lie brave, and become the rally
ing cry of liberty throughout the world—
in tlie last great contest of freedom with
oppression, shall lead the battle van like
living heroes, and mingle in the grand an
them which rings to Heaven in the hour of
victory. • Oh ! immortality of love, and
gratitude, and reverence ! —oh ! godlike
apotheosis!—will not the assurance of this
hear them up through all, while they toil
through sultry days, or sigh through weary
nights, where the wild wastes of Southern
seas stretch around them ; or when the
more terrible sea of human heads surges
about the scaff’o and, in that hour when the
life-blood of their brave hearts must be
poured forth a mournful oblation on the
ruined and desecrated shrine of their coun
try’s liberty 1
Where, in all the annals of history or
the records ofe oquence, may be found a
nobler expression of devoted and undaunt
ed heroism than the last vindication of
young Meagher 1 Grand in its simplicity,
beautiful in its truth, and solemn in its pro
phecy, it must, live while a human heart
throbs for freedom, or reverences her de
fenders. llow lofty, yet how mournfully
tender is the conclusion ; —his country
should lay these words to her heart as dear
and sacred things, to be pondered oft and
treasured forever:—
“ My lords, you may deem this language
unbecoming in me, and pe chanoe it may
seal my ia’e ; but I am liere to speak the
truth, whatever it may cost. lam here to
regret nothing that I have ever done—to
i-nn.-ict nothing that I have ever said. I
am not here to c ave, with iying lip. the
life l consecrate to the liberty of my coun
try. Far from it even here, where the
thic£, the libertine, the murderer, have left
their foot-prints in the dust—here, in this
snot, where the shadow of death surrounds
me, and from which I sec an early grave
in an unanointed soil open to receive me
even here, encircled by these terrors,
that hope which beckoned me to the peril
ous sea on which I have been wrecked,
still consoles, animates and enraptures me.
No ! I do no; despair of my poor old coun
try —her peace, her libel ty, her glory.—
Fo> that country I can now do no more
than bid bet hope. To lift this island up
—to make her a benefactor to humanly
instead of what she is—the meanest beg
gar in the world—to restore to her her
native powers and her ancient conslitutiqn
—this has been my ambition, and this am
bition has been my crime. Judged by the
law of England, 1 know this crime emails
the penalty of death.
“ But the history of Ireland explains my
crime and justifies it. Judged by that his
tory, I am no criminal”—(and turning
round towards his fellow-prisoner, Mc-
Manus)—“you are no criminal”) —(and to
O’Donohue) —“you are no criminal, and
we deserve no punishment. Judged by
that history, the treason of which I have
been convicted, loses all its guilt—is sanc
tified as a duty will be ennobled as a sa
crifice. With these sentiments, my lord,
l await the sentence of the court. Hav
ing done what I feel to be my duty—hav
ing spoken now, as I did on every occasion
during my shoit life, wliat I felt to be the
truth, I now bid farewell to the country
of my birth, my passion atid my death —
that country whose misfortunes have invo
ked my sympathies —whoso factions l
sought to still—whose intellect I prompted
to a lofty aim—whose freedom has been
my fatal dream. 1 offer to that country,
as a pledge of the love I bear her, and the
sincerity with which I thought and spoke,
and struggled for her freedom, the life ot
a young heart; and with that life all the
hopes, the honors, the endearments of a
happy and honorable home. Pronounce,
ilien, my lords, the sentence which the law
directs, and 1 trust I will be prepared to
meet it, and to meet its execution. I trust,
too, that I shall be prepared with a pure
heart to appear before a higher tribunal —
a tribunal where a Judge of infinite good
ness, as well us of infinite justice, will pre-
side ; and where, my lords, many, many
of the judgments of this world will be re
versed.”
How dare England even condemn such
men to death at this lime, when the roused
elements of justice and freedom are rock
ing and convulsing the world ! —the day
when the whole air is filled with strange,
fearful sounds and confused voices of warn
ing and dismay 1—
“Lo, the waking up of nations,
From slavery’s fatal sleep !
The murmur of the universe,
Deep calling unto deep 1”
Is she not thus pouring oil on the quick
flames, rather than on the roused waters
of rebellion ! The gallant spirit of old
Ireland can no more be crushed by Eng
lish law, or frowned down by English judg
es, than it can be starred out by English
extortion. There is a volcanic element
at work in Ireland still—darkly and silent
ly at work,but which shall yet
Break on the darkness of her thick despair,
Like Aina on deep midnight—lighting up,
With lurid glow, oppression’s pall-like clouds;
And pouring madly forth a lava tide
■ To scathe and whelm the scats of ancient wrong
Let England bewere ! Patriotism is
an immortal spirit—heroism an eternal
truth. The political as well as the reli
gious martyr but gives a higher beauty, a
more solemn grandeur to the cause for
which he dies. Eighteen hundred years
ago, on Calvary’s sacred mount,was taught
a sublime lesson of self-sacrifice, which is
but repeated whenever and wherever man
dies for man.
It is vain to say that the sacrificed life
of the patriot is ever thrown away. His
blood, when poured upon the battle field,
or reeking from the scaffold, is not drauk
up by the insensible earth and then forgot
ten ; hut from every drop may be said to
spring an armed defender, or a fervid a
postle of the faith he taught ; or it is ex
haled to heaven and descends in a dew of
terrible vengeance upon his enemies.—
His death quickens the life of nations. His
memory fills the spirit of youth with grand
aspirations, kindles a quenchless fire in his
heart, puts an invincible strength into his
arm ;—it becomes to the brave almost an
object of adoration ; they turn to it iri the
darkness of strife for high hopes and heroic
promptings, and in the brightness of suc
cess with grateful joy and pride—it is writ
ten on their heavens, at night in stars, at
noonday in rainbows.
But, as when we contemplate the cruci
fied one and the martyred saints of old,
we see them with their majestic glories
round them, wearing their “crowns of re
joicing,” encircled with the haloes of di
vinity, and behold not the wreath of thorns,
the scourge, the piercing spear, the rack,
the fire, the flood, and all the infernal in
ventions and varieties of torture —so now,
as we fix our wrapt gaze on Erin’s heroes,
we speak of them in words of triumph, for
the motal height on which they stand seems
a very “mount of transfiguration,” and
wrapped about in its glory they seem ex
alted above earth, its weakness, ties, and
transient associations. Ah ! we see not
the mocking and scourging of their degra
dation, the crucifixion of their manhood,
the racking of the spirit, the tiger-fangs at
the breast, the molten lead drops slowly
burning into the brain, all, all the fearful
tortures of their human natures—intensely
human—for from their peifect humanity
their heroism took its life.
Could we look into the depths of their
hearts, and behold how dear to them is the
life they are about to resign for the mur
derer’s fate, or the slow death of exile—
could we remember with them its early
promise, and romance, and ideal beauty,
or the grand aspirations and splendid
dreams, and manly struggles of its prime—
could we know all the hopes, the honors,
the endearments “which made that life
beloved,” and all the sorrows, buried loves
and vain, sweet visions that hallowed it,
then we might measure the height and
depth of their sacrifice.
Could we look into the cell of the con
demned, in the deep midnight, when the
gaze of curiosity and enmity was excluded
—when the tide of outward life was still
ed, or heat against the prison-walls with
faint murmurs, then could we behold the
mighty spirit of vitality, the unconquerable
love of life tugging at the heart-strings of
the and omed patriot; —could we witness
his vain efforts to crush it down by the
power of heroic endurance—could we see
the convulsive quiver of the lips, the sweat
drops oozing from the brow, 3s the stern
conflict goes on ; and, oh ! could we hear
him, as thoughts of deeper and more
whelming agmiy beat at his heart, groan
forth the names of his dear ones, or whis
per them in a tone like that of dying ten
derness, in a love stronger than death, a
love overcoming all the fears and sufferings
of self; or see him lift his eyes heaven
ward, with a gaze so burningly intense it
might almost pierce the stony roof of his
dungeon, and breathe for those loved ones
the prayer of a breaking heart; —could
we see all this, we might measure the
height and depth of their sorrow.
Could we look into the darkened homes
of those who hold them dear—could w e
mark the gray-haired sire, bowed towards
the earth, as though impatient for its grave
rest—could we mark how, at morning and
evening prayer, his lip trembles and his
voice falters at the sacred words, “ Thy
will be done —could we look into the
face of the mother, and see by its pallor
and its tears, that the heart was breaking
MACON, JANUARY 27, 1849.
within her—could we mark the sister’s an
guish, the brother s ag-mized sympathy,
the hitler wailing cl the child, the fainting,
the despair, the unutterable grief of the
wife—the lonely weeping, and frightful
visions, and wild prayers of her nights, and
the sick gaze she opens on the dawn which
brings no hope to her worn spirit;—could
we contemplate the fair, younsr life of the
betrothed maiden, so suddenly laid deso
late, struck down and broken like a rare
vase once filled with bloom and sweetness,
shattered and lying in beautiful fragments
before us, with all its morning flowers
trampled in the dust:—could we see all
this, we might measure the height and
depth of the enormity of that condemna
tion which rends so many clinging ties,
immolates so many loves, fills so many
homes with the voice of weeping, and
flings upon so many paths thick shadows
from the wing of death.
lo perish “upon the gallows high,” or
endure a life long exile, what a fate for
those proud spirits who so lately saw in
their enraptured visions, a career of heroic
struggle and glory before them, and their
beloved country redeemed and disenthrall
ed, taking her old tilace among the nations!
Oh, God ! can these things he ! Alas !
we know that they are now, but how. long
shall they endure ! Yet let us still the
impatient voices of our hearts, for wc
know that the Author of liberty, the Divine
source ofiightand justice,livctli and ruleth
and that all will yet be well.
Oh! royal England, may not tliy great
heart be even yet touched with compassion
and thou be constrained to offer a full and
perfect forgiveness to those who have so
bravely, perchance madly, rebelled against
thy dominion ! But, if thou wilt show no
relenting, but continue fierce and merci
less to the end, as Heaven is above thee,
the day of thine own fall, the day that shall
see thee utterly overwhelmed, shall come
at last!
And not by thy glory then,
By armed hosts arrayed,
By pomp, and power, and mighty men,
Can God’s right arm be stajed !
Then slialt thou feel the earth heaved
beneath, and the shies darkened above
thee ! Then shall thy foes exult, and
thine allies tremble ;—then, from the
warm South, lind the chill North, and the
golden East, shall ring shouts of derisive
triumph—from the isles of the sea shall go
up peans of rejoicing; and then shall the
angel of freedom appear, and roll away
the stone from the sepulchre of Ireland’s
national spirit, bidding it arise to a glorious
resurrection—while the armed watchers
over a sleep they deemed eternal, stand
aghast, drop the swords from their palsied
hands, arid faint in their armor.
When thus Ireland, thy freed sister, be
gins anew her national existence, may
she be warned by thy fall against pride,
cruelty, oppression, extortion, and that de
fiant forgetfulness of God which is the soul
of all tyranny!
Childhood. —lt is a beautiful and won
drous subject, altogether worthy of a
deeper investigation than any with which
it has yet been honored by philosophy, the
awakening of a young Spirit, from its
slumbers in the arms of Eternity, amid the
dreamy music which drops from the golden
lingers of Nature, in the dim, religious
temple of Time! This Spirit, also incarnate
in anew form through which, as an instru
ment, it is one day to preach there—in
that solemn temple—is, indeed, matter
enough for thought. To my mind, Child
hood is a condition of lmppy obedience
and abandonment. It implies, and dimly
shadows forth,, the last bight of the soul.
It is a miniature pictnre of innocence of
man ; a type, also, of that possible perfec
tion predicted by Prophets and Poets of
the elder world. How great and noble a
Being might be made out of the materials
of Childhood ! How gentle and confiding
it is! How joyous and rapturous —how
exultant in the happy life which the good
God lias given it! It lives with the Angels
all day long, and closes its sweet eyes at
night to their soft singing, meeting them
again in visions of the peaceful heaven !
As yet it belongs to Nature, and feels safe
and happy in her loving arms. Its com
panions are the flowers and the trees—the
birds and the brooks—and the green grass
of the sunny meadows : and its little flut
tering spirit is so bathed in the element of
love, that all creatures and things partake
of its beauty, and the child and them be
come one and the same being. It is this
mystic union with Nature—which we all
feel to have been ours in Childhood—that
makes us cing so fondly to the associations
of that happy state. It is because we have
experienced the deep unutterable joy of
communion with surrounding intelligences
without let or hindrance from sin, that we
all desire in some moment of our lives to
he once more a child!
Ah ! happy Childhood ! sweet spring
time oft to a dreary summer, and an un
blest winter. Knowledge is the Bible of the
soul, intended to comfort man in all his
ways, nnd conduct him to immortality.
Insensibly doos an unseen band trace
ciphers on the mystic leaves. There they
lie in beautiful illumination even now, for
childhood itself to read. Not forever in
sunny dreams must the young Spirit be
wasted ! It must try its wings—and soar
—and burn —and fall—and rise again.
Cast, by-and-by,iuto the depths of Thought
—it must struggle there for life—it must
solve the enigma of its own existence.
VOLUME 1 NUMBER 9.
FIRESIDE AFFECTIONS.
BY MARY LEMAN GILLIES.
The man who sits down in a virtuous
home, however humble, in which his own
industry enables him to breathe the atmos
phere of independence, and his wife’s
management to enjoy cleanliness and com
fort, has a vast scope fer the creation of
happinesA. The minds of his children
of his wife—his own mind, are so many
microcosms, which only ask to be inquired
into and developed, to reveal hoards of
wealth, which may be coined into current
enjoyment. We are ever too little sensi
ble of tlie good immediately within our
grasp ; too ready to cavil at difficulties and
declare them impossibilities. A great man !
once said there were no such things, and
all proverbs have their foundation in prac
tical truth, this idea may receive con
firmation from the common phrase:—
“ Where there is a will there is a way.’*
It is certain that the difference between I
what zeal aiid energy will accomplish with !
small means, compared with what power,!
ill applied or feebly applied, will long
leave unachieved, is most astounding.—
Few are those who have not to reproach
themselves with supineness, or a prodigal
waste of lime and resources ; few, when
they look back upon the field of past expe
perience, but feel how barren they have
left the track which might have been richly
cultivated. Let us instantly reform. The
present will become the future ; let us re
solve that it shall be rich in fruit, delicious
to the reverting spirit of review, and yield
ing good seed for the progressive path be
fore us. The traveller rarely begins with
his own country ; in like manner the
.searcher after enjoyment too often looks
beyond liome too late in life’s journey,
when little of either strength or time re
mains, this is regretted. lit the case of
home, the early neglect is usually irre- 1
trievahle, where we may be certain, if
flowers are not cultivated, weeds will
spring—where the violet and the rose
might have charmed our senses, the nettle
and night-shade will offend them. Fene
lon was accustomed to say, “T love my
family better than myself; my country
better than my family, and mankind better
than my country; for lam more a French
man’ than a Feneloti, and more man than
a Frenchman.” This is an instance of
reasoning more beautiful in theory than
reducible to practice ; I should be satisfied
with the man who proceeded almost in
versely and invested his first funds in the
domestic, treasury ; these once established
and yielding interest, he may at once en
joy and dispense at will. Many spirits
are moving on the stream of society, and
the rising waters are attesting their influ
ence. Religion has ils preachers, science
and- politics their lecturers, but there
seems to he a dearth of moral teachers—
Apostles of the Religion of Home, who
would show warmly and eloquently to as
sembled congregations the beauty and the
benefits of the home affections—the dread
ful blank and ruinous bankruptcy attend
ant on their want of violation—who would
send aw«y their dispersing auditors with
awakened hearts, each saying in the se
cret chamber of its individual breast, —
“ I will be a better wife, a better husband,
a better parent, a better child, than I have
ever been.” Those who should make tiiis
resolve and act up to it might count upon
an exceeding great reward—the harvest
of present happiness, and the solace of fu
ture consolation. Os the* latter need, let
it ever be remembered, none will be spar
ed : the wedded will he the widowed—
the parented will he th<* ophaned. The
links of life are not more sumly cemented
than they are struck asunder, and happy
is he in whose living hand is left the frag
ment of the chain ; if, when the heart that
loved him is cold, lie can lay his hand up
on his own, and sa*y—“ I never neglected
her—l was never unkind ; we suffered,
but I ever sought to make her share of suf
fering the least.” As happy she who can
recollect habits of devotion and endurance,
that she kept ever present to her mind
how he has toiled and tried in the conflict
ing struggles of the world abroad, and had i
sedulously sought, as much as in her lay,
to create for him a recompense at home—
sweet will be this drop in her bitter cup
of bereavement. Without risking the
charge of partiality, I may say this con
solatory consciousness of self-abnegation
falls more often to the lot of woman than
to man. Many affecting instances in the
most unfortunate walks of life are often
recorded in the public prints, where a
wife, to shield a savage assailant from pun
ishment, has pleaded guilty to self-vio
lence. These revolting circumstances
will disappear with the class in which alone
they are found, as temperance and intelli
gence advance ; for hearts, hundreds of
hearts, that were originally capable of ten
derness have been defrauded of the bless
ed privileges of loving and dispensing
kindness, because unhappy circumstances
denied the current of affection permission
to flow forth, and gentleness and sweet
ness to become the habit of behaviour.—
The kindlier feelings, checked in their
outset, errow stagnaut, or take a congeal
ed or sluggish course, never yielding suf
ficient evidence of vitality. Thus many
whom self-culture has redeemed mentally
from the bondage of early bad habits, have
failed to attain moral emancipation from
the thraldom in which want of genial man
ners principa'ly contributes to hold them.
I have noticed even a false shame evinced
i at giving any evidence of susceptibility to
BOOK AND JOB PRINTING,
Will be executed inthe most approved stylet
and on the best terms, at the Office of the
“ SOUTHERN MUSEUM.”
—BY—
HARRISON & MYERS.
the loveable emotions, and rudeness af
fected to hide the tenderness that was
yearning to ,To these I would
say in the beautiful language of a popular
song :
Love now ! ere the heart feels o sorrow,
Or the bright sunny moments are flown:
Love now ! for the dawn of to-morrow
May find thee unloved and alone.
Oh ! alone,—alone in the house of mourn
ing ! What would you not then give lo
I recall the time when you suffered your
1 best feelings to lie in unprofitable silence 1
i What would you not give to recall to con
! sciou6ness—consciousness of your love,
your contrition, the heart you bad often
j hurt by apparent indifference I By a
magic peculiar to death, all that was beau
tiful, was amiable in the departed, rises on
the stricken heart of the survivor with re
newed beauty ;—his own demerits are
magnified. Spare thyself this bitter con
; dition to a bitter draught—the cup may
I not pass from thee ! Let not the sun of
j affection go down while it is yet day, or
the night of thy morning will be dark in
deed. It seems strange that mental im
provement should be more easy than moral
amelioration—but so it is ; the mind’s pre
judices fall before that silent monitor a
book, and the faculties assert their fiee
dom ; but it requires more effort to effect
a change of manner, and modes of expres
sion—if the amenities have not grown with
our growth, and strengthened with our
strength, they rarely take kindly to the
soil. Gentleness and tenderness then
must be among the first and most constant
of the influences exerted over the infant
mind.
The general increase of kindliness and
urbanity, in the classes in which the graces
of society have been least regarded, are
among the best advances that have long
been making. The history of private life
in past times exhibits a severity of conduct
towards the young, from a mistaken notion
of its utility, nay, of its necessity, that it
is painful to recall. The sceptre was not
deemed more essential to the king, the
mace to the keeper of his conscience, than
the rial of the school-master ; and if the
portraits of these birch loving pedagogues
could be presented to us, no doubt the ste
reotyped frown would be found on every
face. Lady Jane Grey records that she
never sat in her mother’s presence, and
severe study was a sweet shelter from such
severe austerity. Joy to the young spirits
of the nineteenth century; everywhere he
their hearts opened by kindness and en
couragement. Let us not be niggauls of
the moral comfit—praise. Credit to a
dawning or dormant capacity is often vvhat
an advance of capital is to a struggling
trader ; it assists, perhaps inspires, the ex
ertion that enables him to realize fortune
and repay the loan with interest. I would
present to every, parent, the following
beautiful lines by Coleridge, and even sug
gest their being committed to memory
O’er wayward childhood would’st thou hold firm
rule,
And sun tnee in the light of happy faces,.
Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy
graces,
And in thine own heart let them first keep
school,
For as old Atlas on his broad neck places
Heaven’s starry globe, and there sustains it—so
Do these upbear the little world below
Os Education —Patience, Love and Hops.
Mf.tliinks I sec thsii! grouped in show
The straitened arms upraised, the palms aslope,
And robes that, touching as down they flow,
Distinctly blind like snow embossed in snow.
O part them never ! If Hope prostrate lie,
Love too will sink and die.
I’ut love is subtle, and doth proof derive
From her own life that Hope is yet alive ;
And bending o’er with soul transfusing eyes,
And the soft murmurs of the molher dove,
Won* back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies :
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave
to Love.
Yet haply there will come a weary day*.
When overtasked at length
Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way,-
Then with a statue’s smile, a statue’s strength,
Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth,
And both supporting does the work of both.
Who are the truly valuable in
Society.— The value set upon a member
of society should be, not according to the
fineness or intensity of his feelings, in the
acuteness of his sensibility, or his readiness
to weep for, or deplore the misery he may
meet with in the world*; but in proportion
to the sacrifice lie is ready to make,and to
the knowledge,and talents which he is able
and willingto contribute towards removing
the misery. Tobenefit mankind is a much
more difficult task than some seem imagine
it is not quite so easy as to make a disulav
of amiable sensibility: the first requiaes
long study and painful abstinence from
the various alluring pleasures by which
we are surrounded; the second in most,
cases demands only a little acting, and
even when sincere,is utterly useless to the
public. — Weitminster Review.
Charities the best Robberies.—
A mail’s self is often his worst robber. —
He steals from his own bosom and heart
what God has there deposited, and he
hides it out of his way as dogs and foxes
do with bones. But the robberies we
commit on the body of cur superfluities,
and store up in vacant places, in places of
po.verty and sorrow, these, whether in the
dark or in the daylight, leave us neither
in nakedness nor in fear, are marked by
no burn.ngiron of conscience, are followed
by no scourge of reproach : they never
deflower prosperity, they never distemper
sleep.— Landor.