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\ OL. i.
ran c JULY hr
Is published every Saturday. by P. L
ROBLY&OJSi *, Warrenton , Geo. at
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SELECT TALKS.
From the Port Folio.
FALSE A PPEA ILLYCES.
BY MRS HARRIET MUZZY.
All the world, that is, all the world
who composed the mere acquaintan
ces of the worthy Mr. Spencer, tho’t
Tio parent had more reason to be
proud of his children than he had of
his two lovely daughters. They were
so beautiful in their persons, so re
fined in their manners, and Withal, so
highly accomplished, they dressed
with studied elegance, and no sound
more boistrous than the cooing of the
ringdove was ever heard to proceed
from their rural lips, especially Lau
ra the younger sister, who was gen
tleness itself. Sophia, the elder, was
equally mild, hut she was more learn
oil, and consequently talked more,
and sometimes a little faster than her
sister, but then she contradicted with
admirable politeness, and defended
her opinions in such lady like, refined
language, that no person could sup
pose, she was fond of argument, or
that she differed in opinion from her
friends, merely to show her white
teeth and superior information. Such
an idea never occurred to the casual
visitors of the family, and, as I said
before, every body believed Mr. Spen
ccr to be the happiest of fathers, for
such beautiful creature must be the
most obedient, attentive children in
the world, and so Mr. Spencers
friends often told him. lie was ob
served to sigh sometimes, when thus
congratulated, but as he always ad
tuiried the justness of the praise be
stowal upon his darlings, the sigh
was supposed to prnreed from the re
membrane? <f t.jic mother of thus*
daughters, who had taken unwearied
pains witu their education, and whom
in person tie y resembled. The old
gentleman was afflicted with the rheu
matism, and seldom left his easy chair.
It was observed, whenever a visitor
accidentally called in* that his loot
gmol was always placed conveniently ,
his hook, spectacles, and backgammon
board always on the little table close
beside him. the newspaper at hand,
and every thing looking comfortable
and cheerful. Consequently, as In
had the misfortune to he a widower,
aii this was to he imputed to the filial
attention ot Ins children. Nobody
seemed to r member, or i they did,
they total!} overlooked the circum
stance, that Mr. Spencer had an ‘or
phan niece’ residing with him, hut 1
being behind the scenes, well knew
that Matilda, or ‘cousin Matty* as
she was called, was the moving spring
or the dotn stic establishment, ii
was Matty who attended to all the old
gt ntleman*s wants and wishes. I
was she who placed his little comforts
and indulgences close beside him
It was ‘cousin Matty* who read to,
i*r played backgammon with him lor
hours, when his dar'-liters were en
gaged dressing, visiting, or other a
musements*. Matty‘s sympathising
eve, always .gave notice that she felt
every twinge of her unde’s rheurna*
tism, and her cheerful smile and
ready anecdote, were always there to
enliven his otherwise lonely hours
She was alacrity itseif; il the old gen
tleraan asked lor something whi< h wa
at the other* end of tue apartmen
Rural Cabinet.
Warren ton, February 7, 18*29.
+J 7
*• .ousi.i aiaiu ua.l iwougai u ot i re
his elegant, and ug iter iiad heard the
request. ‘Sophia, my dear,’ the fa
ther would sometimes say, ‘come play
me a tune n the piano forte: there’s;
a darling; play the tune your mother j
liked so well.’ ‘Oh, no, father, not!
now,* breathed the gentle voice of the |
amiable Sophia, <doi‘t you see l‘rn
engaged in reading this divine poem;
let Laura play O r you. Read it a-j
loud to your ftte‘, will you? Ob,
no, sir, don*t ask me, pray, you would,
not like it. Laura, do play for pa
pa.’ ‘Come, then, Laura, my dear,
you will play for ine?’—‘Papa, I’m
busy now striding these pearls, they;
will all be I >st if [ leave them—why!
<an‘t cousin Matty play, she has
nothing else to do!’ Matilda Hies to
the instrument, and ends the filial dis
pute.
The old father sighs deeply, but
scarcely knows why. The girls are
so gentle, so quiet, they Are only j
thoughtless’—hut still the sigh would
rise, and no heart but the heart of a
parent can know the bitterness of such
a sigh. How was it possible that,
people could thus overlook the atnia-i
ble and useful Matilda? wliv, she was
not beautiful in her person, or showy
in her manners. She was rather a
plain girl, with nothing attractive in
her Lee except its angelic expression,
and that casual observers overlooked
—as also the sweetness of her disposi
tion, the activity of her mind, and the
excellence of h<-r understanding, for
she was retiring in her habits, s ldom
showed herself in company, and;
s arcely ever joined in rouversa i n.j
Her elegant cousins looked upon ner
as a sort of nobody* yet as a conveni 1
ence which their father could not do
without, and as she was always kind
& obliging to them, & took a deal of
trouble <>ff their bands, they liked her
well enough. There was one person
in particular, who visited at Mr.
Spencer’s house, win was equally ad
aired by both the beautiful Hitters,
and was al io a great favourite with
heir father, because, in addition to
uis own endearing qualities, the pa
rents of Mr. Maynard had been bis
most intimate IViend*— the young
gentleman was charmed with Mr.
spencer‘s daughters; and scarcely
Knew which to admire most. llh be
ame rather domesticated in th<* fami
ly from being the son of an old friend,
and had many opportunities of observ
ing what a mere casual visitor would
never have seen. He saw that the old
gentleman, though the most indulgent
of patents, and father ot the ‘most
beautiful and gentle beings in the
world,’ nevertheless looked up to his
niece for all those little attentions
which constitute the charm of domes
lie life, and whi h are so gratifying
to a parent from his children, and
which it is so natural for children,
especially daughters, to bestow, lie,
like others, had long overlooked Ma
tilda, or regarded her only as a good
qeiet girl, who never said any thing,
and took no pains to please, and his
attention and admiration had been
exclusively devoted to the
forms, seraph countenances, and hi!
ver tones of the ‘angelic sisters.* Lut
this delusion was not always to con
s inue. He saw them neglect their in
valid father in pursuit of frivolous a
nusements; he saw no expression of
-,j mpathy in their dove-like eyes for
his involuntary exclamations of pain;
mo devoted attention to soothe and en
liven his enforced confinement; no
are for his personal comforts. I‘r
all these their father looked to ‘cousin
Matty,’ and these she bestowed in (
ilia- qoici uuotnrusive way, and with
that peculiar manner, that carries
conviction to the heart of an observer, 1
that they come direct from the heart,
j*Cousin Matty’ began to look charm
ing; her quiet manners began to be
; absolutely faciyating: he would seek
(to meet her ejes when she was en-’
gaged in perhrmiiig some act of
kindness to herjunclc, and convey by
j his own, the feelings she inspired.
! Such a heart as Matilda’s i buM not
I be insensible to Wve—such a heart is
! precisely the one most formed to fee|
it; but it was long before the modest
Matilda could believe that the elegant
amiable Mr. Mtynard could ever
| condescend tu think of her. Rut he
did, and at length made his affection
verballv known to her, anti asked her
hand of tier uncle. ‘Ah,’ sighed the
old gentleman, ‘yes, take Matty, but
you’ll take all my comfort with her,
but she deserves to be happy, so my
! selfishness shall not prevent it. ‘ls it
j possible?* said the beautiful Sophia,
j‘can Mr. Maynard really like cousin
Matty? I never should have dreamed
of sucli a thing, but I suppose her/us
!sy ways about Rapa have made him
believe she is very good , and all that,
hut his taste is certainly very odd.*
‘Yes,’lisped the gentle Laura, of all
things for him to choose Matty. I
wonder wfat it’s for. If she goes a
way, what shall /do fur somebody to
read to and play for Papa. I wish
Mr. Maynard would let her stay
where she is.’ Both sisters, however,
were too gentle and refined to give
any audible expression to their dis
content, and Matilda, though sincere
ly sorry to leave her good uncle, re
collected that she could visit him eve
ry day, and still attend to his amuse
ments and comforts —so she gave her
hand to the man who possessed her
heart. Can any one doubt of their
being happy?
INTEMPERANCE.
To the People o f the United States—their
account of the costs of intemperance.
The people of the U, S. to intemper
ance. Dr.
To 50 000 000 Gallons of
Spirits at 50cts. $28,000, 000
“1,344,000 000 Hours wast
ed by drunkards, at 4 cts. 53,760,000
‘the support ol 150.000 paupers 7,500,000
‘losses bv the depravity of 45,000
criminals, unknown, but immense
‘disgrace and misery of 1,000.000
persons relatives of
drunkards incalculable
‘ruin of forty-eight thousand
souls annually infinite, unspeakable
‘loss by premature death ol
30,000 persons in the
prime of life 30,000,000
‘losses from the carelessness
and mismanagement of
intemperate seamen a
gents, (§*c. unknown, but very great
Certain pecuniary, loss atin. $120,000,000
To which add the other items
in the account,
Thus it appears beyond a doubt inde
pendently of items which it is impossible
to estimate, that our country pays or loos
es at the rate of One hundred and
twenty millions of Dollars per an.
num, bv Intemperance'. This sum is five
times as large as the revenue ol the U.
States's government—it would pay oil
our national debt in six months—it would
build twelve such canals as the Grand K
rie and Hudson canal, every year-it would
support a navy four times as large as that
of Great Hritairi—it is sixty times as
much as the aggeratc income of all
the principal religious charitable societies
in Europe and America —it would supply
every family on earth with a Bible in
eight months —it would support a mission
ary or teacher among every two thousand j
souls on the globe! flow prosprtnug
might this country be, —what blessings
might it confer upon the world, if it were
only relieved from the curse of intemper*
ence!
And is there no remedy for intemper
ance? Yes. there is a remedy, simple
easy and effectual.—-Let the temperate
continue temperate and then when the in*
temperate die (and they will all die soon)
the curse will die with them.
Christian fathers! Christian mothers!
look at the bill which has been presented
before you. and count the cost of intem
perance—consider the pauperism, the
crime, the waste of money and of life—
consider, especially, that of all the adults
that die in this land—this land, where
you and your children must die—one out
of every three goes to the bar of God, to
answer for a sin, of which an apostle has
said, those who commit it shall not inher
it the kingdom of heaven. Are you will
ing that your offspring through all genera
tions, should be exposed to the danger of
such a doom! Oh! then, awake from your
apathy. Banish the accursed thing from
your dwelling. Forbid your children to
taste it, or touch it. Learn them to shun
it as they would shun the viper—to shun
it, as they would shun the worm that nev
er dies
Signs of Intempf.rf.nce.
1 If you have set times, days, or pla
ces, for indulging yourself in drinking ar
dent spirits.
2. If you find yourself continually in
venting excuses for drinking or avail your
self of every little catch or circumstance
among your companions to bring out a
“trea\”
3 If you find the desire of strong
drink returning daily n J oi stated hours.
4. If you drink in secret, tienuse you
are unwilling your friends or the world
should know how much you drink.
5. If you are accustomed to drink,
when opportunities present, as much as
you can bear without public tokens ofin
ebria'ion.
6. If you find yourself always irritated
when efforts are made to suppress intem
perance, and moved by some in
stinctive impulse to make opposition.
7. Redrn ss of eyes, with a full red conn
tenance and tremor of the ham!, especial
ly when connected with irritability, petu
lence and violent anger.
Every man is in danger of becoming a
drunkard, who is in the habit of drink
ing ardent spirits on any of the following
occasions:—
1. When he is warm. 2. When is cold.
3. When he is wet. 4 When he is dry.
5, When he in dull. 6- When he is live
ly. 7: When he travels. 8. When he
is at home. 9. When he is in company.
10. When he is alone. 11. When he is
at work- 12. When he is idle. 13.
Before meaN. 14. After meals. 15.
When he gets up. 16. When he goes
to bed. 17. On holidays. 18. On pub
lic occasions. 19. On any day—-or, 20.
Od any onasion.
A GOOD NAME.
‘A good name is rather to be chosen
than gr< at riches, or precious ointment •*
It is the richest jewel of the soul—the
purest treasure mortal things afford.
Give me thi j deservedly, and I can face
the frowns of fortune, can be pointed at as
the child of poverty, and still know what
it is to be happy. The storm mav indeed
beat upon me, and the chilling blast a*sail
me but charity will receive me into her
dwelling, will give me food to eat and
raiinnent to put on and will kindly assist
me to raise anew roof over the ashes of
the old one—and l shall again sit by my
fireside, and 1 shall again taste the sweets
of friendship and home.
Great men, like great cities, have many
crooked arts, and dark alleys in their
hearts, whereby he that knows them may
save himself much time and trouble.
The seeds of repentance are sown in
youth by pleasure, but the harvest is
reaped in age by pain.
No. m.