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About The independent South. (Griffin, Ga.) 185?-???? | View Entire Issue (Sept. 9, 1858)
it lil> JMfflfllt U . ’ J W v 33 y !P. Burr. THE INDEPENDENT SOUTH, OFFICE OPPOSITE THE BRICK WARE-HOUSE, GRIFFIN, GEORGIA. Two Dollars a Year, in Advance, — Notice tcill be given each Subscriber before the time for which hie subscription is paid expires, when, if not promptly renewed by ti Cash remittance, hts paper will be stopped. Advertisements neatly inserted at reasonable Vates. Double-column Advertisements are in bad taste and disfigure the paper. We prefer not to in- Bert them, but if parties wish it, we will do so at an *xtra charge. •Important to Administrators, Executors, Guardians, and County Officers. As it is not only the interest, but the duty of the respectively mentioned above, to economise the affairs given to them in charge, we invite atten tion to the following rates of Legal Advertising a ■dopted for this paper, per square : Notices to Debtors and Creditors—4o da3 r 5~....52.50 Sales of Land or Negroes—4o days 3.00 Application for leave to sell Land—weekly two months 4.00 Notices for letters Dismissory by Administrators or Executors—monthly for 6 months 4.50 Do. by Guardians—weekly for 40 clays 3.00 ‘Citations for letters of A dministration —Odays 2.00 Tax Collector’s Sales—6o days 4.00 Regular Sheriff’s Levys—3o days 2.00 Mortgage “ “ 60 days 4.00 By comparing the above with rates heretofore paid, it will be seen that Administrators will save by advertisingin this paper, Four Dollars and Twen fy-Five Cents, or Twenty-one per cent., in an es tate’s advertising fees. These terms arc made to conform as nearly as possible to the rates charged for other species of advertising, and are even higher than those charged by most interior papers for quack medicines—a species of advertising we do not want, if wc can got any other. claim the attention of all parties inter ested in saving something for the estates in their charge, to the above rates of advertising. 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”
