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YOL. I.
;.;. r«. WEDLOCK. JETHRO ARLIKE. R. L. RODGERS.
31 y 'Je«Eiock. Ai’lcttc & Rmlgers.
The Hes.u.1) is published in Sandersville,
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.< > charge for publishing marriages or
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POETRY.
True Politeness.
True politeness, people say,
Like the rosy dawn of day,
Has a touch of nature’s grace,
Has a freshness one can trace
In the manner and the -word.
In the actions, though unheard.
True politeness can but make
Love and honor out of hate;
Can but move the coldest heart;
Make the fountains to upstart*
Which were thought forever pressed
From the dead, unfeeling breast.
True politeness, people say,
Drives dislike and hate away;
Hides from view each wanting charm,
Shields one oft from many a harm:
Makes fair nature quite complete;
Makes our hearts with joy replete.
True politeness, like the rain
Falling on the parched grain.
Watering thirsty fields and woods
With its cool, refreshing flood,
Makes the drooping soul rejoice,
Chimes in sweetly with the voice.
True politeness, wondrous art,
Wins respect from every heart,
Gains a friend all unawares;
Many a wound alike repairs;
Shows a henrt and soul refined;
Shows a cultivated mind.
True politeness, like the sun
Sheds abroad on every one.
In the brightness of the day,
Many a warm and pleasant ray;
Then the shadows that are oast
Are the memories of the past.
SELECT MISCELLANY.
MRS. GREYS RELIGION.
BY MRS. M. A. DENISON.
“You don’t believe Mrs. Grey is a
Christian. I am sorry to hear you
speak in that manner of so estima
ble a woman.”
“Perhaps I should not have spoken
so decidedly, but I think I have a
good reason for what I have said.”
“But you certainly overlook the
fact of her usefulness in the church.
Nobody gives more liberally than she
does. Only last Sabbath, remember,
she subscribed fifty dollars toward
our minister’s salary—and in times
of conference nobody entertains more
liberally than she. ’ I think she is a
perfect prodigy of benevolence.”
“1 dare say in such matters her
liberality is unstained; but I was
not thinking of that. She is rich, I
suppose—I know she has kept that
large store on Marshall street for a
great many years. Suppose we call
there—it is on our way.”
The two friends, a Mrs. Abdy and
Mrs. Brown, walked on together until
they came to an imposing store,
where on one side every conceivable
kind of fancy work was for sale, and
on the other children’s garments,
chiefly for boys—coats, pants and
caps—a large and costly variety.
Mrs. Abdy and Mrs. Brown quietly
stood on one side, for there were
several women at the latter counter
—not customers, it was evident, for
they were palefaced and shabbily
dressed. A showy looking girl with
red ribbons in her hair stood behind
the counter, picking out sorted bun
dles and passing them over to these
women.
“Mrs. Grey says vou must take the
last batch home and make the button
holes over—she won’t have such
work,” said the girl, approaching a
tidy looking woman who turned a
shade paler at the asperity and sup
ercilious manner of the girl.
“I thought they were done as geod
as usual,” said the woman with a
tremulous lip, “but perhaps not.
Mary was sick, you see, and she al
ways makes the button-holes—she’s
sick now. Wouldn’t they possibly
do?”
Mrs. Brown stepped forward and
caught a sight of the button-holes.
They were good, as neatly made as
she would have wished, were the suit
made for her boy.
“No, they won’t do,” said the girl
sharply, pushing the articles toward
her. “You can leave them—but you
know Mrs. Grey’s rule—not one cent
unless the whole is done to suit her.”
“And I only get fifteen cents for
the whole,” murmured the woman
with a despairing look.”
“I’m sure the button-holes are
very neatly done,” said Mrs. Brown,
hoping that a word from her would
have the desired effect; “they would
suit me and I am quite particular.”
“They wouldn’t suit a majority of
Mrs. Grey’s customers, said the girl
with an insolent side look at the
impertinent stranger as she consider
ed her, “and this woman is none too
particular at any time. She often
ii.is to carry her work back, and I’d
advise her to get a new pair of spec
tacles it she can’t see better.”
“Bear Lord,” groaned the -woman,
turning away, a heart-broken ex
pression darkening her pale, pinched
teat ires—shrinking almost from sight
m her mortification and despair; she
Fho had silver threads shining amidst
tlm dark' gleam of her locks—she
' ■ uh all the rich experience of mater-
“rty—with ail the heavy care of the
! ; world’s neglect and poverty—with
I all the scars of a hard, long fight
with temptation, privation, disease
and sorrow upon her, flippantly
shamed by a pert, mindless, brazen
girl of seventeen. Mrs. Brown’s
cheek was scarlet -but the jfoor wo
man had crowded out and others had
crowded in.
A good looking, coarse woman
threw down a bundle; it was examin
ed and passed. The girl took from
a small box one piece of money and
handed it to her. The woman stared
at it, rubbed her eyes—looked with
a puzzled face at the girl, and then
exclaimed.
“Why don’t you give me the rest
of the money?”
“That’s all that’s due,” said the
girl, “make room.”
“But I tell you there were five
shirts at twenty-five cents apiece.”
“And I tell you they were only five
cents apiece,” was the frowning re
ply ; “pretty profit we should make
to give twenty-five cents for those
little things.”
“You deceived me then,” cried the
woman, her anger rising, “for I dis
tinctly asked you if they were twenty-
five cents apiece, and you said yes.
Why there are four rows of stitching
in the bosom.”
“Won't you please to make room ?”
asked the girl impatiently.
“Not till I tell you what I think of
you,” cried the woman, “for you are
a liar and a cheat. Thank God, I’m
not dependent upon your work for
my living, and I pity them that are,
that’s all. You may cheat the poor
widow and the orphan, but you won’t
cheat me again.”
The girl only curled her lips, for a
pale, pinched woman who had been
waiting sometime now eagerly crowd
ed up to the counter.
“O please put me in her place, I’ll
be glad to work for anything if only
I can get it to do.” She choked
down the tears and absolutely trem
bled in her eagerness (and her hun
ger I have no doubt) from head to
foot. %.
“O yes, you can have it—we can
get plenty to take them at that price
and thank us in the bargain,” said
the girl heartlessly, pulling down
another bundle.
Mrs. Abdy now inquired for Mrs.
Grey, and was ushered into the show
room, where a portly woman stepped
forward much surprised and pleased
—and learning that they had come
for a call she immediately ushered
them by-means of a stairway into lier
private parlor, a splendid room fur
nished with every luxury the heart
could desire.
“And how are you, Mrs. Abdy—
and you, Mrs. Brown ? It’s a great
while since I have seen yoainchrcuh,
isn't it ?”
“My children have been ill,” re
plied Mrs. Brown quietly.
“O! I thought something must be
the matter. If you are amything
like me—I never let trifles interfere
with my church duties. I believe I
have been when others would have
wrapped themselves in flannels and
gone to bed—I have that much affec
tion for the Lord’s house. And what
a heavenly sermon we had last Sab
bath, Mrs. Abdy. I have thought of
it all the week. I do think we ought
to be so thankful to the Lord for
sending us Brother Drewson. His
words are indeed sharp as a two-
edged sword.”
During a confidential tete-a-tete,
Mrs. Brown managed to give a hint
at what she thought of the wholesale
impertinence of the girl in the shop
towards the work perple.
“O, Delia’s sharp,” said Mrs. Grey,
with a gratified little laugh; “that’s
why I keep her. Do you know I pay
her extra for that very quality ? I
assure you it’s the most terrible thing
, to deal with these swop-women.
They shirk and sham, and tell all
manner of lies to get excused, and
do their work abominably at the best.
You’ve no idea what a trying busi-
t . ness it is on that account. If it didn’t
* pay me pretty well,” she added, com
placently, “I’d give it up to-morrow.
But Delia, dear me, she’s a perfect
treasure—knows just how to deal
with that sort of people. You
see there’s no getting along with
them I assure you, unless you’re
right up and down with them.”
Mrs. Brown’s heart ached as she
thought of that neat, grave-looking
woman with her quivering lip and
silvery hair, stabbed to the very quick
by the course, unfeeling creature be
hind the counter.
“Is this girl—a—professor of re
ligion ?” asked Mrs. Brown with some
hesitation.
“Wh y no,” replied Mrs. Grey turn
ing red ; “that’s all I have to try me.
Deiia is iionest and concientious, and
all that, but I don’t think she has
found a hope. She is with me now,
however, altogether, and I trust I
may be made the means of her sal
vation. Do you believe Brother
Drewson will get well ?” she queried,
shrewdly changing the subject.
“Now what do you thiuk of Mrs.
Grey?” asked Mrs. Brown, as the two
friends gained the street.
, “I’m afraid she is sacrificing her
religion on the shrine of Mammon,”
S ANDERSYJLLE, GEORGIA, MAY 16, 1873.
NO. 46.
was the reply. “I have always
thought so very highly of her, I can’t
bear to change my opinion. Still I
have seen with my own eyes and
heard with my own ears what I would
not have believed as bear-say.”
‘One of our church poor lives here,’
said Mrs. Brown as they turned in
to a lonesome street lined with poor
houses that were filled with poor
tenants—“shall we call upon her ?”
Mrs. Abdy signified that it would be
pleasing to her, and they entered
the creaking door of one of the tall
est houses, where after toiling up
three pair of wretched stairs they
came to a room in which a thin, pal
lid woman sat making caps at the
rate of sixpence apiece. She arose
with a smile, extended her thin hand,
choked down a hard dry cough as
she asked them to be seated, and to
excuse her because she most go on
with her work; “for you see I prom
ised them at five this afternoon, and
I work for Mrs. Grey, o£our church.
She’s a good woman I’ve no doubt—
only she don’t know by experince
what the poor have to suffer, and
that perhaps makes her hard on ns.
But she pays me a little more than
sne does the others.
“That’s a sad case in the other
room,” she went on, “a dreadful sad
case. It’s a Mrs. Acton, a widow
woman, as good a soul as ever I knew,
and she’s got a poor consumptive
girl to support. Maria works in spite
of her weakness all she can; but
this week she couldn’t seem to get
np strength. So Mrs. Acton she had
some nice work and had to make the
button-holes herself. She’s been
longer than usual about it too, and
I dare say actually wants the money
to buy bread. I went in to stay with
Maria while she was gone, and the
poor soul came back completely
crushed. She threw the work down,
and burst into tears. Maria was
frightened, and when her mother told
her that the button-holes would all
have to be picked out, it threw her
into such a fit of trembling and
conghing that she burst a blood ves
sel, and now I suppose the poor thing
is barfcly alive. Mrs. Grey’s a very
hard woman sometimes, but I don’t
know as she would be if she knew
the circumstatnces—I hope not.”
Mrs. Abdy and Mrs. Brown ex
changed glances.
“If I was only able to do them
button-holes,” said the poor spinster,
hurrying at her own work, “but by
the time I’ve done with these, my
eyes’ll be good for nothing.”
“Suppose we call upon this poor
widow,” said Mrs. Brown, wiping the
tears from her eyes.
“She’d take it kindly, I’m sure,”
replied the poor sister, into whose
hand Mrs. Abdy slipped something
as they parted, well rewarded by the
quick look of gratitude that flushed
the woman’s attenuated features.
Knocking at a crazy door, the two
were admitted into a darkened room:
destitute of a carpet, almost of any
kind of furniture save a large bed
stead, on whose thin mattress laid
a form that seemed already prepar
ed for the grave.
“My poor child,” whispered the
grieved mother as they went forward
to look at the sleeping girl, “the doc
tor says she can’t last long.”
“I saw yon in Mrs. Grey’s shop,”
whispered Mrs. Brown. The woman
started—a red shame painted her
cheeks for a moment.
“O! did you, ma’am?” she cried,
biting her lips; “did you hear how
that girls spoke to me? and I have
been in better circumstances. While
my husband lived I had plenty—
while my parents lived I had every
thing. O! it is bitter!” she straggled
against the tears, but they would
come; she hid her face in her hands.
“Give me your work,” said Mrs.
Brown gently, as soon as she could
speak. “I will pay you now—take
it home and make the bntton-holes
myself, and then see Mrs. Grey abont
it. I am well acquainted with her,
and when she understands the case
I think it will be less hard for you.
Here is my card—send somebody to
my house to-night-I have some wine
and little delicacies which I keep for
the sick.”
“God bless you, madam-God bless
—and I know he will,’ cried the grate
ful woman. “I said a dreadful thing
in my heart when I left Mrs. Grey’s,
but indeed I don’t want to feel so
even towards my oppressors. I trust
He will forgive me and open her eyes
and touch her worldly-heart."
Mrs. Brown called upon Mrs. Grey
according to promise. She listened
coldly, and promised coldly to do
what she could-—but oh! as the poor
widow had said—in spite of her pro
fession—her charities—her gifts to
those who needed not-oh! that world
ly heart! how it stood in the way of
many a poor soul’s welfare!
. Strangely indeed upon the ears of
such .must fall the words of our Lord:
“Pure religion and undefiled before
God and the Father is to visit the
orphan and the widow in their afflic
tion and to keep himself unspotted
from the world.”
Girls are taught type-setting at aa
industrial school in Vienna.
Distance Lends Enchantment. .
BX HIT. nH. srusaxos.
On the Island of Lido, within.hail
of Venice, one hears a very heaven
of music floating over the lagone
from the church bells of “that glo
rious city in the sea.” The atmos
phere seems to ripple with silver
waves akin to those which twinkle
on the sea of glass before you. A
mazy dance of sweet sounds bewild
ers you with delight; it is a mosaic
of music, or, if you will a lace-work
of melody. One would not wish to
lose a note or hush the glorious
clangor of a single bell. How
changed it all is, when the gondoli
er’s fleet oar has brought you fclose
under the Campaniles, whex you are
gliding smoothly along those mar
velous streets, where “salt seaweed
clings to the marble of the palaces.”
Then ihe booming of the bells, in
cessant, impetuous thundering, gar
rulous, discordant, becomes an al
most unbearable affliction. On your
right a little noisy demon calls from
the hollow of his cracked shrine in
a voice dolefully monotonous, and
yet actually piercing, awakening a
whole kennel of similar spirits, each
one more ill-conditioned than his
brother; these, in turn, aroise a
huge and monstrous Diabolus, who*
groans at you as if longing to grind
your Protestant bones, and feed the
departed souls of Inquisitors with
the dainty bread. Two or three
sweet little bells cast in their dulcet
notes, but the ear resents as an im
pertinence their unrequested addi
tion to the deafening din; while
Worse than all, if perchance a mo
ment’s paose should occur, and the
discordant and the booming noise-
makers should rest, as though from
sheer exhaustion, some miserable
cur of a bell close at hand is sure
to yap out like a scalded puppy, to
the utter despair of the wearied
traveler. Charles Lamb may talk
of'bell-ringing “the music nighest
bordering upon heaven,” but too
much of it is more suggestive of an
other place. At certain hours in
Venice, the bells of a hundred
chuvches, all near at hand, make
day hideous to the ear, and cause
one to wish for night, when—
“Darker and darker
The black shadows fall;
Sleep and oblivion
Reign over all."
Thus and thus it is with this world
everywhere and evermore. Ear
away and outside the world is har
mony and delight—nearer and more
closely known, it is horror and con
fusion. To the young and inexpe
rienced, the cadence sweet of love
and mirth is rapture, and the towers
of earth ring out a concert, filling
hope with transport; but when the
gondola of experience has brought
the man into the very city of life, he
hears a horde of bells—
“Solemnly, mournfully,
Dealing their dole.”
He is startled by mighty knells;
wearied with piercing tones of care;
and worried out of hope, as with
mournful accents tronbles cleave the
air, and the crazing clamors of peals
of controversy, bobmajors of non
sense, and chimes of slander, fright
en sacred quiet from the scene, and
sound a hideous requiem to peace.
“Things are not what they seem.”
From afar, society is full of friend-
hip ; nearer it is hollow and hypo-
•ritical; pleasure dreamed of is
Elysium, but, mingled in, too much
>i it is Gehenna; philosophy seems
leep and solid at a distance, but
.earched with care, it is proved to be
.•apid and pretentions. All the
world’s a mirage; heaven alone is
•eal. From thy din, O earth, we
.urn to the divine Sabbath bells of
leaven, which from far off hills pro-
ilairn the everlasting joy of the New
Jerusalem.
Robert E. Lee.—In the Edin
burgh Review for April, an article
m Robert E. Lee, will be read with
leep interest. It is a grand tribute
rom an unbiased source. For its
istimate of the. general place that
Lee is to hold in American history
he following sentences will suffice as
veil as a volume:
“The day will come when the evil
jassions of the great civil strife will
deep in oblivion, and North and South
,vill do justice to each other’s mo
tives and forget each other’s wrongs.
Then history will speak with clear
/oice of the deeds done on either
side, and the citizens of the whole
Union do justice to the memory of
.he dead, and place above all others
.he name of the great chief of whom
xe have written. In strategy migh
ty; in battle terrible; in adversity, as
in prosperity, a hero indeed, with
the simple devotion to duty and the
rare purity of the ideal Christian
knight he Joined all the kingly quali
ties, of a leader of man. It is a won-
derous future, indeed, tiiat- lies be
fore America, bnt in her annals of
years to come, as inthosa of the past,
there will be found few names that
can rival in unsullied luster that of
the heroic defender of his native Vir
ginia, Robert Edward Lee.”
Business success—Its Secret
What is the secret of success in
business? This question is asked by
a. young correspondent as gravely as
if it could be answered be chapter
and verse out of some well known
text book. It may do him and oth
ers good however, to discuss it a lit
tle. And first it is not genius. All
with such peculiar gifts make bad
managers of any business, and arc
too erratic for ordinary executive
purposes. And it is not liigh intel
lectual attainments. Few scholarly
men will lay aside their devotion to
letters for their own sake and follow
the plodding course by which success
in business is to -be attained. And
it lies not in the force of circumstances
Some who might have otherwise
been sccessfnl in a clear course have
doubtless broken down in the face of
peculiar obstacles; bat the man who
can bend circumstances and occa
sions to his will can achieve his
triumph in spite of adverse circum
stances. It is not luck. There is less
happy chance in success than is com
monly supposed. It is true that many
tempt theirfate and escape as by a
miracle, bnt this can form no rule of
life: success in business is obedient
to a law that can be clearly and dis
tinctly traced throughout the whole
of one’s career. This law is based
on the principle that everything has
its price, and they only who are will
ing and able to pay it, can acquire
that which they covet. Some are un
able through want of nerve, of failling
health, or defective judgment, or oth
er mental or physical defects, to sue
ceed in the struggle. But more who
are able, fail because they are un
willing to meet the cost. They seek
the end, but will not, by patient, earn
est self-denial, employ the means.
Present gratification, some form of
indulgence, not consistent with the
end which has been proposed, offers a
temptation too strong for them to re
sist. To-morrow they will begin a i
sterner course; next week they will j
turn over a new leaf with different
reading on the obverse side; bnt to :
day let the hands be folded and the i
old incumbrance remain. No man j
is on the road to success, who has j
not already paid part of the price, j
and is now holding out to fortune in ;
full the next installment that is due.
Many fancy they are tendering the j
price, and wonder that the ground :
does not grow solid beneath their j
feet. If they will look again with a i
keener eye, they will see that their
hands are filled with conterfeit offer
ings which will never be accepted.
The toiler may deceive himself, bnt
he can never get the principal. Some
thing for nothing is contrary to the
constitution of things. Everything
for its price, is the universal law, but
no bogus coin is taken in this bar
gain.
There is still another question of
still greater inportance. Is that great i
measure of success, which most peo- j
pleple covet, worththepri.ee at which ;
alone it can be recovered? Is it not i
often, if not always, bought too dear- j
ly, and at a sacrifice too great for its j
real value? And another of even
more practical importance, is person
al happiness at all dependent on this
measure of success? We hold that
happiness is not dependent on out
ward circumstances. It is the out
growth of desirable moral character,
and is built of no sordid materials.
In truth, the enjoyments of oar pres
ent state, are more evenly distributed
than they* are willing to admit as ap
plied to their own case; this our fact
alone proving the truth of oue asser
tion.—Millers Journal.
A Lesson of Obedience.
To obey promptly, to do the very
thing that is commanded—how very
rarefy do children understand the
importance of those things. An il
lustration of the importance of such
obedience has just been given in the
Berlin papers, which relate the fol
lowing incident that lately took place
in Prussia: *‘A switchman was at the
junction of two lines of railway, his
lever in hand, for a train was signal
ed. The engine was within a few
seconds of reaching the embankment,
when the man on tuning his head,
perceived his little boy playing on
the rails of the line the train was to
pass over. With a heroic devoted
ness to his duty, the unfortunate man
adopted a soblime resolution. “Lie
down,” he shouted ont to the child;
but as to himself, he remained at his
post. The train passed along on its
way, and the lives of one hundred
passengers were, perhaps, saved:
But the poor child! The father rush
ed forward expecting to see only a
corpse; but what was his joy on find
ing that the boy had at once obey-
ea his order? He laid down, and the
whole train passed over him without
injury. The next day the king sent
for die a—and attached to his breast
the medal for civil courage.
Where God loves he affords love
tokens and such are only his soul-
enriching graces. If our heart moves
toward him certainly his goeth out
toward us. The shadow on the dial
moves according to the sun in the
heavens.
. * -vixi-j™. -Robs-iedf ov »*
The Cheerful Face.
BY ANNA CLEAVES.
Next to the sunlight of heaven is
the sunlight of a cheerful face. There
is no mistaking it—the bright eye,
the unclouded brow, the sunny smile,
all tell of that which dwells within.
Who has not felt its electrifying in
fluence? One glance at snch a face
lifts us at once ont of the arms of
despair, out of the mists and shad
ows, away from tears and repining
into the beautiful realms of hope.
One cheerful face in a household will
keep everything bright and warm
within. Envy, hatred, malice, self
ishness, despondency, and a host of
evil passions, may lurk- around the
door, they may even look within, bnt
they can never enter and abide there;
the cheerful face will put them to
shame andjflighi.
It may be a very plain fact, but
there is something about it we feel,
yet cannot express; and its eheery
smile sends the blood dancing through
our veins for very joy; we turn to
ward the sun, and its warm, genial
influence refreshes and strengthens
our fainting spirits. Ah, there is a
world of magic in the plain, cheeful
face! It charms os with a spell that
reaches into eternity, and we would
cot exchange it for all the sonlless
beauty that ever graced the fairest
form on earth.
It nut) be a very little face; one
that we nestle on oar bosoms or sing
to sleep in our arms with a low, sweet
lullaby; but it is such a bright, cheery
little face! The scintillations of joy
ous spirit are flashing from every
feature. And what a power it has
over the household! binding each
heart together in tenderness, and
love, and sympathy. Shadows may
darken around us, but somehow this
litile face ever shines between, and
the shining is so bright that the shad
ows cannot remain, and silently they
creep away into the dark corners
where the cheerful face is never seen.
It may be a very icmikled face,
bnt it is all the dearer for that and
none the less bright. We linger near
it and gaze tenderly upon it and say,
“God bless this happy face! We must
keep it with us as long as we can, for
home will lose much of its brightness
when this sweet face is gone.”
And after it is gone how the re-
membracC of it purifies and softens
our wayward natures! When care
and sorrow would snap our heart
strings asunder, this wrinkled face
The Hornet’s Nest.—Some time
ago, a fanner, finding a hornet’s
nest under the eaves of his bam, de
termined to destroy it. So he took
some matches, tied them to a pole,
and with them set fire to the nest,
and totally destroyed it; unfortun
ately, however, the barn was also
burned, together with the grain, to
the value of fifteen hundred dollars,
on which there was no insurance.
“What a foot!” some, one says.
Not so great a fool as thousands are
proving themselves to be.
. .This man burned-down a barn to
get rid of a hornet’s nest What
else is a man doing who drinks ram
to cure disease ? “It mav save life,”
the wise doctor says. Yes, but it
is apt to destroy it after a while. I
know many a man who, in trying
to burn out a pain in his breast by
firing his stomach with brandy, has
set his whole house on fire, and
both body and reputation were de
stroyed.
Take core, children, that yon do
not set fire to your house for the
sake of destroying a hornet’s nest.
Never mind what friends and others
may say about it.—Banner.
Of two evils, it is perhaps less in
jurious to society, that a good doc
trine should be accompanied by a
bad life, than that a good life should
lend its support to a bad doctrine.
For the sect if once established, will
survive the founder. When doctrines,
radically bad in themselves,’ are
transmitted to posterity, recommend
ed by the good life of their author,
this is to arm an harlot with beauty,
mid to heighten the attractions of a
vain and unsound philosophy. I
3 uestion if Epicurus and Hume have
one mankind a greater disservice
by the looseness of their doctrines,
than by the purity of their lives. Of
such men we may more justly exclaim
than of Cse-sar, “confound their vir-
tnes, they have undone the world.”
A few years Bince there was a
Presbyterian minister at Colnmbus,
Miss., who had a horror of shooting
in church, which fact was well known
to his congregation. One day, after
he had preached a very spiritual ser
mon, an old lady was observed to
leave the church in a very hasty
manner. Meeting her a few days af
ter, the minister asked why she had
rnshed from the church so suddenly
the Snnday before. “Well,” she re-
. , - , , i sponded, “the fact is, I was so filled
looks down upon us, and the painful! ^ ^ listening to vour ser .
tension grows lighter, the way less mon J hat j fonnd j co Wt contain
dreary, and the sorrow less heavy.
God bless the cheerful face! Bless
it? He has blessed it already; the
stamp of heaven is on every feature.
What a dreary world this would be
without this heavenbom light! and
he who has it not should pray for it
as he would pray tor his daily bread.
—Phrenological Journal.
Tlie Cat and the Goldfish.
I once had a cat that was a vic
tim of misplaced confidence. In
those days, I could mew nearly as
well as she herself could. One eve
ning, I was amusing the children by
counterfeiting the voice of a kitten
in distress. Pass was greatly ex
cited, and looked everywhere and
ran everywhere to find the kitten.
She looked in the bed-room, prowl
ed under the bed, then back to the
parlor, under the sofa, piano, book
case. and everywhere else. She look
ed about me, under my skirt, into
my lap, mewing pitifully all the time.
Then she sprang into my lap and
looked wistfully into my face. Evi
dently I had, according to her theo
ry, either eaten a kitten, or it was
at that moment suffering agonies in
my mouth. She put one paw on my
shoulder, and with the other patted
my cheek, crooning to the invisible
kitten all the while.
This was too much for my gravity.
I threw back my head and indulged
in, a hearty laugh. Puss looked in
to my mouth, and sprang off my
lap.
“It is over with the kitten,” said
she to herself, (that is, I supposed
she did,) “and it’s the last time I
will ever have anything to say to
that deceiver.”
At any rate, it was the last, for I
never could «oax her on my lap
again. She was an embodiment of
virtuous indignation and offended
dignify.
I wish yon could have seen how
the goldfish frightened Mrs. Tabitha
Tortoise-shell Velvet. She wanted
to catch him, but cats don’t like to
wet their feet. So she pretended
that she jnst wanted a drink out of
the top of the globe. The goldfish,
who isn’t such a fool as he looks to
be, sank instantly.
’ •‘That’s nothing,” thought puss,'
“I can catch you through the side
of the water.” (You see cats don’t
know much abont glass.)
So she stooped down to catch him
through the side, when he swam to
ward her with his mouth open. I
never saw such a frightened cat in
my life! She sprang off the table,
and never tried to catch Goldie
again.—Little Corporal.
myself, so I ran over to the Metho
dist church across the way and shout
ed.”
THEBE^are two things that always
pay, even*in this not over-remunera
tive existence. They are, working
and waiting. Either is useless with
out the other. Both united are in
vincible, and inevitably triumphant.
He who waits without working is
simply a man yielding to sloth and
despair. He who works without
waiting, is fitful in his strivings, and
misses results by impatience. He
who works steadily and waits patient
ly, may have a long journey before
him, but at its dose he will find its
reward.
A Little girl, not six years of age,
screamed ont to her little brother,
who was playing in the mud: “Bob,
you good-for-nothing rascal, come
into the house this minute, or I’ll
beat you till your skin comes off.”
“Why, Angelina, dear, what do you
mean?’ exclaimed the mortified moth
er, who stood talking with a frieud.
Angelina’s childish reply was a good
commentary upon this manner of
speaking to children: “Why, mother,
you see we were playing, and he’s
my little boy, and I’m scolding him,
jnst as you did me this mopping.”
He that from small beginnings has
deservedly raised himselfto the high
est stations, may not always find that
full satisfaction in the possession of
his object, that he anticipated in the
pursuit of it. But although the in
dividual may be disappointed, the
community are benefitted, first, to
his exertions, and secondly by hn>
example; for, it has been wefi observ
ed, not by what the lord mayor feels,
who rides in his coach, but by what
the apprentice boy feels, who looks
at him.—Lacon.
He that gives a portion of his time
and talents to the investigation oi
mathematical truth, will come to all
other questions with a decided ad
vantage over all his opponents. He
will be in argument what the ancient
Romans were in the field; to them
the day of battle was a day of com
parative recreation, because they
were ever accustomed to exercise
with arms much heavier than they
fought; and their reiews differed from
a real battle in two- respects, they
encountered more fatigue, but the
victory was bloodless.
Inquisitive people are the funnels
of conversation;, they do not take
anything for their own use; bnt mere
ly to pass into another.