Newspaper Page Text
volume 11. j a iFiiwilg Jiftosamuer : Bcfcotctr to literature, Sericulture, JHeeftauiciOi, Saturation, iForeisu ant Bonrestic tuteUifleuce, *ce. j number a
BY C. R. IIANLEITER.
IP © IE ¥ & Y
“ Much yet remains unsung.”
From the New Mirror.
THEY ARE PASSING AWAY.
They arc passing away—the lored, the young,
‘Phat charm'd my bavhood’s hours ;
I hear their laugh—the song they sung —
‘Twas music wing’d o’er flowers.
Withering—withering—one bvone,
Like autumn leaves they fall;
No voice breathes from the graven stone,
Or from the sable pall.
Thev are passing away—the flowers of love !
When on night's diadem
Like jewels shine the stars above,
Then I commune with them.
1 see their ghosts—pale, shadowless —
Flitting around the tomb;
They woo me to their cold caress,
And softly whisper, “ come !”
They are passing away—alone, alone —
Midst dark decay I move,
Reading on cold memorial stone
The names I dearly love.
Time beckons on —mine, too, will find
That record of decay;
’Twill stay the lingerer behind,
Who'll read—then pass away ! j h h
SSILIEQT 1® TALEio
THE DRUNKARD’S WIFE.
A TRUE TALE.
The gay morning was already dawning
when a miserable wretch turned into a dirty
alley, anil entering a low ruinous door,grop
ed through a narrow entry, and paused at
the entrance of a room within. That de
graded being had once been a wealthy man.
respected by his neighbors, and surrounded
by friends. But alas ! the social gla6s had
first lured him to indulgence, and then to
inebriety, until he was now a common
drunkard.
The noise of his footsteps had been beard
within, for the creaking door was timidly
opened, and a pale, emaciated boy, about
nine years old, stepped tint on the landing,
and asked in a tone of mingled anxiety and
dread,
“ Is that you, father ?”
“ Yes, wet to tlie skin—curse it,” 6aid the
man, “ whv aint you abed and asleep, you
brat 1”
The little fellow sank back at his coarse
salutation, but still, though shaking with fear,
lie did not quit his station before the door.
“What are you standing there gaping fori”
said the wretch. “ It’s bad enough to hear
a sick wife grumbling, without having you
kept up at night, to chime in, in the morn
ing—get to bed, you imp—do you hear I”
The little fellow did not answer; fear
scented to have deprived him of speech ;
but still holding on to the door latch, with
an imploring look; he stood light irt the
way by which his parent would have enter
ed the room.
“ Aint you going to mind 1” said the man,
with an oath breaking into fury. “Cl ive me
the lamp and go to bed or I’ll break every
bone in your body.”
“ Ob ! father, don’t talk so loud,” said the
litllefellow, bursting into tears, “you’ll wake
mother, she’s beer, worse all day, and hasn’t
itad any sleep till now and as the man
made an effort to snatch the lamp, the boy
losing all personal fears in anxiety for his
sick mother, stood firmly across the drunk
ard’s path, and said, “ You nuisn’t go in.”
“ What does the brat mean I” broke out
the inebriate, angrily, “ this comes of leav
ing you to wait on you*’ Esther lit! you learn
to be as r.liaie as a mule—will you dis
obey me I take that, and that, you imp,”
and raising his hand he struck the little sick
ly being to the floor, kicked aside the body,
and strode into the room.
It was truly a fitting place for the home
of such a vagabond as he. The walls were
low, covered with smoke, and seamed with
a hundred cracks. The chimney piece had
once been white, but was now of the greasy
lead color of age. The ceiling had lost most
of the plaster, and the rain soaked through,
dropping with a monotonous tick upon the
Ifloor. A few broken chairs, a cracked look
ing glass, and a three-legged table, on which
<was a rimless cup, were in different parts
of the room. But the most striking spec
tacle was directly before the gambler. On a
rickety bed lay the’wifeof his bosom,the once
rich and beautiful Emily Lagueire, who,
through poverty, shame and sickness, had
atill clung to the lover of her youth. Oh,
woman, thy constancy the world cannot
shake, nor shame nor misery subdue. Friend
after friend had deserted that ruined man ;
,indignity after indignity had been heaped
upon him, and deservedly ; year by year lie
had fallen lower and lower into the sink of
infamy; and yet, through every mishap,that
sainted woman had clung to him—for he
‘▼as the father of tier boy, the husband of
her youth. It was a hard task for her to
(Perform; but it was her duty, and when all
the world had'deserted him, should she too
leave him 1 She had borne much, but alas !
nature could endure no more. Health had
/Jed from her cheeks, and her eyes were
idttij fpt] sunken. She wasin the last stages
jof consumption, but it was not that which
tyas killing her— she was dying of a broken
heart.
The noise made by her husband awoko
her from her troubled sleep, and she half
started up in bed, the hectic fire streaming
along her cheek, and a wild fitful light shoot
ing into her sunken eyes. There was a faint
shadowy smile lighting upher countenance,
but it was as cold as moonlight upon the
snow. The sight might have moved a fel
on’s bosom, but what cart penetrate the sear
ed and hardened heart of drunkenness 1—
The man, besides, was in a passion.
“Blast it woman,” said the wretch, as he
reeled into the room, “is this the way to
receive me after having been out all day in
the rain to get something for your brat and
you I Come, don’t go to whining, I say”—
but as his wife uttered a faint cry and fell
hack senseless on the bed, he seemed to
awaken to a partial sense of his condition ;
he reeled a step or two forward, put his
hand up to his forehead, stared wildly around,
•nd then gazing almost vacantly upon her,
continued, “ but why—what’s the matter I”
His poor wife lay like a corpse before
him, but a low voice from the other side of
the bed, answered, arid his tones quivered
as he spoke,
“Oh ! mother’s dead !”
It was the voice of his son who had sto
len in, and was now sobbing violently as he
tried to raise her head in his little arms. He
had been for weeks her only nurse, and had
long since learned to act for himself. He
bathed her temples, he chafed her lips, lie
invoked her wildly to awake.
“ Dead !” said the man, and he was so
beted at once, “ dead, dead,” he continued
in a tone of horror that chilled the blood ;
and advancing to the bed-side, with eyes
starting from their sockets, he laid his hand
upon her marble brow, and exclaimed,
“ then, oh, my God ! I have murdered hei!
Emily, Emily, you are not dead—say so.
Oh ! speak, and forgive your repentant hus
band !” and kneeling by the bed-side, he
chafed her white, thin hand, watering it with
his hot tears as he sobbed her name.
Their HTorts at length partially lestored
her, and the first thing 6he saw upon revi
ving was her husband weeping by her bed
side and calling her “ Emily.’’ It was the
first time he had done so for years. It stir
red old memories in her heart, and called
hack the shadowy visions of years long past.
She was back in their youthful days, before
rum had blasted her once noble husband,
and when all was joyous and bright as her
own happy bosom. Woe, shame, poverty,
desertion, and even his brutal language was
forgotten, and she only thought of him as
the lover of her youth. Oh ! that moment
of delight! She faintly threw her arms
around his neck, and sobbed for joy.
“ Forgive me, forgive me, Emily. I have
been a brute, a villain. Oh ! can you for
give me? I have sinned as never man sin
ned before, and against such an angel as
you. Oh, God! annihilate me for my guilt!”
“ Charles !” said the dying woman, in a
tone so sweet and low that it floated through
the chamber like a whisper of a disembo
died spirit, “ I forgive you, and may God
forgive you too; but oh! do not embitter
this last moment with such an impious
wish.”
The man only sobbed in reply, but his
frame shook with the tempest of agony with
in him.
“ Charles,” at last continued the dying
woman, “ I have long wished for this mo
ment, that I might say something to you
about our little Henry.”
“ God forgive me my wrongs to him too,”
murmured the repentant man.
“ I have much to say, and I have but lit
tle time to say it in—l feel that I shall not
see another sun.” A violent lit of coughing
interrupted her.
“ Oil, no ! you must not—you will not
die !” sobbed her husband, as he supported
her sinking frame ; “ you’ll live to see your
repentant husband. I'm sure you will not
die!”
The tears gushed into her eyes, but she
only shook her head. She laid her wan
hand on his and continued feebly:
” Night and day, for mar.y a long year,
have I prayed for this hour; and never, ev
en in the darkest moment, have I doubted
it would come; for I felt that within me
which whispered, that as all had deserted
you and [ had not, so in the end you would
at last come back to your early feelings.—
Oh ! would it had come sooner—some hap
piness might have been mine again in this
world—but God’s will be done! I am weak
—I am failing fast—Henry, give me your
hand.”
The little boy silently placed it in liers—
she kissed it, arid then laying it within her
husband’s, continued:
“ Here is our child—our only horn—when
I am gone lie will have nb one to take care
of him but you, and as God is above, and
as you love your own blood, and as you val
ue a promise to a dying wife, keep, love,
cherish him. Oh ! remember he is young
and tender—it is the only thing for which I
care to live,” she paused and struggled to
subdue her feelings; “ will you promise me,
Charles 1”
“ I will! as there is a Maker over me, I
will,” sobbed the man j and the frail bed
against whicii he leaned, shook with his emo
tion.
“ And you, Henry, will love your father,
and be a good boy ; as you love your len
der mother, will you I”
“ Oh, yes 1” sobbed the little fellow, fling
ing himself wildly on hia mother's neck j
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, MAY 20, 1843.
“ but, mother, what shall I do without you!
oh, don’t die!”
“ This is too hard,” murmured the ‘lying
woman, drawing her chUd feebly to her.—
“Father, give me strength to endure it.”
For a few moments all was still ; nothing
broke the silence but the sobs of the father
and the boy, and the low death-like tick of
the rain dripping through the roof. The
child was the first to move. He seemed in
stinctively to feel that giving way to his grief
pained his mother, and gently disengaging
himself from her, lie hushed his sobs, and
leaning on the bed, gazed anxiously into her
face. Her eyes were closed, but her lips
moved as in prayer.
“Henry, where are you I” faintly asked
the dying mother.
The boy answered in his low, mournful
voice.
“ Henry, Henry !” she said, in a louder
tone ; and then, after a second, added, “poor
babe, he doesn’t hear me.”
The little fellow looked up amazed. He
knew not yet how the senses gradually fail
the dying ; he was perplexed ; and his throat
choked so that he could not speak. But he
placed Iris hand in his mother’s and pressed
it.
“ Come nearer, my son—nearer —the
candle wants snuffing—there, lay your face
down by mine. Henry, love, I cannot see
—has the wind—blown—out—the light I”
The bewildered boy gazed wildly into his
mother’s face, hut knew not what to say.
He only pressed her hand again.
“Ob, God !” murmured the dying woman,
her voice growing fainter— “ this is death !
Charles—Henry—Jesus—re——”
The child felt a quick, electric shiver in
the hand he clasped, and looking up, saw
that his mother had fallen back upon the
pillow. He knew it all at once. He gave
one shriek and fell senseless across the bo
dy.
The sb nek aroused the drunkard. Start- i
ing up from his knees, he gazed wildly on
the corpse. He could not endure the saint
ed face ; he covered his own with his hands, ‘
and burst into an agony of tears.
Long years have passed since then, and
that man is once more a useful member of
society. But oh, the feaiful price at which
this reformation was purchased.
THE UNLUCKY PRESENT.
The Rev. Mr. L , minister of C ,
in Lanarkshite, (who died within the pre
sent century,) being on a visit one day at
the house of one of his parishioners—a
poor lonely widow, became fascinated by
the charms of u little cast-iron pot, which
happened at the time to be lying on the
hearth, full of potatoes for the poor woman’s
dinner, and that of her children. He had
never in his life seen such a nice little pot.
It was a perfect conceit of a thing. It was
a gem. No pot on earth could match it in
symmetry. It was an object altogether per
fectly lovely. “Dearsake! minister,” said
the widow, quite overpowered by the rev
et end man’b commendation of her pot; “if
ye like the pot sae wee! as a’ that, l beg
ye’ll let me send it to the manse. It’* a
kind of orra [superfluous] pot wi’ us ; for
we’ve a bigger ane, that vve use oftener,
and that’s mair convenient every way for
us. Sae ye’ll just tak a present o’t. I’ll send
it ower the morn wi’ Jamie, when he gans
to the schule.” “Oh!” said the minister,
“ l can by no means permit you to be at so
much trouble. Since you are so good as to
give me the pot, I’ll just carry it home with
me in my hand. I'm so much taken with
it, indeed, that I would really prefer carry
ing it myself.” After much altercation be
tween the minister and the widow, on this
l]“!’.cate point of politeness, it was agreed
that he should carry home the pot himself.
Off, then, he trudged, heat ing this cut ious
little culinary article alternately in his hand i
and under his arm, as seemed most conven- I
ietit to him. Unfortunately, the day was j
warm, the way long, and the minister fat; J
so that he became heartily tired of his but
den before be had got half-way homo. Un
der these distressing circumstances, it stitick
him, that if, instead of carrying the pot awk
wardly at one side of his person, he were
to carry it on his head, the burden would be
greatly lightened; the principles of natural
philosophy, which he had learned at college,
informing him, that when a load presses di
rectly and immediately upon any object, it
is far less onerous than when it hangs at the
remote end of a lever. Accordingly, doff
ing his hat, which he resolved to catty home
in his hand, and having applied his hand
kerchief to his brow, he clapped the pot in
inverted fashion upon his head ; where, as
the reader may suppose, it figured much
liko Mambrino’s helmet upon the cinzed
capital of Don Quixote, only a gieut deal
more magnificent in shape and dimensions.
There was at first much relief and much
comfort in this new mode of carrying the
pot; but mark the result. The unfortunate
minister having taken a by-path to escape
observation, found himself, when still a good
ways from home, under the necessity of
leaping over a ditch, which intercepted him
in passing from one field to another. He
jumped ; but surely no jump was ever ta
ken so completely in, or, at least, into, the
dark, as this. The concussion given to his
Eerson in descending, caused the helmet to
ecome a hood ; the pot slipped down over
his face, and resting with its rim upon his
neck, stuck fast there ; enclosing his whole
head as completely as if it had been made
for the purpose. What was worst of all,
the nose, which had permitted the pot to slip
down over it, withstood every desperate at
tempt on the part of its proprietor to make
it slip back again ; the contracted part or
neck of the jiatera being of such a peculiar
formation as to cling fast to the base of the
nose, although it had found no difficulty in
gliding along its hypotheimse. Was ever a
minister in a worse plight ? Was there ever
contretcms so unlucky I Did ever any man
—did ever any minister, so effectually hood
wink himself, or so thoroughly shut his eyes
to the plain light of nature ? What was to
he done I The (dace was lonely ; the way
difficult and dangerous; human relief was
remote, almost beyond reach. It was im
possible even to cry for help. Or, if a cry
could be uttered, it might reach in deafen
ing reverbeiation the ear of the utterer;
but it would nut travel twelve inches farther
in any direction. To add to the distresses
of the case, the unhappy suflerehsoon found
great difficulty in breathing. What with
the heat occasioned by the heating of the
sun on the metal, and what with the frequent
return of the ssme heated air to his lungs,
he was in the utmost danger of suffocation.
Every thing considered, it seemed likely
that, it lie did tnt clianco to be relieved by
some accidental wayfaier, there would soon
be Death in the Pot.
The instinctive love of life, however, is
omniprevalent; and even very stupid peo
ple’have been found, when put te the push
by strong and imminent peril, to exhibit a
degree of presence of mind, and exert a de
gree of energy, far above vvbat might have
been expected from them, or what they were
ever known to exhibit or exertundei ordina
ry circumstances. So it was with the pot
ensconccd minister of C . Pressed by
the urgency of his distresses, lie fortunate
ly recollected that there was a smith’s shop
at the distance of about a mile across the
fields, where, if he could reach it before the
period of suffocation, he might possibly find
relief. Deprived of his eye-sight, he could
act only as a man of feeling, and went on as
cautiously as he could, with his hat in Lis
hand. Half crawling, half sliding, over
ridge and futrow, ditch and hedge, some
what like Satan floundering over chaos, the
unhappy minister traveled, with all possible
•peed, as nearly as he could guess in the di
rection of the place of refuge. I leave it
to the r eader to conceive the surprise, the
mirth, the infinite smuserntnt of the smith
and on the hangers-on of tho tmiJdy, when,
at length, torn and worn, faint and exhaust
ed, blind and breathless, the unfortunate
man arrived at the place, ami let them know
(rather bv signs than by words) the circum
stances of his case. In the words of an old
Scottish song,
“Out cam the gudemn, and high he shouted ;
Out cum the gudewife, and low she louted;
And a’ the town-neighbors were gathered about it;
And there was he, I trow !”
The merriment of ihe company, however,
soon gave way to considerations of human
ity. Ludicrous as was the minister, with
such an object where his head should have
been, and with the feet of the pot pointing
upwards like the horns of the great Enemy,
it was, neveitheless.necesanrythat he should
be speedily restored to his ordinary condi
tion, if it were for no other reason than that
he might continue to live. He was accord
ingly, at his own request, led into the smi
thy, multitudes flocking around to tender
him (heir kindest offices, or to witness the
process of his release; and having laid down
his head upon the anvil, the smith lost no
time in seizing and poising liis goodly ham
mer. “ Will I como sair on, minister?”
exclaimed the considerate man of iron, in
at the brink of the pot. “As sair as ye
like,” was the minister’s answer; “better
n chap i’ the chafts than flying for want of
breath.” Thus permitted, the man let fall
a hard blow; which fortunately broke the
pot in pieces, whithout hurting the head
which it enclosed, as the cook-maid breaks
the shell of tlie lobster, without bruising the
delicate food within. A few minutes of the
clear air, and a glass from the guidewife’s
bottle, restored the unfortunate man of pray
er, but assuredly the incident is one which
will long live in the memory of the parish
ioners of C . Edinburgh Literary
Journal.
Misfortune of being ugly. —A girl was on
the point of being hanged at Vienna; her
youth and beauty made a great impression
upon one of the spectators, who was a Nea
politan, a middle aged man, but excessively
ugly. As he had but a few minutes to make
up his mind, he ran immediately to the
place of execution, and declaring his inten
tion of marrying the criminal, demanded
lier pardon, according to the custom of the
country. The pardon was granted, on con
dition that the gill was not averse to the
match. He accordingly addressed her in
these terms :—“ Madam, lam a gentleman
of some property, and I now wish, for the
first time that I were a king, only that 1 might
offer you a strongerproof of my attachment.”
“Alas,” replied the girl, “I am fully sensible
of your affection and generosity ; but I am
not mistress over my own heart, and I can
not belie my ■entiments; unfoitunately
they control my fate, and I perfer the death
with which I ant threatned, to marrying so
ugly a fellow as you are !” The Neapoli
an retired iu confusion, and the woman di
rected the executioner to do his office.
From the Delawn re Gazette.
EMMET AND HIS LOVE.
Now for the last sod look,
The lost faint cold embrace ;
The latest kies my love may print
Upon her lovely face.
• ••••
Ay—bear her from my sight—
The bitterness if post —
Cut yet one charge m y spirit leaves,
A dying one—the last!
Oh ! hid her love my name—
Through death, infamy and shame.
In reading the history of ill-fated Ireland,
how often does the heart turn sick of bloody
scenes and murders, to the simple and touch
ing incidents that adorn the lives of those,
whose daring and mighty deeds stand as a
record of chivalry and patriotism upon the
brightest page of the annals of the world.
When the mind becomes diseased and care
worn in contemplating the bloody transac
tions of the battle-field, and the wranglings
of the council chamber, with what transport
and joy it leaves them to meditate on the
fine affections and amiable attributes of the
inner man, and ponder over scenes where
“ Love and Death” have sorrowful roeet
ings.
Robert Emmet was a celebrated lawyer
and statesman of Ireland. During the strug
gle for Independence, he stood foremost on
the forum and in the field of liberty of his
native country. He was the idol of Ire
land—
“ Non* knew him but to love him—
None named him but to praise.”
Naturally of a warm, ardent temperament,
with a heart glowing with patriotism, and a
soul fired with tho wrongs end wretchedness
of his country —ob ! is it any marvel that he
stepped forth in her darkest hour, and swore
upon tho Altar of Freedom that his coun
trymen should have their liberty, or he
would pour out hi* heart’s blood in tlie
cause. Unfortunately he was betrayed by
bis enemies—convicted of the crime of trea
son and sentenced to be executed. He de
livered a fine speech before the couit, which
has and will be preseived for ages yet to
come.
• *••••
‘Twas the evening of s lovely day—the
last day for the noble and ill-fated Emmet.
A young lady stood at the castle gate and
desitrd admittance into the dungeon. She
was closely veiled, and the keeper could not
imagine who she was, nor why one of such
a haughty bearing should be a humble sup
pliant at the prison door. However he
granted the boon—led her to the dungeon
—opened the massive iron door, then closed
it again—and the lovers were alone. He
was leaning against the prison wall with a
downcast head, and hi* arms were/olded on
his breast. Gently she raised the veil from
her face, and Emmet turned to gaze upon
all earth contained for him—the girl whose
sunny brow in the days of boyhood had been
bis polar Mar —the maiden, who had some
times made him think “ the world was all
sunshine.” Ihe clanking of the heavy
chains sounded like a death knell to her ears,
and she wept like a child. Emmet said but
little, yet. he pressed her warmly to bis bo
som, and their feelings held a silent meet
ing—such meetings, methinks, as are held
in Heaven, only there we part no more. In
a low voice he besought her not to forget
him when the cold grave received his body
—he spoke of by-gone days—the happy
hours of childhood, when his hopes were
bright and glorious, and lie concluded by
requesting her sometimes to visit the places
and scenes that were hallowed to his memo
ry from the days of infancy, and though the
world might pronounce his name with scorn
and contempt, oh ! he prayed she would
still cling to him with affection and remem
ber him when all others should forget. Hark!
the church-bell sounded, and he remember
ed the time of execution. The turnkey
entered, and after dashing a tear from his
eye—he separated them from their long
embrace, and led the lady from the dungeon.
At the entrance she turned and their eyA
met —they could not say, farewell—the door
swung upon its heavy hinges, and they de
parted forever. No—not forever—is there
no Heaven ?
At sunrise next morning he suffered glo
riously—a martyr to his country and to li
berty.
“And one —o’er her the myrtle shower*,
Its leaves by soft winds fanned ;
She faded amidst Italian flowers—
The last of that fair band.”
’Twas in the land cf Italy—it was the
gorgeous time of sunset—sunset in Italy—
what a magnificent scene. A pale emacia
ted girl laid upon her bed of death. Oh !
was it hatd for her to die, fur from her na
tive home, in this beautiful land, where flow
ers bloom perennial, and the balmy air comes
freshly to the pining soul ? O! no—her star
had set —the brightness of her dream had
faded—her heart was broken. When lies
have been formed on earth—close burning
ties, what is more heart-rending and agoni
zing to the spirit, than to find at last the be
loved one is snatahed away, and all our love
is given to “ passing flowers.” Enough, she
died—the betrothed of Robert Emmet—
the lovely Sarah Curran. Italy contains
hor last remains, its flowers breathe their
fragrance over her grave, and the lulling
tones of the shepherd’s lute sounds a requi
em to hes memory. J. A. A.
WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
1 ™?E°©P[E)g RiEAEigM©®,
“ Come, gather round the blazing hearth.
And with reflection temper mirth ”
Fne ik U Cj>ul,w. lIIU ■ Mwji ■>-
AX EXTRACT FROM MY DIARY.
Madison, February —, 184—.
i This i the Sabbath—the peaceful Sab*
; bath. After a lon fir season of cold and clou
’ dy weather, we have a few blight and cloud
j less days. Thpse changes of the season*
ere comparable to,and emblematical of, our
conditions in this world ; our *fate of mind
I and heart, and ‘our temporal and spiritual
prospects. To-day, the heart is joyous and
glad—plenty and peace crowd our path, and
Hope lends an occasional ray to gild the Fu
-1 tore. But to-morrow comes, and how
changed the scene 1 Affliction has fallen
| upon us—blight and desolation hare swept
across our pathway, and the Future, taking
its coloring from the Present, is a dreary
waste of years, with no light, or joy, or
pence.
Who that has lived to mid-age, hath not
experienced the truth of these reflections ?
Our life is but an April day—a succession
of light and shadow—of sunshine and show
ers. And the truly wise ate taught by ex
! petience. To such, prosperity comes with
its brightness, spreading a calm and holy
! influence upon the soul, and its comforts are
I enjoyed, and its blessings partaken, with the
truth written upon his heart, that these shall
i continue but for a season, and the morrow
draweth on, so that when the sun shines,
and the heart is light, he rejoices not in his
own energies or powers, but rejoices in God,
and is humble.
To such an one adversity comes from its
troop of cares, and afflictions, and ills, and
! the heart is smitten and sorrowful; but, then,
j no murmur of complaint escapes his lips
thorp are no thoughts of rebellion begotten
in his mind. Like the pliant reed that herds
j to the blast, when the storm sweeps in its
i might, so the wise bow to the will of the un
| erring God, and the tempest that gathers
) threateningly over the destinies of men,
I breaks harmlessly above bis head, and he
rises in the energies of a renewed mind, and
can rejoice in the reflection, “that behind a
I frowning Providence, God hides a smiling
face.”
| It is the mizfortune of many men, to al
i hiw their feelings to receive their peculiar
shades of coloring from the circumstances
by which they ate surrounded. My own
impression is,that one should strive to attain
j a uniformity of feeling at all times, and Un
• der all circumstance*. As in our faith we
i should not be unstable, and subject nr be
| tossed about by every wind of doctrine, aft
should it be with our feelings. It may hap
! pen, necessarily, that our feeling may be in
fluenced by our peculiar temperaments, ami
| that they may be more or less intense, ae-
J cording as the temperament may paitake of
the sanguine, melancholic, or other castes ;
| thus developing the nice and varied shdes
of human chaiacter. But, though this may
be true, yet we should study to know our
selves intimately. Then, witbcoriect prin
ciples and proper faith, under the blessing
J of God, we may be able so to control our
selves in the midst of every scene ant! cir
cumstance of human life, as to bear about
us “a consciences void of offence towards
God and naaq and thus attain that equa
nimity of feeling which all should seek, anti’
which is so necessary to human happiness.
—which springs from a consciousness of our
own honesty of purpose, connected with air
ardent desire “ to glorify God in our souls
J and our bodies, which are his.” Having at
! rained to this slate, we “ look not at the
things that are seen, the things that ar
unseen.” We attach no importance to tho
things of time, save only as they shaH exer
cise an influence upon our happiness here,,
and upon our destinies hereafter. We leans
j to set a tine value upon things afc they are.
! No splendid project dazxles tbe eye, to mis
lead the heart, and disturb the mind. It is
immediately divested of false imagery, and
ficticious coloring, and stands boldly out tr
the eye of such an observer, a mist of the
morning— a splendid he. Or, should the
scene be changed, and the diin and indis
! tinct vision of the future present nolhieg
but clouds of darkness resting upon tbe
! prospect; yet by the same process, this, too.
is dives.Ved of all that is unreal, and beyond
tlie external darkness the eye of faith pen
etrates and beholds the sun *)>iriiag in his
strength ; and though its warmth may not
now be felt, and its smile gladden not the
heart, yet, soon amidst the racks and rents,
some straggling ray will be seen to fall up
on his pathway, lighting up the gloom of
the present, and giving promise of a bright
er day to come. E. h- W,
Madison, Georgia.
The folly of P rifle. —After all, take some
quite sober mom< nt of life and add together
the two ideas of pride and man, behold him
a creature of a span high, stalking through
infinite space in ali the grandure of little
ness Perched on u little peak of universe,
every wind of heaven si tikes into his blood
the coldness of death ; his soul flees from
his body like melody from a string, day and
night, as dust on the w heel, he is rolling
along the heavens, through the labyrinth of
worlds, and all the systems and creations of
God are flaming beneath. Is thia a creature
to make himself* crown of glory, to deny
his own flesh, and to mock at bis fellow,