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THE INDEPENDENT SOUTH,
OFFICE OPPOSITE THE BRICK WARE-HOUSE,
GRIFFIN, GEORGIA.
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MARY*^DOW.
FROM “POEMS BY H. F. GOULD.”
‘Come in, little stranger’ I said,
As she tapped at my half open door,
While the blanket, pinnod over her head,
Just reached to tho basket she bore.
A look full of innocence fell
From her modest and pretty blue eye,
As she said, ‘I have matches to sell,
And hope you are willing to buy.
‘A penny a bunch is the prico ;
I think you’ll not find it too much ;
They are tied up so even and nice,
And ready to light with a touch.*
I asked, ‘what’s your name little girl ?’
‘■'Tis Mary,’ she said, ‘Mary Dow.*
And carelessly tossed off a curl,
That played o’er her delicate brow.
‘My father was lost in the deep,
The ship never got to tho shore;
And mother is sad, and will weep,
When she hears the wind blow and sea roar.
‘She sits there at home without food,
Beside our poor sick Willie’s bed ;
She paid all her money for wood,
And so I sell matches for bread.
‘For every time that she tries,
Some things she’d be paid for, to make,
And lays down the baby, it cries,
And that makes my sick brother wake.
‘l’d go to the yard and get chips,
But thon it would make me too sad,
To see men there building the ships,
And think they had made one so bad.
‘lve one other gown, and with care,
We think it may decently pass,
With my bonnets that’s put by to wear
To meeting and Sunday school class.
‘I love to go there, where I’m taught
Os One, who’s so wise and so good,
He knows every action and thought,
And gives e’en the raven his food.
‘For He, I am sure, who can take
Such fatherly care of a bird,
Will never forget or forsake
The children who trust to his word.
‘And now, if I only can sell
The matches I brought out to-day,
I think I shall do very well,
And mother ’ll rejoice at the pay.*
‘Fly home, little bird,’ then I thought,
‘Fly home full of joy to your nest!’
For I took all the matches she brought,
And Mary may tell you the rest.
THE BRIDE.
Oh ! take her, but be faithful still,
And may the bridal vow
Be sacred held in after years, ‘
And warmly breathed as now.
Remember, ‘tis no common tjp
That binds her youthful heart :
‘Tis one that only truth should weave,
And only death can part.
The joy of childhood’s happy hour,
Tho home of riper years,
Tbe treasur’d scenes of early youth,
In sunshine and in tears ;
The purest hopes her bosom knew,
When her young heart was free,
All these and more she now resigns,
To brave the world with thee.
Her lot in life is finod with thine,
Its good and ill to share,
And well I know ’twill be her pride,
To sooth each sorrow there j
Then take her, and may fleeting time
Mark only joy’s increase,
And may your days glide sweetly on
In happiness and peace.
STANZAS.
“pass on, relentless world !**
Bwifter and swifter, day by day,
Down time’s unquiet current hurled,
Thou passest on thy restless way,
Tumultuous and unstablo world !
Thou passest on ! time hath not seen
Delay upon thy hurried path j
And prayers and tears alike have been
In vain to stay thy course of wrath S
Thou passest on, and with thee go
The loves of youth—the cares of ago;
And smiles and tears, and joy and wo
Are on thy history’s bloody page!
There, every day, like yesterday,
Writes hopes that end in mockery ;
But who shall tear the veil away,
Before tho abyss of things to be ?
Thou passest oq, and at thy side,
Even as a shade, Oblivion treads,
And o’er the dreams of pride,
His misty shroud fbrever spreads;
Where all thine iron-hand has traced
Upon that gloomy scroll to-day,
With records ages since effaced—^
Like them shall lire—like them decay.
Thou passest on—with thee, the vain,
That sport upon tby flaunting blaze,
Pride, framed of oust, and Folly’s train,
“Who court thy love, and run thy ways,
But thou and I—and be it so—
Press onward to eternity;
Yet not together let us go
To that deep-voiced but shoreless sea 1
Thou hast thy friends—l would have mine;
Thou hast thy thoughts—leave me my own:
I kneel not at thy gilded shrine—
I bow not at thy slavish throne!
I’ll let them pass without a sigh;
They make no swelling rapture now,
The fierce delights that fire thiuo eye—
The triumphs of thy haughty brow !
Pass on, relentless world l—l grieve
No more for all that thou hast riven;
Pass on, in God’s name—only leave
The tilings thou never yet hast given :
A heart at ease—a mind at home—
Affections fixed above thy sway—
Faith set upon a world to come,
And patience through life’s little day.
THE TVO EPAGOONS.
Large and plentiful pastures, cattle graz
ing about, horses of perfect shape and gentle
ness, gazing over the hedges lined with ap
ple trees, natives of Normandy ; a bright and
beautiful sun cast its rays over all, a hillock
with its little path, down which came a troop
of young Normans, singing clear and loud.
It was not however, a holiday ; for the la
bourers turned from their work to look at
them as they passed. This Sunday dress,
these hats streaming with ribands; one would
have thought it a wedding, but the bride was
wanting; instead of a violin, a drum. Among
their ribands were pieces of paper bearing tho
first numbers of arithmetic.
They were, therefore, conscripts. Nothing
was wanting to their felicity but intoxication ;
an<l this they seemed to provide for, as pass
ing from village to village, they mixed their
cider with stronger liquors ; and they were
right. Intoxication, it is said, is bad for sav
ages, who do not require it; they arc free.—
But to the peasant who leaves his home, his
love, to servo under a corporal, wine is-good,
and too much of it cannot be taken.
Behind tho troop came twoyoung peasants ;
one of middle size, and mild and gentle coun
tenance, down which large tears were rolling;
the other, tall stout, with red hair, and cheeks
as red and rosy as the fruit of his native pro
vince ; the most beautiful eyos iu the world,
large, blue and and joyous. Charlet should
have seen them.
But the expression of his countenance at
the moment was almost sad. Leaning over
his companion, almost sustaining him iu his
arms, Norbert did his best to console him.—
‘Do not cry, Thibaut,’ said he; ‘what good
does it do ? and besides, what do you regret ?
you are an orphan ; aud as for war, I do not
hate it, or you either, I will answer for it.—
You are a little timid, but you have courage,
Thibaut; and if you were to see me in dan
ger, * * * Tho church would
have suited you better ; but hah! French
men like us were made expressly for battle.—
Are you thinking of Girard’s daughter ? She
is not worth it—not she ; and I, even, had I
chosen, —hut no matter. Somebody wept for
me too this morning. But come, long live
the Emperor,—the King we must say, for it
seems the other is really dead. Come, we
will live long and happily together—come
along.
The troop stopped at a litttle inn : every
one called Norbert: ‘The haggards,’ said he,
I must go and make them laugh.’ They drank
deeper and deeper. The eider sparkled like
champagne; shouts, broken glasses, tricks
played on one another ; songs, chorusses, po
pular verses, even psalms. Even Norbert in
vented lines, less remarkable for rhyme
than for his native wit—and then roars and
peals of laughter. Norbert was not one of
those who watch the sensation they produce,
but seeing Thibaut next him, and laughing
in spite of himself, the good hearted youth
drank more, till, had not his companion al
most dragged him to the village, he ran a good
chance of sleeping all night in a ditch, in the
open air—tho right place for drunkards. He
would not have slept the worse for it.
The two Normans were sent to a regiment
of dragoons, garrisoned in Alsace. Norbert
particularly was well calculated for this ser
vice, which partakes of the light troop and
the cuirassier. The dragoons made thom-
selves known in 1814, when, to finish off,
every one did his best. They were talked of,
and thanks to those veterans who came from
Spain to the relief of the country, these North
ern men have left more than one carcase to
fatten our fields and dogs upon.
Norbert had taken care not to be separated
from Thibaut. ‘lf you do not put us togeth
er,’ said he to the recruiting officer, ‘on my
word, Captain, I promise to turn deserter.’—
Theofficer was young ; he understood the pea
sant, and Thibaut was made a dragoon.
One Sunday night, two months after he had
enlisted, he was sitting alone, near a table in
the garden of a public house, the general ren
dezvous of the soldiers ; his cap was lying by
him near a pot of beer, and two enormous
glasses. He was waiting for Norbert.
Just then a dragoon entered, surnamed the
Parisian, known of all to be a dangerous and
ferocious man ; brave, however, famous for
his skill in all kinds of fencing, and for twen
ty duels fatal to his adversaries.
The Parisian advanced, followed by two
soldiers and a girl. All the tables were tak
en. He approached the one where Thibaut
was sitting, and sleeping the table
with bis sword—‘Place to your elders,
conscript,’ said he, overturning, as he spoke,
cap, beor and glasses—‘go and gape some
where else; do you hear me ?’ Thibaut
looked at him amazed at this unexpected at
tack,
‘Go off,’ repeated the Parisian, pushing him
violently. Thibaut resisted ; and the word
brutal : the other had drank a great
deal; the blood flow to his face, and two blows
sounded on that of the young soldier: all the
others turned round,
Thibaut was not a coward, certainly ; but
his inexperince, his weakness, his bewilder
ment, the Parisan’s reputation, the scornful
Words and looks that overwhelmed him—the
girl had thrown herself between them ; sud
denly he picked up his cap and walked out
GKRIFFIjST, (i A., SEPTEMBER 9, 1858.
not without darting a fiery glance at the Par
isian—not without thinking of revenge; but
grief and shame almost overpowered him, and
lie thought most of Norbert.
lie sought him as if by instinct. He per
ceived him at length, walking quietly along,
arm in arm, with a tall and pretty peasant
girl, who was laughing like him, with all her
heart. Ileaven known how the Norman patois
and Alsacian language could he talked and
understood together. Two months of service
had already made Norbert an accomplished
cavalier; and when the clasps of his cap
surrounded his animated countenance;
when the steel of his visor gleamed brightly
in tho sun, and his mustachios shook with
laughter, it was not to he wondered at, that
the young girls admired him.
They were both laughing ; and even with
out tho kisses that past between, she would
have laughed on. Thibaut came up to them,
Norbert raised his eyes.
‘What is the matter,’ exclaimed ho, leaving
theyoung girl. Thibaut threw himself weep
ing on the besom of his friend. His confu
sion affected Norbert much more than that of
his sweetheart.
‘Have you been insulted, Thibaut ?’ in
quired he, beading towards him, and sustain
ing him with his left arm. Some presenti
ment seemed to warn him.
‘Yes replied Thibaut, striking his heart,
‘the Parisian . Norbert turned pale as
death. It was enough for him to see the
Parisian to hate him, and to hear his name
to be sure that *****
‘lie struck you,’ said he—‘thousand curses .
Did you kill him, the Parisian.’ ‘lt is my
fault,’ continued he, ‘I had promised to be
there, for once, linissed ; but do not be angry
with mo, Thibaut,’ said he pressing his hand
—liis large tears shone iu his eyes—‘l will
avenge you —come.’
‘No, Norbert, I am the one to fight him ;
you must be my second. I will do my best.’
’You !’ exclaimed Norbert, shrugging his
shoulders ; ‘You!—one so weak —hut 1 have
always said, that if you saw me in danger
to-day it is my turn: come. When
we were children, Thibaut, I defended you
more than once, and I am still the same man ;
and besides, now I have a sword. I know you
would not distress me; so, come.’
‘Thibaut followed him in an indescribable
state of agitation. Norbert had always ex
ercised great influence over him. The young
girl watched them as they retired, trembling
with fear, and no longer recognising her gay
and gallant cavalier. He advanced with a ra
pid step ; nothing, however, about him, be
trayed the assassin; ho still preserved his
manly and martial bearing; his blue eyes
seemed almost black ; he murmured between
his teeth; his hand played with the hilt of
his sword ; the blade rattled in its scabbard.
lie enterod the garden ; the Parisian w'as
standing with his back to him, but it did not
take him long to recognise him. He threw
himself before him, and everturning with his
foot the table and its contents, he thrust his
large fist three times into the face of his ad
versary.
Whose rage was the greatest!—that of the
duelist, or Norbert? The Parisian clapped
his hand to his sword, but iron fingers clasp
ed his two arms, and eyes as fiery as his own
returned the abuse that poured from his lips.
‘Hear me,’ said Norbert; ‘I have come to
kill you ; yes, you ; so do not make a noiso,
for that will do no goad. lam but young inf the
art of fighting ; I have never touched a foil;
but I despise you with your bragging—all of
you !’ continued he looking at those the tu
mult had attracted to the spot;—‘The Pari
sian is a coward to have insulted without rea
son a mere child, and you are as bad to have
allowed him to do it. Stand back, cowards!’
and he swept with his sword the space around
him.
‘Come, boaster,’ said the Parisian, in a
smothered voice, ‘your life is gone; follow
me.’
‘I choose to go first,’ replied Norbert, push
ing him back ; ‘and you shall follow where I
please to go ; and there I expect to leave you
on your hack. Take one second —only one ;
if any others como, they will answer for it to
me. I mean to kill you alone, old villian ;
here is my second, Thibaut. If he has not
as much strength as courage, he is worth two
of me, —he is worth you all, and I choose
him to be respected. Now come.’
‘Better fencers than the Parisian have been
overthrown before now,’ said a dragoon to his
companion, ‘There is a conscript who has
blood in him, or I am much mistaken.’
‘Stop now, Thibaut, stop,’ said Norbert, as
they went along, ‘How childish you are;
it is my business. Icould havechosen amore
experienced second than either you or my
self ; but I want you to gat accustomed to
such things. Do not fear ; I will fix him in
one turn. You watch and see how ve act.—
If he should kill me, do not write it home im
mediately ; aud if you meet the young girl
we saw just now, make the best of it to her,
and arrango yourselves together—you or I, it
is the same thing. You will find our money
in my bag; try to buy out, and then go back
to Normandy. It is a good country,’ he con
tinued with a faltering voice ; ‘I leave you all
I have there.’
‘lt is here you choose to fight,’ said the Pa
risian, beginning to preparo,
Norbert replied with a glance of contempt.
The day was almost gone, and a feeble ray
shone for a moment on the cap of the young
soldier as he raised it to unclasp thp bands.-
Tho evening breeze blew his black feather
over his face, he did not look the paler for it.
When he had stript to his waist, one would
not have guessed that there beat a young and
vigorous heart, so entirely calm and self-pos
sessed did he appear, His antagonist vainly
looked for the place where it did beat.
The eyes of Norbert were firmer and hand
somer than aver ; and if for a moment their
expressions saddened, it fras when he met the
agitated and bewildered look of his friend.—
Indeed, Thibaut was the most to bo pitied.
Norbert placed himself in position, but sud
denly returned to Thibaut, ‘Do not look so
distressed,’ he said, smiling and touching his
icy cheeks. Thibaut threw himself in his
arms and endeavoured to snatch away his
sword; but no one, either in life or death,
could tear it from the firm grasp of Norbert.
‘Have you almost liuishod the
Parisian. ‘Place yourself, coward, or I
charge.’
Norbert glanced at him over his shoulder,
folded carefully up the uniform that he had
previously thrown on the ground, drew still
tighter the buckle of his trowsers, passed his
hand ever his chest, aid feeling with his fin
gers the end of his sw rd, as he pushed away
with his foot some loose stones around him.—
He did it all slowly, ntd at hut little distance
from the Parisian ; then sui%wdy went a lit
tle farther off, fell in his posißnn, and bend
ing towards his enemy with lJiks of fire, spat
twice in his face.
A horrible curse—a dreadful blow, fell at
the same time from th • hand and mouth of
the duellist. Brave men have often a self
possession which adds to their courage, and
inspires them with sudden resources. Nor
bert well knew that h-> was lost if he attempt
ed to imitate his encra/ aud meddle with fenc
ing; therefore, leaving his position like a
wolf, that after a i .u aut’s delay springs on
its prey, grasping’ word in his two hands,
and using it as ast i he sprang forward. —
Quick and active ns gocsible, he seemed al
most to float in the r.it around his adversary ;
the latter, completely stounded, stood on the
defensive. ’Twas the combat of an eagle
with a serpent.
‘Yes the steel dazzl and tho duellist, shilling
as it did in the dusk i evening, and turning
and multiplying in a thousand brilliant forms.
Every motion seemed to he a blow from the
Parisian, which was warded off by the Nor
man ; but the circle was so rapid that the
blow and the counter-blow seemed to fly to
gether.
And truly Norbert did well, fortlic Parisian
was entirely disconcerted. Active, robust,
and experienced as he was, he was still at a
loss how to repel the multitude of blows that
followed in quick succession. Turning, twist
ing bending, almost extending himself on
the ground—nothing would do ; Norbert was
as quick, as vigilant as ever ; he threw hack
his adversary like a boar defending himself
against a pack of dog.'; lie surrounded him
with the terrible movements of his sword, like a
man caught between the wheels of several
chariots, crossing one another.
Crush him, Norbert! But tho Parisian was
an intrepid, vigorous, self-possessed enemy -
He soon recovered himself, and, excited by
finding himself in this now situation, he
whom the habit of fighting in a certain man
ner, and without danger, had, in some de
greo made indifferent, soon found in his in
trepidity and presence of mind, resources
against the unexpected attack.
lie redoubled his vigilance, acting by turns
on the offensive aud defensive, returning and
giving the blows. Be . the conscript had al
ready made him retreat twice. The duellist
foamed with rage, and he was so pale, one
would have thought th.it the sword of Norbert
had already drawn a!’ ‘-it blood. A hollow
murmur iu his teeth, succeeded to the abuse
he had before mingled with his blows. The
noise of their meeting swords sounded like
the step of a horse on a stone. The sparks
they emitted, scarcely as brilliant as those
that darted from the eyes of the combatants,
the tremblinguncertain breasts of tho seconds,
particularly of Thibaut, —and in the back
ground tho joyful sounds of a village fete, —
it was awful—it was beautiful.
The combat had lasted for some moments;
every second becoming more frightful, for the
issue could not long be doubtful; even a
minute seemed long, when each second is
marked by a blow, which may be the last,
and when two meeting blades sound rather
differently from tinkling brass.
Still no blood ran but that of the Parisian,
a large wound in the left shoulder gaping
like a ‘woman’s sleeve.
“Enough, enough,” criedhis second. Thi
baut advanced to throw himself between
them, but suddenly stopped and clasped his
hands, for the sword of Norbert fell on hisan
tagonist’s head as if it would cleave it in two;
and the weapon raised itself, he has seen it,
—yes, he has seen it fall under the heavy
blow of the Norman. Oh! no, Thibaut! it
was then you were to be pitied ; as for Nor
bert he was already and lad, when he fell to the
ground.
Alas, yes! stone dead. A motion, quick as
lightning, had saved the Parisian, and while
liis enemy, drawn forward by the force of his
own blow, still stood with his hands thrust
towards him, tho sword of the duellist had
passed under tho arms of Norbert, and stop
ped forever the beating of that brave, manly
and affectionate heart.
The duellist threw himself against a tree,
exhausted, and gazed steadfastly at the corpse;
lie had killed many a one before too ; sud
denly clasping his sword, which hung drip
ping by his side—“ Coward,” exclaimed he
ferociously to Thibaut, “if you had done your
duty, I should not have minded killing such a
dog as you.”
Thibaut did not hear. The Parisian’s sec
ond tried to drag him away, saying, “Gome,
come, it is all over.”
Thibaut did not hear. Did he sec ? Did
he breathe ? Still bending with clasped
hands, gazing at Norbert, lying whore he ex
pected to see his enemy. Good God ! is
it possible! Does he no longer recognise
him ?
He threw himself on hie friond; tho blood
touchod his lips, he sucked tho wide and gap
ing wound ; he tried to feel somo beating in
that heart that hail beat its last. He turned
the body ovor ; the wound pierced tho hack ;
it seemed to his bewildered and agitated mind
to grow’ larger and larger. He lot the
body fall, and pulled it by the* arm’:—
Norbert, Norbert ! Oh, what w’ould he have
given to have heard him only say, “good bye,
my poor Thibaut ?”
NothiDg—nothing hut death : silent, aw
ful, immediate death. Those limbs, but a
minute before so active, now stiff, immova
ble ! those eyes, so bright and fiery, now clos
ed, That terrible enemy; that devoted
friend—loving, hating, nothing more. His
features still retaiuod some expression of an
ger, hut that was all; and the dogs might
now freoly come and insult the young soldier
—killed for an offence that was not his—and
a child might have taken his sword, had not
the last blow twisted his fingers more firmly
around its hilt-
How could it have taken place so soon ?
What is wanting to that corpse? Ho is young,
vigorous. Thibaut could hardly raise him.
Despair has somewhat strange fancies. He
suddenly snatched tho sword of Norbert, re
turned it to the scabbard, lifted liis cap, his
uniform : nothing was forgotten. W ith the
other arm he raised his friend, and thus load
ed, ran towards the hospital. The two scab
bards trailed on the ground. It was night.
A voice exclaimed, “Stop, stop the murder
er.”
“There,” said Thibaut to one of the guards,
“you are a Norman, and you know Norbert;
look at him now.”
“Who murdered him ?” exclaimed anoth
er.
Who murderered him? Thibaut was no
longer himself. It was Ihe thought. It was
the Parisian—-I did it—ho did it.
He entered his room. The soldiers had re
tired for tho night. The Parisian had not
returned; he was amusing himself. Thibaut
flung himself on the bed where he used to
sleep with Norbert. lie heard the dragoons
talk of the fight; he listened to their account
of it; heard tho Parisian cuter, hum a tunc,
take off his sword—snore.
Thibaut drew himself up in bed, like a
panther, ready to fall on its prey, lie rose,
determined to murder him; one thing but
prevented him; he would wait till the next day;
lie would fight him ; he would see him die.
The night was a long one. 110 wept; ho
sobbed; he stretched and turned about in that
hod meant for two.
The next day, the roll was scarcely called,
when Tt.i jaut walked up to the Parisian with
a fearful smile—“ You killed him bravely,”
said he,—“that is nothing ; hut you struck
me, and I demand satisfaction.”
“All, ha!” replied the dragoon, “so it is
death to the Norman now-a-days—begone,
conscript, I do not feel disposed at pres
ent.”
“Will you not fight me ?’’ said Thibaut,
jovfully, clasping his carbine.
“Yes, yes, man, from duty ; buttake care,
I will send you to the one of yesterday.”
“That is it,” replied Thibaut, “come
along.”
“What, in such a hurry ! Where do you
mean to go ?”
“The spot of yesterday,” said Thibaut, in a
tone that struck the duellist.
“Such an idea,” replied ho, looking at tho
young soldier; but he could not laugh ; “and
your second f”
“Yesterday’s man,” replied Thibaut, “ho
alone for both of us ! Come and kill mo well,
otherwise you shall never kill another. Do
you understand ?”
“Oh keep quiet; it will not take me long to
bleed a white chicken like you.” AndThi
baut was as pale as if he had already killed
the other one.
This time tho combat was not long.—
“Biows on the head did not do your comrade
much good,” said tho duellist, “I will see
what I can do. It is so I mean to kill you—
take care of yourself.”
Ha, ha ! Blows ou the head were not of
much use to him cither. Thibaut merely
presented his left arm to tho fa'ling sword,
and while it struck to the hone, his, blessed
bo it! went twice through and through tho
Parisian. Ho fell, still breathing; anditwas
well for hit” that the sword of the Nonnan
remained in his body, for had Thibaut held
it, he would have made him suffer dreadfully.
The blade shook in the wound. The Paris
ian drew it out; and his eyes for a moment
opened to dart defiance to his enemy.
A first murder is enough to stun the most
indifferent person ; but Thibaut thought of
no one but Norbert. His satisfied rage would
no longer be restrained ; his heart beat al
most joyfully. lie picked up his sword, and
wiped it with his fingers before returning it
to its scabbard ; and if he helped the second
to lift up the dragoon, it was to see nearer and
enjoy longer his last convulsions. He would
like to have thrown him, trampled him on the
spot, whore he had seen Norbert lay lifeless.
Put yourself in his place.
From that day, it must he owned, Thibaut
became a dangerous, pitilessman. The shock
produced in him by all that is violent in grief
and hatred ; the happiness he felt the first
time he committed murder; a remnant of
rage and despair, which were associated with
other emotions, ho could not forget:—briefly,
he became a fearful duellist; but it was only
against those who delight in spilling blood.
110 more than once protected his more youth
ful comrades from them.
At times Thibaut is pale and agitated. Is
it on account of tho blood ho lias shed? No,
truly ; it is when he thinks ot one, who one
evening received for him a gaping wound
through the heart; and it is always iu liis
thoughts. Who could make him forgot it?—
Norbert died to defend him, and among so
many living creaturos, he will never find an
other like him. He does not seek one; and
most probably he would not care for it. Os
the dead nothing remains to us but that void
which nothing can fill.
Stop that Boy. —A cigar in his mouth, a
swagger in Ins walk, impudence in liis face, a
care-for-nothingness in his manner. Judging
from his manner, he is older than his father,
wiser than his teacher, more honored than
tho mayor of the town, Stop him—he is go
ing too fast. Ho don’t know his speed , stop
him ere tobacco shatters his nervos, ere pride
ruinshis character, ere the “lounger masters
the man, ore good ambition and manly
strength give way to low pursuits and bru
tish aims.” Stop all such hoys 1 They are
legion—the shame of their families, the dis
grace of their town, the sad and solemn rc
proaclios of themselves.
Ax Exampie fok Boys. —Wo have a carrier
connected with with this office, who is be
tween the ages of 13 and 14 ; who occupies a
seat in the highest class of ono of our public
schools, has the geography of the country at
his finger’s ends, anil who can cipher round
a bovy of schoolmasters ; and in two and a
half yoars more, (which will make him six
teen,) he will probably read Cicero, and Ho
rner to boot. But in addition to acquirements
at school, ho has three hundred dollars in tho
Snvings Bank, drawing five per cent, inter
est, and is daily adding thereto, all gathered
together by sellingnewspapors betweon school
hours. —Trenton True American.
A QUARTER OF A CENTURY
What changes it produces ! Rev. Elisha
Lord Cleavelaud, D. I>., of New Ilaven, one
of the old style of Gospel Ministers, who has
felt it his duty to try to save the souls of his
people, instead of inflaming their prejudices
and oxaltiug their self-righteousness by exag
gerated representations of the faults of dis
tant communities, preached on the 25th of
July last, in his new and beautiful church
edifice bordering the Public Green, a Ser
mon. embracing a review of his ministry du
ring the twenty-five years which have elapsed
since the date of his settlement. A few of
the concluding passages we subjoin.
Os the manner in which I have discharged
my ministry among you since the day I was
set over this flock, it becomes me to say hut
little. When 1 think of the’years that are
fled, of opportunities for usefulness forever
gone, of the hundreds on hundreds, once
members of this parish, to whom I shall min
ister no more, of how much might have been
done, of how little has been done, my heart
sinks within me ; and I can only look to the
attoning blood to cover my short comings.
One thing I may venture to say. However
imperfect my labors, they have been directed
to one great end. I received it in charge
from the ordaining council to watch for souls
—to look after the spiritual and eternal in
terests of my people. This was to be my great
business, and this I have always endeavored
to keep in view. It has been my determina
tion to “know nothing among us, save Jesus
Christ and him crucified to declare unto
you, not tho wisdom of man, hut the whole
counsel of God ; so to preach the gospel, as
to “save myself and those that hear mo.” —
I have taken but little active part in matters
merely temporal ; nor have I been known
among you as a partisan in tilings of aworld
ly nature. It has seemed to me that the care
of tho soul was work enough and field enough
to occupy all tlic time and strength God might
give me. I have acted on the principle that
my relations to von were those of an embas
sador from heaven, sent to warn you of the
wrath to come, aud to persuade you by the
terrors and mercies of the Lord, to be recon
ciled to God without delay. I have supposed
that if I could win you to Christ, aid your
growth in grace, and he tho means of pre
paring you for a peaceful death and blessed
eternity, my chief work in regard to you
would he accomplished. It would indeed ho
gratifying if, while doing this, I could also
correct your opinions and practices in regard
to many points of secondary interest. But I
may not, for the sake of these minor objects,
neglect or put in jeopardy the salvation of
vour souls.
It was for many years a deeply studied
project to construct an easy and rapid route
of travel across the Isthmus of Panama. At
vast expense, a railroad lias at length been
built. The great object of all this outlay is
not any wealth or advantages to be found on
that little strip of land —not to open the coun
try and invite immigrati in tliithor—no, it
was simply to enable travelers to get from
one shore to the other as quickly aud safely
as possible. Not a little danger to health
and life attended the former slow modes of
conveyance. Travelers had to run the gaunt
let of tropical heat and deadly miasma, and
they felt thankful if they got safely through.
Now the world in which wo live, is hut a
narrow neck of land, lying between two un
bounded seas ; yet though narrow and quick
ly passed, (for we have no need to hasten the
flight of time,) it is so infested with dangers
to the soul, that multitudes perish before they
get over. To forestall this sad result, God,
in the gospel, has thrown up a highway,
forming a perfectly straight lino of communi
cation from shore to shore. Whoever takes
this highway, will make the passage in safe
ty. To persuade you to do this, is tho great
object of my ministry. I might love to point
out to you the beauties of the scenery —or you
might like to take up your abode here fur a
season—but if we linger thus, wc may he
overtaken by fever or sun-stroke, or some oth
er deadly evil. It is my duty to warn you
that this is no place to rest, no place to build,
no place to lay up treasures ; and to urge
you forward with all haste to the opposite
shore. Once fairly over, and actually safe
within the vail, under tho wing of God’s love,
and my anxieties for you are at rest, my
work for you is done.
Bear with me then, if with such views of
my commission and of your peril, I ply you
with the tremendous realities of eternity, and
the glorious doctrines of the cross. For re
member that stern necessity is laid upon me,
yea, woo is unto me, if I preach not tho gos
pel, warning every man, and teaching ever)-
man, that I may present every limn faultless
iu the day of Christ Jesus.
I cannot close this discourse without a
grateful recognition of the pleasant relations
which have subsisted between myself and my
people. You have known mo from my youth
to this day—you have been conversant with
my inexperience and infirmities—with my
days of trial, and of returning prosperity—
but you have never suffered your kindness to
fail. Your forbearance towards my short
comings—your sympathy in my afflictions
—your tender regard for my good name—
your co-operation in my labors, and your
prayers in my behalf, have greatly comforted
and sustained mo. In those days when we
went down together into the valley of humili
ation, and felt that God was leading us by a
way we knew not, how sweet was oar fellow
ship ! how lmppy our union ! And whon wo
came up out of the wilderness, loaning on tho
arm of our beloved, how grateful was our
song of praiso! A common participation of
such seenos as wo have passoil through, forms
and cements a friendship of no ordinary
depth.
For my temporal wants you have made lib
eral provision. Three timos, unsolicited by
me, you have increased mjHfdary ; raising
it from a thousand, to two thousand dollars.
The sense of your kindness and faithfulness
in all these twenty-five years, is deeply en
graven on my heart, and has become a part
of my daily consciousness. United in one
Lord, one faith, ono baptism, may we still
continue in the holy fellowship and laliors of
the gospel; nor suffer any root of bitterness
so spring up and trouble our, as yet, unbroken
harmony.
Vol. l. No. 10.
i But what solemn thoughts force themselves
1 upon us, at such an honr as this! Where is
! the congregation to which I ministered a
quarter of a century ago ? Not a hundred,
I probably not fifty of them, are here to-day
Many have been gathered to the great oon
gregation of the dead. Os the 257 members
of the church whose names were on the cata
logue at the time of my settlement, 35
remain. Os the brethren, who probably took
part in the vote, giving me a call, hut nine
continue with us. Os the deacons then in
offieo, two arc dead, and the other has remov
ed his membership.* The few elderly men
then among us, have ceased from the living.
“Instead of the fathers, are the children.”—
Many of those whom I baptised, arc now
heads of families, and coming to he helpers
iu the church and society.
Thus time hears us ou, —willing or unwil
ling,—to the places and responsibilities of
those who have gone before us. Another
quarter of a century, and where shall wc he?
These children will then be heads of families,
These young people will he turning the down
hill side of life ; these middle aged will bo
tottering under the weight of years to the
grave ; and those aged will long before that
have been gathered to their fathers. For
myself, I have little expectation of seeing that
day, and should I he spared so long, it might
he as the sole survivor of a buried congrega
tion. Enough for me, that my times are in
God's hand. Be it my endeavor to consecrate
them to liis service. More and more would
I abound in my Master’s wurk ; more and
more would I glory in his cross. In this
loved employ would I wear out my life; in
this would Ibo found at the last. And O,
may I never forget that “Though I preach
the gospel, Fhave nothing to glory of; for ne
cessity is laid upon me; yea, woe is unto me,
if I preacli not the Gospel.”
*Timothv Dwight, Samuel P. Davis, and James
E. I*. I)eax, were our deacons at. the time of my
settlement. The first two are deceased. The last
belongs to another church iu this city.
SOUTHERN OIL COMPANY.
The N. 0. Crescent says:—“The inaugu
ration of the Mobile works of the Southern
Oil Company, as described in the Crescent
and other newspapers in this city and Mobile,
has aroused quite an interest in the enterprise
in all sections of the Southern country. It is
descanted upon in many of our exchanges,
and the large benefits which will flow from
it, arc admitted on all sides to be thoroughly
established.
During the last four or five weeks this oil
has been thoroughly tested; and the results
have surpassed the anticipations of the most
sanguine of the surporter of the enterprise.
Wherever it has boon used, no matter on what
description of machinery, it has succeeded
admirably. It has been tried on locomotives,
on tho macliincry of steamboats and steam
ships, in founderios, machine shops, and print
ing offices, and has been universally pro
nounced the best lubricating fluid now in gen
eral use. In nothing has it failed. Hence,
as a natural consequence, its surpassing
excellence may be set down as an incontro
vertible fact.
Among the newspapers which have no
ticed this new interprise sensibly and favora
bly, is that staunch journal, the Baltimore
American. From an elaborate article in its
issue of the 12th inst., we make the following
extracts:
“The Southern Oil Company holds from
tho inventor the exclusive patent right of
manufacturing oil out of rosin in the five
Southern States of Alabama, Mississippi,
South Carolina, Georgia and Florida. Up to
the prosent time they have carried on the
manufacture on a limited scale, and rather as
an experiment than otherwise. Being fully
assured by the results that the business
could be made highly productive and profita
ble, and that the article they could manufac
ture would make and increase its market, the
extensive works recently completed were re
solved on. The pine orchards of the South
furnish cheap and inexhaustible supplies of
the material. It is now settled that a pure
lubricating oil can ho manufactured from
rosin by an inexpensive process, which some
contend is not only equal hut superior to any
animal oil. Tho use of the article is univer
sal, and the demand for it constantly increas
ing, while the chief resources from whence
this prime necessity of civilized life has hither
to been obtained are rapidly diminishing in
numbers, and the cost of the article is raising
every year. Lard oil involves considerable
outlay. The hog must he fattened at more or
less expense upon corn before he can beoall
ed upon for his unctions contributions to tho
wants of our dwellings or our manufactories,
while the abundance and cheapness of rosic
will doubtless allow the oil made from it to
be supplied to the consumer at much more
reasonable rates,
Like almost every other important inven
tion, the manufacture of oil from rosin has
been forced to contend with many obstacles
aud delays from its first inception until it
reached the point of success. The inventor)
it seems, experienced the ill fortune of too
many of his predecessors in the paths of ingen
uity, and ruined himself iu endeavoring to
get liis discovery into operation unaided. He
was compelled to take others into the business
with him who appear to have regarded tho
affair rather as a subject of speculation thaii
a bona fide enterprise. And now it is
claimed that the now manufactory of tho
Southern Oil Company at Mobile is the first
prepared to go extensivoly into the manufac
ture, and tho only one at which a pure lubri
cating oil is made out of rosin. Whether this
is exactly so or not, it is certain that Compa
ny have a fair field to start on and need ask
no favors. They have only to fulfill the large
promises they make and produce an article of
the kind, quality and quantity they undertake
to do, at a reasonable price, and A gigantic
business is before them, and their enterprise
will be one of the most important ever started
at tho South. The Southern journals art
very sanguine on the subject, and are unani
mous in considering the movement aa in effect
the opening of anew mine of wealth. Tho
success of this manufacture they say will
greatly advanoo at once the value of the pine
forests of tho South, and thoy may come to
rival even the cotton and sugar landsj”