Newspaper Page Text
volume 11. |
BY C. R. HANLEITER,
P © IE T IS Y □
“ Much yet remains unsung .”
From the Louisville Republican.
THE COMET.
BY HEBRY STEW ART. ESQ.
I'm coming with my locks of red,
I’in coming down full sail:
I've scattered all the signs with dread,
And turned the Planets pale.
I'm full five hundred milesof head—
A million leagues of tail.
I've left the Rom without a horn,
Made roast beef of a Bull,
Twins curse the hour that they were born.
And Fish could not keep cool.
Virgo's, a maiden all forlorn.
And Leo's lust his wool.
Mars was obliged to take to flight,
Miss Venus had a swoon :
I’ve left them all in sad affright—
I'm steering for the moon.
The earth will then be in full sight;
You will have hot weather soon.
Kamscatka, all the frozen climes
Shall fever beat environ ;
The southrons for their many crimes,
I'll pour a stream of fire on.
For I’m twenty hundred times
Hotter than red hot iron.
My beard shall graze, and in a trice,
Singe Greenland to a coal;
One second and I’ll knock a slice
From off the Northern pole.
The shock will melt and break the ice
Round Captain Simm's hole.
Poor devil’s ! you’ll have cause to rue
The moment that we met;
While fretting'twist a broil and stow,
Stark staring mad you'll get.
You’ll not resolve into a dew,
But melt down m a sweat.
SELECTS® T AIL [E©a
ADVANTAGES OF BEING SLAN
DERED.
BY EPES SARGENT.
Ei'ery body Sjvaks well of him ! lam sor
ry to hear of it ; for then he must hare bow
ed as low to knaves and fools as to the honest
dignity of virtue tnd talent. — Sheridan.
“ Is it possible 1”
“ True, every Word of it! I had it direct
from Mrs. Marvel, whose husband, you know,
is a very matter of fact sort of a man, and
the last in the world to invent suth a story
about anybody.”
“ Well, I never would have believed that
young Langdale could haVe fallen into such
habits ! So inconsiderate too at this moment
When his bedridden old uncle is hesitating
as to how he shall dispose of his immense
estate!”
“Oh,that will undoubtedly go to Mr. Al
len, the other nephew, who is a jieifect model
of the young men of the age in his habits ;
hud who calls on old Gregory twice a day
dutifully to enquire into his health.”
” And dosn't the dissipated one have sense
enough to do the same I”
“ Quite the contrary. Langdale hasn’t
called on his uncle these six months. He is
too fond of his bottle and his cigar to con
cern himself about the old gentleman.”
“ And which of the nephews is favorer!
l>y the famous beauty; Miss Mabcrly J”
“ The fortunate one of course, whichso
ever it may be; but as to the chances of
wealth now are in favor of Allen, Langdale
is not so much encouraged at present as
formerly.*’
” And so Langdale has a cottage in Bloom
ingdale, and”—
“ Hush ! don’t for the world repeat it as
coming from me—though at the same time
I must say, I think it proper such things
should be known.”
** To be stire they should ! I have a do
zen more calls to make this morning, my
dear Mrs. B . Good day! Be sure
and return my visit soon.”
And thus saying, Miss Patter took her
leave, and a dozen calls in rapid succession,
and every where communicated the intelli
gence she bad gathered in regard to Mr.
k'tngduJe.
These agreeable intimations were but
part of a system of abuse, which had been
originated by Mr. Harrowby, an old friend
of Langdale's, and a masterly tactician, in
his management of the minor peculiarities
of human nature. Langdale had been com
plaining that Miss Maberlygave him no en
couragement, and that his uncle had assured
|>im, that he should only leave him enough
in his will to buy him a suit of mourning.
Harrowby heard this intelligence with con
cern, for he was himself indebted to Lang
dale, for the lone of some hundreds, and
though he well knew he should never be
dunned for the repayment he was yet desi
rous of keeping his young friend in a posi
tion, where he should never feel the tempta
tion of want. Harrowby applied himself
to the study of Langdale’s case—questioned
him minutely as to what the world said of
him— what were Miss Maberly’s character
istics, and what were the uncle’s. He learnt
that the young lady was of rather a roman
tic Ujnj of mind, ambitious, but high-spirit
ed aqd generous—fond of admiration, and
remarkably fond of having her own way.
According jo prliff. however,
& JFamtla JLctospapcr : Brfeotetr to Httcrature, agricultuve, Jccftanlcfis, Jltmcatfou, jForeign anti domestic intelligence, #c.
the good and the beautiful preponderated in
her character as well as in her person.
As for old Gregory, the uncle, he bad
been a roue in his youth, but was now en
tirely reformed. He took credit to himself
for the change, but the fact was, that gout
and incipient disease had wrought it. He
belonged to some dozen temperance socie
ties, and abused his old friend, King Alcohol,
with the habitual zeal of young converts.
Hnrrowhy reflected long and intently up
on these and other particulars, which Long
dale communicated. At last, he exclaimed :
“ I see it, my young friend. I have struck
the root of the mischief. The fact is, you
have altogether too good a character. You
are too amiable, too correct, too unexcep
tionable in your deportment. You don’t
afford pegs enough for Slander to hang her
little exaggerations upon. You must com
mit some trifling peccadilloes, or you will
be ruined. Suppose you stand in the col
onnade before Pinteaux’s to-morrow with a
cigar in your mouth and your cheeks very
much flushed. But no. There is not the
least occasion that you should do any thing
of that kind. Slander requires no straw in
the manufacture of her bricks. Imagina
tion supplies material solid enough for her.
I must backbite you a little, Langdale—
give currency to a few bits of scandal—get
you well abused—and then there will be
some hopes of retrieving your fortunes.”
“Really, Harrowby,” replied Langdale,
“I do not comprehend your tactics. Look
at my cousin, Allen ; see what an excellent
character he enjoys. And what will be the
consequence ? He will marry Ellen Maber
ly, and liecome old Gregory’s heir.”
“ Fie upon your faint heart! He will nev
er do any such thing. He is ruining him
self by playing the saint.”
” Why, Harrowby, he is the President of
a Temperance Society, and surely if any
thing can prejudice his uncle in his favor, it
will be that fact.”
“ All a mistake ! You show your igno
rance of human nature, my dear Injy, in
saying so. Self love is at the bottom of all
our actions—l take that as an axiom. Now,
is it the way to win old Gregory’s favor to
mako it continually apparent to his under
standing that you are vastly l>elter than lie
was at your age ?”
“ But the lady, Harrowby. surely she will
prefer that her lover should l>e a man of un
objectionable character 1”
“ Unobjectionable humbug ! How r will
she ever And out that she loves him, unless
someone gives her an opportunity of de
fending him 1 Ah ! let all the world traduce
rather then praise me to the woman whose
love I would win.”
“ Where would your philosophy lead to?”
asked Langdale. “If you are light, then
the old proverb is wrong; and honesty is
not the liest policy.”
“ For its own sake,” said Harrowby, “ it
is—for our own peace of mind, and the
smile of our own conscience ! I would not
give much fbr honesty, which is based sole
ly upon a trust in its policy. How much
more Cautious than the author of this old
saw is Shakespeare when he says, * Cor
ruption wins not more than honesty;’ from
which we may iufer that honesty wins not
more than corruption; which I believe to
be a fact; But we are straying from the
subjeat before us. The question is, how are
you to regain the favbr of your uncle and
your mistress 1 I have revealed to you
the means. Give me a carte blatiche to
slander you ; and all shall be well.”
“ Really, my dear Harrowby, this is a
most original plan for advancing one’s for
tunes; but I tely upon your superior sagac
ity and knowledge of the world. I leave
my character in your hands.”
“ And I will re-consign it to a maideu la
dy of my acquaintance, who will deal with
it very tenderly.”
Here the conference between Harrowby
and bis pupil terminated; and ‘he former
drew bis silk handkerchief over his hat, and
went forth to set afoot the project he had
originated. The result did not fully apjiear
until several months had elapsed. By that
time, Langdale had become one of the most
notorious young men about town. Studious
in his habits, with a constitutional repug
nance to sensual excess, and passing the
greater part of his time among his books;
he yet innocently acquired the reputation of
being a “ five bottle man,” and a gay de
ceiver, a gambler and a confirmed rake.—
Mothers warned their daughters against his
iusidious arts. Prudent fathers threatened
their sous with rustication in the event of
their venturing to mingle in his society.—
Numberless were the stories of his extra
vagancies, his “scrapes,” and his gaming
propensities. Harrowby, when be heard
of these things, as he often would, from
papas and mamas, looked grave, shook his
head, and remarked, that it toas a pity such
a line young man-should so throw himself
away, And all this was while poor Lang
dale, forgetful of his friend’s project in his
behalf, was deeply engaged in the prepara
tion of a work on ornithology—a favorite
study with him; and he rarely went forth
except for exercise.
At length the physicians gave the world
to understand that old Gregory could not
survive more than a week or two. His largo
fortune rendered it of course an interesting
subject of public speculation ; who was to
be his heir t “ Allen, of course !** said the
world ; and Allen thought so himself, and
took occasion to ask Mrs. Maborly point
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, APRIL 1, 1843.
blank if she objected to him as a son-in-law.
The mother expressed herself charmed at
the prospect; but Ellen positively said “no.”
The mother stormed and threatened ; and
the daughter retired weeping to her cham
ber, and setting down to a writing-desk, ad
dressed a long letter to Langdale; who,
discouraged by demonstrations of aversion
on the part of the mother, and by misinter-
C reted caprices on the part of the daughter,
ad retired, sick at heart, from the candida
cy for hei hand. We cannot quote the
whole of Ellen’s letter, for it would only be
laughed at. She had heard of Langdale’s
fabled career of dissipation, and supposed
that he had surrendered himself to it on ac
count of his despair of ever attaining her
hand. Dreadful stories were told of him,
she said ; but she didn’t believe half of them
—not half. Every body seemed forsaking
him now. Even bis old uncle bad cut him
off with a shilling—so her mother declared.
Under these circumstances, she had discov
ered, that she loved him better than any one
else in the world—and marry Mr. Allen, she
wouldn’t; nothing should force her to that.
She expressed a hope, nay, she was sure
that Langdale would reform, under her in
fluence, and she could never believe that he
was a fifteenth part as bad as people repre
sented him.
Such was the tenor of the young lady’s
letter. Langdale had not finished reading
and kissing it, when he received a summons
to attend the death bed of his uncle. Sin
cerely concerned at the intelligence of his
kinsman’s serious illness, he hastened to ful
fill the summons. Gregory was then the
only remaining brother of his departed mo
ther, and though Langdale had never ex
perienced from him any kinsman, and ex
pected no advantage from his death, he now
keenly felt a twinge of remorse at his long
neglect of the childless old gentleman. On
his way, he encountered Hairowby, who in
sisted on accompanying him. They enter
ed the sick chamber together. Before they
reached the bed the occupant had breathed
his last.
Several persons were present in the apart
ment —a clergyman, Mr. Ginfl', the attor
ney, a physician, Allen and a merchant.—
Lonsdale uttered an unaffected exclamation
of regret on learning what had happened,
but did not pretend to any vehement emo
tion. Allen sat with his handkerchief to
his eyes, the picture of disconsolate afflic
tion. After ascertaining that due prepara
tions would be made for theobsequies, Lang
dale signified to Harrowby liis intention of
returning borne.
“ Stop a moment, my young friend,” said
Mr. Gruff. “ There may be something that
will interest you in this paper.”
Allen put down his handkerchief, and
pricked up his ears. Mr. Gruff’ drew forth
a paper tied with red tape from his pocket,
and without further preface, read the follow
ing passage from the last will and testament
of the deceased : “ Whereas, my nephew,
Hopkins Allen, has manifested a becoming
interest in the good cause of temperance, 1
hereby bequeath the sum of five thousand
dollars to the asylum of inebriates, on con
dition that the said Hopkins Allen is made
one of the trustees of the said institution.
And whereas, my nephew, Arthur Lang
dale, unless some sltotig inducement is of
fered to him to reform, is likely to become
a candidate for the humane offices of the
directors of the said asylum, I hereby be
queathe to him the hulk of my property,
consisting of real estate, etc. etc., as enu
merated in schedule A; on condition that
he will from this time forth abandon the use
of ardent spirits; arid I leave it solely to
bis honor as a gentleman to declare wheth
er or no he accedes to this condition;”
A groan from Mr; Allen, a smothered
huzza from Mr. Harrowby, and a cry of sur
prise from Mr. Langdale, succeeded the
leading of this extraordinary clause.
“ What say you now to my tactics 1” ask
ed Harrowby, when he and Langdale were
in the open street. Without waiting for a
reply, he continued : “ I have only one re
gret. It is, that this should have occured
before Ellen Maberly had declared herself
in your favor. Her disinterestedness would
be questionable should she smile upon you
now.”
“ Not at all. Read that letter,” replied
Langdale.
“ Victories on every side!” exclaimed
Harrowby, as he skimmed its contents.—
Didn’t I tell you so I Wasn’t my abuse of
you, that brought you all this good fortuiiel”
“It would seem so—and yet how unnat
ural 1”
“ Not at all! Didn’t the Athenians tire of
hearing Aristides called the just, and isn't
human nature the same now that it ever
was 1 Your fool of a cousin got people to
surround your uncle, who coutinually rung
in the old man’s ears the praisers of his
nephew. Os you he heard nothing but had
reports. But with you he felt that lie had
sympathies in common. He could say to
his own heart; ‘ 1 was the same wild dug
myself when I was of his age.’ He was
true to his nature at the last. Self-love tri
umphed, as I calculated it would triumph.”
“ I shall never speak iff of slanderers af
ter this,” said Langdale.
“ They have then uses, depend upon it,”
rejoined Harrowby. “ Poor Allen ! He
has fallen a victim to the irreproachahleness
of his character. But there are Maberly’s
marble steps. Suppose you go in, and ask
Allen to fix the marriage day.
From the German.
THE SILENT MILL.
I am of a migratory, ruminating temper
ament, and often draw on imagination for a
repast, where material objects do not pre
sent themselves. It is my hobby, and a cus
tom with me, on a journey, wherever I halt,
if only for a day, to ascend the highest tow
er, and to visit the churchyard. I thus
blend the contemplation of the ways and
dwellings of men, with the certain termina
tion of all their strife, their jealousies, their
love end hatred, in this last silent resting
place, where, side by side they lie, the high
and low, the oppressor and oppressed, em
bedded together.
I have said that I am a wanderer—but a
few months have elepsed since 1 was saun
tering in the golden meadows of Florence,
on the margin of the Aino, under the shade
of lofty pines—to-day I recline on the bank
of a rippling brook, near the almost un
known village of Erlingeburch. There,
cheered by the brightness of the climate,
and the ever elastic gaiety of the people (of
the lovely Stella of Florence I am silent,)
here, thrown almost out of the haunts of
men, impervious woods around me, and a
northern sky, and northern inhabitants,
clouded with thought and scantily lighted
with smiles—l was absorbed, and followed
unconsciously the meandering course of the
rivulet, which at every step seemed to lose
its infantine murmurings, and as it increas
ed in breadth became sensibly stiller, deep
er, sadder, and more striking—a very epi
tome of life ! I wandered on till I had de
serted the path along the liver, and found
myself in the heart of a deep wood. I had
ascended some height, and suddenly found
myself on the brink of a rocky precipice,
from whence a view of a deep glen present
ed itself. On the other side arose a steep
height thickly covered with beach trees, and
along the side I could discover a path wind
ing upwards, so narrow ns scarcely to per
mit of a passenger. To attain this path, 1
was compelled to slide down by the natural
columns of the crag on w hich I stood ; I
bal something to do, and before I reached
my object, the dreamer was thoroughly n
wake. The sun was fast declining, the shad
ows lengthened, and the tops of the trees
only were gilded by his departing rays. 1
was by no means at my ease. A profound
silence prevailed, broken only by an occa
sional breath of air moving the foliage, that
seemed to whisper good night. I profited
by the friendly warning and increased my
pace, and in a little time, to my great relief,
I emerged from the labyrinth into which
my musings had thrown me, and a splendid
valley burst upon my view, smiling in ver
dure, and covered with grazing flocks. I
soon found myself at the side of a shepherd.
He was above the middle stature, and strick
en in years. He was somewhat surprised
at my appearance. A boy was in the act of
presenting to him a basket filled with nuts
and wild ft uits. After the first salutation,
he told me he was going’ homeward with
his flock to a neighboring village, adding
that it was not yet too late to saunter awhile
snd enjoy the lovely eveniug. VVe had
reached the middle of the valley, where
stood a solitary and aged oak near the bed
of a dried up mountain stream, and around
its base piles of faggots served us for a rest
ing place. He invited me kindly to seat
myself whilst the boy collected the patient
flock. There was a manner about him which
struck me, I knew not why, os indicating
mystery; and as he leantthnughtfully against
the old oak, I was surveying, delighted, the
magnificent panorama around us. The
bright porphyry of the crags which bound
ed one side of the valley, sparkled in its
blushing hues—heightened greatly by the
oblique rays of the setting sun—whilst the
dark green of the forest, forming the oppo
site limit, presented a picture of contrasted
beauty indesciibable. Whilst my eyes were
revelling in these splendors, a hill promi
nently presented itself out of all keeping
with its immediate neighbors ; unlike them,
covered with the gorgeous gifts of abundant
nature, its face was abrupt and broken ; it
was covered with crumbling fragments of
rock and rubbish ; it was cold and forbid
ding, and down to its base was a deep fur
row, mado by some mountain torrent, which
extended to and passed the spot where wc
were seated. It was at this time perfectly
dry, and the eye was thus deprived of a
cascade that would have left nothing want
ing to perfect the picture. On the top of
this hill stood an old stone building. Its
walls were lofty, no roof covered it, at its
four corners stood a few tall sombre firs,
here and there were apertures* once serv
ing for windows—
“ In the deserteJ easements Desolatiun sits,
And ibe clouds of heaven
Pass through the dwelling.”
On one side of the hill was a huge dam,
whose stone boundary reached the edge of
the declivity, and a mill-wheel, bleached by
time and tempest, stood fast and motionless;
these at once indicated the original uses of
tho building. Ruins,dilapidated structures,
fallen tombs, are certainly no novelties to
the traveller’s eye. hut of all the demonstra
tions of the finite character of man and his
works, none ever makes more impression
on me than the ruins of a mill. ’Tis a mighty
machine, moved by the mightier spirit of
man. It moves only as it will—and all is
life and turmoil—and when it stops, we
know the ruling spir it is uot there—the wa-
ters rush no more, the torrent of lifo is dri
ed up—it is man’s autobiography.
Perhaps I may be accused of a morbidi
ty of sentiment in this. I believe much is
due to the very romantic and retired situa
tion in which we then stood. In this spot,
the fairy region, and at the glowing hour of
evening, I was persuadud some talc attach
ed to the ruins we were contemplating, and
I inquired of my guide the history of that
desolate spot amidst so much beauty. He
seated himself by my side, and with a grave
and mysterious air, he thus commenced his
narrative of the Silent Mill:
“ At the time when the celebrated Thir
ty Years’ War laid waste and ravaged our
fatherland, there came into these parts —
which, from their position, surrounded on
all sides by mountains, far from any public
road, and, as it were, shielded from the hor
rors and desolation of war—a stranger. —
More than fifty years had passed over his
head, but he was not bent by his ycais ; on
the contrary, his carriage was erect, and in
dicative of strength. He was sometimes
seen with the noble proprietor of these lands,
whose race is now extinct, and whose here
ditary mansion is this day in ruins. At
length the stranger engaged workmen, ond
upon the spot before us he caused a build
ing to be erected—that which you see—a
mill, kept in play by the waters from the
higher mountains, which became the resort
of all the neighboring millers. The st rufijj
er lived in seclusion. He conducted the
work almost with his own hands, he formed
intimacies with no one, and was sparing
with his words in his intercourse with oth
ers. Still no one accused him of pride.—
His demeanor was measured, but not for
bidding ; and his unaffected manners and
simple dress,his integrity in word and deed,
united with a natural dignity, could not fail
to secure him the respect of all. The oc
cupation he had chosen was, however, con
sidered as not consistent with his real sta
tion of file, yet no one gave expression to
this general sentiment, and it was not long
before he received visits from tire surround
ing gentry.
•• The solitude of the stranger was slintfed
by a daughter, a child of tender age. I am.
said my guide smiling, too old to find wools
glowing enough to dcscril>e the lieauties of
women, especially young ones, hut truth re
quites, ami that must suflice, that I should
say Maria was the matchless beauty of her
day. Tradition still relates how the gentle
Maria looked with her gold head-plate fix
ed upon her raven tresses, her black velvet
bodice and silver chains, and her scarlet
mantle falling in a thousand graceful folds
around her fawn-like figure—her eyes like
sparkling stars, and her cheeks rivalling
roses in loveliness. When Maria spoke she
opened every heart, and when on a holiday
she sat under yonder fir trees, to listen in
dutiful obedience to the words ofherfu
ther, then the throng from hill mid dale re
turned to their homes as if they had been in
i he presence of a being of another world—
for numbers came from fur and near to catch
a glimpse of the lovely stianger. Yet the
boldest of the youths had never dared to
speak to her but of the ordinary topics of
civility. Thus passed some years. Beyond
this region stern war contrasted its ravages
with the peace of this blissful spot. Maria
became tnltbY, fetid even more beautiful, till
at length it was the common observation of
all that a ** change had come o'er the spirit
of her clmrm.” She was less communica
tive, and became thoughtful. The father,
too* visited more frequently at the castle,
where he seemed to have frequent and se
cret interviews, and his bearing towards hia
old friends at the mill sensibly changed.—
Some thought that his ancient pride had
been awakened, and that he purposed quit
ting his occupations, and every thing com
bined to lead to the conclusion that the
stranger was some petsnn of distinction,
who in those fearful times had become com
promised, and the victim of persecution—
iris name and rank must of course have befeii
known to the nobleman at the castle. Many
were the surmises: some imagined that the
lovely Maria was in some way or other the
cause. Alas! my tale will expound all.—
There is a time in woman’s life, said the
shepherd, when all previous impressions be
come absoi bed in one sole object, and all
considerations of worldly interest give way;
and this is, when love first (and with wo
man forever) points out tho man destined
for her by Heaven.
But not only had the persons I have
spoken of undergone changes, but the scene
itself of their sojourn was doomed to share
the fate of all. It was about the time of the
equinox, when storms and rains assailed
without mercy that solitary dwelling, and
rendered it sad and untenable. The moun
tain torrent became swollen—the watery
flood came roaring down ond poured with
irresistable force into this valley—the mill
wheel was forced round with such violence
that the walls were shaken to their founda
tion, and the howl and turmoil of the tem
pest reverberated amongst the hills. The
stranger was absent. The storm every hour
increased in fury, till at length the roof flew
with the winds, and the gates burst open.
Horror struck, and slone, rushed forth tho
devoted Maris ; her white garments floated
in tho wind. With the little strength left
her she called for assistance. Alaa !it was
too near—there was one urged by the sa
cred and resistless impulse of love, hod just
reached the spot —in another moment Mai iu
j NUMBER 1.
WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
was in his arms. It was her lover. But iie
was a peasant! Yes, that short moment of
bliss was hers. Locked in this embrace,
they were unconscious of the pelting of the
storlri; to. all external objects they were
alike dead. In another moment a red glare
from a torch illuminated the spot, and an
iron hand haJ seized the unconscious girl,
and the lurid glare of the torch fell on the
fierce and releutleift features of her father.
The lovers fell st his feet; with a giant’s
strength he spunied them from him, and
they fell locked in their first and last em
brace, ovef this precipice oti which they
stood, into the roaring dam beneath them,
st once their common sliroud and grave!
“From that hour,” said the shepherd,
“ the Waters ceased to flow—thfe mountain
stream took another course—the mill stands
silent and forsaken—still it falls not, hut it
is destined to bear witness of the tragic
deed. Thfe stranger was found next morn
ing gazing on thfe waters—his senses had
fled, and the people turned away from his
gaze—he was taken to the castlo atid dis
appeared —nn oiie knew how, or whither.”
“ Yoli Said* friend,” I observed, “that
the mill bears yet witness of this talc bf hor
rid.” . , . ‘
, “ Even in,” he replied, “ every year in
the midst of tho night, the anniversary of
the double murder, the mouhiaih stream re
turns to its first course—the wheel whirls
fearfully round —strange figures arfe Seen—
dtiu long, tflust thfe waters flow to wash away
this deadly sin.”.
“ Let us hope,” said I, pointing io Hea
en, “that there the deed may long since
have been blotted out.”
And the old man grasped my hand, and
said “ Amen !”
] § © IE L L A M Y.
From ihe New-York Sunday Mercury.
SHORT PATENT SERMON,
lIY DOW, JR.
The text to my present discourse is in
bluded iu these Words—
Age and ages yet away must pass,
Lie Time aside shall cast Lie scyihe and glass.
My hearers : —as a river is constantly emp
tying itself into the sea, and still continues
to run as it is wont, so the stream of time is
continually losing itself in the great ocean
of eternity, and yet flovTS nn for ever: that
is, it always lias moved with tliesame regular
ity ever siuce the beginning of the creation,
and will continue on uninterrupted tor ages
yet to come—till the dissolution of the earth
and the whole Universe—which period iaso
far distant that even the strong and swift
wings of imagination become weary in en
deavoring to teach it. The earth is hut an
infant yet in the cradle of time; and when
we consider how long since it was a mere
foetus in the womb of chaos, we cannot but
be brought to the conclusion that millions of
years must still roll away ere it can lie said
to have arrived at the age of maturity.—
Man’s memory can give him no information
relative to the beginning of the wot Id, and
neither can his foresight tell him of the end
thereof. All surmises, predictions, and fool
ish speculations that arise from (he mystifi
ed arid mysterious prophecies of old, are as
nonsensical as they are useless; and they
are as useless in determining the destruc
tion of the universe as psalm books in a deaf
and dumb asylum. As for any mortal ever
being able to unroll the map of the future
before the eyes of his fellow mortals, lie
might as soon think of dragging eternity
With a shad net for the pearls of “ departed
Worth.”
My friends—it causes my heart to swim
in the very suds of sympathy to see how
hinny of my brother and sister beings are
Irtring carried away bytwhut is termed the
*’ Miller Delusion”—a peculiar and destruc
tive doctrine—the principal tenet of which
is, that the human race has become an evil
excrescence, a corrupt carnosity, upon tha
bosom of the earth, and that the earth will,
some time this year, shake itself, as a lion
when he shaketh the dew from his mane,
spilliug the ungodly into the lap of destruc
tion, and casting the righteous (what few
there are) upwards into the heavens übove
—there to remain till anew earth is
manufactured ; ond then they are to come
down unharmed end uninjured to abide with
the Saviour, and the sons and daughters of
holiness for ever and ever, I piiy brother
Miller, from the bottom of my soul; and
have any quantity of commisseration in store
for his deluded followers. Poor man, he is
mad ! but there is a mysterious method in
Iris madness, that operates most powerfully
on the credulity of many. 1 conversed with
him once, and discovered that almost every
word he uttered was accompanied with a
nervous tremor —an involuntary shaking of
the head—which plainly indicated that his
mental machinery was not altogether in
what is called apple-pie order, ntftl that no
more faith shnnld t<e placed upon Iris pre
dictions, than upon those of the small job
bernowls who have prophecied before him.
My hearers —the material world as yet is
none the worse for wear; and I see no rea
son why yon should l>e under any fearful ap
prehensions of its speedy dissolution.—
Young ladies, who are now busy in prepar
ing sot themselves ascension robes ayd fm
tnioons to wear under them, ought to turn
their attention to subjects equally important
and far more necessary, a knowledge of