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YOL. I. DUBLIN, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 11, 1878. NO |f THOSE TERRIBLE TONG UES Ah file! those terrible tongues of ours! Are we half aware of their mighty powers? Do we fever trouble our heads at all Where the jest may strike or the hint may fell? The latest cliirp of that “little bird” That spicy story “you must have heard”— We jerk them away in our gossip rash, And somebody's glassof course goes smash. What fames have been blasted and broken, What pestilent sinks have been stirred. By a word in lightness spoken, By only an idle word! A sneers—a shrug—a whisper low— The}* hlc poisoned shafts from an ambush ed bow, Shot by the coward, the fool, the knave, They pierce the mail of the great and brave. Vain is the buckler of wisdom or pride To turn the pitiless point aside ; The lip may curl with a careless smile. But the heart drips blood—drips blood the while. Ah me! what hearts.have been broken, What rivers of blood been stirred, By a word in malice spoken, a bitter word! A kindly word and a tender tone— To bnly Sod is their virtue known! t , They can lift from the dust the abject head, They can turn a foe to a friend instead; - The heart close barred with passion and pride Wiirtlirtg at their knock its portal wide, - And the hate that blights and the scorn that sears Will melt in the fountain of childlike tears. Whai ice-bound griefs have been broken, ■ What rivers of love been stirred, By a word in kimlucss spoken, By only a gentle word! THE DEACON’S STORY. I remember her well. She was a blithesome little creature—this Ber- tna Maynard—as happy as any bird, caroling hoi- song all the (lay long. We all loud her very much, and I, for one, shed tears of joy when she left the flowery paths of sin, and came out on the Lord's side. I re- niuiuhor well the day upon which she was bapfizeTtr Good did Ed- ...wards was our pastor then ; and 1 believe that I never heard him preach ■•so well as he did on that morning. 1 never knew another who had such a voice, strong and powerful, yel having ' a peculiar sweetness, thrill ing every nerve, and holding all lis tenors entranced while he spoke. The good man is with the angels now, where I hope to meet him in the great hereafter; hut by many his name is cherished sacredly, for they that knew him loved him. Well, let him rest; he has fought the good light, and has gone to receive the crown of immortality. Bertha May nard was just seventeen years of age then—a pretty girlish creature, slim and graceful, blue-eyed and sunny- liuTred, ;Yet young as she was, she seemed very much in earnest, and willing to give all * to the Lord ; and and none, unless Brother Gregg, oven doubted her sincerity “Slic is too giddy a girl to make a good Obristian,” ho said shaking his head doubtfully. She has commenc ed m the right way, but I fear she will, ere long, turn back.” “The Lord lias power to bring all iuto IIis fold,” I said in a reproving tone. “I know that ; but I do say- that it takes great stability of character to make a good Christian. Now, we all like Bertie, Who is a petted and spoiled child, used, young as she is, to all kinds of dissipatation, and with a score of fashionable friends whom she likes tpito os well as any of the bretheren or sisters of this church. Think you she will bear, their temptings and remain pure? that she will pass through Satan’s tire and come out unscathed ?” “I. think so,” I returned—still his words set me to thinking, and I re- 8olvod to watch the poor girl, and to sec how far Brother Gregg’s words would prove true. . She had been a member of our church for nearly a year before I saw anything un-christion-like in her behavionr. It was one night in early spring that I happened to be kept at my office of business until after II o’clock. At last, having finished, I closed my books* and put ting out my lamp, I stepped into the street. Just opposite to my office was Burke’s Hall, now all lighted up for a grand hall. I could hear the rich music and could see the magnificent ly dressed ladies as they glided through the dance; and I sighed as I thought of the many ways which Satan had of enticing poor mortals from their Maker, only to add them to his own list. I resided about half a mile out of town, and my way lay by the Maynard Place. “Sweet little Bertie is sound asleep and not wasting the hours which God has given us for rest?” I said to myself, as I glanced at the dark windows of the building. “One and all of the family are enjoying the blessed boon—sleep !” But no—just then a faint light glimmered from a window, out into the darkness. InVolintarily I ceased my rapid walk, and paused before the dwelling wondering whether or not any of the family were sick ; for I knew they were in the habit of retiring to bed very early. I was not left long in doubt; the window was raised noiselessly, and a lithe little creature sprang out. It was dressed in a rich evening robe, and wore a mask ; but for all of that I knew it was Berth Maynard! How swiftly flew the little feet, as she took her way toward town while I, like a wolfc seeking for prey, followed on behind her! On. on she went, in a kind of feverish haste, pausing not until she readied the hot;mil'"of the broad stops which led to Burke's Hall; where she stopped long enough to give a hasty glance around her, ere. she sprang up them and vanished from my view. “So, so,” I mused bitterly, Broth er Gregg was right after all. Bor tint Mitpiai’d woars urduak of religion and attended a masquerade! Pool foolish child ! I must see her to-mor row. For the love I bear her;'.I will he kind and patient, and then if she does not mend her ways it will he my painful duty to report her con duct. to the church. ” Accordingly I called the next day at the Maynard Place. Mr. May nard and his wife were riding out and Bertha was alone, as I had hope.! she would be. She met me cordially, but her eye lids dropped under my piercing gaze and I thought her face wore a guilty flush. “Bertha!” I asked, “where were vmi last night?” F shall never forget the deathlike pallor which' ovespmid her face then, or how she grasped a clmir to keep herself from falling. I pitie d her, and felt glad that it was only I, of all the church, that knew of lien sin ; another would not spare her feelings as I would do. “Bertie,” I said more kindly, “Why did you go there last night? Trust me, I am only your friend.” “Deacon Mar!” she exclaimed, with sudden energy. If 3-011 are really my friend, trust me. Do not soek to tear my secret from me ; for as the Lord lives I meant no wrong!” Her pallid face was raised beseech ingly to mine now, and I could not see it in ray heart to condemn her. I only said i “Bertie, I believe you and will trust 3-011, if you will promise never to go to such a place again.” “I will promise that readily,” she returned, grasping my hand. “I want to do right, but sometimes I find it hard to tell what is right. I am not us guilty as you think I am, Deacon Mar.” And so the matter was dropped for the time, and I, silenced but not con vinced, left her. As I at first de cided, I made no mention of the matter to any one; but not feeling quite satisfied with cither myself or her, I kept a close watch upon her movements, staying purposely out late at night, whenever any kind of sinful amusement was going on in town, to see whether or not I could discover another error in her conduct resolving if I should to report her at once to the church. And so a month passed, and thou there came an evening when Burke’s Hall wa8 again lighted up for anoth er grand masquerade; and on that evening I took my stand near the Maynard place, in a spot that would command a good.viow of Bertie’s win dow, and where I could remain tin seen by any passer-by. And there, hour after hour, I crouched like a wild beast ready to spring upon its prey ; believing the while, I was do ing God’s work, in thus trying to hunt down the poor girl. The town olook hud already struck 11, and I was beginning to think of going homo, whim I observed a tall, well- dressed gentleman conic down the road, and pause boforo the Maynard Place. ... Beginning to get rnoro interested I bent eagerly forward to watch . bis movements. Ho waited at the gate a moment, as to make sure that the inmates of the house were at rest, and then passed cautiously down the garden path to the house, where he paused, and glancing up at Bertie’s window, uttered a low but peculiar whistle, which was unswerod in a moment by the raising of a sash suf ficiently high for hi in **0 spring into the room, when it was lowered as cautiously as it had been raised. I could have gone homo fully con vineed of Bertie’s perfidy, Imt I re- solvod to find out who the midnight visitor was ; and so I waited in the chilly air of a spring midnight for him to come out again ; but it was an hour, from the time lie entered ole ho did come, and oven then lie lingered at the window for a good night-kiss from the fair occupant of the room, before taking his way hack to the town, whithor I undertook to follow him ; but being a ii old man, Tcould not walk as fast as be, and finding very soon that I could not overtake him, I turned my steps homeward, for once in mv life foil ed. And perhaps for being thus foiled, T grew moi'o angry with the girl. ‘She will iiot find mens lenient, now as she did before. I, one of the pillars of the church, cannot see such iniquity and let it go unpun ished. The church must deal with her !” I said to myself, a little spite fully, I think. Accordingly, the very next day. taking Brother Gregg with me, I re paired to the Maynard Place, whore I found Bertie seated wjtli her par ents in the parlor. “Tin glad that 3-011 have come,” said 'Mrs. Maynard, reaching out her hand to me. Bertie seems ail ing to-day. I never saw her looking miserable. Perhaps y-ou may cheer her up a little. “The wages of sin is death!” said Brother Groggl sternly. “What do von moan?” asked tlie lady in a half 'frightened tone, while a spasm of intense pain passed over the' girl’s face,* leaving it’almost deathly in appearance. ‘For an explanation I refer to Brother Mar,” lie answered, without relaxing one feature of his stern vis age. Tell all I must, there was no help for it now; and though I wished myself a hundred miles away, I told what I hud seen, while the mother listened with gasping sighs, and the daughter sat with her face buried in her hands, trembling violently. When I had finished Mrs. Maynard asked sternly: “Bertie! what have 3-011 to say to this ?” The girl rose instantly to her feet. She was calmer irow, though her face wus death-like in its pallor. “I have no reply to make, my mother,” she responded. “What I have done I am not ashamed of, and may do again. I may have a secret, but if I have, all the blooded hounds in the world shall not hunt it from mo!” Brotlior Gregg grew u lititle angry at this, and said tartly: “Miss if 3-011 keep on in this way, you will have to get out from the sheltering arms of the church!” How her 03-68 blazed then! I saw at once that wo wore rutting the wrong way to bring the erring child back to Ilis fold; and I said kindly : “Sister Birtio, if you have done wrong, confess your fault, and strive to do better. It is an awful thing to dare an Almighty- God, as you are But my words woro ot 110 use. Iu my anxiety to mend matters, 1 only made them worse, for, drawing her self lip to her full height* she said proudly: “Deacon Mar, f have no confes sion to make to any one besides my Muker, and He, knowing my intents does not wish any. This is all 1 have to say. Please consider me no longer a member of the church.” I would have expostulated, hut she gave mo no chance, for when she had consod, with the dignity be coming a Qlieon, she passod out of tho room; and, though I called sov oral times afterwards, I never again had a chance to converse with iior. From that timo she whs always “hot at home” when any of tho members called, and after a while she was turned out of tho church. (Subse quently much sorrow came to this poor girl. First, the young popple, even her host friends, rofusod to as sociate with her, and afterward sick ness and death came to her homo, robbing her of thoso who loved her best—her parents. Mr. Maynard went first, dying with a blessing on tho head of her, who hud attended him so faithfully; and a few wooks after his death, his wife followed him down into the dark valley. I pitied Borthu more than I can tell, as I saw her bonding over the new-made grave, weening bitterly Tbi'TTVe mother wild battlev'cd her so well, and stepping to her side, 1 placed my hand upon her fair young head, and said, as kindly as 1 know how: “The Lord lovotii whom He clmstoneth.” “Then-, Deacon Mar, I trust thill Ho loves me,” she returned sadly. A few moments afterwards she took a stranger’s arm, and walked slowly homeward. And that was the last time she was evor seen in Elton. The next day, tho Maynard House was closed; and on it was a placard bearing the words: “For Sale.” with directions to inquire for terms at aklistant city. How my hourt ached then! W here in all tho world was tho poor child? I feared that she had no friends and might go rapidly to destruction. I would hunt her up, and prove a hot ter friend than I hud ever been be fore. I was preparing to set out in search of her, when one day a long tear- stained letter came to me from the absent one. I will givo it here: “At last Deacon Mar, I mayniako my confession to you; but in order to do so I must go hack and com mence at my childhood, tine* giving you a sketch of my short; but events fill life. In a pretty village, many miles from here wo lived—father, mother and I. We were poor, but for all that wo wero very happy; for love buttomkour brown bread and sweetened our corn coffee. .Still my father was not quite contented. He wanted to make his darlings more comfortable; yet, by doing his ut most, his scanty earnings were bare ly sufficient to give us shelter for our heads, and to provido the poorest food for us. Such wero our circumstances when there arose the cry of “Gold in California,” and a party of adven turers, among whom was my father, started for the far-off Eldorado. We had still harder times after he was gone, but my mother boro up brave ly, toiling all through the long days, and often the greater part of the nights for a sustenance for herself and child, until the news came that he liad died of fever in the lund of prom iso. Then she sank beneath tho blow and fell sick; It wus many months after the day on which the dreadful letter emne ere she was able to sit up again. During these long months 1 know that we should have suffered from want, of food, fire and clothing, had it not lieon for the kindness of a gentleman, a stranger, who was recruiting his health at our little village. Indeed, so kind was ho that, when after a time lie asked mv mother’s hand in marriage, she could not find in her heart, to reftiso it to him. They wore married at the little church in Afton, and soon after their marriage, they purchased the house known as the Maynard Place, and removed to that town, whore, in ac cordance to my stop father’s wishes I passed for his child. But my own father was not. dead, though lie had stood upon the boun daries of tho other world; and after months of hard labor he returned to find the ones for whom he had toiled claimed by another. “At first,” said this dear father to mo, on tho night, when ho met. me by Appointment at the masquerade. “I thought, thut I should go away, and none would know that I was still alive; but, my love for my child ovorcamo my resolution, and I resol ved to see Iior at all risks.” After that, I mdv him often times in niy own room, sometimes in the woods; for it always gave mo joy to live even a moment in liis presence. I have heard it said that 1 am too unstable in mind to ho a good (Chris tian. Perhaps it is so; still I have been strong enough to endure every thing for my mother’s sake. To keep the bitter truth from her, l\uw myself an outcast from society, and the object of the joors of even those who lmd professed to love me the b'est._ It was only in tlie,closing hours of my mother’s life that slut know; all; and when thoso unearthly bright eyes gazed fondly upon' 1110, and the dying lips murmured faintly, ‘God bless you, my darling!’ tho suffering of years wus amply repaid. This is the confession you wished me to make—this is the dreadful thing for which you took away my good mime, and had mo expelled from the church! Well, those hitter days aro over, and, thank God, they cm. never re turn ! The lust sod Inis been placed upon my mother's coffin-lid, and [■ go away with my only remaining, curt il ly friend, never to be parted from him until God shall call one or tlie other to the eternal rest. And now. Deacon Mar, I entreat you by the love you once boro me, to clear iny name of tlie blackness with which 3-011 liuvo. surrounded it. Do this and you will over have the prayers of Bkhtha Aj.i.un ” This letter I read aloud in church, as it was right that I should do; and when I had finished, there was not a dry eye in that room, for all had Joyed blithsomo Borthu Maynard, who signed bersoir Bertha Allen, now. And I^think that one and all of us went h >iiie that day, wiser and better f »r tho lesson we lmd learned. Even stern Brother (1 regg wiped liis eyes and hoped that God would forgive him for the part ho had taken in the matter and not lay it up against! him at the last day, when the books; shall be opened, and all, both groat and small, shall be judged there from. I have never seen Bertlm since the day when, in bitter grief, she stood beside tho new-made gruvo; but I hear of her sometimes—always as a gay woman of tho world, and I can not; get rid of tho thought, Unit if she, who was once such a bright bud of promise, is lost at tho last day-, I shall, iu some way or other, have to answer for it. Jj Crimes sometimes shock us too much ; vices almost always too little. Tlie Philosophy of Newspaper Advertising. “Hermit,” tho Now York corres pondent. of the Troy Times, a close observer of things boro, in his latest loiter, pliilbsophieul 1 y remarks: ?‘The utmost, tunic is How in full adi iiv, mid business men arc oxerting every effort to improve tlie harvest One method is the Ihimlbill system by which tlio hotels are daily inundat ed. During tlie htisinoSs season one boy uftor another will go the rounds, and in this way un attempt is made to Obtain trade. Of these, however, t he greater pint are wasted, since tlie waiter generally picks them up and throws them into the street, and the next day a fresh inmidiifion takes place. Experience has clearly dem onstrated that. the most efficient motliod of ad vertising is foimdin tlio judicious uho of the licwspaper col umns. The ground on which news paper advertising, as a system, is Ims- ad is human confidence, since we cannot avoid believing that which wo constantly road. ■ This confidence is sometimes abus ed, hut. still it is evident tlmt u good advertisement will, if sufficiently repented, carry popular opinion Men who advertin'.) with the greatest persistency oVetitmtffy reach success/ There is a. military principle involved iu this method, since the article ad vertised should ho pressed on the public by repealed assaults. Tlio correct, view, which experience brings td each mini, is Hint advertising should bo included in the genci'iit estimate of expenses, us regularly as store rent, clerk lure and insurance. It is of mu said 11 good stand at a high rent is better than a poor one, relit free. Well, advertising brings man before the public in a why''that makes any stand good . Tho best stand you cun have is to lie in the newspapers. Tlie iWatli, Of lhis there are two kinds—^the breath we take in, whjch is. or ought to bo, pure air, composed, on tho whole, of oxygen and nitrogen, with a minute portion of carbonic acid— and ‘lie breath we give out, which is an impure air, to which has been added, among other matters which will not support life, an excess of carbonic acid. This carbonic acid gas, when warm is lighter than tlie air, and ascends; and, when at the same tompofatiire as common air, is heavier Ilian that air, and descends, lying along the floor, just as ft • lies often in tlie bottom of old wells or hid brewers’ vats,, as a stratum of poison, killjiig oeccasionally the men who descend into it. lienee a word of admonition is udfreused to those who think nothing of sleeping bn tlie Hour; and Ijenye; as the poor in great, cities are loo apt, in times of dislress to pitwn their bedsteads and keep their beds, tho friends of the poor— those who go about doing charitable work among them at this season— larg cut tented never to Tot this hap-' pen, and to inniloyo tlibrii to keep tlie bedstead, wlnitever else may go, to save the sleeper from the carbonic acid stratum which lies close on, tno floor, especially in cold weather.— Hall’a Journal' of Health. ... Needs Hath Followers ami Lead ers. -"h Knoxville OJirOiitele, rep. Alexander II, .Stephens thinks the (leriiocrafs iiced leaders. The recent elections show that they need soveral thousand more followers. Tlie Country and General Grant. . Washlngloa Post. , The. debt which this country owes to Grant is a rousing defeat,,and jt stands ready to pay it with' interest on demand. t- 'rii If rats arc about, scatterqxnvdeml glass about their holes, or ]K>Wdore(l copperas, or fill tip the Crevices with hard soap, or snuar their holes with soft tar. or dip tlio rat in a cup of tar and let it go, aud it will tar-phis, ter every hole in the hottso, Toil, feel, think, hope, A man is sure to dream enough before lie dies without making arrangements for tlie pnrpo-e. The greater the knowledge, the greater the doubt,