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Hoe t 1 g ♦
A PRISON L,IY.
The following lines were written by Thomas
Francis Meaohf.r in Conmel Jail, a few day s
after hi? sentence :
I iove, I love these grey, old wmlls !
Although a chilling shadow falls
Along the iron-gated halls,
And in the silent, narrow cells,
Brooding darkly, ever dwells.
Oh ! still I love them—for the hours,
Within them spent are set with flowers
That blossom, spite of wind and showers,
And through that shadow dull and cold,
Emit their sparks of blue and gold.
Bright flowers of mirth I —that wildly spring
From fresh,young hearts, and o’er them fling,
Like Indian birds with sparkling w ing,
Seeds of sweetness, grains all glowing,
Sun-gilt leaves, with dew-drops flowing.
And hopes ns brighVliiat softly gleam,
Like stars which o’< r the churchyard stream
A beauty un each faded dream
Mingling the light they purely shed
With other hopes, whose light was fled.
Fond mem'ries, too, undimmed with sighs,
Whose fragrant sunshine, neverdies,
Whose summer song-bird never flies—
These, too, are chasing, hour by hour,
The clouds which round this prison lower;
And thus, front hour to hour, I’ve grown
To love these walls, though dark and lone,
And fondly prize each gray old stone,
Which fl ings the shadow, deep and chill,
Across my fettered footsteps .still.
Yet, let these mem’ries fall and flow
Within my heart, like waves that glow
Unseen in spangled caves below
The foam which frets, the mists which sweep
Tile changeful surface ofthe deep.
Not so the many hopes that bloom
Amid this voiceless waste and gloom,
Strewing my pathway to the tomb
As though it were a bridal bed,
And not (lie prison of the dead.
I would those hopes were traced in fire,
Beyond these walls—above that spire—
Amid yon blue and starry choir,
Whose sounds play round us with the streams
i W hicl, glitter in the white moon’s beams.
| Id twine those hopes above our isle,
; ove the rath and ruined pile,
OVe eac *' glen and rough defile—
■l he holy_ We n— t he Druid's shrine—
ho\ c them all, those hopes I’d twine !
*a° S *' Uiumph o’er my fate,
n teach this poor, desponding State,
n signs oftenderness, not Date,
to think of her old storv,
Still to hope for future glory.
! in these walls, those hopes have been
a -,i sweet, the light serene,
11,1 s,,i,| y o’ ft r this silent scene,
• '• hke the autumn streamlets flowed,
rui ,hft autumn sunshine glowed.
’'l l hits, from hour to hour, I’ve grown
A l, 0 ;e walls, though dark and lone,
fondly prize each gray old^tone,
‘ at fl,n S sthe shadow, deep end chill,
Across tny fettered footstep^till.
THE SOUTHERN MUSEUM.
BY \YM, B. HARRISON.
THE PRAYER OF LOVE.
An Incident in tlie Life of Cromwell.
Many persons may remember that in the
most pretty of suburban villages, High
gate there stands a mansion nearly on the
brow of the hill, bearing the name of
* Cromwell House,’ one of the many relics
remaining of that man, whose usurpation
of supreme power wrought more good in
England than all the reigns of the Stuarts.
This house, which was the favorite resort
of the Lord General, during those hours
when he relaxed from the cares of state,
has continued, in some degree, an object
of curiosity up to the present day ; and
they who indulge in the observation of rel
ics of the olden time, may find themselves
not uninterested in their notice of the
Cromwell House.
fn the largest room of the mansion, in
the month of January, 1652, sat three per
sons, dressed according to the puritanical
fashion of*the day. * A large fire blazed
from the antique grate, adding an air of
comfort to their forms, while they discus
sed the varied topics of the times. Hut
they shall speak for themselves.
‘ Yea, the Lord of battles did that day
grant unto us a crowning victory,’ said
one, whose stern, yet marked and intellec
tual visage and nose, which had so often
excited the ribaldry of the Cavaliers, pro
claimed the first man of his day—Oliver
Cromwell.
‘ Even so,’ replied his companion, Co
lonel Jeffreys, to whom he addressed him
self.
‘ Hut,’ added the usurper, ‘ lie, he the
son of man, hath escaped and while he yet
lives .’ The speaker paused, ‘ I fear’
quivered on his lips, but he durst not let
the words escape in the presence of his
adherents.
‘ Yea ! v interrupted Col. Martin, who
until now had continued silent, apparently
wrapped in a moody reverie, ‘the malig
nants are given unto the edge of the sword;
they are cut down, root and branch ; root
and branch are they prepared for the fire !’
and the speaker's wild look and wilder
manner proclaimed him one of those stern
and unyielding bigots who had contributed
to hew down the obstacles in the path of
their master to supreme power.
‘ Thou seemest possessed with a spirit,’
said the usurper, regarding with a kind of
grim satisfaction the vehement manner of
his follower.
‘ 1 had a vision,’ resumed the fanatic,
his eyes gleaming almost with the fire of
madness, ‘ and a voice came unto me in
the watches of the night, and it said,
•Smite !’ and I said, 1 Lord what shall 1
smite V and the voice answered me and
said, ‘ Smite the slayers of the Lord’s peo
ple, root and branch, hip and thigh ; kill
and spare not!’
‘ Yet,’ replied Colonel Jeffreys as the
other sank down almost exhausted by his
vehemence, ‘ methinks enough blood has
been poured forth ; there is not a cavalier
in England durst show his head—not a
mouth dare name Charles Stuart with
praise. Your prisons are full, and your
headsmen are satiated.’
‘ You are el iquent,’ said Cromwell.
‘ Atleast it is an eloquence which cometh
from the heart,’ was the reply.
* Accursed be they who would protect
them,’ again said Martin, * Ere another
week shall have passed, one more slialt
yet be added to the list —ho whom the
vain Call Si John Desmond.’
‘And I say,’ retorted Jeffreys, ‘ accurs
ed be they who would rejoice in the shed
ding of blood, let them beware, lest by
man also shall their blood be shed.’
‘ The wife of him thou has named,’ said
Cromwell, * but yesterday sought my pre
sence.’
* And thou ’
‘ Refused her,’ replied Cromwell stern
ly. ‘ Better and braver men than Des
mond have fallen ; nor must he be spared.’
‘ Yet,’ continued Jeffreys, * oui cause is
now secure, shall blood continue to flow
forever!’
‘ Thou searest, then,’ said Jeffreys ‘ lest
her groans and supplications might win
thee to grant her request V
‘ Lead us not into temptation,’ inter
posed Col. Martin, in a deep reverie.
‘ Thou,’ continued Jeffreys, unheeding
the speaker, as if used to his singular
manner, ‘ thou who hast refused so many,
feared the tears and touching eloquence
of a woman.’
‘ And dost thou think,’ said Cromwell,
as with his accustomed felicity, lie changed
tlie subject far less displeasing to him,
‘dost thou not think that the eloquence
which floweth from reason, and is assisted
by forethought, is more powerful than that
which cometh on the instant, and is the
offspring, perchance, of prejudice V
‘ Nay,’ replied Jeffreys.
‘ And,’ quickly interrupted Cromwell,
‘ dost thou think that I could so successful
ly have led my people, had I trusted to
the words which sprung on a sudden, and
which are not the result of a fixed prin
ciple V
Col. Jeffreys smiled inwardly, for he
well knew tlutt when Cromwell had been
most successful, it hud been when he trus
ted to the power of his feelings, anti not
in any of the-o more labored discourses
with which lie was wont occasionally to
mystify his auditiors; but he answered
with more policy than to betray his opin
ion.
‘ I believe,’ was his reply, ‘ that no
power of reason, no studied speech, or set
praise, could match the eloquence which
springs pure and fervent from the bosom
of the loving pleading for the beloved.’
‘And I,’ returned the other shortly,
‘ believe as decidedly that thou art wrong.’
‘ What labored oration,’ pursued Jef
freys, ‘ can surpass David mourning for
diis son Absalom’—‘Oh! Absalom, my
son, my son, would to God I had died for
thee !’
‘ Would, said Cromwell, abruptly,
‘ would it were even now in our power to
test this thing!’
Suddenly the other arose, and stood up
right before the general.
‘ Pardon my boldness,’ he said, * but
your wishes may be granted this hour, nay,
this very minute.’
‘ What meanest thou ?’
* That this moment waiteth without the
wife of him you named but now, come
once more to plead for lief husband’s life.!
‘ And darest thou V said Cromwell an
grily.
‘ 1 would have dared far more,’ sans
Colonel Jeffreys, boldly. ‘ She is the wife
of one whom in my youth I loved, but
who hath been separated from me by the
iron natare of the times. He loved his
king, l mycouutryand its deliverer.’
There was something in the nature of
this speech that won the pleased and silent
attention of the hearer, and he continued—
* l could not hear her tears, her agonies,
and above all, her earnest despair. She
is now without; admit her, and see if her
eloquent feeling move not you as it did
me ; try if her despair be not more touch
ing than the voice of the hired advocate.
‘ Admit her not—trust not the voice of
the charmer,’ exclaimed Colonel Martin.
• Her husband hath drunk deep of the
blood of our people ; the axe is prepared
—let it be glutted with his blood.’
‘ Peace my brother, I pray thee peace,’
said Cromwell. ‘ Thou hast done wrong,’
he added, turning to Col. Jeffreys, ‘ but
she shall be admitted.’
The order was given to the attendants,
and during a pause which made Colonel
Jeffreys tremble for his client, Lady Des
mond was admitted.—By this time, the
sun had gone, and the light afforded by
the red ffame of the fire, which threw its
glare fitfully and uncertainly on the in
mates of that ancient room, was all that
remained to reveal in Elizabeth Desmond,
as she entered, a woman of a sad and
stately presence, and one on whom, if the
lapse of years had done much, the weight
of grief had done more, but neither had
power to bow her form, or to quench the
tire of an eye which looked mournfully
but unquailingly on the group.
‘ Art thou the wife of the malignat John
Desmond V said Cromwell abruptly.
‘ I am his unhappy wife.’
‘ What vvouldst thou V
‘ Pardon for my husband.’
‘ And wherefore should the most invet
erate hater of God’s people escape his
righteous doom V
‘ 1 am a poor, unlearned woman,’ was
the rejdy ‘ unski led in aught save prayer
to my m iker.—Weak in all save love so
my husband, I can but repeat, pardon,
pardon.’
‘ls it not written,’ said Cromwell, omni
ously, ‘ The shedderofthe blood of God s
sain s shall surely die V
‘ In your hands rests the newer of life
and deatn ; think, oh, upon the blood that
has been —how the great and the good
have fallen—how, by your word, they
have died, and, oh ! add not another to the
sad and melancholy list.’
‘ Hast not thy husdaud drawn his sword
in every town in England V
‘ It were vain to deny it V
‘ Has he not been the most determined
of a daring race ? When was banner lif
ted. batte of broil begun, and one of the
name of Desmond away from the encoun
ter 1 Away, thou hast thine answer.’
‘ I have dreamed and prayed for this
hour,’ was the earnest reply ; 'for men sav
thou are just, though stern. And now
that, by 'he manifest will of God, I stand
face to face with thee, I will not yield.
Thou hast a wife who hath lain in thy bo
som, lived but on thy smile, and placed her
very thoughts before thee. Picture the
axe, the headsman, and gory scaffold.
Could she live to see thee thus V
There was no movement on tlie part of
her stern judge which might betray his
thoughts; but atleast, he interrupted her
not, and she continued
‘ 1 hou hast children, and felt the warm,
soft touch of infancy upon thy lips—hast
seen them grow up in love and fondess
around thcc—at morning and evening
have bent before the same altar, prayed
the same yrayers, knelt before the same
God!’
‘ Woman thou trouhlcst me!’ said Crom
well, who, as well known, was far from
happy in these domestic relations.
‘ 1 have sons, and they shall honor thee,
daughters, and they shall bless thee,’ pur
sued Lady Desmond.
* Hath he not shed ’
‘ Look upon these gray hairs, and on
these pale and quivering lips—upon this
frail form, bowed with agonizing suspense
—and prty, oh pity me !’
‘ Away, away !’
‘ By thine hopes of heaven—by the love
thou bearest to thy God —pardon, pardon
for my husband!’
* Thou pleadest. in vain.’
‘ Then, by the memory of the blood which
flowed Whitehall ’ She stopped, for
she felt that she had said too much ; yet
the usurper’s iron face changed not; but,
MACON, MARCH 21, 1849.
in the wild gesture of Martin, in the fear
ful and anxious stare of Jeffreys, she trem
b'ed for her suit. The group was worthy
a painter.
For a minute Cromwell moved not,
spoke not, and even scarcely breathed. It
seemed an age to the agonized pleader.
At last he uttered, as though the power of
speech had suddenly come to him :
‘ Woman, thy prayer is granted ; go in
peace 1’
Then turning to Col. Jeffreys he said :
‘ Thou wert right ; I will see the priso
ner be released. This woman, in her
great love, hath dared to speak to me of
that which might have cost her dear. Her
husband shall be set free, for verily I say
unto you, I have not found such love no,
not in all Israel.’
Good Night. —* Good night!’ In that
expression of kindness, how sweet and
soothing a sentiment is conveyed. The
toils of the day are over; the fervent heat
of noon is past; the maddening pursuit
after gain is suspended ; and mankind seek
iu the arms of sleep a temporary asylum
from care of mind and enervation of body, i
Even from guilt, beneficent nature with- j
holds not the solace of repose, and pass-
ing through the ‘ivoiy gate of dreams’
the days of youth, of happiness, of inno
cence, in shadowy gloiy flit before the
soul. And night, gentle night is the ten
der nurse that woes the toil exhausted
frame to sleep its cares iu calm forgetful
ness. This wise provision of nature in
dicates the season for repose, and her ben
eficent laws are reverenced and obeyed
by all save the being for whose comfort
and happiness they were chiefly promul
gated. When the sun withdraws from tho
heavens, and the earth is shrouded in dark
ness, the labors of insect industry ceases;
the flowers closing their petals, defended
from the chilling dews of evening, and
that sweet watchman of the grove, the
nightingale, trills forth in wild and varied
cadences the parting song ‘Good Night.’
Cynthia and her glittering train of stars,
robed in the grandeur of eternal light,
come forth and hover above the earth and
its children like fair and holy spirits keep
ing vigils over mortal sleepers, and pre
serving them from the influence of the
powers of darkness.
Charity. —There are some other ways
of tlie world, in this matter of charity,
which proceed, I think, upon false princi
ples and feelings,—charity dinners, charity
balls, charity bazaars, and so forth; de
vices (not even dnee blessed) for getting
r and of distress without calling out any com
passionate feeling in those who give, or
any grateful feeling in those who receive.
God sends misery and misfortune into the
world for a. purpose; they are to be a dis
cipline for liis creatures who endure, and
also for his creatures who behold them.
In those they are to give occasion for pa
tience and resignation, the spiritual hopes
and aspirations which spring from pain
when there comes no earthly relief, or ihe
love and gratitude which earthly minis
trations of relief are powerful to promote.
In these they are to give occasion to pity,
self sacrifice, and devout and dutiful
thought, subduing for the moment at least,
the light, vain and pleasure-loving motions
of our nature. If distress be sent into the
world for these, it is not well that it should
be shuffled out of the world without any
of these ends being accomplished ; and
still less that it should be danced away at
a ball, or feasted away at a dinner, or dis
sipated at a bazaar. Better were it in my
mind, that misery should run its course
with nothing but the mercy of God to stay
it, than that we should thus corrupt our
charities.
Another modern mode is to raise a sub
scription by shillings or pennies,—fixing
the contribution at so low a sum that no
body can care whether they give it or not,
and collecting it in the casual intercourse
of society. This is a less vitiated mode
than the others, being of a more negative
character; but, if the others are corrupt
charity, this no better than careless charily.
Taylor's Holes of Life .
Excellencies of Knowledge.— There
are in knowledge these two excellencies :
first, that it offers to every man, the most
selfish and the most exalted, his peculiar
inducement to good. Itsays totlie former,
“ Serve mankind, and you serve yourself;”
to the latter, ‘ - In choosing the best means
to secure your own bappinesst you will
have the sublime inducement of promoting
the happiness of mankind.” The second
excellence of knowledge, is that even the
selfish man, when he has once begun to
love virtue from little motives, loses the
motive as be increases the love, and at
last worships the Deity, where before lie
only coveted gold upon the altar.
Despondency. —lt is poor philosophy to
over-estimate difficulty ; and it is folly to
over-estimate it so to persuade ourselves
it is insurmountable. Such a persuasion
paralyzes our every energy, and, in fact,
increases our troubles to what they were
only in imagination. Despair is only a
bad form of cowardice.
True. The hoiror with which wo en
tertain the thoughts of dcatli—or, indeed,
of any future ovil, and tho uncertainty of
its approach—till a melancholy mind with
innumerable apprehensions and suspicions,
and consequently dispose it to the observa
tion prodigies and predictions.
VOLUME 1 •NUMBER 17.
Praising God. —God being so good,
and having shown so much goodness to us,
it highly becomes us to acknowledge his
goodness by all the ways we can ; espe
cially by these three : praying to him, de
pending upon him, and praising him. By
every one of these we acknowledge the
goodness of God, either directly or by con
sequence ; but most of all the last, which
ought, therefore, to be principally regard
ed. This I the rather lake notice of, be
cause it is a thing wherein we are gener
ally defective, for we are apt to be more
zealously affected in our petitionary pray
ers than our giving thanks; and the rea
son I suppose is, because our prayers are
for ouiselves, but giving thanks is to God.
But certainly this is a great fault, and pro
ceeds from that root of all evil, self-love.
We ought rather to address ourselves to
God with more application and devotion
in our praises than in our prayers ; for he
that praiseih glorifies God more than he
lhat prays. lie that prays does only hope
that God will be good 10 him ; but he that
praises does actually acknowledge that he
is already so. There is more excellence
in praise than we are commonly aware of.
To believe, work and pray is the work of
earth ; hut to adore and praise is the work
of heaven ; but not so as to be reserved
till we come thither. No, we must begin
it here, or we shall never do it hereafter.
It is the only retribution God expects from
us for all his goodness, to be blessed for
his blessings.
God is love. 71 is more according to
the will of so good a Being to be heartily
loved than servilely feared. It is love,
and not fear, that has the honor to fulfil
the whole law.— Harris.
Beautiful Extract. —God has writ
ten upon the flowers that sweeten the air;
on the breeze that rocks the flowers on
the stem; upon the rain drops that refresh
ed the sprig of moss that lifts its head in
the desert; upon the ocean that rocks ev
ery swimmei in its deep chamber ; upon
every penciled shell that sleeps in the cav
erns of the deep, no less than upon the
migh’y sun that warms and cheers millions
of creatures that live in its light, —upon
these he has written, “xoNfc of us livetii
to iumself.” And if we are wise enough
to understand these works, we shall find
that there is nothing, from the cold stone
in the earth, or the minutest creature lhat
breathes, which may not, in some way or
other, ministet to the happiness of some
living creature.
We admire and praise the flower that
best answers the end for which it was cre
ated, and the tree which bears fruit the
most rich and abundant; the star that is
the most useful in the heavens we admire
the most.
Is it not reasonable that man, to whom
the whole creation, from the flowers to the
spangled heavens all minister, should live
for tlie noble end of living, not for himself,
but others.
Rules to govern Children. — 1. Exer
cise your authority as seldom as possible ;
instead of it employ kind persuasion and
deliberative reasoning but when you e&
ercise it, make it irresistible.
2. Be careful how you threaten, but
never lie. Threaten seldom but never
fail to execute. The parent who is open
mouthed to threaten, and threatens hastily,
is irresolute to punish, and when the child
is not subdued by the first threat repeats it
half ad >zen times with a voice of increas
ing violence, and with many shakes and
twitches ofthe little culprit, will certainly
possess authority.
3. Avoid tones and gestures expressive
of agitation for trivial matters, indicative
of no depravity, and exhibiting only heed
lessness or forgetfulness, as nothing is
more common to all young animals, than
to love to use their limbs. In such cases
the tones should be kind and persuasive,
lather than authoritative, and even the
gravity of authority should bo reserved
exclusively for cases of disobedience or de
pravity or for the preventing of serious
evil. A perpetual fretting at children for
little things will inevitably harden their
hearts, &. totally destroy parental influence
and authority. There never was a fretting
parent, who often threatened and seldom
performed that hud a particle of efficient
government.
Printing Presses, Pulpits and Wo
men.—These are the three great levers
that govern the movements of the world.
Without them the bottom would fall out,
and society would become chaos again.
The press makes people patriotic, the pul
pit religious, but women answereth all
things. There would be no going to
church if there were no girls there—neither
would there be any going to war were the
soldiers to meet with no applause except
from the masculines. Without the sun
shine shed by women, the rosebuds of
affection would never blow, nor the flower
of eloquence germinate. In short she is
the steam engine of delight, and the great
motive power of love, valor and civiliza
tion.—Pittsburg Chronicle.
L'ITA gentleman who had been succes
sively engaged in three professions, those
of minister, physician and lawyer, was ask
ed the comparative advantages of them for
acquiring property. He replied—“ The
man who will give but a fourpenco to save
bis soul, will give twenty-five cents for re
lief from sickness, and a dollar to have his
own will.”
BOOK AND JOB PRINTING,
Will be executed inthc most approved style,
and on the best terms, at the Office of the
SCTTTEII?*IT MTJSfi-JM,
—BY—
WM. B HARRISON.
Married and Unmarried Ladies.—
The situation of married and unmarried
females, it must be confessed, is very un
equal ; the former having greatly the ad
vantage in the scale of earthly happiness ;
and the world makes the distinction still
more unequal than nature intended it. At
thirty-five the married woman is consider
ed in the noon of life, while the single wo
man is looked upon as passed.
Again, the wife has less necessity to de
pend on intellectual pleasures as resources
against the lassitude of ennui. She has
duties to perform, let her station in life be
what it may, to which the single woman
ednnot turn to vary the monotony of her
existence. The matron, if she be a mo
ther, will find a sufficient stimulous to keep
up or revive, in the early instruction, which
it is one of woman’s sweetest privileges to
give her offspring, the knowledge and ac
complishments which she learned in her
youth.
What pleasure can be higher or more
unalloyed to the besiower—what sight
more enduring to the beholder—than a
matron, o’er whose brow the shadow of
time, like that on the dial, has passed, yet
left much of the sunny light of life be
hind, leading her fair daughter to emulate
the grace, of which she herself is so fair a
pattern ? Or to mark a son, in all he
pride of youthful manhood, paying back
with love little short of adoration, the cares
of her whose gentle instruction first lured
Him to seek the wide paths of knowledge,
and at whose knee his infant prayer was
firsj. breathed 1 Other feelings grow cold;
other memories pass away ; hut the gentle
image of the mother who has watched our
childhood—her love, her unwearied devo
tion, arc forever mirrored in the human
heart.
’ Business First and then Pleasure.
A man who is very rich, was verv tioor
when ahoy. When asked how he got his
riches, he replied, ‘My father taught me
never to play till all my work for the day
was finished, and never to spend my mon
ey till 1 had earned it. If I had but half
an hour’s work to do in a day, I must do
that the first thiug, and in a half an hour.
After this was done, 1 was allowed to play ;
and I could then play with much more
pleasue than if I had the thoughts of an
unfinished task before my mind. I early
formed the habit of doing every thing in
its time, and it soon became perfectly ea
sy to do so. It is to this habit that 1 owe
my prosperity.’ Let every boy who reads
this go and do likewise, and he will meet
a similar reward.— Auccdotes for Boys.
French Politeness. —A young gen
tleman, lodging in a narrow street of Paris*
lately conceived himself enamored of a
lady who appeared occasionally at an op
posite window. With the freedom of mod
ern Lovelaces, he enclosed a copper coin
in a billctdoux, to give it the necessary
weight, and threw it with sufficient force
against the closed sash to break the pane
of glass arid go through. His own win
dow was left open, and, in a few minutes
after, a cold roast chicken entered from
the opposite side, to the leg of which was
tied the following note : “ Monsieur —You
take advantage of a means of correspond
ing with my wife which proves you to have
read the Spanish romances to some profit.
While I allow your ingenuity, however,
allow me to express a wish that, in your
future love-letters to her, by the same post,
you will let the enclosed weight be of silver
instead of copper, that I may be able to re
pair the broken pane of glass at your ex
pense. “ Your humble servant, X.”
Idleness. —Nine tenths of the miseries
and vice of manhood proceed frum idlenes ;
with men of quick minds, to whom it is
especially pernicious, this habit is common
ly the fruit of many disappointments and
schemes oft baffled ; and men fail in their
schemes not so much for the want of
strength, as from the ill direction of it.
The weakest living creature, by concen
trating his powers on a single object, can
accomplish something ; the strongest, by
dispersing his over many, may fail to ac
complish anythimg. The drop, by contin
ued falling, bores its passage through’ the
hardest rock—the hasty torrent Tushes
over it with hideous uproar and leaves no
trace behind.— Carlyle.
Think. —Thought engendeis thought.
Place one idea upon paper —another wilL
follow, till you have written a page. You
cannot fathom your mind. There is a
well of thought there which has no bottom-
The more you draw from it, the more clear
and fruitful it will be. Learn to thin]-,
and you will soon learn to write; and tho
more you think, the better you will «£.-
press your ideas.
Scandal. —Dr. Johnson being once in
company with some scancal-moiigcrs, ono
of whom accused an absent friend of re
sorting to rouge, he observed, ‘‘lt is, per
haps, after all, much better for a lady to
retlden her own cheeks, than to blacken,
other people’s character.”
A courteous Frenchman, in reply to
the question why women were not admit
ted into the Chamber of Deputies, said
that to ho a member it was requisite to bo
forty years old, and it was impossible to
suppose that any lady could reach that
unseemly age.