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,■'.•’ ‘ 1 ‘ ■’ ‘
JOHN H, SEALS,
NEW SERIES, VOLUME 111.
C|e Ctmptrhntt tosher.
Published every Thurlfcy in the year, except two!
TEHITIS : Two Dollars per year, in advance*
JOHN H. SEALS, Botw PaorKirroß.
IjIONELi L. VEAZEY, EBJTOR Literary Dep’tm’t.
MRS. M. E. BRYAN, bothe*.
JOHN A. REYNOLDS, Publisher.
Clubs of Ten Names, by sending the Cash,
will receive the paper at - - $1 50 Ip copy.
Clubs of Five Names, at - - - - - 180 “
Any person sending us Five new Subscribers, inclo
sing the money, shall receive an extra copy one year
free of cost. _
ADVERTISING DIRECTORY:
Sates of Advertising:
1 square, (twelve lines or less,) first insertion, $1 OO
“ Each continuance, . 50
Professional or Business Cards, not exceeding six
lines, per year, i m
Announcing Candidates for Office,
Standing Advertisements:
Advertisements not marked with the number of
insertions, will be continued until forbid, and charged
aC^M B er>hants, Druggists and others, may contract
for advertising by the year on reasonable terms.
Legal Advertisements:
Sale of Land or Negroes, by Administrators, Ex
ecutors and Guardians, per square,
Sale of Personal Property, by Administrators, Ex
ecutors and Guardians, per square, rr
Notice to Debtors and Creditors, and £>
Notice for Leave to Sell, . . ~ I:
Citation for Letters of Administration, and 70
Citation for Letters of Dismission from Adm n, 500
Citation for Letters of Dismission from Guard p, 325
Legal Requirements:
Sales of Land and Negroes by Administrators, Exec
utors or Guardians, are required, by law, to be held on
the First Tuesday in the month, between the hours ot
ten in the forenoon and three in the afternoon, at the
Court-house door of the county in which the property is
situate. Notices of these sales must be given in a pub
lic Gazette, forty days previous to the day of sale.
Notices for the sale of Personal Property must be given
at least ten days previous to the day of sale.
Notices to Debtors and Creditors of an estate, must
be published forty days.
Notice that application will he made to the Court oi
Ordinary, for leave to sell Land or Negroes, must be pub
lished weekly for two months.
Citations for Letters of Administration, must be pub
lished thirty days —for Dismissaon from Administration
monthly, six months —for Dismission from Guardianship,
forty days.
Rules for Foreclosure of Mortgage must he published
monthly, for four months —for compelling titles from Ex
ecutors or Administrators, where a bond has been issued
by the deceased, the full space of three months.
Publications will always be continued according
to these, the legal requirements, unless otherwise or
dered.
’ THE WEEKLY
CHRONICLE & SENTINEIa,
PUBLISHED AT AUGUSTA, GA.
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TELLIGENCE,- is issued every Wednesday morning,
contains the LATEST NEWS received by Mail and
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and is mailed to subscribers by the earliest trains from
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TWO DOLLARS A YEAR,
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TRI-WEEKLY PAPER, |4.00,
DAILY PAPER, $7.00.
. Letters should be addressed to
* W. S. JONES, Augusta, Ga.
copies sent free when desired.
April 15, 1858
C23cejcidLU
CALL around and take some ICED LEMON
ADE with June 10 J. M. BOWLES.
—532(2)2 57 c© (E2*l£iaLif>33'lsy 9
LOVERS OF GOOD THINGS, FRESH AND PURE,
TTJST give ‘ <*)ld Mac’ a call—he’s always ready
aJ to supply the wants of those who may favor him
with their patronage. What’ll you have ?
A saucer of Cream,
A Lemonade,
Oranges &. Bananas,
Peacans & Peanuts,
Candies and Cakes,
Stews, Fries, Bakes,
Col’ rado & Ch’roots,
’Backer & Havanas,
In sun or shade,
‘Old Mac’s’ th’ team
that can furnish just what you may love!
at short notice. Call, examine and eat.
He may still be found at his old place.
Greenesboro, June 10, 1858 D. McDONALD.
nß.coGr
SURGEON & MECHANICAL DENTIST,
TT/’OULI? inform his friends that he
* will back in November and attend
mj J'TLLjl7 to his engagements at White Plains, Mt.
Zion, Oxford and Penfield. May 13, 1858-tfjan
~~ LOST OR STOLEN,
ALL persons are forewarned against trading for
the following notes : A note on Wm F Luckie for
Seventeen Dollars and Forty Cents, dated in April or
May last, and due the twenty fifth December thereaf
ter ; one on Wm Moore for Twelve Dollars and Twen
ty-five Cents, dated in May or June last, and due the
twenty-fifth December thereafter; one on David Phelps
of Hancock county for Twenty Dollars, dated in March
last and due from dat^; and one on John Mitchell of
Mount Zion for Seventeen Dollars Twelve and a-half
cents, dated in April last, and due the twenty-fifth of
December thereafter.
The above notes were made payable to the subscriber
as guardian of free boys Jerry and Ben; and the ma
kers of the same are requested to make payment to no
person except myself or my order.
„ THOMAS D. SANFORD.
Greenesboro’, March 4, 1858.
a few 80 or 150 acre LAND
WARRANTS, on immediate application at this
office- * • May 27 *
\WHotel,
ellers. All who may favor us with their pat
ronage, shall receive every attention necessary
5, M ...h.r. F*. li, Lt W,UJS ’ Fropri,,ot -
THE firm of COE & LATIMER is this day dis
solved by mutual consent. H. A. COE,
* Greenesboro, May Ist, 1858 J. S. LATIMER.
The practice will be continued by
§
who will visit
Oxford,
Penfield,
White Plains,
Mount Zion,
S Warrenton,
Elberton,
v Danielsville
Fort Lamar,
ot which due notice will be given ™” £
Gazette. Permanent office in J. CUNNINGHAM^S
BLOCK, GREENESB OR 0. .
May 13, 1858 t J anl
John K. Leak, A. B. Pres’t-
THIS Institution is now open, with a full and
able Faculty, for the reception of Students, both
! male and female. We have a commodious building,
and the society, water and healthfulness of the locality
are unsurpassed in the State. The course of •tudy is
thorough and extensive in both departments, including
all branches taught in the Male and Female Colleges.
Board $8 per month—Tuition reasonable. We can
and will make it to the interest of all who patronise the
Institution. Students will come by railroad to New
nan, Ga. thence by private conveyance to Carrollton.
For further particulars address John K. Leak, Car*
rollton, Ga. W. W. MERRELL, W. M.
J. T. MEADOR, S. W.
June 10-tey B. M LONG. J...W.
qWAKRENTED to force the Moustache andn
UVV Whiskers to grow strong and luxuriant in oneW
wmonth, where there was none before. It will not stain®
Mor injure the skin. One Dollar per bottle. Sent terj
p Tdd e coun,ri ” “? pf shlldon, 2
June 10, 1858 6m New York City.
Bowdon Collegiate Institute,)
Bowdon, Carroll Cos. Ga- ]
THE ANNUAL EXAMINATION will begin
on Monday, the sth of July and end the following
Wednesday.
The Commencement Sermon on Sunday the 4th, by
the Rev. Mr. Roberts of Marietta.
Prize Declamation Class Tuesday night.
Commencement Exercises on Wednesday.
The friends and patrons of the School are respectfully
requested to attend, June 10—tjulyS
ASTOW a <C ! ©
ATLANTA, GEORGIA,
HAVE, for six years past, been doing a heavy
GROCERY,PRODUCE AND COMMISSION
BUSINESS, and take this method of saying to the
readers ol the Crusader that Atlanta, as a produce
market, is unequalled in Georgia ; and they are still
determined, by prompt and faithful attention to all or
ders, to merit a continuance of the liberal patronage
heretofore extended to them. Orders for Bacon, Lard,
Corn, Flour, Feathers, Groceries, Factory Goods, <s-e.
must be accompanied with the cash or satisfactory ref
erences, [Atlanta, June 3—6 mos
WHUTPIB® GRASS.
THE subscriber offers for sale 25 or 30 bushels
of the Winter Grass-seed, (known as the Iverson
Grass —he having the reputation of introducing the
same into Georgia.) Having raised three crops of this
Grass, I am decidedly of the opinion that it is the best
that has ever been introduced into this section, it being
far preferable to rye or bi rlev for lots or grazing purpo
ses. It grows luxuriantly all winter—hard freezes or
heavy rains being no interference. It improves the land
on which it grows ; neither does it hinder or obstruct
the growth of any other crop on the sanic ground. All
animals that feed on grass are very fond of it. The
seed may be sown at any time from June until October
and do well. I will refer the public to a perusal of the
Circular of Hon. B. V. Iverson. Any person who de
sires to procure the Grass-seed from me can do so _bv
early application, and have it sent to any place which
they may designate. D. HERRON.
N. B. Any further information wanting can be ob
tained by addressing me at Penfield. D. H.
Penfielj, Ga. June 3, 1858 8t
CERATOCHLOA BREVIARIsTATA
Or, Short Awn Horn Grass.
Columbus, Ga. .Sept. 29th, 1856.
To the Planters, Farmers and Stock Raisers of Greene
County, Ga ;
Gentlemen :
I take this method to bring to your notice a Foreign
Winter Grass, the seed of which is now acclimated,
and which I sincerely desire every Planter and Raiser
to possess and cultivate. This grass grows in the fall,
winter and spring, only, and is emphatically a winter
grass. For the grazing of stock and making nutritious
hay and restoring worn out fields, it has no superior.
This grass has the following valuable qualities, which
many year’s experience has abundantly demonstrated:
Ist It has the largest seed of any known species of
grass, being nearly as large as wheat.
2d It will grow [on very rich ground] from three to
four feet high, when seasonable.
3d It is nevet injured by cold—no freeze hurts it.
4th It is never troubled by insects of any kind.
sth It is never injured or retarded in growing by heavy
rains, overflows or ordinary drought.
6th It grows as fast as Millet or Lucerne.
7th It is as nutritious as barley, and stock are as fond
of it as they are of that.
Bth If will keep horses, mules, cattle, sheep, goats,
hogs and poultry fat throughout the winter and spring,
from November to May.
9th It will then (the stock being withdrawn, and the
ground being rich) yield from three to four tons of ex
cellent hay per acre, cutting when the seed is green (in
milk) each time. . ..r
10th It saves corn and fodder being fed away to slock
during the winter and spring.
11th It completely protects fields from washing rains.
12th It ennables farmers to have an abundance of
l rick milk, cream and butter, with fat beef, mutton, &,c.
for the table.
13th It will (if followed with our cornfield pea or
bean) give to farmers the cheapest, simplest, the surest
and the most paying plan to reclaim worn out fields, and
fertilize those not yet so, which the ingenuity of man
can devise.
14th It will sow its own seeds after the first time,
without expense or trouble, thereby re-producing itself
(through its seeds) on the same ground ad infinitum.
15th It does not spread or take possession of a field,
so as to be difficult to get rid of, but can be effectually
destroyed at any stage before the seed ripen and fallout,
by being plowed up or under.
This grass having the above enumerated properties,
will be found, by all who cultivate it, far superior to
any other species ever introduced, or which can be in
troduced, lor the climate and soil of our country.
B. V. IVERSON. .
,
jm.
ALL persons are hereby warned not to run
horse races over any of the public highways of this
county ; and any persons so offending, will be presented
to the next Grand Jury. By us,
JOHN G. HOLTZCLAW,) _t: ©
JOHN F. ZIMMERMAN, | g 2 “
L. B. JACKSON, i’gPf
A. L. WILLIS, I £
June 10-2 t W. G. JOHNSON, J/’LSS
THe copartnership business in the STEAM SAW
MILLS at Woodville, heretofore existing between
Bowling &. Haley, was dissolved, by mutual consent,
on the first day of January last. All persons indebted
to said firm, either by note or oook account, for the
year 1857, are hereby notified to make payment to Jas.
A. Haley, who is authorized jo receipt forthesame.
June 10—lm JAMES A. HALEY-
BY a member of the present Graduating Class
of Mercer University, a situation as TEACHER
for the remainder of the year. Address A. B. C. -Pen
field, Ga. care of editors of Temperance Crusader.
May 27th 4t
POWDER and SHOT ! J. M. BOWLES.
April 22 - 1
■ 1 ‘ *“
r s you want an article superior to Potash for
making Soap, buy the CONCENTRATED LEY.
Marsh & /. M. fiWLM.
THE ADOPTED ORGAN OF ALL THE TEMPERANCE ORGANIZATIONS IN THE STATE.
BIT MRS. IS. E. BRI AN.
PHASES IN A HUMAN LIFE.
CHAPTER I.
ASPIRATIONS.
BY MARY B. BRYAN.
THE study was dim with the shadows of a No
vember evening. The few pictures, mostly
by Vandyke, that looked down from their mas
sive frames, grew life-like as the faint light sof
tened their outlines, and upon one, Luther and
his family, the eyes of the professor rested with
dreamy fixedness. The fossils, minerals and
crystals arranged in a cabinet of carved wood,
and the jars of preserved reptiles and insects, re
vealed the labors of the naturalist, while the
chemical apparatus near the couch of the profes
sor told that the room was used also as a labora
tory. But the fire had died out in the furnace,
the metal was cold in the crucible, smelted down
to its black, elementary ore. Alas! it was a type
of the man who reclined pale and motionless as
a statue upon the pillows of the settee beside it.
Even thus, had he cast into the crucible of science
life, youth, health and all the sweet domestic
charities that make existence so dear, and the
flame, the insatiable thirst for knowledge, con
sumed them all. The fire of the altar had drank
eagerly the incense of the worshipper, and now,
the oil of life all wasted, the pitcher broken at
the fountain, the professor stood looking calmly
forward for the solution of the great problem of
death and eternity calmly, though his soul still
clung fondly to the earth that to him had seemed
such a revelation of wisdom and harmony. Alas!
to be called away in the midst of his labors before
he had passed the vestibule to the great temple
of Science, and while yet a score of years was
needed to complete man’s allotted number; a
score of years that might be devoted to his cher
ished studies; a score of years that might open
to him the door to the holy of holies of that ma
jestic temple, that might realize the hopes and
dreams of his youth.
Was it of this that the professor was thinking,
as he lay with his fair hair, threaded with silver,
pushed back from his broad forehead, and his
bright eyes fixed upon that picture of the stern
old reformer, in the bosom of his family unbend
ing his grave brow before the smiles of household
love? It may be that solitude and gloom and the
shadow of death’s o’er brooding wing had brought
tenderer memories and feelings to the heart of the
professor, for there gathered an unwonted misti
ness in his large, deep eyes.
There was a knock at the door of the study,
“Come in,” said Heinrich, drawing his dressing
gown about him, dashing his hand hurriedly
across his eyes, and then folding his arms upon
his shrunken chest. Th 9 door opened and Claude
St. Clair, the fair-haired pupil of Heinrich, en
tered, and seating himself on a low Ottoman by
the couch of the professor, he took his thin hand
and kissed it with respectful tenderness. The
act showed the affectionate relations existing be
tween teacher and pupil, and betrayed also the
boyish ingenuousness of the youth who, reared in
the solitude of his retired home, with no society
save the companionship, refined, thoughtful and
pure of his mother and his tutor, still retained
the simplicity and fearless innocence of child
hood, although he had seen his seventeenth sum
mer. “You are better to-day, my dear tutor,”
said the boy with affectionate solicitude.
“Much better,” replied the professor, “or I
should not have sent for you, Claude, to have a
long talk with you this evening—the last we shall
have before I leave you forever.”
“Oh! say not so,” cried Claude, earnestly.
“ Leave off at least that doleful —* forever.’ You
will go to your dear Germany, my good teacher,
and the fresh air from your native hills, and the
pure wine from the Rhine-land vintages will
bring back health and vigor to your frame, and
you will return to us, or if not, I will go to you,
and we will resume our old studies in the shade
of your castle-crowned hills. Think of it, dear
Heinrich—only think what the future has in
store for you—for us 1”
The professor smiled a grave, sweet smile, and
laid his hand caressingly upon the boy’s brown
curls.
“We will not talk of that now,” he said; “it is
of you I wish to speak. You are standing on the
threshhold of manhood, Claude; life lies before
you; which of its many paths will you choose to
tread? Society has claims upon you; you must
not he, as I have been, the isolated student, with
no thought or care of the outer world—the idle
enthusiast, as men are pleased to call me.”
“And why may I not?” asked Claude; “life is
brief, and you tell me all its object is happiness.
What if I bound my world by the walls of a lib
rary? Shall Ibe les3 happy than if I mingled in
the hurrying tide of men, of business and pleas
ure? Shall I have lost much by never knowing
the turbulent passions, the stormy joys and griefs
that agitate the outer current of life ?”
Heinrich passed his hand thoughtfully across
his brow. With all his great learning and deep
research, human duty was .an unsolved mystery
to the man of science; still, he had a dim per
ception of its existence. “I have inquired little
into such things,” he said, “but I think we should
live for others—not for ourselves alone. Moral
philosophers tell us that a merely passive exis
tence does not fulfill the great object of our be
ing ; that we owe duties to our fellow-men, and
that upon their observance depends, in a great
measure, our happiness for eternity. I confess I
have neglected mine; I have had but one object
in life—the pursuit of knowledge. “ Yet, after
all,” continued the professor, “metkinks that it
is in solitude, in commune with itself, with the
spirits of the mighty dead and the mysteries of
the great universe, that the mind, theßoiJ, if you
will, attains its fullest strength and majesty, be
comes best fitted to wield an elevating influence
over the inferior minds of the mass vvith which
it does not mingle, and is best capacitated for the
high, intellectual pursuits and enjoyments that
await the soul in that future existence we all ac
knowledge.”
“Master,” cried the boy abruptly, breaking the
silence that had followed Heinrich’s words, “you
have studied all sciences; the volume of knowl
edge is a familiar book to you. I, too, would
know the delights that lie clasped within its
pages; but I may not aspire to your extended
scope. Tell me, to what branch, of science shall
I oonfine my pursuit?”
“ Boy,” said the professor, “ I have scarcely
read the epeuiug page* night? yelnnt
PENFIELD, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, JUNE 17, 1858.
you speak of; life is not long enough for its peru
sal; and I, alas!” and the professor held up his
wasted hand and looked regretfully at the blue
veins that threaded its transparency.” “And
yet,” he added, raising his head proudly, “I have
studied all that men know of the various scien
ces, and I will tell you, Claude, that had I your
young years before me, there is one on which I
should concentrate all my powers; one that, fal
len as it is from its high estate, dimmed by the
transitory blaze of new sciences, is yet worth them
all. Metaphysics is unsatisfactory and shadowy,
Philosophy vain, Urania a delusion, Hermes alone
is thought, Alchemy, that in ages gone was con
sidered the keystone to the arch of science.
Were but a few move years granted me to per
fect my partial discoveries, to pursue the intri
cate paths. I have found, I would ask nothing
more of Heaven.”
The tremor was gone from the professor’s voice,
and his tones rang clear arid high through the
room, while the flush deepened upon his cheek.
“But master,” said his pupil hesitatingly, “ you
have not spoken of the study of human nature—
of the heart, the great master-work of Deity.
Surely it is well worth the time to study its phil
osophy ?”
“I leave that to the poets;” said Heinrich, with
a gesture of contempt. “ Let them throw the veil
of fancy over its weakness, its littleness, its vile
ness. No; you might as well study the philoso
phy of a weather vane, as to seek to apply fixed
rules to that absurd, inconsistent and incompre
hensible thing—the human heart. I speak not
ignorantly, boy. Though immured half my life
in the walls of a German university, there are
years that I never speak of, that I look back
upon now as wasted, which I spent mingling with
men in the busiest city of the old world, and all
I brought back from my vain search was a con
tempt for the mass of my fellow-beings, and a
skepticism as regards the vaunted nobility of
‘ God’s noblest work.’ ”
“You speak disparagingly of the office of the
poets,” said Claude. “From all that I can learn,
their influence over mankind, in all ages of the
world, has been greater than that of philosophers
or sages. You remember it has been said, ‘ Let
me write the songs of a people, and I cave not
who writes its laws.’ ”
The professor smiled. “ Perhaps you are right,”
he said, looking earnestly at the boy’s animate,
countenance; “ I acknowledge I have paid little
attention to poetry; there is no romance in my
nature, and but little sympathy with those who
possess it.”
No poetry in his nature! Ah! why was it,
then, that the one hope, burning with feverish
warmth at his heart, was, that he might reach
his native land in time to die there ? Why the
yearning once more to look upon the blue sky of
Germany, the “sweet river Rhine,” the ruined
home where his young life began and the graves
of the loved and lost of his youtn ? And why had
that picture of family love and domestic happi
ness brought tears to the eyes of the lonely man;
and the angel face of his dead sister—why looked
it through his twilight reveries, growing bright
and yet brighter as the veil of mortality grew
thinner between his soul and hers? Ah! why
belie our natures! Deep in every heart there
wells the fountain of romance, fertilizing the
waste desert of life, and over its bright waters
poetry hangs her enchanted lyre. Philosophy
may chill the fountain to ice, the weeds of sensu
ality and vice may choke the 3tream and the ivy
of age muffle the strings of the lyre, but it is still
there, and often some sudden influence—a mem
ory, a hope, a word of tenderness it may be, breaks
the icy seal, clears away the weeds and the ivy,
and the fountain overflows in sweet thoughts or
holy tears.
“And so,” said Heinrich, still regarding with a
smile the fair face that had so suddenly clouded
at his words; “so you sympathise with the poets ;
you prefer the temple of the muse to the labora
tory of Hermes; and my examples and teach
ings have been vain; I have failed to inspire
you with a love for science ; you would be a poet
yourself, perhaps ?”
The eloquent blood dyed the forehead of the
youth, but his eyes did not fall before his tutor’s
half contemptuous smile.
“ I would,” he said; “ I covet the gift of poesy
above all others ; I would have the power to send
forth from my lonely study, thoughts that should
sway the hearts of thousands; that should thrill
them like a pulse of electricity. I would have
the power to interpret the voiceless oracles of the
heart—the great, living heart of humanity—with
its world of thoughts and feelings; its stern pas
sions ; its joys and griefs and hoj es ;. its tempta
tions; its-lonely wrestlings, and its longings for
higher life. “This,” continued the boy with
flashing eyes, “ this is indeed power; and tell me,
oh! my dear tutor, if your researches into tb
stract sciences, if the gratification which knowl
edge brings its possessor and the appreciation of
a few learned minds, can equal the deep joy of
the poet who feels that his home is in the hearts
of a nation; that his magic wand has found the
hidden fountains in many souls, and his genius
awakened the high and noble thoughts that lay
dormant in many a bosom.”
The boy had been carried away by the inten
sity of his feelings. Never before had he spoken
thus; but this hour of confidence and parting
tenderness had melted away the diffidence of
young genius, and he expressed longings and as
pirations never before uttered, save to his sympa
thising mother, for he feared the cold criticism of
the man of science. But the teacher’s look ot
surprise deepened into one of admiration.
“We have all our mission,” he said, thought
fully. “ If, after the opposite tendency that has
been given your mind you still turn to the pur
suit of literature, it is proof that for this you were
designed. I had hoped to leave behind me one
who, following in my footsteps, would far outstrip
me in progress; but follow your own inclination,
Claude ; the earnest spirit will not be deterred
from working out its own destiny. And you, ,
strange boy, with ft depth of thought and feeling
so far beyond your years, should be born for a
glorious destiny.”
“Would that I could believe so!” exclaimed
Claude, eagerly; “would that I could look into
|he future; that I had some faint idea of what
fate coming years will shape.
You have studied the astrology of the ancients,” .
he continued, turning to the tutor with a look
half earnest, half playful on his face. “Do the
stars reveal nothing of the future ? Is
the science all a delusion
“A poetic fable,” said the professor.;, “ ‘Fate is
the Isis whose veil no mortal may raise, but our
destiny is partly i** our own hands; genius and
talent are indeed gifts of nature, but art and in,
dustry, though they may not create, .can improve,
and dureet them. If yu ihsuld •kto*
literature as a vocation, do not waste your time
and talents in desultory attempts; do not weary
the wing of the eagle by erratic flights; concen
trate your powers, and subject them to stern dis
cipline ; study human nature; (for this, if you
take poetry for your profession, you cannot es
cape;) mingle much with men, and learn to sym
pathise with all that moves them. When you
aim to acquire power over the heart, and not over
the intellect alone, you cannot confine yourself
to the mute world of a library.”
“ But if 1 fail?” interposed the boy, who had
listened with eager interest to every word of his
instructor.
“ With your delicate mental organization and
sensitive nature, the ordeal may be a trying one;
but be earnest, patient and faithful in the Cru
sade you have undertaken. Dr. Arnold, with his
large experience in the miniature world of a
school, tells us that the difference in men is not
mere ability: it is energy. It is this you poets
need. You prefer dreaming on violet banks to
toiling up steeps, at whose summit gush the
springs of thought and inspiration. There!” ad
ded the tutor, smiling, “ that is in your own fig
urative style; but see ! our conference must end,”
and he pointed to the western sky, where the.
star of evening was walking, a solitary sentry, on
the cloudy parapet of Heaven.
“My last sunset in America!” he said, mus
ingly.
The light faded from the eyes of Claude.
“Master,” said the boy in tremulous accents,
“ when you stand on your native soil and find
there, perchance, only old memories and silent
graves to welcome you, you will not forget that
on this western shore there are true hearts beat
ing for you, and hands ready and eager to greet
your return?”
“No, boy,” said the professor, drawing the
bowed head to his heart, in the first embrace he
had ever given; and when you, in the glory of
your manhood, seek inspiration in the land of
legends and traditionary beauty, should you
chance, in your wanderings on the Rhine, to see
in the lonely burial-ground of Mentz the name of
‘Heinrich’ on an humble grave-stone, you will
pause awhile and think of one whose cold, love
less life caught its only beam of gladness from the
Bunny light of your young spirit.”
When the morning built her amber pillars on
‘he sunken night, the professor trod the deck of
an outward bound vessel, and watched the fast
receding shores of the western empire, while
Claude turned away from the strand and went
back to the old homestead to sit in the dreary
study alone—alone with his young dreams and
shadowy aspirations, to which the professor’s
words had given form and substance.
“ Oh ! give me new faces, new faces, new faces ;
I’ve gazed on the present a fortnight or more.
Some persons grow weary ol things or of places,
But features to me is a much greater bore.”
A VERY frank oonfession of fickleness cer
tainly; but to'understand and feel the force
of the assertion, one must be oompelled to sit for
a length of time w&a-vig with tiresome, blank or
disagreeable countenances; for there are (and I
leave it to my candid readers if there are not)
faces pretty enough, so far as mere flesh and blood
beauty is concerned, that it would be perfect pur
gatory to be condemned *to look at daily for a
year or a month.
As children weary of their dolls, and we tire
of looking at the same features in a picture or a
statue. ch changeless, expressionless faces
soon lose all their attractions, and we would wel
come plainness as a relief. The symmetry of fea
tures ceases to challenge admiration; the stereo
typed smile palls upon the sense; the eyes, bright
though they may be, when there is no soul in
their depths, no change on their surface, are tire
some to look at as the unruffled lake in June;
for even beauty must cloy when, like the “long,
‘Sunny lapse of a summer day’s light”
“ Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender,
’Till love falls asleep in the sameness of splendor.”
But there are faces that we could gaze on for
ever witjiout weariness—faces whose beauty de
pends not upon the classic regularity of feature,
but upon the soul shining through them like light
within a vase. There are cheeks that can flush
or pale with varying emotions; eyes that can dar
ken and deepen ; that can flash with indignation
or melt with tenderness ; lips that can quiver with
passion or compress with pride.
Who cares if such a face has not the symmetry
of a statue? it has a beauty more enduring —a
beauty of which neither time nor disease can de
prive its possessor.
The most fascinating face I ever saw, was one
whose exceeding beauty depended mostly upon
this mystic charm of expression. Ah ! that face,
with its changeful play of light and shadow; the
moonlight softness of its smile ; the twilight of
its sadness: the lightning of its scorn! It was to
me an unwritten poem, or page of beauty that
the eye never wearied of reading ; for it was the
soul within—the soul of strong passions, of deep
thoughts and bright fancies that threw its reflec
tion across the features and
“ Touched every line with glory of that animated face.”
_ E. B.
A STRAY SUNBEAM..
THERE is no spot on earth so dark but that
some ray of the blessed sunshine of beauty
and goodness streams through to illumine it.
On the stagnant pool blooms the water lily in
its purity, and the convolvulus throws its starry
blossoms over noisome ditches, its white cups,
fair as though moulded of the snows of Mount
Blanc, and in the frozen regions of Arctic deso
lation, the Boreal light sheds its roseate splendor
on the sunless plains. It is even so in human
life.
Near the house of a friend, in a pleasant vil
lage where I spent a few weeks, was a wretched,
dilapidated, comfortless cabin—the abode of pov
erty, of intemperance and, for aught I know, of
shame. Nothing but coarse, loud voices, threats,
imprecations and drunken merriment came from
its walls. No flower bloomed around its doorwaj,
no bird found in its weedy yard room for his
nest or inspiration for his song. Thereavas noth
ing of beauty around it, and I, who so worship
beauty, avoided passing it in m$ walks.
But oven here, the breath of God had trans
ported the winged seed of his love. Even in this
waste blossomed the white lily of purity. Chanc
ing to pass near the house on returning home one
evening, I saw a pale little child—a girl of five or
six summers —Bitting upon the low doorstep.
She raised her eyes as I passed, and what eyes
they were! So strangely gentle and beautiful;
yet, with Buch a world of unutterable sadness in
their blue depths! And the face! It would have
reminded you of one of Raphael's, angels, if the
leek es earthly serfew kM everikadewed its
■’ - A v < •/* . f- ‘
EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
VOL. XXIV. NOMBSa W
innocent beauty. She was holding ip hos arms
a little, half-starved kitten, pressing it to her
heart and caressing it with her thin fingers. Per
haps it was all she had on earth to love.
I saw her often afterwards, for I no longer
avoided passing the house in my evening ram
bles; and though I never stopped, and.seldom
spoke to the lonely child, I think she learned te
watch for my coming and answer my look of rec
ognition with one of her sweet, grave smile*. I
gave her a flower one day—a magnificent rose, it*
stem bending with the weight of bursting buda—
and I think by the bright look in her wondering
eyes, that she had never seen anything half so
beautiful. The evening before I left, it woe grow
ing late, as I returned from a long stroll, and I
was hurrying past the cabin, when a child’s timid
voice arrested my steps, and a little hand was
thrust through the paling and dropped a few ber
ries into mine.
“ Little girl,” said I, touched by the mute of
fering, “is the woman living in that ouse your
mother ?”
She shook her head.
“Whoso child are you, then?” I continued,
“ What is your mother’s name?”
“ I have’nt got any,” she said, sorrowfully ; “ 1
never had any that I knows of,” and the long
lashes drooped down over her eyes.
A loud, harsh voice called her na m g from the
window, and she ran away before I could bid her
good-bye.
I never saw her again. I do not think I ever
shall, for such eyes and such a face as hers belong
to the early doomed. There are some “children
whose mission on this sinful earth is but a brief
one. They have God’B own name written on
their foreheads; their words and thoughts are all
peculiar, as though they had learned them of th®
angels they so lately left; and there is a strange
mystery and sweetness dreaming far down in
their eyes, while an atmosphere of purity seem®
to surround them and prevent the contaminating
influence of evil. There are such children, but
their names are soon written upon toombstones;
not long does the pitying Father suffer them to
remain in this world of sin and blight. They
have their mission. Their little life is breathed
out in fragrance, and their death is a lesson to
crime-haruenod souls. M. E. B.
THE SUMMER RAIN.
BY MARY E. BIiYAX.
It comes at last, the sweet, refreshing rain,
And earth iu her deep gladness hushes all
Her busy sounds to listen to its voice,
And feel its baptism blessed upon her brow.
Long with her dry parched iipe has she implored
The blessing God withheld, and the strong sea
Has held his breath to list if qn the hills
Come not the sound of its approaching feet.
Low drooped the fruit’s bright clusters, the faint ffui
Paled on the roses’ cheek, the lily frail
Folded her white hands meekly and bowed down
Resigned beneath the sun’s relentless gaze.
The little naiads of the willowy brook
Mourned their impoverished urns, and pole and thin
Flowed the soft tresses of the Indian maize.
The farmer passed his fingers through its. threads,
And sighing, turned away. Within the field,
The wild flowers lifted all their thirsting cups
To be replenished by the nectarean draught—
All, save the helianthus that alone
With starry eye undimmed, gazed on its god,
Moving in burning majesty through spac®.
Last night I swept my curtain back and looked,
Hoping the spirit of the rain had sent
Some fleecy herald o’er the sky, but vain !
The stars shone down in mockery, and seres*
The moon rode high, with not the thinnest mist
Veiling her haughty splendor. Morning came ;
I saw her rise above the eastern hills,
Shaking the dew-drops from her golden looks;
And to her opal ear, lo! there were yoked,
Like unto Juno’s swans, two fleecy clouds.
They braved the day-god’s frown, and ere the n*on
They mounted to the zenith and dissolved
In liquid sweetness oh the thirsting plain.
It was as though the pitying angels leaned
O’er the edges and from their full urns
Poured down the crystal tide.
The lily Sower
Bends now its brimming cup, the tiny stream
Has found its voice again, and the sweet lake
Is dimpled with the glad ratn’s dancing feet,
While from the leafy covert of yon tree
The young birds peer from the maternal wing,
And in their nest secure, look wondering up
At the bright drops that fall, and on the leave®
Hang like to liquid jewels. Ne’er before
In their short life of days, or weeks at best,
Have those young fledglings heard the sound es rain.
’Tis anew leaf to them in Nature’s book,
Whose living poetry these songsters set
To sweetest music, and all summer long
Weave into loveliest ballads that alone
The poet’s heart and his inspired sense
Can e’er translate in words.
Thomas ville.
TIIE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES.
THERE is music, deep and harmonious, sound
ing through space’forever; for the spheres are
the golden harps of God, and for unnumbered
centuries their melody has echoed through Hea
ven, while in the “shadow of His own splendor”
sets the eternal Harpist, end the angels bow be
fore Him, mute with adoring love. Our owe
earth, unit as it is amid the bright myriads of
worlds that surround it; yet, what deathleae
sounds, what living music it sends up to the
throne of the Almighty! the sweet soprano of
love; the ringing contralto of passion ; the clar
ion blast of war; the chime of marriage bells; the
song of praise; the wail of anguish; the thrilling
npte of joy; the plaint of the oppressed and the
triumphant cry of the oppressor; and through
all, there sounds the eternal refrain, the knell
of death,
“ That everlasting underbnse
Os our afflicted race.”
Discordant to our limited sense seems the musie
of earth; but we catch not the strain entire; we
peroeive not the blending of notes whioh, when
sounded separately, jar painfully upon; the ear;
but God and His angels, to whom roll3 the full
tide of music, the apparent discords are perfect
harmony, and not a chord of the mighty instru
ment but is attuned to melody.
The groat scroll whereon the hand of tho Un
erring has written the music of the spheres shall
one day be unrolled before us, and we shall M
knowledge its beauty and harmony, and the wi*-
dom of Ilim who holds in His hand the golden
reins of innumerable worlds. M. & B.
\’ _ THE RETORT.
Says Delia to a reverend dean,
“ What reason can be given,
Since marriage is a holy theme,
That there are none in Heaven 1”
“There are no women there,” he sriadt
Shequick returned the jest,
” Wbmen there are; but I’m afriAd
They cannot find a priest.”
A SERIOUS QUSSTIO*.
Said Lady Bab to Lady -
“ I wish I were as blest aa you ;
Your husband is polite and kind,
Os gentle manners, gen’rous mind,
Obliging, gay—in friendship warm,
With every quality to charm.”
“Pray, Lady Bab, oried Lady Sue,
“How came my husband— entre noua**
So intimately known to you t' 1
Joy, Temperance and Iteposa,
Slam the door on the doctor’s nest.
“A list! list! *y laUfdm so alke JM*