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was thru turned bottom upwards and set
adrift, for my companion had lost his life
by attempting trrjeach an oar that slipped
from his hands. The smugglers, instead
of releasing me, as I hoped and implored,
promising them large sums of money, car
ried me to an island—one of the Balearic
cluster—where was their general place of
meeting. The band was very large, and
had many vessel*. 1 remained with them
twb years; the first, 1 was not permitted to
leave the island, hut the second, they took
me with them several times, because they
needed my services. I was no longer Mons.
de Montfort, but a slave. At the end of
the second year, I made my escape, as they
were making a run upon a dark, stormy
night. My appearance was so altered,
that none of my former acquaintances re
cognized me; therefore, 1 determined not
to disclose myself. I visited my chateau,
and found it had been burned to ashes.—
My brother-in-law had removed, and no
one could say whither. Devoting my life
to one object, the discovery of my children,
1 visited nearly every portion of the civil
ized world. Twice did 1 cross the Atlan
tic. and visit these shores, fori was certain
of the fact that 1 traced my brother-in-law
to his point of embarkation for the Nc.v
World. By visiting so many nations, 1
learned their languages. My friend Mag
nin also learned the English language from j
his intercourse with natives. I rescued ‘
him, a few months since, from some ban- j
ditti, as I was returning from Italy, where j
I had gone in search of you two. In grat- j
itude, he devoted himself to my cause, and j
with what success, he himself may inform ;
you.’’
The stranger, whose name was Magnin, ’
was now earnestly importuned to gratify
the curiosity of all present. lie began thus:
“ I will commence from the time when
first engaged as a captain by your father,
und give you a short sketch of my life,
which is but a tissue of fraud and villainy,
from beginning to end.
“ When ymn father received me into his
service, he took to his bosom an adder that
did not hesitate to inflict its poison. I was
at the head, and had the chief control, of
that extensive scheme of smuggling which
has been mentioned, and which poured mo
ney into my coffers till they overflowed,
yet did not satisfy my cupidity. No means,
however base or unlawful, caused me to
hesitate in my design of amassing wealth.
For a very large sum of money offered me
by a commercial house, th rivals and per
sonal enemies of your father’s, I entered
into a plot to ruin him, and bring destruc
tion upon his family. Our first act was
the abduction of his only son, when on a
visit to Paris—but this was only a begin
ning. As his chief captain, I was enabled
to put my smugglers in command of his
other vessels: thus we defrauded him of a
vast deal of his riches. When a ship was
very richly freighted, we either run it upon
rocks and wrecked it, taking care to have
men near, who might carry off the specie
or most valuable contents, which were re
ported lost—or else we permitted ourselves
to be overpowered by bands of my own
smugglers, sent for that purpose. About
the time of his wife’s death, I robbed him
of a vast quantity of wealth, by wrecking
his most noble ship, the Flora. \V c final
ly destroyed them all, sometimes with ad
vantage to us, and sometimes not—hut
rarely. By these supposed unintentional
misfortunes, many persons lost their lives.
What cared 11 1 had been insulted, and
determined upon being revenged. Mons.
dc Montfort’s calamities partially rendered
him insane, for he foolishly ventured across
the Rhone, as you have heard, and fell in
to my power. Two days after his disap- 1
pearance, I had his chateau burned to the j
ground. Thus had 1 finished my task. I
should have kept him in bondage all his
days, had lie not escaped. I was now im
mensely rich. A prince might have envied
my wealth. I rolled in dissipation, and
ruined n.y constitution; still, conscience
did not gnaw. What return was made for ;
all the misery of which I have been the
cause ‘! Why, the very man 1 had injured
so much, saved my life, as I was about to
he shot by brigands. My hair, from a
deep black, changed to white in one night,
from the terror of that scene. His hair has j
been whitened by misery. From a reso
lute, courageous man, 1 became the most
irresolute coward breathing. . Asa slight
reward, 1 endeavored, as much as lay in
my power, to repair the evil done. Through
agents, 1 had always kept up a correspon
dence with this man, Jaques Tonquin, and
knew that Mons. de Montfort’s son was
living. When I intorincd him of the fact,
joy nearly killed him. We took passage
for New Orleans immediately. 1 have ob
tained his pardon, and earnestly implore ,
vour’s also, I hope 1 have found grace at;
the Throne of Mercy. 1 feel so, and hope !
soon to leave this world of trouble—for it j
is a world of trouble,” said the penitent, j
weeping grievously. “I once had a son.
Contrary to my hopes, he turned out to be !
a worse villain than his father. He even 1
defied me to my face, and was in turn dis
inherited. I was driven to it, and could :
not help it. What has become of him, I :
know not. Would that I could once more
behold him ere 1 sink to rest within the i
cold tomb.”
“Behold him then, for I ajn he.” wasut-1
tered, to the astonishment of all, by the |
hitherto quiescent captain, as he stood ;
proudly erect, conscious that every eye
gazed upon him. “ Yes, lam he—l, the I
man dreaded far and near for his daring 1
robberies; I, whose faculty of disguising!
himself, and whose skill in finding and fit
ting up this cave, have hitherto eluded the i
most diligent search, am the son yon speak
of so affectingly. Your cruelty it was !
that drove me to it. You it was that made
inc what 1 atn, a felon, a thief, a man des
titute of all sense of honor and generosity.
I)o you doubt it 1 You shall have ocular
proof. And you, villain, die for your t
.treachery,” continimi th# infuriated cap
tain, springing with demoniac fierceness at
| Jaques, brandishing a long, keen dagger.
, But the suddenly-extended foot of Herbert
j threw him to the floor, and before any one
i could act, he had disappeared behind the
l curtains which covered the entrance of the
1 cave, and was seen no more by those he
; left behind. On the following day, howev
-1 er, when officers came to examine the cave,
i its entire contents were found to have been
■ burnt. He was supposed to have returned
;at night and set lire to them. After his
disappearance, his father, with tears in his
1 eyes, and a broken voice, acknowledged
that his punishment was just:
“ I plainly see thy hand, oh, Father, in
the connection of all the events which have
; brought about this result. Thy goodness
| has bestowed happiness upon those deserv- j
ing it, and justly-merited punishment upon 1
me. Truly are Thy ways past finding i
Marie was, at this time, requested by her
husband to inform them of the manner in
which she had been brought to the cave. j
“After your departure,” she answered, i
“Captain Morgan visited me often, but i
seeing that his suit was discouraged, he I
brought me here, having persuaded try: to j
take a ride with him.”
Whilst they are meditating upon these
things, we will inform the reader, that
“ Capt. Morgan” was the name that gen
tleman was known by in the city; his
original name Was Paul Magnin; his ac
quired name, “Paul the Fearful.”
“Och, sure, me darlints, an’ its Misthress
Ann that’s tired out and out wid waitin’.”
This sentence, which interrupted the
meditations of the entire company, was
pronounced by a person, whose shaggy
head was visible between the curtains that
closed over the entrance. A messenger
had been sent to Mad. Lcgare, informing
her of the discovery and developments
which had taken place, and she, becoming
impatient, sent this prian to see what the
matter might he.
“Is it sittin’ here all day you’ll he doin’,
whin the misthress is so impotent ?”
“ Impatient you mane, Pat,” said James,
mimicking him. “An’ will ye be afther
tellin’ us how Misthress Ann behaved
whin she heard the news?”
“\ T is, begorrah: when the word came
that her husband an’ son—beg yer honor’s
pardon—l mane her son an’ husband, was
found, wid de darlin’ Marie —top o’ the
mornin’ to ye mine, if it is candle-light—
jabers, but mebbe she didn't go into de be
highstrikes, and blubber like a babe un
born! An’ when I wur looking on, an’
wondherin’ what would happen next, te
dad bud she says, says she, ‘Pathrick—
that’s meself —why didn’t ye bring wather,
ye gossoon.’ It’s herself, too, that can’t
laugh for cryin,’ an’ when she'd be cryin’,
she caiWt, for laughin’, bedad. Och hone,
bud she hurried me off before I started, an’
tould me to jist ax ye for to make haste by
degrees, an’ git home the nearest way, by
making a cirkit. Belavc me, if I tell ye.’’
“Make prodigious haste, and get home
without making a circuit you mean, Pat.”
“Oh, St. Pathrick! hut its ycr honor
that’s smart entirely. Ye jist took the
very words out o’ me mouth. Make haste,
says Misthress Ann, for she can’t stand it,
ses she; an’ sure it’s herself that can’t
stand at all, at all, for sittin’, nor can’t sit
for walking about, faith.”
After Pat had finished his graphic delin
eations of Mad. Legar6’s condition, every
one left the cave, and repaired to the car
riage which had been sent for Marie by
her aunt’s providence. The carriage could
only approach within a mile of the cave,
which was five or six miles from the city
and in a remarkably secret dell.
Bootless would it he to relate all the
succeeding events. It is sufficient to say
Mad. Legare was overjoyed at the recove
ry of her brother. As Mons. Magnin had
predicted, he died soon after. Jaques and
his wife settled in St. Louis, and lived hap
pily. The Mexican returned to Mexico.
Mons. de Montfort took possession of the
immense property left him by his friend in
his will. He built a splendid mansion,
where he spent the rest of his days, sur
rounded by his family; and of a long win
ter evening, would assemble his grand
children, and relate the histories of those
that were lost and found, always ending
with a thrilling sketch of the scene in tiie
Robber’s Cave.
•LI J & 1L ‘if m >
BATHING.
Bathing acts morally as well as physi
cally. It induces habits of cleanliness,
which are found allied only with self-res
pect, improved temperance, intelligence,
and morality. Nothing is more soothing
to irritable impulses of the passions, than
the peculiar serenity which the bath im
parts. The Romans in their days of sen
sualiity, invariably had recourse to the
bath to relieve the effects of their dissipa
tion, and after great fatigue from journey
ing, &c. Who is there, we would ask,
that has not experienced, after a nigh's de
bauch in the indulgence of luxuries, when
the head and heart have been oppressed,
and the nervous energies prostrated—the
restorative and invigorating effects of the
bath,for what allays feverishness and irrita
bility and perturbation of the nervous sys
tem so admirably as the cold, tepid, or hot
bath, according as the offender may have
been accustomed to use 1 Everywhere on
the continent, baths are to be had in the
greatest state of perfection. The French
perform entire personal ablution daily. In
Italy, Holland and Germany, they patron
ize the bath to a great extent, and amongst
the Turks and Persians, throughout Asia,
bathing is imperative as a part of their re
ligion. They consider it an absolute ne
cessary of life, while we the most lcfined
people of the world, are satisfied with a
change of linen, ami that too, very often o
ver a not very clean under garment or
body ffannel.-^BuromAe.
10 0GlBill)8® IKOif ©&3SU!
iLtSVtf ESS.
For Richardb’ Weekly Gazette.
LIFE INSURANCE—A GOOD IN
VESTMENT.
This is no lottery scheme, no wild spec
ulation, no hazardous undertaking, no mo
ney-making project, but a prudent, safe, se
cure investment, in which the person in
sured makes a provision for h : s family,
completely free from those disastrous ao
cidents which thwart anil ruin the best
concerted enterprises. If a man renews
his insurance from time to time, or i/ he
at once takes out a policy for bis w hole
life, he is certain to receive, ultimately,
the amount lie has insured. He mast die
some time or other, and the Company
must pay the sum contracted for. The
money lie has paid will surely be returned
to him, and that too with interest. If he
dies soon, he will receive the amount he
has paid in, with large interest; if he lives
to old age, with small interest; but in eve
ry case, the rate at which the money in
vested will be improved, will be handsome
and satisfactory. I propose to submit this
to calculation. In doing it, I cannot use
the premiums of the Southern Mutual In
surance Company, as they are not yet is
suing policies of this kind. 1 will take
the charges made by the New York Mutual
Life Insurance Company, their rates being
; the same as those of most of the Northern
j Companies.
The distribution of profits in this New
! York Mutual, is not the same as in our
j Athens Company. They retain all the
1 profits, and accumulate them for the bene
j fit of the family of the insured. At his
! death, they pay to his widow and children
‘the sum insured and the profits accumula
ted, at compound interest. Our Company
1 pays back the profits at once to the insur
ed, and permits him to use them towards re
ducing his annual payments. Both plans
have their advantages, and l only refer to
them to explain the calculations that fol
low.
Suppose, then, a man at 20 to insure his
life in the New York Mutual Company.—
His annual premium, for his whole life,
will be $20.20 on SIOOO. At the end of 5
years, a dividend of profits will be made to
him, that may amount to 400r50 percent,
of his payments. Their first dividend was
52 per cent., but I have many reasons to
believe this cannot be sustained : 40 per
cent, will probably be divided hereafter;
and there can hardly exist a doubt in the
minds of those who know how their calcu
lations are made, that 30 per cent, will be
continued, without fail. Counting it at 40
per cent., his first dividend will be on slOl
—the amount of his five annual payments.
This will amount then, to $40.40, and his
second dividend will be 40 per cent, on
$141.40 or $56.56. If, now, he should die
at the end of 10 years, his family will re
ceive $1096.96, in return for $202 paid in
to the Company. This will give $894.96
as interest; and the average time during
which the money was held by the Compa
ny being 5 1-2 years, the rate of interest
will be 81 per cent, per annum. Should
the death occur before 10 years, the rate of
improvement will be still larger.
If the insured should live 2# years after
taking out his policy, his third dividend of
profits will be $79.18, and his fourth sllO.
86 —supposing the rate of 40 per cent, still
continued. His whole payments in 20
years will then be $404, and the amount to
be received by his family will be $1287.00.
The amount returned by the Company as
interest on the $404, will be SBB3. The
average time of the investment being 101-2
years, the rate of interest will be 22 per
cent, per annum.
Should the insured live 30 years after
effecting his insurance, his whole payments
will be S6O6 —his fifth dividend $155.20 —
his sixth, $217.28 —the amount to be re
ceived by the widow, $1659.48—the bal
ance returned for interest, slos3.4B—and
the rate of interest, 11 percent, per annum.
If the insured should live to the age of
60, his whole payments will be SBO8 —his
seventh dividend will be $304.19 —his
eighth, $425.87 —and the amount to be re
ceived by the family of the insured, will
be $2389.54. Instead of the SIOOO origi
nally insured, the accumulated profits have
more than doubled the original sum. The
rate of interest on the investment will now’
be nearly 10 per cent, per annum.
If the insured should live to the age of
70, similar calculations will show’ that the
rate of interest will be over 7 per cent, per
annum.
All these resultsare based on the suppo
sition that the profits of the Company will
be such as to enable them to divide, every
I 5 years, 40 per cent, on the premiums paid
[and on the accumulated profits. This may
j be greater than the Company can pay.-
I But should the mortality in the United
[ States not exceed that of the Carlisle ta
j files, on which the premiums are calculated,
j there cannot be a shadow of doubt that the
I Company will pay over 30 per cent. At
this rate of profits, the interest received by
the family of the insured, if he should die
| at the age
Os 30, would be 74 per cent, per ann.
At 40, it would be 19 “ “
| At 50, 8 “
At 60, 51-2 “ “
At 70, 5 “ “
| And at 80, 5 “ “
These rates are not so high as before,
| but they are still very handsome, if we re
member that they are the lowest that can
be expected. These calculations are made
with care, and they show, almost to a cer
tainty, that Life Insurance is not a hap- j
hazard, uncertain lottery, but a scheme 1
wherein the insured is making a wise in
vestment—one that cannot fail to return to j
his family the whole original sum paid !
over lo the Company, together with a fair [
and satisfactory’ interest. A.
(Dim IPBaygHKS BALiisJtX
From Wliclcr’s Magazine, for August.
TII E 1* OKT It V 0 F Tll E UAIN HO W.
As an object of beauty anil sublimity,
there is nothing in tho phenomena of Na
ture that awakens in the human soul more
poetical inspiration than the Rainbow. In
all languages is its poetry written—for in
in every human soul has it inspired some
degree of emotion. To the true lover of
Nature, there is nothing sublimcr than to
stand upon the mountain’s side, and see
the Rainbow bend over the still yet con
scious waters below. I shall never forget
the grandeur anil beauty of this phenome
non, as it was once presented to my view
while on Red Ilill. The 6torm passed
over tho mountain, filling the whole arch of
heaven with its blackness. Only a small
quantity of rain fell as it passed swiftly on.
Soon the wholo black drapery of the storm
was condensed in the eastern sky, while
the sun, like a victorious shield-bearer, pur
sued tho dispersed and lingering army of
clouds. In a few moments the most glori
ous rainbow I over looked upon arched the
waters of Winnepisiogee, while tho large
drops of rain Hilling around me, from the
the silver-fringed clouds,glistened like dia
mond-weft. The drops were indescribably
beautiful where they fell between the spot
where I stood and the deep ebon drapery
of the east. But the whole scene beggars
my descriptive pen.
To attempt to estimate the number of
poems that liavo been written upon the
Rainbow would be labor most futile. The
Rainbow has been praised with much less
sickly verse than “ Luna, the queen of sigh
ing lovers.” Yet, although much has been
written, only three poems, in my memory,
have obtained a wide admiration. These
are here copied as the sweetest Poetry of
the Rainbow.— The first piece offered is by
Mrs. AVn.n Y, the “ Amelia ” of the Louis
ville Journal.
I sometimes have thoughts, in my loneliest hours,
That lie on ray heart like dew on the flowers,
Os a ranihlo I took one bright afternoon,
When my heurt was as light as a blossom in June.
Tho green earth was moist with tho late-fallen
showers,
The breezo fluttered down and blew open the
flowers,
Whilo a single white cloud, to its haven of rest,
On the white wing of peace, floated oflin the west.
As I threw back my tresses to catch the coolbreeze
That scattered the rain-drops and dimplod the
seas,
Far up tho blue sky a fair Rainbow unrolled
Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold.
’Twas born in a moment, yet, quick as its birth,
It was stretch’d to the uttermost ends of the earth,
And, fair as an angel, it floated as free,
With a wing on tho earth and a wing on the sea
How calm was the ocean! how gentle its swell!
Like a woman’s soft bosom it rose and it fell;
While its light sparkling waves, stealing laugh
ingly o’er,
When they saw the fair Rainbow, knelt down on
the shore.
No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer,
Yet 1 felt that the spirit of worship was there,
And ] bont my young head, in devotion and love,
’Ncalli the form of the angel that floated übuvo
lloiv wido was tho sweep of its beautiful wings !
How boundless its circlo ! how radiant its rings!
If I looked on the sky, ’twas suspended in air;
If 1 looked on the ocean, the Rainbow was there ;
Thus forming a girdle, as brilliant and whole
As the thoughts of .the Rainbow, that circled my
soul.
Like tlio wings of the Deity, calmly unfurled,
It bent from the cloud and encircled the world.
There arc moments, I think, when the spirit re
ceives
Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves;
When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose,
Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose.
And thus when the Kainbow had passed from the
sky,
The thoughts it awoke were to deep too pass by ;
It left my full soul, like tho wing of a dove,
All fluttering with pleasure, all fluttering with
love.
I know that each moment of rapture or pnin
But shortens the links of life’s mystical chain ;
I know that my form, like that how from the wave
Must pass from tho earth and lie cold in thegravc.
Vet O! when death’s shadows my bosom uncloud,
When I shrink at tho thought of tho cofSn and
shroud,
May Hope, like the Rainbow, my spirit enfold,
Iu her beautiful pinions of purple and gold.
—The following poem is by Jon.v 110 -
LAJCD, of Sheffield, England. Mr. Fier
pont, in one of his school-books, attributed
it toMr.CAMPBELL —a mistake rather com
plimentary, though unjust.
The evening was glorious, and light through tho
trees
Play'd the sunshine, the raindrops, the birds,
and the breeze ;
Tho landscape, outstretching, in loveliness lay
On the lap of the year, in the beauty of May.
For the Qnoen of Spring, os she passed down the
vale,
Left her robes on the trees, and her breath on
the gale,
And the smile of her promise gave joy to the .
hours,
While rank in her footsteps sprang herbage and
flowers.
The skies, like a banner in sunset unrolled,
O'er the west threw thoir splendors of azure and
wold:
But one cloud, at a distance, roso denso, and in
creased
Till its margin of black touched the zenith and
Last.
Wo gazed on tho scenes, wbilo around us they
glowed,
Whon a vision of beauty appeared on tho cloud ;
’Twns not like tho sun, as at mid-day we view,
Nor the moon, that rolls nightly through star
light and blue.
Like a spirit it came in tho van of tlio storm,
And tho eye and tho heart hailed its beautiful
form;
For it looked not severe liko an angel of wrath,
And its garment of brightness illum’d its dark
path.
In tho hues of its grandeur sublimely It stood
O’er the river, tho village, tho fields and the wood,
And rivers, fields, village, and woodland grew
bright,
As conscious they felt and afforded delight.
’Twasthe limp of Omnipotence, bent in His hand,
Whoso grasp at Creation thomiiverso spanned ;
’Twns the presence of God, in a symbol sublime,
His vow from the flood to tho exit of Timo.
Not dreadful, as when in the whirlwind he
pleads,
When storms aro his oliariots, and lightning his
steeds ;
The black clouds his banners of vengeance un
furled,
And thunder his voico to a guilt strickon world.
In the breath of his presence, when thousands ex
piro,
And seas boil with fury, and rocks burn with fire,
When tho sword and tho plaguo-spot witli death
strew the plain,
And vultures and wolves are the graves of the
slain.
Not such was the Rainbow, that beautiful one !
Whose arch was refraction —its keystone the sun;
A pavilion it seemed, which the Deity graced,
And Justice and Mercy met there and embraced.
Awhile—and it sweetly bont over the gloom,
Liko lovo o’er a death-couch, or hopo o’er the
tomb;
Then left the dark scene, whence it slowly retired,
As Lovo had just vanished, or Hope had expired.
I gazed not alone on the source of inv song,
To all who beheld it thoso vorscs belong ;
Its presence to all was the path of the Lord ;
Each full heart expanded, grew warm and adored.
Like a visit, tho converse of friends, and a day,
That bow from my sight passed forever away ;
Like that visit, that converse, that day, on my
heart,
That bow from remembrance can never depart.
’Tis a picture in memory, distinctly defined
With the strong and impcrisliing colors of mind ;
A part of my being beyond my control,
Beheld on that cloud, and transcribed on my soul.
—And lastly follows the poem of Thom
as Campbell.
Triumphal arch, that fill’st tho sky
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud Philosophy
To teach me what thou art.
Still seem as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given,
For happy spirits to alight
Betwixt the earth and hoaven.
Can all that Optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when 1 dreampt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow 1
When Science from Creation’s taco
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!
And yet, fair how, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Havo told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.
When o’er the green undelugcil earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world’s gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacrod sign.
And when its yellow lustre smiled
O’er mountains yet untrnd,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless tho bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first made anthem rang
On earth deliver’d from tho deep,
And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the Muse’s eyo
Unraptured greet thy beam j
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Bo still tho poet’s theme!
The earth to thco her incense yields,
Tho lark thy weloomo sings,
When glittering in the freshen'd fields
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdlo cast
O’er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down !
As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.
For, faithful to its sacred page,
I leaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.
Charles Soutdman.
Athens, Ga.
IS Is Oa a 03 3 © U 3 ♦
SUNDAY READINGS, FOR AUG. 5.
• PEACE.
“ The fruit of the Spirit is peace.” —Gal. v. 22
The Gospel is a system of peace; Goil
is the author of peace ; Christ is the Prince
of peace, ami “the fruit of the Spirit is
peace.” Christians ate the sons of peace.
Three things may be remarked concerning
this grace.
What it includes.
Peace with God. Our natural state is
one of enmity with God, and alienation
from him. By grace, enmity is exchanged
for love, and we are reconciled to him by
the blood of Christ.
Peace of conscience. This is the imme
diate effect of our peace with God. While
the heart is alienated from him, there is a
disturbance within, that no external cir
cumstances can quell. Everything around
us may be peaceful and tranquil, like the
summer brook, while all within may be
agitated and perturbed, like the troubled
sea.
Peace with another. A friendly and
peaceable temper and disposition is in ac
cordance with the Gospel we profess, and
the Master we serve.
What it requires.
Personal sacrifice. There must be the
exercise of self denial and forbearance.—
A self-willed, obstinate temper is opposed
to a spirit of Christian peace. For the
maintaining of peace, we must often sacri
fice pride, prejudice, our feelings and com
forts.
Continual watchfulness. He that has
subdued his own spirit is a greater con
queror than Alexander or Cmsar. How
many brave generals have made the most
illustrious achievements, conquered na
tions, and subdued kingdoms, and at last
have had an enemy within they could not
overcome!
Persevering efforts. Christians are not
only called on to be peace-seekers, but
peace-makers. We should be ready with
the still water of Christian love and chari
ty to quench the first sparks of discord,
before they are kindled by unholy breath
into a flame of unhallowed fire. “ Follow
peace.”
What it insures. Many privileges are
connected with it.
It is associated with the Divine favor. —
The (levelopcment of such a disposition is
an evidence of our spiritual sonship. It
will promote our individual happiness.
There is a delightful feeling experienced
by the sons of peace, which the children of
discord never knexv.
It will secure the esteem of others. In
dividuals who cultivate such a godlike dis
position, are an incalculable blessing, both
to the church and the world. How culpa
ble are many professing Christians, who
display a spirit quite contrary to that of
their Divine Master, who was ineck and
lowly in heart; and thusdishonorreligion,
please the enemy, and grieve the Holy
Spirit of God !
“ Hail, Source of light! arise nnJ shine ;
All gloom and doubt dispel;
Give peace and joy, for wc are thino ;
In us forever dwell.”
JOHN ROGERS—THE NUMBER OF
HIS CHILDREN.
A writer in the Cambridge (Mass.) Chron
icle essays to settle the old and vexed ques
tion, How many children had John Rogers 1
which has puzzled the rising if not the
risen generation for many a year. The
narrative and the wood cut, in the old
New England Primer, left the number of
children in a state of as much “glorious
uncertainty” as usually surrounds a ques
tion of law. “ Nine small children and one
at the breast,” left the inquirer in doubt
whether the child “ at the breast” was one
of the nine small ones, or a tenth child.—
A reference to the picture failed to settle
the question, says the Chronicle. The art
ist seemed himself in doubt, and mixed the
heads of the children of the martj’r with the
surrounding crowd, in such a way as to
make it impossible to distinguish the one
from the other. Thus the question has re
mained in doubt for near tw’O centuries.
In a recent edition of this narrative,
“with a historical introduction by H. Hum
phrey, D. D., President of Amherst Col
lege,” of which over 100,000 copies have
been circulated by the Massachusetts
Sabbath School Society, an attempt is made
to settle the dispute, by anew and more
distinct picture, in which the spectators are
left out, and the wife and nine small chil
dren, besides one at the breast, are plainly
represented.
But this malicious Chronicle writer
seems unwilling to allow the question to
stay thus settled, and quotes the following
authorities as bearing upon it, that is to
say:
‘ Foxe’s Acts and Movements of these
Bitter and Perilous Days’ the earliest pub
lication after the Martyrdom, published in
London in 1562, only scv;en years after
Rogers was burnt at the stake at Smyth
lield, and whilst his numerous family were
still living, states that “ his wife and chil
dren, being XL in number, X. able to go
out, and one sucking on her breast, met
him on the way as he went towards Smyth
field.”
In Middleton’s Evangelical Biography
(vol i. page 302) it is written : “His wife
and ten children by her side, with one at
her breast, met him by the way.”
In l 'Thg Annals of the English Bible,
by Christopher Anderson, London, 1645,
vol. ii., page 285,” the following passage
may be found :
“The people were giving thanks for his
constancy; but there, among the crowd, j
there met him the wife, whom neither 1
Gardiner nor Bonner would permit him to I
see. His wife, the foreigner, with all her
children. * * * the eldest now llt
seventeen years of age; the young,,
the eleventh child , an unconscious boL
hanging at the mother's breast ”
This Chronicle writer is not content,
thisarrayof authorities to upturn tl le j.
cherished opinion that the number of]
Rogers’ children did not at most c\
ten, as also the well-authenticated pi,
in Dr. Humphrey’s tract, but he insist
on it that it has thus “been shown,
the “highest English authority, (the,
estand the latest,) that the number of
Rogers’ children was neither nine not
but eleven. The error may at first
been merely typographical—aiisin®
the transposition of the numerical !|
XI, as originally printed in Foxe. I
historians, copying at second hand,
helped to perpetuate the error. ”-C,
zette.
Hazt.e eyes. —(Major Noah disern
thus of haz.le eyes: “ They inspit
first a l'la’.onic sentiment, which grail
but surely expands, and merges into
as securely founded as the Rock of R|
tar. A woman with a hazel eye a
elopes from her husband, never chats s
dal, never sacrifices her husband’s cot
for her own, never finds fault, never i
too much or too little, always is anej
taining, intellectual and agreeable creaf
We never knew but one uninteresting
unamiable woman with a hazle eye,
she had a nose which looked, as the!
kees say, like the little end of nos
whittled down to a pint.”
The First Blow. —George the 111.
very punctual, and expected punctui
from every one. Lord Kate, was thei
punctual person who attended upon
Majesty—he was never a second hei
time. One day he had an appoint!
with the king at twelve o’clock, butu
passed throuh the hall the clock sn
twelve, on which his lordship, in a
sion, raised his stick, and broke the j
of the clock. The king reminded him
he was a little behind his time, vhic
excused the best way be could. At
next audience the king exclaimed ask
tereil, “ Why Kate, Kate, how came y
strike the clock “ The clock s
first,” cooly replied his lordship,
king laughed heartily at the gravity
which Lord Kate excused himself, 11
added zest to the bon mot.
Consolation.— A passenger on i
the ship Regulus, of Boston, in al
home, states that they had on board
vessel a thin .and feeble member of
company, who had been sea-sick all
way out to the line. One day this
went to the doctor, and in a sad, supp
ting tone, accosted him with—
“ Doctor, can you tell me what 1 1
he good for when I get to San Frann
if 1 keep on this way!”
“Tell you? To he sure I can.
arc just the man we want to begin a ■
yard with /”
Natural vs. Acquired Habits.—l
co maintained that nature was morepi
than art, while Dante asserted to thei
trary. To prove this principle the j
Italian bard referred to his cat, whit
repeated practice he had taught to IK
candle in its paw while lie supped oti
Cecco desired to witness the experh
and came not unprepared for the puij
When Dante’s cat was performing its
Cccco lifted up the lid of a pot whid
had filled with mice. The creaturci
instantly showed the weakness of ad
merely acquired, and, dropping tlie cat
(low on the mice with all its instiM
propensity. Dante was himselfdiscot
ted, and it was adjudged that the adw
for the occult principle of native faci
had gained his cause.
Feeling what you give.—The
Daniel Baker, in his report of a Missiot
tour in the State of Texas, very pithii]
marks: “Methinks one reading this rt
says,—Well, I will give five dollars to
cause of domestic missions. I can |
this amount and not feci it.’ Suppost,
Christion brother, you give twenty,
feel it. Our Savior felt what he
you, A remark of this kind, oncew
through the pulpit, thrilled through
whole soul, and made me do more l
emty my purse : 1 borrowed froinafn
The idea of feeling what I gave f*
lightful.”
An Oath Reflected Upon.—
maine, hearing a man call upon ln<
curse him, offered him half a crown if
would repeat the oath. The man $
“What, sir! do you think I would*
my soul for half a crown ?” s* [
maine answered—“As you did it ju^ l
for nothing, I could not suppose you*!
refuse to do it for a reward.” The I
fellow was struck with the reproof,
said—“ May God bless you. sir, 35
ward you, whoever you are. I
you have saved my soul. 1 hope 1 1
never swear again.”
Itey”’ The spirit of intolerance huv
the Siroco of the desert, sometime? hi*
but always with fatal certainty, l>l®-**j
germ of virtue, and blighted the h®
genius.— Thos. Knott.
“ I'll try you!” as the sun said u
fat man.
Bfe£s“- A tombstone in Cleveland 1
only the words, “ Little Charley
much do those two words tell of *
ed hope, a withered flower, ad
hearth.
fifST* Mr. Emmcrson says that no
has an original idea after he is tltidf
Itea"’ It has been finely observed b.V
S. C. Hall, that “ men sacrifice otlu’ 15 ”
men themselves!”