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THE WASHINGTON GAZETTE
BY JAS. A. WRIGHT AND HUGH WILSON.
THE WASHINGTON GAZETTE.
TERMS.—Three Dollar* a year in advance.
fg* No Subscription* taken for a shorter
time than six months.
NATE'S GOLD RING.
“See, see,” whispered little Nettie
to ber brother Fred, at the tea table,
“Nate’s got a dost ring how it shines?”
“ Miralile dictu, Nate, where did
you get it f" tasked Fred, disregar
ding Nettie’s confidence.
“What are you talking about,
Fred?” said tbe elder brother with a
comical curl of the lip, and buttering
bis biscuit the second time.
“Notions, nothing boK,notions, in
the single number, sis.”
“Jewelry !” exclaimed Olivia. “Ma,
did you know when Nato »n.,Vio
town this morning, that bo was going
to purchase a gold ring 7"
“No, indeed,” replied Mrs. Chase,
glancing at a plain ring on Nate’s fin
ger. “Gold,” laughed Fred, “I’ll as
sure you its the purest goil with a
brass finish.” Nate flushed a little.
He .had not felt quite comfortable
about his ring, and Fred’s joke irrita
ted him a little.
“I tell you it is good gold ; the man
said it was.”
“O rate, it isn’t gold" Said Olivia,
“Gold rings are not ofton so heavy
and thick as that, or if they are, they
cost a great deal.”
‘‘Well this is a good heavy one, tbe
aan said it was.”
“Let me see it,” quietly asked Maud
the gentle, peace loving spirit in the
family, “1 can tell if it not gold.”
Nato held out his hand to her, as
be sat by her side at the table, and
she touched the ring to her nose, but
said nothing.
“It is tbe finest twenty-two caret
gold, isn’t it Maud ?” ?•
“I am not a good judged of the
different qualities of gold,” the sis
ter answered, looking slyly at ber
mother.
“Where did you get .it, my sou?”
asked Mrs. Chase.
“f bought it in the city. I didn't
want a gold ring, but as 1 was wail
ing in the depot, a poor looking man
came up to me, and asked bow soon
Uio train would go out. I told him
in about twenty minutes. After a
minute or two, he came to mo again,
and asked if I wanted to buy a good
gold ring, and drew this ono off liiß
linger. I told him no, I didn’t want
a ting. lie felt badly, and said he
bad no money to buy his lickot home
—a place not a great distance from
the city—l’ve forgotten the name. I
asked him bow much the fare was,
and be said sixty five cents, and said
1 might havo the ring for money
•nougb to buy bis ticket, although it
was worth five times that sum, it was
so thiek and heavy—the finest Califor
nia gold. 1 took the ring
at it, inside and out. 1 knew that a
gold ring like this was worth a great
deal more than sixty-five cents: but
1 pitied the poor fellow, be felt so
badly! While I was thinking what
to do, I put the ring on nay finger,
and then took it off and lobked at it
again. ‘You needn’t be afraid it is
not good gold,’ he said, ‘if you aro
you can take your knifo and tr? It.’ ”
Maud gave a quick significant glance
to lier mother. “I told him 1 didn’t
want to try it, and gave him sixty
five cents.”
“Humbugged !” exclaimed Fred,
“O Nate,” "r;ed Olivia, “he was one
of those mean pickpockets! Why
didn’t you go away from him ? The
vile fellow to rob a boy in that way.”
“He was no such character, I tell
you. He was a good boneat-looking
man as you ever saw. I guess if I
hadn’t money enough to pay my faro
borne, I would have sold any thing I
could. Poor fellow!”
“Did you think, my son, that a
true man would not be so destitute,
without some very evident reason ?”
“No, not exactly, though I suppo
sed he bad been unfortunate in some
way. Os course he didn’t want to
tell.” And Nate looked at bis ring
again. He felt a little uneasy, and
“the man” didn’t look quite so honest
to him now, as he recalled bis appear*
ance; and he wondered that he did
not suspect the fellow on the spot
What would his father say, if he had
paid sixty five cents for a brass or
composition ring? He bit his lips,
and wished the ring ip. the Dead Sea;
but still declared it wr* good gold,
as Fred and Olivia continued to tease
him.
“What a sell?” exclaimed Free?
“Natie, dear, it will never do to let
you travel alone, you must keep fast
hold of papa’s coat-tail.”
Mai\d made several attempts to
urn attention away from her brother,
particularly asshe saw be was getting
irritated; but mamma bad to speak,
before the teasing ceased; and just as
they were rising from the table Mr.
Chase came in. Nothing more was
said, Mrs. Chase was putting
-- things after hor husband's tea,
..«i« slipped into tbe pautry, and
asked softly,
Don’t you think mother that this
can tell in the morning, my
son;” the mother replied, wishing to
spare his feelings. “If your finger
is colored in the morning -you will
know if it is not gold.”
Mr. Chase was a “fair and easy”
sort, of a man, who was not particu
larly disturbed by childish indiscre
tions. He believed that childron
roust learn by actual experience.
“Let them have & good bite of the
rod peppers,and they will-bo glad to
leave them alone ! Lot them break
a limb once by climbing and they
will not trouble you again in that
way! Let them suffer tbe conse
quences of tbeir folly; depend upon
it, that is tbe only way by which
they will learn better;” he frequently
affirmed. And when I see how un
willing boys are to profit by the ex
perience by the experienoe of others,
I am half inclined to favor Mr.
Chaso'sj opinion ! But, my dear chil
dren, we don’t want your tender
mouths burned by tbo pretty rod
peppers, and so we try to keep you
away from them. We don’t wan’t
you to carry the pain .aud limp of a
broken limb all your lives, and so we
entreat you to climb the bill of science
rather than dangerous troesl We
are save you from the sad
consequences of folly in its various
forms; but you know we caunot, if
you do not heed our warnings.
Nuto had been warned ol the many
snares that are laid in the way of un
suspecting boys, but his self-confidence
needed a little pruning. Ho had
been to Boston a few limor with his
father, who always left him by him
self, in some way, to teach him
self reliance. The lust time that
Nato was in town, his purchased a
suit of clothes for him, and sent him
homo by an earlier train than he took
biinself'.
The boy went safely home, but
left tbe package of clotbes in the
ears to make a longer journey; and
they wore obtained for some weeks,
and then they were soiled.
Nato thought of this doubly
anxious that his ling should prove
“all right.” He dreamed of it that
night, and examined bis fingor, when
be awakened in tbe morning. A dark
mark tho width of the ring encircled
his finger.
“The villain !” he exclaimed in a
tone of vexation, and then be called
himself hard names, ami, was evident
ly in such a state of self-abasement,
that tho sport-loving Fred turned
consoler.
“.-.ever mind, Natie, you are not
f • first man that has ‘bought wit.’
r - Franklin, you know
paid’ too dear for his whistle.’ It
may be a good investment after all,
Nitie, for I’ll bet you’ll havo your
eye peeigj’for such chaps hereafter.”
“My head lor a football, if I don’t;
but Fred, what will father say?—l
dread—”
“O, Maud has made it all right
with him. I saw her closeted with,
with him last night. He’ll only
laugh at you!”
“I’d sooner bo scolded !”
But Nate did not have his prefer
ence, bis easy parent bad a good
laugh at the breakfast table, enquir
ing “if bis bump of self-esteem didn’t
need a Iff tie whittling down ?”
Nate went “burning red,” as little
Nettie said, but Maud came to his re
lief, by pleasantly changing tbe sub
ject. He threw away “the man’s”
gold ring, but the lesson that it
taught him will never be forgotten ;
and it may be of some use to,'you, lit
tle reader.— Cong, and Recorder.
Hewitts Globe Hotel. —During a
recent visit to Augusta, Ga., we bad tbe
privilege of spending a few days at this
popular Hotel, and enjoying the hospitality
of its gentlemanly proprietor- It is pleas
antly located, and is kept in the very best
style. The proprietor is a gentleman of
experience, and spares no pains to promote
tbe comfort of his guests. With well
arranged rooms, a bountiful table, attentive
WASHINGTON, WILKES COUNTV, GA.,' FRIDAY, BffS 2-Vwox.
servants, and an accommodating host,
Hewitt’s 'otel presents strong claims to
the patron the travelling public.
We would recvtuuie'vi- jJq-Uouse to our
friends visiting the city.— AaSel’ille Rf'is,
— {
PARENTAL INFLUENCE. .
There are some parent* who ha*e no
special view* foe the future df (heir chil
dren, or at least none i'- f * mould the daily
scheme of their own lives and plans.
They feed, clothe, and educate them, but
are too much occupied with business or
pleasure to turn their hearts to this as tbe
highest ol earthly aims, to form deliberate
plans as to the habits, companions, and
preparation of those children for their
place in the world. Others, whose hearts
are deeply set on their offspring,* 1 have er
roneous or injurious aims for them ; some
wear out their lives in accumulating wealth
for them ; others spend all their energies
in making them agreeable and fashionable,
and others sacrifice all to their ambition,
and cherish, by example and precept,
above all else, the love ol pre eminence.
Some parents there are of a different
stamp, t yligious, well meaning, hut super
ficial, whose ouly desire for their children
is, that they shall become the subjects of
some sudden spiritual change, aud profess
a religious life in some visible way. Then
they imagine their whole work is done.
Few who will honestly examine their de
sires and aims for their children, will deny
that they are in some respects one sided
and defective, too often lacking that breadth
of view, and largeness of soul that would
take io all the needs and capabilities ol
the young life entrusted to their care.
True views of parental duty would exalt
and elevate our aims and hopes for those
shortly to fill our placer*, and lead to re'
newed efforts of self-denial and diligence
to fit them worthily to occupy the posi-
tions that await them. Parents should
desire to see their children, as they grow
up, exhibit tbe marks of a correct and
just principle, regulating and developing
each portion of their nature, and so gov
erning their bodily, intellectual, social and
religious habits, as to produce the most
perfectly balanced and healthful character.
Nor need we even too nicely try with our
metaphysical pruning knives to dissect
and ascertain bow much is the effect of
education and training, er how far the
strength of a separately rooted vitality
would enable the young plant to stand
without Injury the shock of separation
from the parent stem. The physical, in
tellectual, and moral natures each brought
daily under the developing and controlling
influence of virtuous principles, is what all
should desire and strive for, with respect
to their children. The best evidence of
this will not be of the marked or preco
cious or distinctive kind that many may
desire. Precocious fruits and flowers are
not tho be6t, and they fall tho soonest.
If parents would cultivate in themselves
the virtues of self-denial, and then exercise
a tender watchfulness, cherishing the buds
of virtue in their children, instead of tear
ing them open to see if they are alive, or
treading them under foot in thoughtless
ness and indifference, then confidence
would be won and the most natural chan
nets would he opened for all the maturity
and experience of riper age to flow into
the young heart and mould the impressi
ble character. Love is the first key to the
child’s heart, and it is thus that its treas
ures are first unlocked by the magic tou
ches of a mother’s affection. The haugh
ty, cold, overbearing parent will produce
tbe sly and distant child, and he who clo
ses the natural channels of love and mu
tual confidence will have no window in
heaven opened to supply his deficiencies.
But tbe earnest love, tbe judicious au
thority, the self-sacrificing exertion, tbe
virtuous example of the true parent, will
cause bis c|tild to regard all his instruc
tions with an affectionate reverence that
will make them sink deeply into his heart
and mould his life. In fact, the whole
prosperity of an age or a nation will great
ly depend on tho welding together of the
hearts of parents and ib'A dren, so as to
form a channel through which the wisdom,
goodness, and deepest experience of the
best men and women of all past ages, may
descend from generation to generation.
Footprints of the Greut, —Few
footprints of tbe great temain in tbe sand
before the ever flowing tide. Long ago
it washed out Homer’s. Curiosity follows
him in vain; Greece and Asia perplex us
with a rival Stratford-upon-Avon. The
rank of Aristophanes is only conjectured
from bis gift to two poor players in Ath
ens. The age made no sign when Shaks
peare, its noblest son, passed away. Hia
birth, marriage, authorship, apd his retire
ment compose his biography. Os every
country and season the complaint is felt
nd uttered. Precious would be tbe jour •
nal by a Foe of t/*~^“'
occupations of tVa.jj? , Think &’ Slll
iug, a» ih a glass, Mppehiaveili - n an
the lines of r>*o'ioal \v. ’4^njP ,tL ' s - ’
watohuijjk the moon plough by ",
the ■' or Tasso, with Polybius in his
hand, tfPl .nfiir.g tl l6 knights of Godfrey.
HTi.Nsww'j Meat urea of Literature.
DHNG.
There are .few minds, indeed, upon
which the death scene of some dear friend
is not “graven as with the point of a dia
mond,” an int eiible picture of sorrow—
few hearts Ihtt do not throb anew with
the old pain as often as those agonizing
struggles are isculled. To such it will
afford consolation to know that the appa
rent suffering o. death is tuiiy automatic
—that the dyir; are unconscious of suf
fering. Medics' scienoe is rapidly accu
mulating an aiaay of evidence on the
subject, amountirg clmost to demonstra
tion.
Dr. Baillie U.ta us that his observation
of death-beds iodines him to the firm be
lief that nature intended, we should go
out of the world as unconscionsfy as we
enrae into it—not more than one person
in fifty being csascioua of suSering while
dying. “The {noment,” says Mrs. Jamie
son, “in which the spirit meets death, is
probably like that in which is
by sleep. To biMionscious es *<l*itu me
diate transition from the waking to the
sleeping state, never I suppose happened to
RDy one.” And the fallacy of inferring
intense physical suffering from the strug
gles of the dying, becounnt appatent on a
moment’s reflection; it is to look sen
sibility in the lots of sensibility. Death
is rather a sleep than a sensation, a sus
pension of our faculties rather than a
conflict with them; instead of a time of
suffering, a time of deepening unconscious
ness. Place a dead body under the in
fluence of electricity, and it will be at once
thrown into attitudes far more expressive
of agony than ever seen during the
death struggle. This fact shows that the
nervous aud imtsoular system may act
mechanically whi-i* not merely conscious-
ness, but life iuplt hap departed. The
epi
evidence of intense suffering, but upon
recovery, bus experienced no pain what
ever. The same is true in cases of recov
ery from drowning, where, after conscious
ness had ceased, and the body no longer
struggled as in death, vitality has been
restored. In every Distance, no suffering
was experienced, but on the contrary a
highly delightful state of sensation. The
only suffering was connected with the re
covery of consciousness. And the multi
tude of persons restored to life after those
around had supposed them dead, whether
from diowning, disease, or capital execu
tion, have testified to an experience pre
cisely similar.
A letter from the recent biography of
Madame Switchine, an eminently intelli
gent Catholic lady, will be interesting in
this connection. It contains the narrative
of ber deadth scene.
“As the day wore on,” says the writer,
“her sufferings became greater. Towards
4 o’clock the suffocation assumed the form
of acluul convulsions. Our dear sufferer
allowed us for the first time to place her in
an arm chair, but presently started up
with au agonized face, throwing aside all
the clothing, which weighed upon her
chest, and uttering hoarse distressing
sounds which seemed like the final strug
gle.” And then with painful vividness, he
places before us the baste for the priest
and pbys'cian, the administration of “ex
tremo unction,” ibe wild voice of agony
aud apparent terror as she repeated after
the priest the “Ora pro nobis." Tbe pic
ture is terribly painful and distinct of
physical suffering, seemingly unrelieved
by. the consolations of religion. And yet
Madame Swetchine’s pure and simple
piety united with her lofty and command
ing intellect, had made her one of the
most distioguubed women of modern
times. Her disease was dropsy; deep in
cisions were immediately made by her
physician, but without any beneficial af
fect, until the next daft when she rallied
sufficiently to be able to converse with her
friends, and communicated to them an
experience, deeply grateful to all'who have
witnessed* similar sufferings. “Saturday
morning she said to me,” writes the au
thor, ‘“yesterday is a blank tablet for me,
I can reoall nothing of those twenty-four
hours.’ A visitor remarked to her, ‘Do
you know that yesterday you received ex.
trerae unction?’ She replied very calmly,
‘I did not knew it; why did they not tell
me sooner?’ She bad been entirely un
conscious of the distressing occurrences of
tbe preceding day, that had so afflicted all
who surrounded ber.”
Maj Gen. 0. 0. Howard has been elect
ed President of Union College, New
York.
|r THE PEW.
%L.Tfjrio»j|*'* aro necessary* te prodnoo
is an essential to the
TiKf. aifpri'of dew. A dewy morning
0% Iy fofln.re a day whoso sao has well,
warmec up the e&rtlv. If, isTieqiossar.y
that tho hoat should readily radiate
into tho surrounding atmosphere by
night. • When the surface of the earth
thus cools down more rapidly than
the incumbent air about it, and when
the air, is saturated with moisture,
then, by the contact of temperatures,
the air beeoruos unable to retain its
moisture, and yields its sprays and
vapors to be shaped by a natural law,
tho same whicli , ‘r(yundeJi -l the world
out of chaos and orbed tffe universe ;
and then what was invisible'becomes
visible in drops of sottling dew. So,
whenever dew is seen to fall, there
must first havo been a flowing down
of sunshino in the day, and then a
rcspoiisivo current of warmth uprising
in the night, toward tho region
whence it came. Tbo earth receives
and return*. the hoat tho heavons
gave,' if tefyoward such grati
tude, the de.— doficQjids and
gladden its besec-hmg- *»4_lbankful
breast.
So, when people’s hearts aro hard,
and dry, and desoAvti* ill bo be
oauso they lack respon.wi—sess to
heaven’s gills—for want of gratitude
for the light and privilege whioh have
shono upon them all their days.--**-
Teachers, if they would see their
classes bright and happy, and parents,
if they would have glowing summer
in their homes, and have young hoarts
i ibe mvw.lvcm, should bo open-souled and
thankful, and teach tbo children how
to be grateful for daily blessings.—
Then would sun-warmth from the
better world be taken in through the
gauze of form, and task, and habit,
and fashion ; then, becuuae each heart
would be flower instead of flint, grass
instoad of granite, fruit instead of
fossil; then would tho pearly dew
drops of glory glitter all ovor a school
• i*%fr"* il " ?"*■* •*-» im
mortal morning—- Rev. A. Clark.
HOW LONG WE MIGHT LIVE.
Professor Faraday adopts Flourin’s
physiological theory that tho natural
age of a man is one hundred years.
Tbe duration of the life he believes to
be measuroo by the lime of growth.
When once the boues and oipbysis
are united the body grows no more,
and at twenty years, this union is
effected in man. In tho camel it takes
placo at eight; in the horso at five;
in tho rabbit ut ono. Tbo natural
termination of life is five removes
from these several points. Man, be
ing twonty yours in growing, lives fivo
times twenty years, that is, one hun
dred; the camel is eight years in
growing, and lives fivo times eight
years, that is to say forty years; tbe
horse is fivo years in growing, and he
lives twonty-five yours ; and so witti
other animals. The man who does
not die of Bicknoss lives everywhere
from eighty to ono hundred years.—
Providence has given to man a centu
ry of life, but he does not attain to it
because he inherits disease, cats un
wholesome food, gives license to pas
sions, and permits vexations, to dis
turb bis healthy equipoise. He does
not die; ho kills himself.
The learned professor also divides
life into equal halves, growth and de
cline, and halves into infancy, youth,
virility, and age. Infancy extends to
the twentieth year; youth to the
fiftieth, because it is during this peri
od the tissues become firm; virility
from fifty to seventy-five, during
which the organism remains complete,
aod at seventy-five old age commen
ces, to last a longer or shorter time,
as the diminution of reserved forces
is haloed or retarded.
The Gulf Stream. —There is a
river in tbe ocean. In the severest
drouths it never fails, and in the
mightiest floods it never overflows.
Its banks and its bottom aro of cold
water, while its current is of warm.
The Gulf of Mexico is its fountain,
and its mouth is in the Arctic seas
It is the Gulf stream. There is in the
world’ no other so majestic flow of
water. Its current is more rapid
than tbe Mississippi or the Amazon,
and its volume more than a thousand
times greater. Its waters, even far
out from the Carolina coast, are of an
indigo blue. They are so distinctly
marked that the line of junction with
VOL MI-NO. 14.
the cotmnVtr sea-water may bo traced
by the eye. Oficaft. om- bass of ti c
vessel may bo perceived floating in
the Gulf!i}tn-am w a tor while the oth
er half is in the con\mon water of the
sea, so sharp is the line and the want
oY cffiSfty between these waters ; aud
such, too, the reluetauce (*o speak)
on tho part of those of . Gulf
Stream to mingle with the
water of the sea. In addition tVtbfo
thoro is another peculiar fact. The
fishermen on tho coast of Norway are'
supplied with wood fivui tho w-ipwis
by the Gulf of the
Arctic fishermen burning upon their
hearths the palps tho ma
hogany of Honduras. i the preoij*®
woods of the Ardazon and the Oiivo--
co!
mrm THINGS IN FARMING.
The whole success of : .hri,ier hS*-
gos upon timely .-UlapMt'ui to littTo
things. This, mainly, ra-Mfe* the dif
ference between thrift nd poverty.
Tho philosophy of succefi i* oppress
ed ffi that old adage, “Fo* waotpf a
nail a shoe was lost, for want
shoo a horse was lost, for want of a
horse a man was lost.” It is a little
thing to kpep accounts of pecuniary
transactions upon the farm. A half
hour Saturday ovening would enable
most farmers to know just how they
rtand with tho world. Yet, we sus-
half of tho men who cultivate
the soil never make an entry in the
book, aod for tho want of this the
account runs up foarfully at tho store
and many articles of luxury are pur
chased for which they aro unable to
pay at the end of tho year. Debt
accumulates, tho farm is mortgaged,
and finally lost, for the want of a
little paper and ink. It is a little
thing to put up a tool in its place when
not it in use, Yet many have no tool
house or placo of shelter for any im
pleraect or vehiole. Things are left
where last used, the plow in tho field
the cart in tho yard, the chains in
Ybo stable, and harness in the wood
house, tho ax at tbo wood-pile, and
the rakes in tho corn-crib. Many do
not oven house the expensive imple
ments they have bought, and reapers
and thrashers are treated like old
plows and harrows. Tho parts made
of iron and steel grow rusty, and tho
wood decays. A machine that is
good for thirty yoars with proper
care, is used up in five by abuse. It
is a vory little thing to turn a nut
when it is loose. Yet for want of
tightening the nut is lost; the bolt
comes out; and tho loadod wagon
hseakftjlown on tho road to market,
a..J a whole days time for a man and
team is lost- It is a littlo thing to
keep a horse properly groomed; yet
for tho want of clean fetlocks the
skin craks and tho horso is lame, and
the owner looses tbe nse of him for
months or weeks. Ventilation is a
small affair; yet for the want of it
the health ol sLock in stables suffers
severely, and dißcaso sets in. It is s
small affair tu provide good uso at the
boginniug of tfiVyear; but the whole
success of the season depends upon it
It is an easy thing to deal fairly
with your neighbors, an ! ...ake a
nauio that is better th»n “precious
ointment.” Many cheat on small oc
casions; do not deliver what they
sell, and get a reputation for mean
ness that stands -ri tbo way of their
success.
The American Faces. —Dr. Bel
lows writes the Liberal Christian , from
Florence, as follows:
“Mr. Powers, tbe sculptor, says the
American fiioe is distinguished from
tho English by tbe little distance fee
twoen the brows aiyi the eyes, the
openness of the nostrils, and thetbin
noss of the visage. It is still more
marked, I think, by a mongrel quali
ty, in which all nationalities contri
bute their portion. The greatest hope
of America is its mixed .breed of hu
manity, and what now makes the
irregularity of the American face is
predostined to mako the versatility
and universality of the American
character. Already, spite of a conti
nental seclusion, America is tbe most
cosmopolitan country on the globe.
Provincial or local as manners or hab
its may be, ideas and sympathies in
America are world wide. And there
is nowhere a oily in which so many
people have the complete world under
their eyes and in their hearts and
served up in the morning press with
their broakfust, as New York !”