Newspaper Page Text
I. N. DAVIS, Sr., 1
Editor and Proprietor, j
VOL. 11.
Uctcd -i’oHv u.
, W *3
PAY DAY.
“The melancholy dvs have come,
The saddest of tue year,”
When notes jm* due and lengthy bills
Come in from far and near;
HJien a small account of yours,”
Id a h jit*red in our ear,
, Won t you please to settle now?”
% au the talk you hear.
You scarce &kn take a morning walk,
w’ Without ere met
By Mr Snook-, wbb wants to know
If you can’t ‘‘settle'’ yet?
And at the hour of dusky eve,
When you do homeward hie,
llpon the parlor table, lo !
A pile of hills dc lie.
Ye chaps whoso salary amounts
To ten limes ten a year,
Who sport your patent leather boots
With such a “graceful air,”
And wear your thirteen-dollar pants
And shiny buttoned vest,
We wonder not when New Year comes
Yon seek in vain for rest.
Ye girls with empty bonnets stuck
Upon your empty heads,
With high-priced silk and satin things,
And lmops, and flowers, and beads,
We wonder what papa will say
When Mr. JSpriggins calks
With just that little bill of his
For bonnets, hoops and shawls.
And now, dear stylish little chap
And fashionable little maid,
We'll tell you what you'd better do,
When those long paid:
Just spend ns many dollars now
Upon your addled brain
As you have spent for costly clothes,
And see how much you’ll gain.
JSn -(Original jrlorn-
H EL EN St. C E A 1 11.
■ ‘~.T~*t*‘-o. W: BAltmm.
CHAPTER VI.
tl Tlie course of true love.
Never did run smooth. 7
Old Mr. St. Clair sat in liis lil.rary.
Ilia feet were lifted almost to a level with
liia head. In his mouth, there was a ei- j
jjar, from which there arose little pulls of
blue smoke, which curled in fantastic
wreaths around his person. liis head
was throw’ir hack, and his eyes partially)
shut, lie was alone, and evidently deep-j
4y buried in thought. Perhaps he was |
musing upon some election, for the old
gentleman was a liery politician, and of
ten bet large amounts of money upon the
success of certain parties.
Perhaps lie was uttering a mental an
athema against the Freemasons, for onec,
when he was candidate for a certain of
fice he imagined the masons had com
bined against him, and prevented his
election. There was no positive proof of
this, but the old man firmly believed it,
and with him, supicion often stood in the
place of evidence. Even since that de
feat, he had nurtured in his bosom a dead
ly hatred to the whole fraternity—a hatred
which he took especial pains to manifest
upon all possible occasions.
In his hand he now held a letter—a
letter which however he oohld not be
reading, for as we have beforo said, his
eyes were nearly shut.. Afterawhile, how
ever, he put out his hand and touched
the bell. Snlhe, the servant, soon un
—jysYTCtT M:i summons.
1 ‘ “Isyour Mi.-s Helen at home?” asked
the old man.
I‘ Yea, ?jr, ?])<* is in the drawing room.”
t‘ Is any one with her
Mr. Elliott is here.”
h )Vhat Elliott?”
Mr. Charles Elliott, sir.”
“1. he iu tlie ltal.it of coming here,
giallie ? !lus he been here before ?”
II Ljt 1 yea, muster, many and many a
time. Haven’t you seen him? lie’s al
most always with Mu? Helen now n-days.
When Colonel llobiuson is away, Mr.
Kljiptt is always sure to be here.”
The old man moved his head uneasily.
“ It’s that same Elliott,” he said more
to himself than to the servant, “ whose
father beat mo at the Crayton Election.
Robinson was my friend then—my fjrm
political adherent, as he has ever been.
Well, this will do ? We shall see. Sul
lio, t 11 your young mistress when this
young sprig leaves, that I have some
thing lo say to her in the library.”
“ Very well, sir.”
“ Intimate terber, moreover, that she
is not to ask her visitor to stay to dinner
I do not want my house polluted long
with his presence.”
S Ifoumul;—fli-rotfil to ‘XitcratmT, SYrts and .Wirnrc.s, iAijriniUnrc, liovikitHitvc, ilViiqinu', &r.
Snllie cailed Helen from the parlor,
and faithfully delivered the message.
The girl looked surprised for a moment,
-then she gave her head a decisive toss,
and simply said, “ say to my father that
I will come when I atn at liberty,” and
quietly returned to her seat on the sofa,
not far from where young Elliott was sit
ting. The two laughed and talked long
together; “ for as a sweet poem and a
sweet air are wedded to each other, so
were the lives of those two set to each
other of God.” They never lacked things
to talk about. The words of one, even
upon the most indifferent topic, waked up
an echo iu the other's soul, and who shall
say, that when two spirits are thus linked
and intertwined with one another, man,
with rude hand, is privileged to burst
them asunder ?
It was nearly two o'clock before the
old man heard the front door slam to, be
hind the young man's retreating form.
When Helen came in, he sat with liis
hands over his face, and his elbows rest
ing upon his knees. Hut as the girl sat
quietly down beside him, he raised his
head and said : “ Why were you so long
in coming, daughter ?”
“ 1 was engaged, father, and could not
leave without showing great rudeness to
a visitor.”
“ How egme that man a visitor in my
house, H*[|p? Who introduced him
here?”
“ lie has been coming here a long time,
father. I was accidently introduced to
him at first, biff that was a long time ago.
I know him Very well, indeed, now: I
know him and like him too.”
“You do? Well, that's more than 1
con say. Do yon know-that his father
was at one titnejpy rankest political ene
my ?”
“ No, sir.” M
“-lA\ll,ssojj>-a£a knew it, and 1 vaunt
you to think of it 100. That young man
cannot visiltat By house —much less as
pire to one day be my son-in-law.”
“ lie was not to blame. //* never was
your enemy, I am sure. Because that
* fathers eat must their chil
dren's teeth bo K on edge?’ Oh, no,
papa 1 this is not generous—this is not
good.” J
“ / httue soi'/ it,” answered the old
man, laying -flown his hand decisively
upon tlie table that stood near. “An
Elliott never can wed here; but I hold
in my hand in letter from Colonel Robin
son. In that letter, he asks liberty to ad
dress my daughter; in other words, to
become a suitor for her hand. A\ hat
think ydu of that ?”
“Iqliink,” said the girl, raising her
self ftp with the dignity of a queen, “ that
much as I love, much as 1 revere the
.tnjfu sos my father, a Robinson-never
can wed here, and I want him now, at the
outset, to distinctly understand this
truth.”
” “Helen!”
“ Well, father, what ?”
“ Think what you are saying. The
Colonel has always been my friend. —
When those rascally lnasyns combined,
he ferretted out their plans, and kept me
well posted in regard to all their move
ments.”
“ How could he, father ? He was not
admitted into their secret councils, llad
he been, he could not have revealed them
without the basest deception—the black
est falsehood.”
“Nevertheless, he did it, child.”
“ lie told you much that was not true,
l dare say, sir, and tried to prejudice you
continually against a body of men, who,
let their secrets and their private councils
be what they may, exhibit in their lives,
benevolence, charity, temperance, sobri
ety, and many other virtues. lam very
sorry, pifya, that you ever took such a
man as Colonel ltobinsou for an adviser,
much more that you iiovy desire him for
a son-in-law,”
“ And 1, my daughter, am very sorry
rtliat you prefer for your husband, a man
whose family I abhor, whose principles l
detest, and whose friendship I do not
care to have shown even towards a dog
belonging to nip, Very sorry indeed.”
“ Why do you dislike tho Elliotts, fa
ther ?”
“ They are Freemasons,”
“ And this is the head and front of
their offending?”
“ This comprises my entire objections.
They nro rich enough—learned enough
—honorable enough in other respects,
“ TRULY THE LIMIT IS SWEET, AM) \ PLEASANT THING IT IS FOR TIIE EVES TO BEHOLD THE SUN.”
GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, -I A XIA WY 28, IRGI.
but I, you well know, dislike the Free
masons ; especially old Elliott. He work
ed against me at the election.”
“ Who said so ?”
“ Robinson.”
“1 am grieved, papa. I like Charles,
and to-morrow he will ask you for my
hand.”
i “ And get refused for his trouble,”
I said the old man hastily
“ No. I shall spare him the pain of a
j refusal by not suffering him to ask,” said
■ the girl. “ I shall not permit him to
j come to you as he designs doing. Perhaps
j when you have thought of it longer, you
will think better of liis proposals.”
“ Never,” said the old man, setting his
teetli together. “If you take him, you
must leave me. But marry Robinson,
and you shall have, not only my consent,
hut blessing.”
Helen got up and leaned one arm
against the mantle-piece, while she gazed
steadily forward into the heap of glow
ing coals in the grate.
“ Father,” she said, “ I cannot do it.
Ido not believe the man loves me. I be
lieve he is after my fortune. Hut putting
his love for me entirely out of the ques
tion, still 1 entertain none for him. Shall
1 make mockery of the sacred institution
ot marriage ? Shull I, with a falsehood
upon my lips, take the solemn vows that
will link me indissolubly with another,
and so go faltering on my way, with a
galling chain pressing into my heart. No,
I cannot do it. I will not attempt it. If
Colonel Robinson wants a wife, lie
must go elsewhere after her,” and Helen
raised her head again, and prepared to
leave the room.
“That decides the matter I suppose,” said
the old man sternly. “ Well, 1 shall not
compell you to marry according to my
wishes, but 1 do say that if you marry
Elliott, not a oent shid* ever he yours.
I will give my fortune to the founding of
a charity hospital first. What think you
of that?”
“ l think,” said Helen stopping, “ that
(lie loss of fortune would he something
; sad, but the loss of my father’s approba
tion and love would be sadder still. Nev
ertheless, if my father is entirely unmind
ful of liis dauglifer’s happiness, the es
trangement will not grieve him much.
We love those most, whoso happiness wo
have most at heart.”
“Or rather,” said the old man,” we
have the happinessof those most at heart,
whom we love. I love you, and I wish
j you to be happy, but you must go my
’ way, and win happiness where 1 direct.”
“ A thing, I am sorry to say, I cannot
do in this instance, papa,” and so tho two
parted almost in anger.
CHAPTbR VII.
Clivo me one sweet, ne blessed hour, with
him
1 love and trust 1”
Again, Helen St. Clair lay upon the
sola at twilight, and the old shadow was
upon her soul. Sho could not banish it
away. The moonbeams came us of old,
softly through the window, and the min
gled breath of night-flowers filled the air.
The stars, like solemn watchers, wero out
on high, and the murmur of the Cliicko
tulatehia was distinctly audible.
The door-bell rang, and Helen started
upright in an instant. “Mr. Elliott, Miss
Helen. He wants to see you in the par
lor,” said Sallie, thrusting a card and her
head in through the open door at the
same lima.
The girl arose and went instantly out.
In the parlor, Charles Elliott waited her
arrival. The soft light of the lamp fell
upon the young man’s form, as lie stood
erect in the middle of the room, and he
looked singularly handsome. His eye
was bright with excitement and expec
tation. His raven hair was combed away
from his high, thoughtful forehead, and
hung in clusters around his neck and
ears- there was intellect ami power in
every glance ot liis dark, pleasant eye.
As Helen came forward, he took her hand
tenderly in both of his, and looked eager
ly into her fair, flushed face, Instantly
the smile died upon his lips. His i|uick
glunco hail detected the ‘shadow’ that
brooded over ber soul.
“VVbut is the mttter?” ho said, taking
hold of her chip al| d turning her face,
so that bo could look directly into
her eyes--“sick ? or has something gone
wrong? It is not usual for you to look so
sad. I don’t l.ielicye you are glad to see j
me.”
“Vos [ am, C es—.glad that you
come. lam nlw glad to see you.—
Don't say llmt.” 1 < -till great tears hail
stolen to the gill s, and now rolled
down her checks.
“Sit down her. e said, drawing her
to him on the sot’ £ 1 throwing his arm
around Iter w r Sit down here and
I tell me what all t',..- .-ans—l am curious
jto know. 1 earn/ to-night to ask your
father for this tint’little wee bit of hand,
now clasped in in it t < oit 1 don't believe
you’re going to b > no do it. 1 believe
you have thought better about it since I
was here, and tv - nt- >1 your bargain—
hey?—speak ■” ad tell me the worst.
Has Colonel ltd -01 been here and cut
mo out f 1 belt con my faith some
thing of the kind lias happened.”
“No 1 no!! Charles 1 love you as
well ns ever. Indeed, I never expect to
love anybody el ;*l>ut you must nut ask
my father for no t -nn lit. If you do,
you will meet wil d a tjat. and, l fear, not
very kind refusal “
“What, is the old gentleman in an ill
humor ?—troubled with a fit of gout or
I something of the kind, perhaps. Well,
I can wait until h gets over his pet. 1
reckon he'll lot it” have you then. At
any rate, he’ll never find anybody who’ll
| take better care of you,” and the man
i bent over and touched her brow with his
lips.
“lie does not like you, Charles, lie
dislikes your whole family.”
“Why ?” and ah the young man asked
[ this, he looked surprised.
“Because you are a Frrrtnamn —you
belong to a family of Freemasons.”
The young man bore burst into a laugh.
‘‘You arc not in earnest, Helen,” be said
“Mr. St Clair does not urge that as an
objection to me. If ho does, be is jest
ing. dust trv'e to tease us a little. So
* - v
! dry up your tears, my pet,” and he wiped
! the tears from her cheeks with his hand
. kerchief.
“No, ho is in earnest, Charles —dread-
fully in earnest. You do not know my
father. Once during a heated political
campaign, when masonry was made, per
haps, a sort of test question, your father
and my father, chanced to disagree. Your
* father was a successful candidate—mine.
! was beaten. Officious and bad friends—
one in particular, did everything he could
|to aggravate jealousy, and stir up anger
in my father's bosom, lie was successful.
My father has never forgiven your family.
I fear he never will.
The young man's face had grown very
serious again. “Who was that friend—
that officious friend of your father’s,
1 Helen?”
The girl hesitated, but her lover’s eye
was fixed kaenly upon her face.
“That man,” he continued, “was my
rival, Colonel Robinson. L have known
that scoundrel for a long time, but l nev
er mention lus name here, simply because
he chances to be, like myself, an aspirant
for your band. I think it mean to dis
j para go another, because he loves that I
love, and had I spoken against him, you
and others, might have thought that i
was actuated by a feeling of hatred and
animosity, growing purely out of rival
ship. But there is nothing of this feel
ing about me. I dislike him because 1
know him to be full of falsehood and de
ception-—-because he is low-lived and
mean.” Again Charles Klliott’s lip took
the contemptuous curl it wore in the val
ley on the night of Helen's first meeting
with him, while Colonel Robinson dashed
by with his splendid hays.
“1 have no doubt, Helen,” be said,
“but that that man has heaped falsehood
upon falsehood in this matter. Is there
nothing we can do to disabuse your fath
er's mind ? No way in which we can
separate the true from the false ?”
“I tear not, Charles. Time is a great
revoaler of events. We oan watch and
Wait. Perhaps something will occur to
Open his eyes to Colonel Robinson's true
character. No words of ours, however,
I will influence hini.”
“And so we must ‘watch and wait,
must we? I must not speak with hint
to-night on this subject so vital to my hap
piness. Well, he it so. Jacob served
seven years, for Rachel. 1 Would serve
seventy and seven for you.”
A faint smile came to Helen’s lip.—
“You would be too old to see me then,”
she said. “I hope we shall not have to
Wait all those y ars. lint we will con*
1 |cnt ourselves for the present in watching
what the days bring forth. lam sure, if
I do not marry you, 1 shall not marry
any one. 1 never loved any one before
I never expect to love any one again.”
“Say those words again, Helen,” said
he, lifting her face up so that he could
look into it, “gay those words again.—
There is music in them sweeter than 1111
.Eolian harp. You menu them, do you
not ?—solemnly mean them while you re
pent them ?”
“Solemnly, Charlie.”
“And l. Helen, have never found one
like \ou When lam with you the hours
fly by on eagle wings. 1 have a quiet
confidence in your love and good nature,
which nothing can shake. I should not
he afraid to come to you with any mighty
secret. 1 believe that if 1 were to lay
my hand over your lips and say, “breathe
it not,” your mouth ever after would he
like a sealed hook. ! do not hesitate to
tell you what the brain conceives, as well
as that the heart hopes, and lonjiilciu't’
with me, Helen, is the corner-stone of
love.”
“I think there can be little affection
without it, Charles.”
“Little affection ; and yet how often is
confidence betrayed, ami consequently,
pure affection ship-wrecked ! How often
do my sex, especially, steal viper-like into
young and unsuspecting hearts, and pois
on and sting the soul that trusts in them !
1 hear them boasting of their coquets —
laughing over confidence betrayed, and
affections won hut to he trampled on !
O, girl. I blush sometimes for my sex—
over their paltry meanness—over their
low-lived, deceitful ways ”
Helen did not reply, but her thoughts
reverted to Colonel Robinson, and she
felt that nothing on earth could ever have
inspired her with confidence in him.—
Never could she have permitted him to
have wound liis aim around her slender
form, and held her in a confidential trie,
it trie us Charlie was now doing. Oil!
could she have seen at that moment the
haggard form —the glittering eyes —and
heard the wild, unearthly shrieks, which
came from the bosom of the poor maniac
at the Asylum in A , she could
have loathed liis image more than ever.—
Door Hazel I ndorwood ! duped into
madness'. rave on ! Heaven holds a sure
ami swift avenger.
[TO UK C-ONTIM ED I\ OLII NBXT.]
[wtiitTkn for tii k Cum |‘a NT or. J
THE OLD YEAR.
RY lIKV. W\ C. DOONK.
Mortal? love, Roinetinii's, to stand on the
dividingninc between “root events,and sur
vey the vast scones laid out before the
eye. So, also, do they love to stand be
tween great periods mid view the past,
and the future refleeted from the mirror
of the past. Wl.nt period is more appro
priate to he stopped at for a survey, than
the end of the year ? From it, and to it,
nations count their age and their prog
ress. And why not ? for tho masses,
also, suppose that the greatest event re
corded on history's page —the uniting of
heaven and earth by the advent of the
Savior of tlie world—occurred at the di
viding point between the years.
Then let us, with tho great masses,
stand still and review for a moment, the
huge proportions of the old year, ns lie
gives us the parting hand, and takes his
everlasting exit into the dim shadows of
the eternity past,
AY hat of our persons? For myself, 1
can answer. Thou, departing year, didst
find me, at our first acquaintance, in an
other land than this. Thou didst at thy
birth bring me disappointment and sor
row. Thou gavest mic earnest anxiety
for my food, and tears for my drink.-
Hut in thy youth, thou didst somewhat
lighten thy heavy hand, and in the prime
of thy life, 1 sought and found a better
day. Thy early dark and gloomy clouds
rolled away from my sky. Thy howling
winds blew past my home, and left my
air and sky calm and serene us spring
time's cloudless mori). Thus, like one
whose early days wore spent in reckless
riot mid dissipation, until a ruined con
stitution forced him to be striotly obser.
vunt ol the rules of sobriety, hast thou re
tired from the sueno. One, perhaps tho
largest, of the few hand-like aloud? that
have hung carelessly on the mild face of
thy declining days, has been that thou
hast driven me as an exile to find a liuluej
ill thin lnnd of strangers. Yet, I am us
a mortal sufficiently happy even hero.
So far ns concerns my mental improve
ment, and it maybe, moral too, thou, hor
rid old miscreant, hurrassed me out of all
application which 1 love, and so fondly
anticipated, and, as a sure result, ‘must de
prived me of the great progress which 1
might otherwise have made.
What of nations ? Whatever may have
been the dealings of thy hand with ether
nations, thy dealings with our own so far
exceeds them all in interest, at least to
us, that we must for the time lose sight
of all others, and think of our own.—
Thou didst find our nation the. happiest
of earth, the terror of tyrants, and the
wonder mid admiration of the world
Asa mighty giant, our happy nation stood
in this most favored spot of earth W bile
the snows of winter were on its head, i)
laved its hands in the briny waves of two
oceans; and while around its feet were
strewed in rich profusion the fruits and
rich garlands of eternal Spring to he pick
ed up at any time, to supply tho wants
of the body and head, the body was all
clothed in goodly raiment of evo'ry name,
sucli as royal monarchs never wore.
Hut thou, vile year, cuuldst not pass
by and leave untouched our glorious her
itage. While with us, thou didst let us
love and cherish it, hut as thou wast go
ing, a poisoned shaft from thy quiver,
sent hot the injured blood through every
vein and artery of ita body. It writhes,
even now, iu the pangs of death ; and
the quickly coming future may .have on
ly to witness its demise, and tell tlie sad
tale that the glory of the world, and the
dread of tyrants, is no more. All! even
the convulsive tliroc.s now upon it, make
mankind stand iu bfcathlcssooutoinplation
of what is coming, while they send a thrill
of delight through every fibre of the souls
of despots. Do not the shades of our il
lustrious dead, now with ghastly paleness,
frightful even to itirgmien shades rfi<=<.*
sclves, weep over our fate! How soon
may the lament, “ No more,” long since
written on the blood-stained, dust-covered
escutcheon of every former enemy of des
pots, he also migrated on ours ! He it so;
our country’s fata is ours : be also the
God of nation ours, and ail is well.
Other questions might be asked, hut
let us stay with these and await the event.
Thou, old year, lnt us tell thee that
thou hast disappointed hopes, blighted
prospects, and buried loves in thy foul
embrace. Hut, mortal, hadst thou an en
emy who lias fallen amid the conflicts of
that retreating year? go, stand at liis
grave and forgive. Hast thou a friend
whose kindness thou hast repaid, except,
it may he, by inattention nr rudeness ? go
quiekly, owe thou no mall anything.
Hast thou, in thought, word, or deed,
wronged one who walks tlie paths of life
by thy side no more ? go, thou, weep
over liis grave tears of unavailing sorrow,
and resolve to do thy duty hoi tor to the
living.
Now, thou, old year, we hid thee fare
well. Time and paticnco would fail us
to recount thy deeds. Some we shall
cherish, others let us forget. Thy huge
proportions fade in tho distant past, and
as thy funeral rings upon our cur, for thy
deeds we ran not bless thee—we will not
curse thee. Go in peaoe,
The Secret of Happiness.
The most, common error of men and
women is that of looking for happiness
somewhere outside of useful work. It
lots never yot boon found when thus
sought s and never will be while the
world stands ; and the sooner this truth
is learned, the better for evrey one. Ii
you doubt tbo proposition, glance around
among your friends and acquaintances,
and select those who appear to have the
most enjoyments in lile. Are they the
idlers, and pleasure seekers, or the earn
est worker '! We know what your answer
will be.
Os all miserable human beings it has
been our fortune, or misfortune, to know
they were the most wretched who had re
tired from useful employments, in ordor
to enjoy themselves \\ by the slave at
Ilia unform'd labor, or the hungry toiler
for bread, were extremely happy in oon
parison.
Earnestly would we press upon young
minds the truth we have stated. It lies
at the foundation of all well lining, and
well-being. It gives tranquility ami
pleasure to tho youth just stepping across
the threshold of rational life, as well as
to the man whose years are hegining to
rest upon his stooping shoulders. Re ever
engaged in useful work, if you would bo
happy This is the great secret.
f TWO DOI,I<A US A YEAR
) Invariably in Advance.
A Lady ok the Olden Time. —Mrs.
Troupe, tin* accompli.shod wife of a cap
tain of tho British navy, gives a lively
account of a call she, with two other la
dies, made upon Mrs. Washington, who,
like hor hushatu - nmth.-r, distin
| guished for hor :..m i 011,0? • of lomso
| hold affairs. “ A A* v -aid t. L, so
j grand a lady,” says M*h. i n.u, .
thought wo must put on our host hihs and
hands. So wo drossod oursolvos in our
most elegant rufiles and silks, and wore
| introduced to hor ladyship. And don’t
you think, wo lound hor knittintj and
! mth a rhtt k apron on ! She received us
very graciously and easily, but after tho
! compliments wore over, sh.
knitting. There wo w n. w u .„.iich
lof work, and sitting in r. t 1
! oral Washington’s lady, with her own
I hands, was knitting stockings for her hus-
I baud.”
•• ■* ♦
Too Thuk.—An exchange well says,
when a youth goes astray friends gather
around to bring him to tho path of virtue.
Gentleness and kindness are lavished upon
him to bring him hack to innocence and
i peace. Xo one would ever suspect that
!he had sinned. But when a poor confi-
I ding girl is betrayed, she receives tho
! brand of society and is henceforth driven
i from the ways of virtue, the betrayer is
honored, respected and esteemed ; there is
I no peace for her this side of tho grave.
Society has no loving, helping hand for
her, no smile of peace, no voice of forgive
ness. These are earthly moralities un
known tj heaven. There is a great wrong
in them, and fearful are the consequences.
The above extract is too true. Man
may revel in sin and every species of
crime until all hope is lost j yet ho may
reform and bo taken into the embraces of
society, recognized as a gentleman, live
and die hou< red and re j oted But.
nhis.t lor ponr v e misstep ru
ins her—society discards her —and no re
form, however complete, obliterate.- lit
stain. .Death alone covers up her foibles
in the grave of forgetfulness! We have
but little confidence in the traduccr of
woman's character.
I’kiuianknt llomk.— “‘To have a
lioiih’ which a limn has himself reared or
purchased—a home which he has im
proved or beautilied—a home, indeed,
which, with honest pride and natural love,
he calls his own—is an additional security
for any man's virtue. Such a home ho
leaves with regrnt; to it ho gladly returns,
There he duds innocent and satisfying
pleasures. There his wife and little ones
arc happy and safe; and there all his
best affections take root and grow. To
such a pair, as time advances, this abode
of their early and middle life, whence
they have, perhaps, all departed, becomes
constantly more dear ; for it is now a sceno
of precious memories—the undisturbed
shelter id’ their declining years. And
say—what lapse of time, what traveled
distance, what varied experience of pros-
I erity, or sorrow, can ever efface the good
impression made by such a borne on the
tender heart of childhood ? To the
tempted youth, to the wanderer from vir
tue, to the sud victim of misfortune, such
a remembrahoc has often proved a strength
ening monitor, or a healing balm. Nor
can this kindly influence wholly fail so
long as the dear objects nt that
scene retain a place in memory e mneet/uj,
as they inseparably are, wtih thoughts of
a father’s counsels, a mother’s tenderness,
a sister's purity, and a brothel's love.I*’ 1 *’
Fanny Fkr.n Sick. —Fanny Fern must
be seriously ailing, judging from tho
following late protiunciaiuento: “I am
sick of politics. lam sick of torch light
fizzles, I aui sick of the Prince. I an,
siok of men who never talk sense to women.
I aiu sick of boys of seven smoking ci
gars. lam sick of gloomy Pharisees,
and worldly, idoaloss sermons, and narrow
creeds. lam sick of lawless Sabbatarians,
and female infidels, and frue-lovors. 1
am sick of unhealthy, diseased books,
full of mystifications ami traiioondoittnl
bosh. lam sick of‘chaste ribbons’ and
‘ravishing luoo.’ lam sink, of the age
which produced a Bronte, and Brown
iug, of tho prate of men wlm assert that
every woman should be a perfect house
keeper, and fail to add, that ovory man
should be a perfect carpenter. I am as
sick of women self-styled ‘literary,’ who
think it a proof af genius to despise
every-day household duties.
NO. 3.