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VOLUME IV.
THE GEORGIA CITIZEN?
A FAMILY NEWSPAPER,
PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING.
L r W. ANDREWS, Editor and Proprietor.
TERMS:— 42 PER ANNUM IN ADVANCE.
(fbc port's (Corner.
For the Georgia Citizen.
Choral Song of tlie American Union.
B Y T. 11. CHIVEKS, M. D.
I.
See the Earth regenerated —
Springing from her sleep supine—•
Every spot now consecrated
Bv the deeds of Love Divine.
ii.
See the Angel Churches whitening
All the earth from sea to sea,
While the souls of men are brightening,
Thinking of the joys to be.
111.
p,v our undivided Union
Ech one from the other draws
Strength to hold divine communion,
Bound to all by Nature’s laws.
IV.
We hare cleansed the Augean Stables
Os the world with holy hands;
And have turned the barren tables
Upside down of all the lands.
v.
Hear the loud harmonious Voices
Os the Stars in myriad Choir;
While the answering Sun rejoices
On his thunder-harp of fire.
VI.
Heavenly body-guard of Glory
In the Empyreal Empire high,
Thundering down the prayerful story
Os our Union through the sky.
VII.
Glory-circled, like the Immortals,
Choiring through the Realms above,
To the Angels at the Portals,
Anthems of Redeeming Love.
VIII.
This the glorified Truth-teacher
Taught on earth with latest breath—
Sealing what no Preacher
Ever preached, with bitter death!
IN.
For Humanity we labor,
Worship, working while we pray—
Gazing from the top of Tabor
For the High Noon of our Day.
Oak Grove, Ga., April 10th, 1842.
Tlic Blessed Ones nt Home.
Tune ‘‘Old Folks at Home.”
Away on the hanks of life’s bright river,
Far, far away—
There will my heart be turning ever,
There’s where the blest ones stay;
All through this vale of sin and sorrow
Sadly I roam,
Still longing for the (lawn of the morrow
And for the blest ones at A
All without is dark and dreary,
Everywhere I roam,
0, brothers, how the heart grows weary
Sighing for the blest ones at home.
Through ah earth’s sunny secnes I wandered
in youth’s gay morn;
Ilow many precious hours I’ve squandered,
How many mercies scorned ;
When seeking sin’s delusive pleasures,
Wretched was I;
But now niv heart has found a treasure
There with the blest ones on high.
All without is dark and dreary, Ac.
One hour there is forever bringing
Memories of love;
’Twas then my sighs were changed to singing
Os the blest home above;
W hen shall I see mv Saviour reigning
On Ms white throne?
When will be hushed my heart’s complaining
There with the blest ones at home?
AH till then is dark and dreary,
Everywhere I roam,
O, brothers, how the heart grows weary
Longing for the blest ones at home.
From Dr. Chir.er *’ “ VirginaUa”
INVOCATION TO SPRING.
As one but late in love
Long* tr his mistress, so iny soul for thee
Fines with impatience! Come, then, from above,
Fright Angel of the Sou! come down to me.
And clothe the bare boughs of the trees with buds,
And wake the song-birds in the solitudes!
As the parched traveler, in
His hour of thirst, punts for the cooling streams.
So does my soul for thee ! The earth, fair queen,
longs for the healing of thy heavenly beams,
“hit Winter may be melted from her reign,
And streams, now frozen, loosed to flow again.
Come to the wintry groves,
And fringe the bare boughs with the green leaves bright;
And tune the voices of the turtle-doves
coo thy welcome with divine delight—
’ ■''i back the swans that have been absent long.
Ami make the birds resume their last years’ song.
As Winter to the Earth—
freezing the streams which fertilize her breast,
Muffling their music as they wanton forth,
■ “ ‘bat their hanks are left like one distrest,
mirren of verdure, cold as cold can be—
■re is the frost of my despair to me!
* ‘’ inter, flowers that have been nipt by frost!
An<l from the seeds the winds have sown, repave
TV world with those that seemed, but were not, lost!
ih<m art their Saviour—they rely on thee—
hut who shall ever bring my lost to nie ?
A balm is in the air—
A vernal freshness in the odorous breeze;
A living greenness on the hills long bare ;
a* on the bare boughs of the ghostly trees,
i.tngmg their aspect, as on cheeks once dead,
A solt > reviving hue steals, faintly red.
. , The warm breath of the South,
TA w th ? er *’ imes from the odorous flowers.
In 1 e whispered from some loved one’s mouth,
love, steals balmy over these bare bowers,
lose boughs are just begining to put forth
oung buds, to match the green down on the earth.
•j., Thv smiles begin to swell
? A oun ,~ buds on the boughs—soon thev will hurst,
and open in full bloom, of “ tender smell, ”
- n >t quench with honey-dew, the young bee’s thirst;
i\V kV ***** of green leaves, the limbs
ah shade the lake whereon the young duck swims.
• The green blades of the grass
°n the margin of the brook,
And on ttenj*elyeß, beneath, in its clear glass,
Vri"'*k <i . at nilwt ‘ri ( ba, ever tireless look;
He their green hauks above, wliereou they grow,
’ em •‘esting on their images below,
i, . The golden humming-bird,
merrals, among the blossoms flits,
q as soft it lulling wings are heard—
p . lr,ln g, glinting back the sun in fits —
caresses to each flower it meets,
“e rifling it of all its odorous sweets,
Is . i T he crystal-shining pond
\\ IT | ‘* w **k the sun-clouds in the sky,
tn ; lc L though above, seem in its depths beyond,
As if la^es ‘!* those that float on high;
One V ’ v skies, to make it blest, were given—
'lu l “e lake, the other up in heaven.
q nri , A golden tinge now lies
‘pi .F 0 ‘he surface of yon crystal lake
Seen • ■*** in death; while all the skies,
An- Ji” lts m * ri- or which no breeze doth break,
M-Ore w ’*h the flush of day, which shines
■ ?oldeu—orange now—as he declines.
With n .1 ns from death they rise,
\m a *‘ le freshness of their former bloom,
So zb i? sunmi °oed by our Maker to the skies,
Irr , , ? ur bodies from the silent tomb—
lu-;nruever m °re to die. Then, Spring,
ot an uumortal Sqminer sing!
A woman has no natural grace more bewitching
a swee * laugh. Jt is like sound of flutes on wa
er - H leaps from her heart in a clear sparkling rill,
n ‘ e heart that hears jt, fee|s ps if bathed in the
pziulerating spring.
“ INDEPENDENT Iff ALL THIffGS—ffEUTRAL Iff NOTHING.”
IlliscfllmiD.
The Shining Eyes.
Flint’s “Life of Boone” contains the follow
ing account of his first meeting with his future
wife, referred to as authentic by other biograph
ers;
Young Boone was, one night engaged in a
tire-hunt with a young friend. Their course
led them to the deeply timbered bottom which
skirted the stream that wound round Bryan’s
pleasant plantation. That the reader may have
an idea what sort of a pursuit it was that young
Boone was engaged in, during an event so de
cisive of his future fortunes, we present a brief
sketch of a night fire-hunt.
Two persons are indispensable to it. The
horsemen that precedes, bears on his shoulders
what is called & fire-pan, full of blazing pine
knots, which cast a bright and flickering glare
far through the forest. The second follows, at
some distance, with his rifle prepared for action.
No spectacle is more impressive than this, of
pairs of hunters thus kindling the forest into a
glare. The deer, reposing quietly in his thick
et, is awakened by the approaching cavalcade,
and instead of flying from the portentous bril
liance, remains stupidly gazfflg upon it, as if
charmed to the spot. The animal is betrayed
to its doom by the gleaming of its lived and in
nocent eyes. This cruel mode of securing a fa
tal shot is called in hunters’ phrase —shining
the eyes.
The two young men reached a corner of
the farmer’s field at an early hour in the even
ing. Young Boone gave the customary signal,
to his mounted companion preceding him, to
stop —an indication that he had shined the eyes
of a deer. Boone dismountd and fastened his
horse to a tree, Ascertaining that his rifle was
in order, he advanced cautiously behind a co
vert of bushes, to rest the right distance for a
shot.
The deer is remarkable for the beauty of its
eyes wlien thus shined. The mild brilliancy of
the two orbs were distinctly visible. Whether
warned by a presentiment, or arrested by a pal
pitation and strange feeling within, at noting a
new expression in the blue and dewy lights that
gleamed to his heart, we say not. But the
unerring rifle fell, and a rustling told him the
game had fled.
Something * liispered him it was not a deer ;
and yet the fleet step, as the game bounded
away, might easily be mistaken for that of the
light-footod animal. A second thought impell
ed him to pursue the rapidly retreating game,
and he sprang away in the direction of the
sound, leaving his companion to occupy him
self as he might The fugitive had the advan
tage of a considerable advance of him, and ap
parently a better knowledge of the localities of
the place. But the hunter was perfect in all
his field exercises, and scarcely less fleet-footed
than a deer, and he gained rapidly on the ob
ject of his pursuit, which advanced a little dis
tance parallel with the field fence, and then, as
if endowed with the utmost accomplishment of
gymnastics, cleared the fence at a leap.
The hunter, embarrassed with his rifle and
accoutrements, was driven to the slow and hu
miliating expedient of climbing it. But an
outline of the form of the fugitive, fleeing from
the shades in the direction of the house, assured
him that he had mistaken the nature of the
game. His heart throbbed from an hundred
sensations, among them an apprehension ot the
consequences of what would have resulted from
discharging his rifle, when he had first shined
those liquid blue eyes.
Seeing that the fleet game made straight in
the direction of the house, he said to himself- —
‘I will see the pet deer in its lair,’ and he
directed his steps to the’ same place.
Haifa score of dogs opened their barking
upon him as lie approached the house, and ad
vertised to the master of the house that a
stranger was approaching. Having hushed the
dogs and learned the name of his visitant, he
introduced him to his family, as the sou of their
neighbor Boone.
Scarce had the first words of introduction
been uttered, before the opposite door opened,
and a boy apparently of seven, and a girl of
sixteen, rushed in, panting for breath, and
seeming afright,
‘Sister went down to the river, and a painter
chased her, and she is almost scared to death,’
exclaimed the boy.
The ruddy, flaxen-haired girl stood in full
view of her terrible pursuer, leaning upon his
rifle, and surveying her with the most eager
admiration. •
‘ltebecca, this is young Boone, son of our
neighbor,’ was the laconic introduction.
Both were young, beautiful, and at the pe
riod when the affections exercise their most en
ergetic influence.
The circumstances of the introduction were
favorable to the result, and the young hunter
felt that the eyes had shined his bosom, as fatal
ly as his rifle shot had ever the innocent deer of
the thickets.
She, too, when she saw the light, open, bold
forehead, the clear, keen, yet gentle and affec
tionate eye, the firm front, and the visible im
press of decision and fearlessness of the hunter
—when she interpreted a look which said as
distinctly as looks could say it,’ ‘how terrible it
would have been to have fired!’ can hardly be
supposed to have regarded him with indiffer
ence.
Nor can it be wondered at that she saw
in him her beau ideal of excellence and beauty.
The inhabitants of cities, who live in mansions,
and read novels stored with unreal pictures of
life and the heart, are apt to imagine that love,
with all its golden illusions, is reserved exclu
MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, APRIL 16, 1853.
sively for them. It is a most egregious mis
take. A model of ideal beauty and perfection
is woven in almost every youthful heart, of the
brightest and most brilliant threads that com
pose the web of existence. It may not be said
that this forest maid was deeply and foolishly
smitten at first sight. All reasonable time and
space were granted to the claims of maidenly
modesty.
As for Boone, he was remarkable for the
back-woods attribute of never being beaten out
of his track, and he ceased not to woo, until
lie gained the heart of Rebecca Ryan. In a
word, he courted her successfully, and they were
married.”
From the Olive Branch.
What Love Will Accomplish.
“This will never do,” said little Mrs. Kitty;
“how I came to be such a simpleton as to get
married before I knew how to keep house, is
more and more of an astonisher to me. I can
learn, and I will! There’s Bridget told me,
yesterday, there wasn’t time to make a pudding
before dinner. Iliad my private suspicions she
was imposing upon me, though I didn’t know
enough about it to contradict her. The truth
is, I’m no more mistress of this house than I
am of the Grand Seraglio. Bridget knows it
too ; and there’s Harry (how hot it makes my
cheeks to think of it!) couldn’t find an eatable
thing on the dinner-table yesterday. He loves
me too well to say anything, but lie had such
an ugly frown on his face when lie lit his cigar
and went off to his office. Oh, I see how it is,
“One must eat, in matrimony,
And love is neither bread nor honey,
And so, you understand.”
“AA baton earth sent yon over here in this dis
mal rain ?” said Kitty’s neighbor, Mrs. Green.—
“Just look at your gaiters.’’
“Oil, never mind gaiters,” said Kitty, untying
her ‘rigolette,’ and throwing herself on the so
fa. “I don’t know any more about cooking
than a six weeks’ kitten ; Bridget walks over
my head with the most perfect Irish noncha
lance; Harry looks as solemn as an ordained
bishop; the day’s grow short, the bills grow
long, and I’m tlie most miserable little Kitty
that ever mewed. Do have pity on me, and
initiate me into the mysteries of broiling, bak
ing and roasting; take me into your kitchen
now, and let me go into it while the fit is on
me. I feel as though I could roast Chanticleer j
and all his hen-harems.”
“You don’t expect to take your degree in
one forenoon ?” said Mrs. Green, laughing im
moderately.
“Not a bit of it! I intend to come every
morning, if the earth don’t whirl off its axle.—
I’ve locked up my guitar, and my French and
Italian books, and that irresistable ‘Festus,’ and
nerved myself like a female martyr, to look a
gridiron in the face without flinching. Come,
put down that embroidery, there’s a good Sa
maritan, and descend with me into the lower
regions, before my enthusiasm gets a shower
bath and she rolled up her sleeves from her
round white arms, took offher rings, and tuck
ed her curls behind her ears.
Very patiently did Mrs. Kitty keep her reso
lution; each day added a little to her store of
culinary wisdom. What if she did flavor her
first custards with peppermint instead of lemon?
what if she did ‘baste’ a Turkey with salerattis
instead of salt? wliat if she did season the stuff
ing with ground cinnamon instead of pepper ?
Rome was’nt built in a day —cooks can’t be
manufactured in a minute.
Kitty’s husband had been gone just a month.
He was expected home that very day. All the
morning the little wife had been getting up a
congratulatory dinner, in honor of the occasion.
What with satisfaction and the kitchen fire,
her cheeks glowed like a milkmaid’s. How
her eves sparkled, and wliat a pretty little trium
phant toss she gave her head, when that big’
trunk was dumped down in the entry! It isn’t
a bad thing, sometimes, to have a secret even
from one’s own husband.
“On ni} - word, Kitty,” said Harry, holding
her off at arm’s length, “you look most pro
vokingly ‘well-to-do’ for a widow ‘pro tern.’ I
don’t believe you have mourned for me, the
breath of a sigh. What have you been about?
who lias been here? and what mine of fun is
to be prophesied from that merry twinkle in
the corner of your eye ? Any body hid in the
closet or cupboard ? 1 lave you drawn a juize
in the lottery ?”
“Not since I married you,” said Mrs. Kitty;
“and you are quite welcome to that sugar-plum
to sweeten your dinner.”
“How Bridget has improved,” said Harry,
as he plied his knife and fork industriously; “1
never saw these woodcocks outdone, even at
our bachelor club rooms at House.—
She shall have a present of a pewter cross, as
sure as her name is McFlanigan, besides abso
lution for all the detestable messes she used to
concoct with her Catholic fingers.”
“Let me out! let me out!” said a stilled voice
from the closet; “you can’t expect a woman to
keep a secret for ever.”
“What on earth do you mean, Mrs. Green ?”
said Harry, gaily shaking her hand.
“Why, you see ‘Bridget has improved;’ i. e.
to say, little Mrs. Kitty there, received from my
hands yesterday, a diploma, certifying her Mis
tress of Arts, Hearts and Drumsticks, having
spent every morning of your absence in per
fecting herself as housekeeper. There now,
don’t drop on your knees to her till I have
gone. I know very well when three is a crowd,
or, to speak more fashionably, when I am l de
trop and I’m only going to stop long enough
to remind you that there are some wives left in
the world, and that Kitty is one of’em.”
And now, dear reader, if you doubt w hether
Mrs. Kitty was rewarded for all her trouble,
you’d better take a peep into that parlor, and
while you are looking, let me whisper a secret
in your ear, confidentially. You may be as
beautiful as Venus, and as talented as Madame
tie Stael, but you never’ll reign supreme in
your liege lord’s affections, till you can roast a
1 turkey. Fanny Fern.
From the Dollar Magazine.
A Handsome Present.
Not long ago a friend sent us a rich, rare
present, in tlie shape of a copy of a letter writ
ten twenty years ago, by a lady of great litera
ry*distinction, to her cousin, who now graces
one of the most honorable official stations in
the Empire State. It w - as written on the eve
of bis marriage, and accompanied a pair of
blue stockings, knit by herself, as a present. It
was sent to us for our private and personal en
joyment; but as no restriction was imposed up
on us, and as the letter is so decidedly unequal
led and so entirely rich, we cannot resist the
temptation to share the enjoyment of its peru
sal with our friends.
AYe would only add, that it will endure be
ing read slowly, carefully, and more than once:
“Dear Cousin. —Herewith you will receive
a present of a pair of woolen stockings, knit by
my own hand; and be assured, dear coz, that
my friendship for you is warm as the material,
active as the finger work, and generous as the
donation.
But I consider this present as peculiarly ap
propriate on tlie occasion of your marriage.—
Yc u will remark, in the first place, that there
are two individuals united in one pair, who
are to walk side by side, guarding against cold
ness, and giving comfort as long as they last.
The thread of their texture is mixed; and so
alas ! is the thread of life. In these, however,
the white is made to predominate, expressing
my desire and confidence that thus it will be
with the color of your existence. No black is
used, for I believe your lives will be wholly free
from the black passions of wrath and jealousy.—
The darkest color here is blue, which is excel
lent, where we do not make it too blue.
“ Other appropriate thoughts rise to my
mind in regard to these stockings. The most
indifferent subjects, when viewed by tlie mind
in a suitable frame, may furnish instructive in
ferences, as saitli the poet:
“Tlie iron dogs, the fuel and tongs,
Tlie bellows that have leathern lungs,
The fire wood, ashes, and the smoke,
Do all to righteousness provoke.”
But to the subject. You will perceive that
tlie tops of these stockings (by which I suppose
courtship to be represented) are seamed, and by
means of seaming are drawn into a snarl, but af
terwards comes a time when the whole is made
plain, and continues so to the end and final toe
ing off. ]>y this I wish to take occasion to con
gratulate yourself that you are now through
with seeming, and have come to plain reality,
Again, as flic whole of these comely stockings
was not made at once, but by tlie addition of
one little stitcli after another, put in with skill
and discretion, until the whole present the fair,
equal piece of work which you see; so life does
not consist of one great action, but millions of
little ones combined; and so may it be with
your lives. Xo stitch dropped when duties are
to be performed—no widening made when bad
principles are to be reproved, or economy is to
be preserved; neither seeming nor narrowing
where truth and generosity are in question. —
Thus every stitch of life made right and set in
the right place—none either too large or too
small, too light or loose ; thus you may keep
on your smooth and even course, making exist
ence one fair and consistent piece—until, to
gether, having passed the heel, you come to
the very toe of life, and here, in the final nar
rowing off and dropping the coil of this em
blematical pair of companions and comforting
associates, nothing appears but white, the to
ken of innocence aud peace, of purity and light
—may you, like these stockings, the final stitch
being dropped, and the work completed, go to
gether from the place where you were formed,
to a happier state of existence, a present from
earth to heaven. Hoping that these stockings
and admonitions may meet a cordial reception,
I remain in the true blue friendship, seemly,
yet without seeming,
Yours, from top to toe,
From the Spirit of the Age.
A Cicm in the River.
A young mother, with the tears of bereave
ment in her eyes, stood over the river of death
gazing wistfully into its black and sluggish
waters, as if she would fain rest her gaze upon
some object away down —down in its fathom
less depths. She gazed long & wistfully, and the
black waves rolled sullenly, sluggishly onward.
And the mother laid her hands submissively
on her bosom and wept, and said :■ —‘My Gem !
My Gem!’
And a celestial being like an angel stood ;
near the hidden door ot her heart, and wliis- i
pered in a silvery voice like music :
‘"What seekest thou, mourning sister ?’
‘Alas!’ said the mourner, ‘I once, even yes
tcrdayjßWore a beautiful gem on my bosom. —
To me it was one that kings and monarchs
might have been proud of. The riches of the
cast could not have purchased it from me. In
an hour, that was to me evil and miserable, the
gem dropped from my bosom in the black night
of this deep river. I saw it floating away from
me gently as the coming of an evening shadow,
and I reached after it, but it was beyond my
grasp ; and my gem, my babe, smiled upon me
as it was riding on the waves farther and far
ther from me. It began to sink—to sink from
my sight, and in a moment my gem was gone,
and gone for ever /’ And she turned sorrowful
ly away.
And the angel voice whispered again : /
‘Stay, sister, grieve not —look again into the
dark river.’
She looked as she was bid, and a cry of sweet
and rapturous joy burst from her lips: ‘Thanks
to the Father; I see my gem floating gently
on a great black wave. O! may I not wear it
on my bosom again ?’
‘Stay, my sister, thou art deceived; what
thou seest in the river is not thy gem ; it is the
shadow - of what was given thee in trust. Look,
sister, heavenwards, and bid thy mourning heart
rejoice.’
She looked aloft, and away up in the dark
beclouded sky she saw a single spot clear and
blue, and in it a bright star was gleaming, and
its silvery rays came down and danced on the
gloomy river, giving the black waves a bright
ness, as if silvered through and through ; and
away down many fathoms the bright reflection
rested, and this the mourner thought was her
lost gem. She gazed silently upon the scene,
and the star from heaven was shining !
And the voice of the angel came again like
unto the sweet song of many instruments of
music, saying:
‘Sister, the gloomy waves thou seest, though
cold and dark, and terrible, roll ceaselessly on
ward up to the great gate of heaven, and thi
ther they bore thy mourned-for gem, which
the good Father lent thee. The waves have
borne it back to him, and it blooms and shines
forever near the throne like yon brightly beam
ing star!’
The voice was hushed, and the sorrowing
mother turned away with her eyes lifted from
the earth and gloomy liver, and fixed them
hopefully and wistfully on heaven.
And the bright star she saw, when tears
filled her eyes mourning for her loss, yet beams
brightly, and it shines on her little baby’s grave !
Anecdotes of Dr. Mason.
The Xew York Times publishes a series of
articles, from the Journal of a Xew York cler
gyman, during the first half of this century.
Number three is devoted to Dr. Mason. He
is represented as unusually full of anecdotes,
relatin' l- to Iris brethren or fathers in the minis
try.
lie had a high respect for Bishop Aloore, a
man noted not only for the purity of his char
acter, but also for tlie retiring modesty of Iris
disposition. The story which Dr. Aluson told
of him, related a scene at a dinner given by
someone of Governor Morris’ friends, when he
was about departing for Europe. Bishop
Moore and his wife were of the party. Among
other things that passed in conversation, Air.
Morris observed that he had made his will in
prospect of going abroad ; and turning to Bish
op Moore, said to him :
‘My reverend friend, I have bequeathed to
you my whole stock of impudence.’
Bishop Moore replied : ‘Sir, you are not on
ly very kind, but very generous; you have left
to me by far the largest portion of your estate.’
Mrs. Aloore immediately added : ‘My dear,
you have come into possession of your inheri
tance remarkably soon.’
There was another feature in the character
of Dr. Alason’s mind, rarely seen equalled.—
His thoughts were often uttered with a terse
ness and a compactness of expression that ren
dered their impression indelible on tlie minds
of his hearers; and he abounded in those
emanations from his brilliant intellect, quite as
much in conversation as in preaching.
As an instance: There was a case of sick
ness among his church-members, which had
given him much anxiety; and he invited me
to go with him on a visit to the sufferer, who
was then drawing near the grave. He was a
inan naturally of strong and warm passions;
had been somewhat irregular in his life; but
was very penitent on bis death-bed. AVhen we
had made our visit and were on our way home,
Dr. Mason, heaving a sigh, observed,
‘I trust there is hope for poor L . He
had much to contend with in his past days. —
lie was of a make that exposed him to easily
besetting sins, llis blood seemed to be always
at fever heat.’
Then turning to me, he asked me what I
thought of him. I expressed the hope that he
might find peace in his end, and alluded to the
constitutional temperament of the man, when
the Doctor immediately replied,
‘Yes, yes. Tn forming our opinion of any i
man’s spiritual condition, we must take into
account his temptations, arising from the cir
cumstances of his life and the peculiar infirmi
ties of nature with which he had to contend.
AVe must be careful to make due allowance for
all that. Happily for us all, we are to be judg*
ed by Him who ‘knowoth our frame, (repeat
ing the words,) and reiuembereth that we arc
dust.’
He paused for a moment, and then added,
with the earnestness which so belonged to him
self,
‘lndeed, I have often thought that it required
as much grace to keep the Apostle Peter from
knocking a man down in the street, as make
Apostle John look like an angel.’
mon preached by a dandy, he asked a friend
what he thought of the discourse. He replied
in his usual, quaint, queer style—“lf they go
on preaching this way, the grass will soon be
knee-deep in the streets of Heaven.”
The Bateman children, and a younger
sister yet in arms, were baptized on the 2nd
instant, at New Orleans, by the Rev. Dr. Clapp,
their baptismal names being Ellen Douglas,
Kate Josephine, and Arirginia Frances. Among
the sponsors, was AA'm. Muir, Esq., British
Consul, while Miss Ellen appeared as God
Mother for her infant sister.
Affecting lucidcnt.
I recollect one member of Congress, who
was always rallying me about our Congression
al Temperance Society.
‘Briggs,’ lie used to say, ‘l’m going to join
your Temperance Society us soon as my demi
john is empty.’ But just before it became
empty be always filled it again. At one time,
tow ards the close of the session; he said to me,
‘I am going to sign the pledge w hen I get
home—l am in earnest,’ continued he; ‘my
demijohn is nearly empty, and I am not going
to fill it again.’ He sjroke w ith such an air of
seriousness as I had not before observed, and it
impressed me; so I asked him what he meant,
what had changed his feelings ?
‘Why,’ said he, ‘I had a short time since a
visit from my brother, who stated to me a fact
that more deeply impressed and affected me,
than any thing I recollect to have heard upon
the subject, in any temperance speech I have
ever heard or read.
‘ln my neighborhood is a gentleman of my
acquaintance, well educated, who once had
some property, but is now reduced —poor! He
has a beautiful and lovely wife, a lady of culti
vation and refinement—and a most charming
daughter.
‘This gentleman had become decidedly in
temperate in bis habits, and bad fully alarmed
his friends in regard to him. At one time when
a number of his former associates were toge
ther, they counselled as to what could be done
for him.
‘Finally, one one of them said to him, ‘why
don’t you send your daughter away to a cer
tain distinguished school ?’ which he named.
‘Oh, 1 cannot,’ said he: ’tis out of the ques
tion. lam not able to bear the expense. Poor
girl! I wish could.’
‘AA'ell,’ said his friend, ‘if you will sign the
temperance pledge, I will be at all the expense
of her attending school for one year.’
‘AYhat does this mean ?’ said he—‘Do you
think me in danger of becoming a drunkard ?’
‘Xo matter,’ said his friend, ‘about that now,
but I w ill do as 1 said.’
‘And I,’ said another, ‘will pay tlie rent of
your farm a year, if you will sign the pledge.’
‘Well, these oilers are certainly liberal, but
what do you mean ? Do you think me in
danger of becoming a drunkard? AYhat can
it mean ? Blit, gentlemen, in view of your
liberality, I will make an offer. I will sign it
if you will F
‘Tbis was a proposition they had not consi
dered, and were not very well prepared to
meet; but for his sake they said we will, and
did sign, and lie with them.
‘And now, for the first time, the truth poured
into his mind, and he saw his condition, and
sat down bathed in tears.
‘Now - ,’ said he, ‘gentlemen, you must go and
communicate these facts to my w ife—poor wo
man ! I know she will be glad to hear it, but
I cannot tell her.’
‘Two of them started for that purpose. The
lady met them at the door, pale and trembling
with emotion.
‘AYhat,’ she inquired, ‘is the matter ? AYhat
has happened to my husband ?’
‘They bid her dismiss her fears, assuring her
they had come to bring her tidings of her hus
band—but good tidings, such as she would be
glad to hear.
‘Your husband has signed the temperance
pledge—yea, signed in good faith.
‘The joyous news nearly overcame her—she
trembled with excitement—wept freely, and
clasping her hands devotionally, she looked up
to Heaven, and thanked God for the happy
change. ‘Xow,’ said she, ‘I have a husband
as lie once was, in the days of our early love.’
‘But this was not what moved me,’ said the
gentleman. ‘There was in the same vicinity
another gentleman —a generous, noble soul—
married young—‘married well—into a charm
ing family, and the flower of it. His w ine
drinking habits had aroused the fears of his
friends, and one day when several of them
were together, one said to another, ‘let us sign
the pledge.’ ‘I will, if you will,’ said one to
another, till all had agreed to it and the thing
was done.
‘This gentleman thought it rather a small
business, and felt a little sensitive about reveal
ing to his wife what he had done. But on re
turning home, he said to her :
‘Mary, my dear, I have done what I fear
will displease you.’
‘AVell, what is it ?’
‘Why, 1 have signed the temperance pledge.
‘Have you ?’
‘Yes I have, certainly.’
‘AVatching his manner, as lie replied, and
reading its sincerity, she entwined her arms \
around his neck, and laid her head upon his j
bosom, and burst into tears. Her husband was
affected deeply by the conduct of his w ife, and
said :
‘Mary, don’t weep; I did not know it would
afflict you so, or I would not have done it; 1
will go and take my name off immediately.’ j
‘Take your name off!’ said she; no, no! let
it be there. I shall now have no more solicitude
in reference to your becoming a drunkard. I
shall spend no more wakeful midnight hours.
I shall no more steep my pillow - in tears.
‘Now for the first time truth shone upon his
mind, and he folded to his bosom his young
and beautiful w - ife, and wept with her. Now,
I can’t stand these facts, and I am going to
sign the pledge.’— of Gov. Briggs of
Loioell.
... .If a man wishes to be graceful, he must
begin his practice before his bones and habits
are formed. Learning to dance after thirty,
has only one thing more difficult, and that is,
to forego a pipe after you are sixty.
NUMBER 1.
Power of a Mother’s Love.
A writer in the Boston Times describes a
visit to the penitentiary at Philadelphia, and
gives the following sketch of an interview be
tween Mr. Seattergood, the humane AYarden of
of the prison, and a young man who was about
to enter on his imprisonment. Few will read
it w ithout deep emotion :
AYe passed the ante-room again, when we
encountered a new-comer, who had just reached
the prison as we entered. He had been sent
up for five years on charge of embezzlement.
He was attired in tlie latest style of fashion,
and possessed all the non chalance and careless
appearance of a genteel rowdy. He twirled a
watch chain, looking particularly knowing at
a couple of young ladies who chanced to be
present, and seemed utterly indifferent about
himself or the predicament he was in. The
AYarden read his commitment, and addressed
him with —
‘Charles, I am sorry to see thee here.’
‘lt can’t be helped, old fellow - .’
‘AA'hat is thy, age, Charles ?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘A Philadelphian ?’
‘AA'ell kinder, and kinder not.’
‘Thee has disgraced thyself sadly.’
‘AA'ell, I ain’t troubled, old stick.’
‘Thee looks not like a rogue.’
•Alatter of opinion.’
‘Thee was well situated ?’
‘Yes, well enough.’
Tn good employ ?’
‘AVell, so-so.’
‘And thee has parents ?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps thee has a mother, Charles ?’
The convict had been standing during this
brief dialogue perfectly unconcerned and reck
less, until the last interrogatory w as put by tlie
Warden. Had a thunderbolt struck him he
could not have fallen more suddenly than he
did when the name of mother fell on his ears!
He sank into a chair—a torrent of tears gushed
from his eyes —the very fountains of his heart
seemed to have burst on the instant, lie re
covered partially, aud said imploringly to the
AA rarden—
‘Don’t you, sir, for God’s sake, don’t call
her by name in this dreadful place ! Do what
you may with me, but don’t mention that name
to me!’
There were tears in eyes beside the prisoner’s
and an aching silence pervaded the group which
surrounded the convict
Anecdote of Dr. Lyman Beecher.— AA'hile
residing on Long Island, in early life, he was
returning home just at evening from a visit to
old Dr. AA'oolworth. Seeing what he thought,
in the dark, to be a rabbit by the roadside, a
little ahead, he reasoned with himself- —“They
are rather tender animals—if the fellow sits
still till I come up, I think I could hit him
with those books,” a goodly bundle of which
lie had in his handkerchief. Ilit him he sure
ly did; only it proved to be not a rabbit, but
a skunk. The logical sequences follow ed, and
he returned to his family in anything but the
odor of sanctity. In after life, being asked why
he did not reply to a scurrilous attack which
had been made upon him, the doctor answered ?
“I discharged a quarto, once, at a skunk; and
then I made up my mind never to try it again.”
During the prevalence of a revival in his
church, in Boston, the number of persons de
siring religious conversion was so great, some
times amounting to several hundred, that he
was accustomed to employ younger clergymen
to assist him. On one occasion, a young An
doverian was conversing with a person who
believed herself to be converted, within the
doctor’s hearing. The young man was pro
bing the grounds of her evidence, and among
other questions, was overheard asking the lady,
if she “thought that she was willing to be
damned for the glory of God.” Instantly start
ing up, the doetor said to him, “AA'hat w as that
you were asking?” “I was asking her if she
should he willing to be damned for the glory
of God.” “AA'ell, sir, would you be willing?”
“Yes, sir, I humbly hope I should be.” “AA'ell,
then, sir, you ought to. be damned.” And, af
terwards, he took occasion to enlighten him in
a better theology.— Phrenological Journal.
... .The waters of the Great Salt Lake are
so saturated w ith salt, and so dense, that per
sons float, cork-like, on the waters, or stand
suspended with ease, with the shoulders ex
posed above the surface.
... .Solomon says—“A virtuous woman is a
crown to her husband.” By this rule, the best
of the female sex is only worth five shillings.
.. . .Speaking without thinking, is shooting
without taking aim.
... .“I don’t believe its any use to vaccinate
for small-pox,” said a backwoods Kentuckian,
“for I had a child vaccinated, and he fell out of
a window, and was killed, in less than a week
after.”
raaketh the person, but the person that maketh
the place honorable.
“An Hour with the Beautiful.” —“Sitting
up” w ith a snug piece of Calico.
.... Dobbs says, that women have “such a
w - ay with their lips” that hugging and kissing
leads as naturally to love as champagne does
to soda water. That being the case, avoid
nibbling.
lie who has love in his heart, has spurs in his sides.
An honest, virtuous man lives not to the world, but
to his own conscience. He, as the planets above, steers
a course contrary to that of the world.
If I have lost the ring, yet the fingers are still hero