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VOLUME 10.
THE GEORGIA CITIZEN
IS pi BUSHED EVERY FRIDAY MORNING, BY
L F. W. ANDREWS.
Oitk e—/ Horne'a Building, f'herrv Street,
Tim hrhnr Third AS trrrt.
Tf.HMft: — S'i.OO !*rr annum. in iSianre.
aJia-rna-mefela it the regular charge *ill t* One Dollar
, r , nf o•€ A n*'lmi yrorii- or If**. f*r the first Snfpr
‘ l K< ifor eacfc
A \-*\ ii jit- not he pabtkM nntl
uO‘l thilfoe kflconiiiifrlt. A allowed
• otb****’ v ivertiM bv the year.
I .. rni nuwir with County t HBivrs Dm**!***,
\ * leers, M*rcfcin?, and other*, who may wWi to make
. ratted contact*.
r . f— * 1 ami HuJwai Cards win \ Inserted m.
OrrlhiihiaM, at in* ••% ‘ :
r r Five line*. J>er annum SOO
y. <frri) tttiiS K. • Ml#
p,r Ten line-. and” w ”
v , ..ivrrtiwment <.f tbn* class will be admitted, unless paid
t. m advance, nus fl-r a kt>n Hum twelve mnmt* a. Ad
’ ~liemetds .1 over ten line* wffl *■ charred pro rata. Ad
rtisements U"t paid tor In advance Wilt be charged at the
regular rates.
Ol,Unary Notice* <4or-r tm liner, will l charred at the
usual rat-s.
tnnnunee.iienl. • f fl.r to te paid *>r at
th.- usual rate*, when inserted.
dlm of laT.ii J iiviH \eiT%vr* hv Fxecutor*
♦ op. and liuaitfiaiM* are requ red by la* to be aD ertm 11 ii
v ; gr-.zeite forty lav* prPYtau* to the clay of These
iuu>t be held on the ttr*4 Tuesday in thy m*'■•**.between
th- hours of ten in ihe IhrußOOt and three in the afternoon,
-.it the Court-house in the county In which the property is sttu
*ale of PenoMl Property mw* be advertised In lik^
manner, forty days.
\odre to DeMois and (’mllt>ri"fatt mu*4be
puMbbt* forty days
VUiov that apptkattna wiU be made to the Ordinary for
. ivf t. P4-1I Lana and Negroes, must le ptblUnd w eekly for
tvro months.
4 itntioiiM f *r Letter.- of Administration, thirty days; IbJ
Pemission rooi Administration, monthly, six months: fo r
DlifiiMlnn from GuanflaMfcip, weekly, forty days.
Kule* for Forfflirin f Vlortiacn, monthly, four
months; for cstaldlshteff b st papers, for the full space of thn*e
months; farcompeUlng titles from executors ot sdmini>rrm
u, where a tn>nd has lieen riven by the deceased, the full
-j*ce of three months.
CT h c Citizen.
tF"We don't often meet with a more touching effudon
ban this dmple lay, or one that ex pr>nte more in a simple
THE OLD PRINTER
A I'rtnler *tond a* hi* ca*e one night,
(And a very hard cane wa* his n).
And his •( ;ry aighi was dim as the light
Os th.- lamp in his dusty j” isc.n ;
The wintry winds are howling without,
A nd the snow falling thick and f.-t.
But the Prii ter, 1 trow. shook his locks of snow.
And laughed at the shrieking blast;
He watched the hands as the clock c-ept round.
Keeping time with Its snail-like tick.
As he gntnered the t pe with a weary click.
In hla old rust-eaten stii-it.
His hair* wire as white as the fulling snow—
And stientlv.day by dav.
He beheld them with grief, ilke the autumn leaf.
One by one “parsing away.™
Time hall cut, with hia plow, furrows deep in his brow
His cheek was fever.'! and thin.
And his long roman nose could almost reprose
Its hea t on its g-ay-beaded chin ;
And with fingers tong a. the hours stole on.
Keeping time with the clock's dull tick.
He gathered ihe type with a weary click.
In hia old rimt-eaten flirt.
F"r many long years, through joy. through tears,
Thst old P. Inter's time hollered face.
Ghostly and lean, night and m> rn had been seen,
karueelly bent o'er the ckane.
In a few ve-rs more Doth will lock up hit .form.
And put it to preen in the mould.
And a stone on the .put where they lay him to rot,
WiU tell us his name, and how old;
And his C uarades will light tbeohi lamp by the cane.
And list to the clock’s dull tick.
A* tney art np his death, withs - iemrt tick,
la his old rust-eaten did.
THE GRADUAL SCALE.
.BOS THZ OEXMAtf or rmiß .
A sparrow caught upon a tree
A tty so fat hi* taste grew stronger;
His victim, struggling to get free.
Begge.l hat to live a little longer:
The mnrderer answered, •'Thou must 6*ll.
For I am great and thou art small.”
A hawk beheld him at his feast.
And in a moment pounced unon him :
The dvingsparrow wished, at least.
To too*-- what iulury be had done him :
The niupder.r an.wered, “Ihou must fall.
For I smgreat and thorr art small.
The * tgie saw the hawk belor ,
Ami q sickly on the gor mate I soiree—
Oh, noble king! pray iet me g"!
Mercy ‘ thou sickest mo to piece*.”
The murtlerer answered, “ T1...U must fell.
For 1 am groat and thou art small.”
He feasted ! 10, an arrow lew
And pierced the eagle's bosom through :
Unto the huuier 1 ud screamed he,
“Oh. tyrant ! wherefore omrder mo?”
“Ah! - <tid the munleter. “Tnou nnud fall.
For I am great and thou art small.”
HUNTING IN MINNESOTA.
An intelligent correspondent of the
Fairmount ‘‘True Virginian” gives the
following description of a hunt with the
Sioux Indians in Minnesota. The writer
had been to Bt. Paul, and on his return
from that city to his home, night over
took him in what are know n as the ‘*Big
Wood*,” and finding it impossible to
make his way out, he determined to |
quarter with the Indians. The next
morning he was invited to join them in
a hunt, of w hich he w rites as follows :
u Before I went to sleep I agreed with j
Little Crow, the chief of the hand, whom :
I was well acquainted with, that I would
join him in the next day’s hunt. Ac
cordingly he aroused me in the morning
before day, and gave me my breakfast.
I had scarcely completed it, when all the ,
hunters and warriors assembled before ‘
the chiefs tent, and performed those
mysterious rites which invariably pre
'■ede a grand hunt, and which none but
the initiated can comprehend. Their
movements, somewhat resembling a sol
emn dance, although exceedingly inter
esting, were conducted with the greatest
regularity and precision, while the pa
triarchs of the tribe and the ‘ medicine ‘
men sang a low’ and lugubxious ehar.t.
which sounded not unlike the ‘Hy, yi yi,’
of the Shakers. They seemed to be in
voking the blessing of the Great Spirit
on their corning sports. And they wor
shipped with a zeal and earnestness
which superstition and ignorance alone
<an inspire. 1 thought ot’ the old line,
4 Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored
mind,’ etc-, and wondered if, with all his
faults, the dusky savage is not about as
good for heaven as any of us.
“ My reveries were broken in upon,
however, hy a general rush to the woods.
Fhey took different directions, and went
as if the pursuers of Tam O Shunter’s
mare were after them. I did my utmost
to keep up, but failed in the effort, and
began to think seriously of aliandouing
the chase, when my friend Crow came to
my assistance. Crow is the most tal
ented among the Sioux chiefs, and though
* tall, sulky, green-looking Indian, is a
f rave man and a first rate follow. lie
proposed that we should walk on leis
urely to the centre of the circle agreed
u pon for the day’s operations. This we
bd, and on our way he informed me that
the favorite way of hunting with the In
dians is ring-hunting, as we would call it
10 \ irginia. They thus enclose great
numbers of wild animals, which in shun
ing Scylla are apt to fall into Chary b
’ I * <l * The fleetest buck is seldom able to
so many and such subtle foes.
** near 10 o’clock in the room
ing before we saw any game, but after
that time great numbers of deer were
seen darting through tiie wood* like ar
rows. Crow shot at many of them as
they ran, but succeeded in killing but one
only. For my part, I did not even kill
or wound one. I find that the Indian’s
great superiority in hunting consists in
his creeping abilities. Crow would crawl
on his belly nearly as fast a* I could
walk, and that, too, with little or no
noise.
‘•As we gradually ‘closed in,’ the
sharp crack of the rifle was heard in ev
ery direction, and the frequent whizzing
of a bullet by our heads reminded us of
the recklessness of the hunters and our
own danger. Anon a wounded buck
would fly past us, pursued by wolfish
dogs and fiendish Indians yelling and
howling after their victim. It was very
exciting sport, for the Indians were urged
almost to frenzy, and acted more as if
they were in some tierce battle than at a
comtnou exorcise.
“ About this time, and at the height of
the excitement, we heard a yell proceed
ing from the other side of the ring, loud
er, more fierce and d.flerent from any
other of those that were rising around
us. The Indians seemed to understand
it, as they all rushed to the spot fiom
whence it came. I followed them, and
to my astonishment found that one of
them had been shot dead by accident.—
The yell that 1 had heard came from the
Indian that had done the deed. Fur
ther proceedings were stopped at once,
and all rejoicing and yelling was hushed.
The deceased had been a tine fellow and
a general favorite. Ilis name was Ma
nom-e-ne. Those who had killed any
game shouldered it and struck home.—
The balance, of whom I was one, formed
a procession which followed poor Ma
nom-e-ne, carried on the back of his de
stroyer, to the camp. His squaw, who
was a young and very pretty woman,
had heard the news before we got there,
and came out with her two little children
to meet and take chaige of her dead hus
band. It was a sad spectacle. She threw
herself upon him and broke forth in the
most piteous and aflecting cries of agony
I ever heard. There was no affectation
about it; no estate to be settled up—no
dower to set apart —nothing to abstract
hei mind from her crushing grief. There
was not a dry eye in that dusky crowd,
notwithstanding their usual stoicism and
coolness. When we arrived at the camp
the corpse was decently laid out on some
poles, about eight feet from the ground,
and wrapped Dp in a blanket or buffalo
skin, with his rifle by his side. Sentries
were set about him, and every face about
the camp except my own and that of the
widowed squaw was painted black, and
some in the most hideous manner. Now
commenced the formal lamentation of the
tribe for the deceased hunter. They
sang dolefully and howled dismally.—
No man who has never heard the Indians
lamenting their dead can form any idea
of the wild and awful character of their
cries and their wailings.
“ When I had got home, several days
after. I saw the widow going by with her
pony, (which had been given her by the
Indian who had shot her husband,) her
two little children, and their dead father.
She had two poles, some twelve or fif
teen feet long, attached to each side of
this p*ny, much like a shaft, on w-hicli
were fastened cross pieces, and on these
were placed the corpse. She was taking
him to the common burying-ground on
the Minnesota, some fifty miles distant.
Her poor little children were trudging
along by her side as she led the horse,
both of them crying with the cold or
about their fa*her, taeir tears almost
freezing as they fell to the ground. The
woman herself could not suppress her
sobs, nor would she accept any nourish
ment from the kind hands that were ex
tended to her as she passed through our
village, but worried on, carrying her pre
cious load to its last resting-place.’’
THE LITTLE HAND
Thine is • iiitle hint!—
A tiny l.ttle hnl
But if it chtsp
Within ttsftrs.ep
Mine own—ah. me 1 I well cm umlerstan.l
The pressure of that little hand !
Thine itlittle mouth—
Avery little mouth—
But. ah! what Miss
To steal a kiss.
Sweet as the honeyed rephyrs of the South.
From that same rosy little month !
Thine Is s little heart—
A Uttle fluttenn* heart—
Vet it is want.
And pure and calm.
And love* n e wiih Ks whole untutored art.
That palpitating little heart!
There art a little girl—
Only a little r rl—
Yet art thou worth
The wealth of earth—
Diamond and ruby, esiptire, gold and {earl—
To me. thou Messed little girl!
Wanted to go to Heaven.
A few evenings since a little daughter of
a gentleman of this city secreted herself in
a closet with & vial partly filled with lauda
num, and drank the contents of it. The
child was missed, and on search being made
she was found, stupid from the effects of
the narcotic: By the use of proper means
she was saved from death, and on return
ing to consciousness was asked why she bad
drank the laudanum. Her reply was that
she w anted to die and go to Heaven where
her little brother was. Other questions be
ing asked, it was found that the child con
ceived the idea of death and Heaven from
the reading of Sunday School books and in
conversation with her playmates about the
stories in them. How she obtained her
knowledge of the power of laudanum was
not ascertained. — Ind. Journal Ist.
Philosophers say that shutting the eyes
makes the sense of hearing more acute Per
haps this accounts for the many closed eye*
that are seen in churches on Sundays.
Doan Swift proposed to tax female beauty,
and leave every lady to rate her own charms.—
He said the tax would be cheerfully paid, and
very productive.
No doubt there is room enough in the world
for men and women, but it may be a serious
question whether the latter are not taking up
moro than their share of t just now.
“HAVE PATIENCE!”
A vouth and makl. “ne winter ni^tt,
Wereaittinirin tlie corner;
His name, wr re told, via* -li-shua W hite,
Ami her* ws Patience Warner.
Not much the pretty maiden said.
Decide the voune man sitting;
Her cheek* were flushed a r y red,
Her eves bent on her kniitinar.
Nor could he jruess what thoughts of him
Were to her l<oaoin flocking.
A- t-er fair fingers, swift and slim.
Flew round and round the stocking.
While, as for Joshua, t-ashful youth.
His words grew few and fewer ;
Thou*b ail the time, to tell the truth.
His chair edge! nearer to her.
Meantime- her liall of yarn gave out.
She knit so last and wendy ;
And he must giie his aid, no doubt.
To get another ready.
He held the skein ; or course, the thread
Got tangled, marled, and t isted ;
“Have Patience!” criid the artlessinaid.
To him who her assisted.
Good chance was this for tongue tied churl
To shorten all palaver;
“ Have Patience !” cried he, “ dearest gir!!
And may I really have her?”
The deed was done ; no more, that night.
Clicked needles in the corner;
And she is Mrs Joshua White
That once was Patience Warner.
From ihe I‘hdadcljihia Keening Journal.
RELIGIOUS INTOLERANCE.
The letter of the Catholic Bishop,
which was published recently in some of
the Irish papers, would form a striking
commentary on the proceedings in Bos
ton. He urged that Catholic and Prot
estant children should be educated to
gether, because, if brought up thus, they
would not in after life regard one anoth
er with hatred and suspicion. It is of
the utmost importance that our youth
should be taught to regard one another
with kind and friendly feelings. If the
public schools of Boston are to be con
ducted as they have been, the end will
be that a large denomination will be de
prived altogether of their advantages.—
They are supported for a public pur
pose, and it is unfair and unjust to intro
duce exercises which utterly exclude
from them a large class of children.—
Protestants would object if the Douay
version of the Bible were used, and
rightly ; but, on the same ground, it is
wrong to have that of King James read.
The priest forbade those belonging to
his congregation to join in the service,
and when they obeyed they were whip
ped. Does any one sec enlightened tol
eration in such violations of the rights of
conscience? One little fellow used lan-.
guage which compares very favorably
with the exclamations in Fox’s Book of
Martyrs. “1 can bear whipping,mother,”
said he, “but I cannot chant the Lord’s
Prayer. Can’t 1 suffer for my Lord Je
sus ? He suffered for me.” To say that
“the spirit of his resistance was heroic
but misdirected,” is to beg the whole
question. He was taught by his parents
to think as he did, ard either they have
the right to direct his religious educa
tion, or they have not. If they have not,
where is liberty of conscience ? If they
have, it is an outrage tor a teacher em- i
ployed by the State, to interfere with
the belief which they have instilled in„o
his youthful mind. Public schools are
not fit places for proselytizing. The re
sult of any such use of them is certain.
The children of the Catholics will be
withdrawn, and they will grow up with
embittered feelings against those who
excluded them, and instead ot unity and
cordiality between all denominations, j
there will be jealousy and hatred. In
the private schools of this city, at least,
the children are not asked to sacrifice
their religion in order to get an educa ,
tion.
The scholars go there as men go to
their counting-rooni9, or as students go
to medical or law lectures. Theology is i
out of place among geography and arith
metic. It is surely not expedient to sow
discord among children and train them
to be bigots. We see every day how
men cherish a most unchristian and ir
rational prejudice against those who dif
fer from them in religious faith, simply
because they have never come in friend
ly contact with them. When members
of different sects come to be acquainted, i
they soon learn that a man’s opinions
neither render him worthy of confidence
or distrust. It is a truism, though many 1
seem still unaware of it, that in every
party and denomination are found the
good and bad, and when it is remember
ed how uniformly training and associa
tion determine one's creed, and how rare
it is for any to change their faith, one
nnrvels that men should be found so ,
foolish and wicked as to indulge in
sweeping denunciations of any sect. In
a prominent church in this city, on last i
Sunday, the preacher compared those of
another denomination to owls that pre
fer darkness to light and prey upon
gaibage. Such bigotry in an educated
gentleman is amazing. There is not a
sect in this community but numbers
among its clergymen men of learning, sin
cerity and worth.
The speaker, of course, had never
known one of those whom he abused.—
It is only necessary that men should live
isolated and apart for them to hale one
another most cordially. The Protestant
who has never known a Catholic, be
lieves that they are all desirous of re-es
tablishing the Inquisition, and the igno
rant Catholic returns the compliment.—
Instances of this are met with every day.
We boast that the doctrines of religious
liberty have been firmly established, and
that all are equal before the law; but
something more is to be done. Men are
yet to learn that the spirit which wounds
the pride of a fellow-creature on account
of his faith, is the same as that which
casts his body into the flames ; that the
intolerance which insists upon having
the public schools opened with exercises
which are offensive to a large fraction of
the scholars, differs but little from that
which lighted the fires of Smithfield. As
Sydney Smith said in one of his manly
articles, in favor of admitting the Catho
lics to full political equality, “Nothing
is left now but to morufy a man’s pride,
and set a mark upon him by cutting
him off from his lair share of polLical
power.”
By this receipt insolence is gratified
and humanity is not shocked. The gen
tlest Protestant can see, with dry eyes,
a Catholic excluded from Parliament,
MAt OX, CJA., FRIDAY, APRIL 15, ISSS9.
though he would abominate the idea of
personal cruelty—that is to say, he lives
in the nineteenth instead of the sixteenth
century. They are but degrees and
modifications of the same principle. The
minds of these two men no more differ
because they differ in their degrees of
punishment, than their bodies differ be
cause one wore a doublet In the time of
Mary, and the other wears a coat in the
reign of George. The true spirit is to
search after God and lor another life
with lowliness of heart; to fling down
no man’s altar, to punish no man’s
prayer; to heap no penalties and no
pains on those solemn supplications
which in divers tongues, and in varied
forms, and in temples of a thousand
shapes, but with one deep sense of hu
man dependence, men pour forth to
God.
‘ There is Death in the Pot.”
Alas ! that this should have ceased to
be a merely vague apothegm. Alas!
that Death and the Pot—that one’s cof
fin and one’s coffee—one’s soup and one’s
shroud—should be so intimately linked
in the service of Iniquity. Alas ! that a
new sort of Frankenstein should have
taken so direct charge of our feastings—
that the influences of anew Attiia should
should so seem to sway the destiny our
dietics. But the fact is so, face it how
he will. For the moment Therapeutics
yields place to Toxocology, and Poison
has won popularity from Physic—for
the moment a Upas tree has taken root
in our clime, and its mephitic exhalations
are penetrating every crevice of society
—for the moment the stoutest stomachs
of honest humanity are sick with the
suspicion that a scorpion’s sting may be
lurking in that which is taken to sustain
the disease-beset body.
Ask you what is the particular danger
while you contemplate the general con
sequence? See you not the evil in its
evidences ? Is not the demon of poison
more frequently than ever invoked by
♦he wretches who art weary of wedlock ?
Are not all the life-taking banes that
curse this earth—ranging from a vulgar
surfeit of Laudanum to a fashionable
killing (lose of Essential Oil of Almonds
—constantly constrained to do all the
divorce duties for modern matrimonial
mesalliance? Only look at the newspa
pers for the past fortnight. There you
find all conditions of men, and every
variety of case, attesting that the poison
ing Vampire is aboard. Extraordinary
clergymen and ordinary codgers—mild
mouthed matrons and gin grinning gri
settes—are all alike represented as seek
ing to sever the connubial tie through
the science of poisons.
But there is a more slippery snake in
the grass even than this. More slippe
ry did we say ? Good sooth, it is not
easy to out-traitor the miscreant who
misters to an ailing wife or friend, and
while whispering of health and life only
tries to deepen the disease and deal out
death. It is not easy to be more troth
lessly dangerous than the reptile whose
hug of kindness is meant to kill. Yet
do we say that there is peril around us
more endangering than even that. Are
we not utterly helpless in the matter of
detecting the salubrity of what we eat or
drink ? < )nly think of the ease of that fam
ily in Fourteenth street, who, the other
day, took “poison from the pot,’ and had
some of them to perish thereby. That
occurred, remember, in one of the most
edulcorated districts of this city. Only
think of it and be unfearing if you can.
There, within sight of the classic temple
dedicated to music—there, within ear
shot of the mansion whence pour the af
fluences of harmonies—there, within the
aerial aupiees of the tuneful nine—under
the special shelter of soul-soothing Eu
terpe —there came the vilest and pal
triest spirit of Malice, and, possessing
the soul of a spiteful cook, there did that
same spirit dip its azotic fingers in the
food which was furnished to a whole
household.
Thv -e then had Malice a terrible op
portunity to glut this, its fiendish spirit,
for the poison thus fused into the pot
found, full soon, its virulent way to the
life seat of the unsuspecting people who j
partook thereof. What security is there,
then, against such catastrophe in the ex
purgated localities around Union Square
or any other spot so exempt from con
tact with the stercoraceous slime of a
more unhealthy neighborhood? Small
effect can these refreshing fountains — j
these deterging trees —these spruce gar- :
dens—these stately and highly-ventilated
mansions—these uninfected streets, with-!
in whose absterged sphere it is the pur
chased privilege of the “upper ten” to
live, and breathe, and keep their being ;
in a state of cozy clarification. Small ‘
effect, we say, can they have in staying
a Fury—even one in the kitchen —if
poison be contemplated. Not even
the inspiration which ought to be cast
around by the eternally-teaching pres
ence of the statue to him who is crown
ed, in all hearts, as the “ Father of his
Country”—note\en these can check a
Jezebel cook if her cursed heart is set
upon seasoning the pot of life with the
poison of death.
Are we not all alarmingly insecure in
this respect ? Alike those who live far
from disease-appeasing influences and
those who do not ? Do not the poison
cases of the past week or ten days dem
onstrate a danger we are not sufficiently
awake to ? Who knows how often
death has crept into one’s own home
through the culinary department?—
Who can say how many graves daily
j open to receive the victims of slow and
undetected poisoning ? Is there a bar
’ room or kitchen in New Y ork whose
\ pots are innocent of many deaths ?
Thi9 question and its bearings are as
tounding. One who ventures to look
these interrogations through and through
must stand aghast as much at the actual
revelations as at the started suspicions.
Veiily, turn over these truths how we
may—clas the causes how we will —
cogitate upon the consequences how we
must—call up the facts how we please
—there is Death at every side staring
us from the Pot; putting the pot, too,
in its widest signification.— N. Y. News.
Havn’t the Change.
MRS. MARY GRAHAM.
It was house cleaning time, and I had
an old colored woman at work scrub
bing and cleaning paint.
‘Polly is going,’ said one of my do- ;
mestics, as the twilight began to fall.
‘Very well, tell her that 1 shall want !
her to-morrow.’
‘1 think she would like to have her :
money for the day’s work,’ said the
girl.
I took out my purse, and found that I
had nothing in it less than a three dol
lar bill.
‘How much does she have a day !’
‘Six shillings.’
‘I havn’t the change this evening.—
Tell her that I’ll pay her for both days
to-morrow.’
The girl left the room and I thought
no more of Polly for an hour. Tea
time had come and passed, when one of
my domestics who was rather communi
cative in her habits said to me.
‘I don’t think old Polly liked your
not paying her this evening.’
‘She must be very unreasonable then,’
said I, without reflection. I sent her
word that 1 had no change. How did
she expect that I could pay her ?’
‘Some people are queer, you know,’ j
remarked the girl who made the commu
nication more for the pleasure of telling
it than any thing else.
1 kept thinking over what the girl had
said, until other suggestions had come
into my head.
‘I wish I had sent and got a bill chang
ed,’ said I, as the idea that Polly might j
be really in want of the money intruded
itself. ‘lt would have been very little
trouble.’
This was the beginning of anew train
of reflections, which did not make me
very happy. To avoid a little trouble,
I had sent the poor old woman away,
after a hard day’s work, and in need of
it was evident from the fact that she
had asked for it.
‘How very thoughtless in me,’ said I,
as I dwelt longer and longer on the
subject.
‘What’s the matter,’ enquired my
husband, seeing me look serious.
‘Nothing to be very much troubled
at,’ I replied.
‘Yet you are troubled ?’
‘1 am; and cannot help it. You will ,
perhaps, smile at me, but small causes,
sometimes produce much pain. Old Pol
ly has been at work all day, scrubbing
and cleaning. When night came she j
asked for her wages, and I, instead of j
taking the trouble to get the money for ‘•
her, sent her word that 1 had’nt the
change. There was nothing less than a
three dollar bill in iny purse. I didn’t
reflect that a poor old woman who has
to go out to daily work must need her
money as soon as it is earned. I’m ve j
ry sorry.’
My husband did not reply for some
time. My words appeared to have made
considerable impression on his mind.
‘Do you know where Polly lives?’!
he enquired at length.
‘No; but I will ask the girl.’ And j
immediately ringing the bell ; but no i
one in the house knew.
‘lt cannot be helped now,’ said my i
husband, in a tone of regret. ‘But I j
would be more thoughtful in the future, j
The poor always have need of money. .
Their daily labor rarely does more than .
supply their daily wants. I can never
forget a circumstance that occurred when
I was a boy. My mother was left a
widow when I was but nine years old—
and she was poor. It was by the labor
of her hands that she obtained shelter
and food for herself and three little ones.
‘Once—l remember the occurrence as
if it had taken place yesterday—we
were out of money and food. At break
fast time our last morsel was eaten, and
we went through the long day without a
mouthful of bread. We all grew very
hungry by night; hut our mother en 1
couraged us to be patient a little while
longer, until she finished the garment j
she was making, when she would take
that and some other work home to a la
dy, who would pay her for the work. — ;
Then, she said we should have a nice !
supper. At last the work Mas finished,
and I went with my mother to help ear- ,
ry it home, for she was weak and sickly, |
and even a light burden fatigued her.— j
The lady for whom she had made her
garment was in good circumstances, and ,
had no want un-met that money could
supply. When we came into her pres
ence, she took the woik, and after glanc
ing at it carelessly, said :
‘lt will do very well.’
‘My mother lingered; perceiving
which the lady said rtither rudely.
‘You want your money, I suppose. —
How much does the work come to V
‘Two iWllars,’ replied my mother. The
lady took out her purse, and, after look
ing through a small parcel of bills, said.
‘1 havn t the change this evening—call
over any time and you shall have it.’
‘And without giving mother any time
more urgently to urge her request turn
ed from us and left the room.
*1 shall never forget the night that fol
lowed. My mother’s feelings were sen
sative and independent. She could not
make known her want. An hour after
our return home, she sat weeping with
her children around her, when a neigh
bor came in, and learning our situation,
supplied the present need.
This relation did not make me feel
any the more comfortable. Anxiously
I awaited, on the next morning, the arri
val of Polly, As soon as she came I
sent for her, and handing her the money
: she had earned on the day before, said:
‘l’m sorry 1 hadn’t the change for you
last night, Polly. I hope you did’nt
want it very badly.’
Polly hetitated a little, and then re
plied :
‘Well, ma'am 1 did want it very much,
or I wouldn’t have asked for it. My
poor daughter Hetty is sick, and I want
ed to get her something nice to eat.’
‘l’m very sorry, said I, with sincere
regret. ‘How is Hetty this morning ?’
‘She isn’t so well, ma’am. And I feel
very bad about her.’
‘Come up to me in a half an hour Pol
ly,’ said I.
The old woman went down stairs. —
When she appeared again, according to
my desire, I had a basket for her, in
which were some wine, sugar, and fruit,
and various little matters which I
thought her daughter would relish, and
told her to go at once and take them to
the sick girl. Her expressions of grati
tude touched my feelings deeply. Nev
er, since, have 1 omitted, under any pre
tence, to pay the poor their wages as
soon as earned.
THE DUCAT AND TEE FARTHING.
BY MARY IIOWITT.
A ducat and a farthing had just been
coined at the great mint where all the
gold, silver and coper pieces are made.
The two lav close, side by side, clean
and beautiful, and the clear sunlight glit
tered upon them.
‘•Thou rag-muffin !” cried the ducat, :
“off with thee ! Thou art only made for
vulgar copper, and art not worthy to be
shone upon by the sun. Thou wilt soon
be black and dirty, and no one will
think it worth while to pick thee up from
the ground. I, on the contrary, am of:
costly gold. i shall travel through the
world to the end, to princes and kings, (
1 shall do great things; and even at j
length, perhaps, become part of the
king’s crown.”
At the same moment a great white j
cat, lying near the lire, rose up, and ,
turning round on her side, remarked:
“ The under must be uppermost to
make all even.”
And the fate of those two coins was
somewhat the same.
The gold piece came into the posses
sion of a rich miser, who locked it up in
a chest among a great number of other
gold pieces. The miser, fearing that he
should soon die, buried all his gold in the
earth, so that no one could possess it af
ter him; and there lies the proud du
cat to this present time, and it has
grown so black and dirty that no one
will pick it up if they saw it.
The farthing, however, traveled far
through the earth, and came to high hon
or, and this is how it occurred :
V lad in the mint received the farth
ing in his w’ages; and the lad’s little J
sister admiring the bright little coin, he
gave it to her. The child ran into the
garden to show her mother the farthing; j
an old lame beggar came limping up,
and begged a piece of bread. “ I have ,
none,” said the little girl. “ Give me j
then, a farthing, that I may buy myself
a bit of bread,” said the beggar. The
child gave him the farthing. The beg
gar limped away to the baker’s. \\ hilst
he stood in the shop, an acquaintance, j
dres'ed as a pilgrim, w ith his cloak,
staff and b3g. came up the street, and
gave the children pretty pictures of
saints and holy men. and the children
dropped pence into the box which the
pilgrim held in his hand. The beggar
asked, ••Where are you going]” The
pilgrim replied, “ Many hundred miles,
to the city of Jerusalem, where the Lord
Jesus was born, and lived, and died. I
am going to pray at his holy grave, and
to buy the release of my brother, who
has been taken prisoner by the Turks.
But first I am collecting money in my
box.” ‘So take my mite,” said the beg- i
gar, and gave the pilgrim the farthing.
The beggar was walking away, hun- ;
gry as he came, but the baker, who had
looked on, gave the poor marr the bread j
he was about to have bought.
Now, the pilgrim traveled through
many lands, sailed over the sea in a lit
tle ship, and at length reached the
city of Jerusalem. When the pil
grim arrived, he first prayed at the sep- ,
ulchre, and then presented himself be
fore the sultan, who held his brother
captive, ile offered the Turk a great
sum of money if he would only set his
brother free. But the Turk required
more. “1 have nothing more to offer,”
spake the pilgrim, “than this common
farthing, which a hungry beggar gave
me out of compassion. Be thou also
compassionate, and the farthing will re
ward thee.”
The Sultan put the farthing in his
pocket, and soon forgot all about it.—
The Emperor of Germany come to Je
tusalem, and waged war against the Sul
tan. Tne Sultan fought bravely, and j
was never wounded. Once an arrow
was shot straight at his breast—it struck
him, but fell back again without wound
ing him. The Sultan was much surpris
ed at this, and, after the battle, his clothes
were examined, and in the breast pocket
the farthing was found, against which
the arrow had struck. The Turk held the
farthing in great honor, and had it hung
with a golden chain to the handle of his
scimetar. Later on the war, the Sultan
was taken prisoner by the Emperor, and
’ forced to yield up his sword to him.—
And thus the farthing came with the
sword into the Emperor’s possession.
Whilst the Emperor sat at the table
with a beaker of wine in his hand, the
Empress said she should like to see the
Sultan’s sword, and it was brought. As
the Emperor exhibited it to the Em
press, the farthing fell from the golden
chain into the wine. The Emperor per
ceived this, and before he placed the
I beakei to his lips, he took out the farth
ing. But the farthing had grown quite
grten. Then every one saw the wine
’ was poison. A wicked attendant had
! poisoned the wine In order to destroy
the Emperor. The attendant wa* con-
deiimed to death ; but the farthing was
placed in the imperial crown.
Thus the farthing had delighted a
child, had procured a beggar bread, had
released a prisoner, and saved the life
of a Sultan, and of an Emperor. There
fore it was set in the imperial crown
and is there to this day—if one could
only see the crown.
From Life Illustrated.
Wearing Out and Rusting Cut.
A late citizen of Hartford, having re
tired from business with a competency,
felt the want of regular employment, and
adopted a judicious plan to secure it.—
After making provision for his children,
he used his spare income, not in ventur
ing on new speculations, bnt in further
ing and supporting favorite objects of
benevolence. By superintending the ap
plication of his public charities, he fur
nished himself with noble and useful oc
cupation, in which both mind and body
had a share. Let the aged follow his
example; nay, let all the unemployed
follow it—and thus keep their faculties
from rusting. The mind, if properly
exercised, does not grow old with the
body, and the latter neid not decay so
fast as it does. There is no greater ene
my to health of both parts of the P3*stem, i
than idleness —we were going to sav;
but there is—in the absurd sensitiveness
to a false sentiment, that compels to
idleness, when the human fcehig craves
activity.
We do not hesitate to say, that this
false sentiment has slain its thousands
and tens of thousands in this land, and
that its slaughter has been most terrific
among women.
The woman who does not labor—rich
and honored though she be —hears on
her head the inevitable curse of Heaven.
The curse works in her failing health, in
her fading beauty, in her fretful temper,
in her days devoured by ennui. Let
her not dare to think that because she
has no domestic circle to care for, she is
free from the law meant to be universal.
Let her not dare to quail before the
judgment of some shallow fop or frivo
lous fair one, when she can find employ
ment for mental and physical faculties.
Let her not be afraid of the sneers of
the brainless and the impertinent, who
would insult any woman who should
walk out not attired in splendid silks,
when it was know n she could afford it.
She has a higher duty to perform, set
ting aside that to Heaven—a duty to
herself. Unemployed powers waste
away with frightful rapidity. We have
not seldom seen women of fourscore
whose active frames and perfect intel
lects have been said to show “ the tri
umph of spirit over matter,” whose pow
ers of enjoyment were undiminished.—
But never did we see one thus whose
life had been an idle one ; such were sure
to sink into idiocy long before nature
should have been worn out. Consider
this—women w ho are ashamed of being j
known to labor, because you do not i
need to do so! You do need it; the |
neglect is at your peril. Disease, imbe- ,
cility, disgrace, threaten you if you are
deterred from obeying the great law of
nature —through fear of the laughter of
tools. ‘
Some of the Uses of Marriage.
One of the London Magazines lias the
following sensible observations upon the
economy of matrimony:
In return for whatever you may have
done for your wife, from what a compli
cated slavery does she deliver you.—
Only make the enumeration. From the
slavery of baseness : If you have happi
ness beside your hearth, you will not go
in the evening to court love under the
smoky lamps of a dancing-room, and to
find drunkenness in the street. From
the slavery of weakness : You will not
drag your limbs along, like your sad ac
quaintance, that pale, worn-out, bloated,
young-old man. From the slavery of
melancholy : He who is strong and does
a man’s work—he who goes out to labor
and leaves at home a cherished soul who
loves him—will from that sole circum
stance, have a cheerful heart and be
merry all day. From the slavery of
money : Treasure this very exact arith
metical maxim, “Two persons spend less
than one.” Many bachelors remain as
they are, in alarm at the expense of mar
ried life, but who spend infinitely more.
They live very dearly at the case and
restaurateur's, very dearly at the thea
tre. The Havana cigar alone, smoked
all day long, is an outlay of itself. But
if your wife has no female friends whose
rivalry troubles her, and excites her to
dress, she spends nothing. She reduces
all your expenses to such a degree, that
the calculation just given is anything
but just. It should not have been “two
people,” but “ four people spend less
than one.” When a marriage is reason
able, contracted with foresight, when the
family does not increase too fast, a w ife,
far from being an obstacle to liberty of
movement, is on the contrary, its natu
ral and essential condition. Why does
the Englishman emigrate so easily, and
so beneficially for England hersell ? Be
cause his wife follows him. Except in
devouring climates, such as India, it may
be asserted that the English woman has
sown the whole earth with solid English
colonies. The force of Family has cre
ated the force and greatness ot the coun
try. With a good wife and a good
trade, a young man is free; free to leave
his home, or free to remain. It must be
a trade, and not an art pf luxury. Have
such an art into the bargain, if you like;
but the first necessity is to be master of
one of the arts that are useful to all. —
The man who loves and wishes to main
tain his wife, will hardly waste his time
in drawing the precise line between art
and trade; a line which is fictitious in
reality. Who cannot see that the ma
jority of trades, if traced to their princi
ple. are real branches of an arl ? The
NUMBER 3.
bootmaker’s and the tailor's trades make
a close approach to sculpture. A tailor
1 who appieciates models, and rectifies na
ture, is worth three classic sculptors.
The Duty of Owning Books.
BY HENRY WARD BEECHER.
We form judgments of men from little
thiugs about their house, of which the own
er, perhaps, never thinks. In earlier years,
when traveling : n the west, where taverns
were either scarce, or, in some places, un
known, and every settler's house was a house
of “ entertainment,” it was a matter of some
importance and some experience to select
wisely where you would put up. And we
always looked for flowers. If there were
no trees for shade, no patch of flowers in
the yard, we were suspicious of the place.
But, no matter how rude the cabin, or rough
the surroundings, if we saw that the window
held a little trough for flowers, and some
vines twined around the strings let down
from the eaves, we were confident that there
was some taste and carefulness in the log
cabin. In anew country, where people
have to tug lor a living, no one will take the
trouble to rear flowers, unless the love of
them is pretty strong—and this laste blos
soming out of plain and uncultivated people
is, itself, like a clump of hare-bells growing
out of the seams of a rock. We were sel
dom misled. A patch of flowers came to
signify kind people, clean beds and good
bread.
But other signs are more significant in
other states of society. Flowers about a
rich man’s house may signify only that he
has a good gardener, or that he has refined
neighbors, and does what he sees them do.
But men are not accustomed to buy hooks
unless they want them. If, on visiting the
dwelling of a man of slender means, 1 find
the reason why he has chsap carpets and
very plain furniture, to be that he may pur
chase books, he rises at once in my esteem.
Books are not made for furniture, but there
is nothing else that so beautifully tumishes a
house. The plainest row of books that cloth
or paper ever covered, is more significant of
refinement than the most elaboialely-carved
e toy re or sideboard.
Give me a house furnished with books ra
ther than furniture! Both, if you can, but
books at any rate! To spend several days
in a friend’s house, and hunger for some
thing to read, while you are treading on
costly carpets, and sitting upon luxurious
chairs and sleeping upon down, is as if one
were bribing your body lor the sake of
cheating your miad.
Is it not pitiable to see a man growing
rich, and beginning to augment the comforts
of home, and la\i3hing money on ostenta
tious upholstery, upon the table, upon every
thing but what the soul needs ?
We know ol many and many a rich man's
house where it would not he safe to ask for
the commonest English classics. A few
garish annuals on the tablp, a few pictorial
monstrosities, together with a stock of reli
gious books of “persuasion,” and that is all!
No range of poets, no essayists, no selection
of historians, no travels or biographies—no
selections or curious legendary lore; but
then, the walls have paper on, which cost
three dollars a roll, and the floors have car
pets that cost four dollars a yard! Books
are the windows through which the soul
looks out. A ho>’se without books is like a
room without wiadows. No man has a right
to bring up his children without surrounding
them with books, if he has the means to buy
them. It is wrong to his family. He cheats
(hem! Children learn to read by being in
the presence of books. Tli-i- love of know
ledge comes from reading, and grows upon
it. And the love of knowledge in a young
ljiind, is almost a warrantee against the in
ferior excite neut, of the passions and vices.
Let us pity those poor rich men who live
barrenly in great bookless houses! Let us
congratulate the poor, that in our day, books
are so cheap that a man may every year
add a hundred volumes to his library for the
price of what his tobacco and beer would
cost him. Among the earliest ambitions to
be exalted In clerks, workmen, journeymen,
and indeed, among all that are struggling up
in life from nothing to something, is that ot
owning and constantly adding to a library of
good books. A little library growing larger
every year is an honorable part of a young
man’s history. It is a man’s duty to have
books. A library is not a luxury, but one
of the necessaries of life.
Never no Too Mccn at a Time.—Sir Ed
ward Bulwer Lytton, in a lecture recently
delivered in England, gave the following his
tory of his literary habits :
“ Many persons seeing me so much en
gaged in active life, and as much about the
world as if I had never been a student, have
said to me, ‘ When do you get time to write
all your hooks ? How on earth do you con
trive to do so much work ?’ I shall surprise
you by the answer I make. The answer is
this: ‘I contrive to do so much by never
doing too much at a time.’ A man to get
through work weli, must not overwork him
self; or, if he does too much to-day, the re
action of fatigue will come, and he will be
obliged to do too little to-morrow. Now,
since I began really and earnestly to study,
which was not till I had left college, and
was actually in the world; I may perhaps
say that I have gone through ap large a
course of general reading as most men of my
time. I have traveled much and I have seen
much; I have mixed much in politics, and
in the various business of life; and, in addi
tian to all this. 1 have published somewhere
about sixty volumes, some upon subjects re
quiring much special research. And what
time do you think, as a general rule, I have
devoted to study —to reading and writing ?
Not more than three hours a day; and,,
when Parliament is sitting, not always that.
But then, during those hours, I have given
my whole attention to what I was about.”
A Child Fcxeral—Probarly True.—There
was a strange instance of child desertion, death
and burial at Detroit last week. The dead
body was found on one of the streets of that
city. The child was apparently but a few
hours old, and was wrapped inswaddling clothes
without any other covering. Some vaga
bond children who were playing near the spot,
which was a vacant lot, first discovered it.—
These, following out the bent of juvenile instiae*,
appropriated the little corpse, and without say
ing a word to anybody, made preparations for
grand funeral, being highly delighted at having
a real body to bury. The of passers
by was attracted by their movements, and they
were discovered gathered around a cigar-box,
in which they had placed the child, in the act
of saying prayers, with closed hands and*solemn
contenances. A detachment with shingles was
waiting with eagerness to dig the grave, and
all were thrown into a high state of indigna
tion at having their funeral disturbed.
*