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Illfij! I THE STATE EiflTlflil 191 IE TIMIINI, INI Hill 1988191 UNIT) Os JERICHO.
.1. 11. SEALS, )
i!iD > Editors.
L L. YEAZEY, )
NEW SERIES, VOL. 11.
TEMPERANCE. CRUSADER.
PUBLISHED
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BY JOHN H. SEALS.
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LEGAL REQUIREMENTS.
Sales of Land and Negroes, \v Administrators,
Executors, or Guardians, are required by law to be
held on the first Tuesday in the month, between the
hours of ten in the forenoon and three in the after
noon, at the Court House in the County iT which the
property is situate. Notices of these sales must be
given in a public gazette forty days previous to the
day of sale.
Notices for the sale of Personal Property must be
given at least ten days previous to the day of sale.
Notice to Debtors and Creditors of an Estate must
be published forty days ?
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es Ordinary for leave to sell Land or Negroes, must
be published weekly for two months.
’ Citations for Letters of Administration must be
published thirty days —for Dismission from Admin
istration, monthly, six. months —for Dismission from
Guardianship, forty days.
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lished monthly for four months —for compelling titles
from Executors or Administrators, where a bond has
been given by the deceased, the full space of three
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will always be continued accord
ing to these, the legal requirements, unless otherwise
ordered.
% For the Crusader.
“It is Well.”
—O'” ■ ■■■—
O —'Last Words of Washington.'-—<D
BY JENNY WOODBINE,
Thus the Father of his Country,
Who to tyrants ne’er did bow,
Spoke to those who stood around him,
While the death-damp chilled his brow.
Calmly then his hands he folded,
For he felt the fatal spell,
Meekly raised his eyes to Heaven,
Then he murmured, “It is well.”
Life’s drear conflicts all were ending
Cares, and joys alike were past,
He, the Father of his Country,
Spoke these simple words—his last!
Earthly glories then were fading
Heavenly visions who may tell—
Surely angel pinions fanned him
When he whispered, “It is well.”
Yes! the mission then was ended,
Wars and tumults all were o’er,
He who won his country’s freedom
Ne’er would fight her battles more.
Yet, in Death, he taught a lesson
Which, in every heart should dwell—
Taught us meekness—resignation—
In his last words, “It is well!”
Aye, ‘twas well —the life behind him
Left him nothing to regret,
But the life —the life before him,
Life eternal—better y^et!
Saw he then a smiling Saviour
With him ever more to dwell, —
Ah! ’twas with a smile of triumph
That he murmured, “It is well!”
Richmond county, Ga.
Fanpy in Her Grave.
BY WM. M. BYARS, M. D.
How beautiful; how bright those eyes,
Which fast my youthful fancy won 1
How softly sweet those gentle sighs,
She breathed to me, and me alone.
She knew no cruelty or guile ;
Her radiant face with kindness shone,
And though she gave to each a smile,
trusting heart was all my own. *
The rapture of those blissful days—
Alas! they are forever fled;
For cold that faithful bosom lies
Within the chambers of the dead.
Yes, death’s hand seized that form divine,
And hush’d the vows of love she gave;
And this poor withered heart of mine,
Is lying with her, in her grave.
For tiie Crusader.
The Fatal Error—An Old Man’s Story.
BY CLARA CLIFTON.
“T would have thee gone,
And yet no father than a wanton’s bird,
That.lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prisoner iii his twisted gyves,
And with a silken thread plucks it back again
So loving jealous of his liberty.”
How the reading of those- lines thrill my soul
even now. The tint intimation Anna ever gave
me of her love came through them. She sat read
ing Romeo <fc Juliet the day before I was to leave
for Europe, when I came up and inquired if she
would grieve at my absence. She seemed just to
have read Juliet’s reply to Romeo and reac ing a
pencil near, marked around the line and gave me
the book.
“Suppose I mark the next line for you, I would
I were thy bird would you give me as loving a
reply as Juliet gave to Romeo?
A shower of curls fell over the book and her
rose-tinted cheeks were hid among the leaves.—
Blessed moment! 1 never dreamed until then that
Anna returned my love, but now I knew it; for
she was not one to deceive by thought or deed.—
Leaning over her I whispered in love’s own tone,
“If I thought you loved me, Auna, and that my
absence would distress you, I would not leave at
all.”
“Then do not go.”
Ah ! how silvery, sweet, seemed her voice then,
how thoseiittle words floating on ray ear, haunt
me now. Happy ! happy days how swiftly ye
glided away !
Beautiful episode of a wasted youth ! If there
had been no after scenes whose memory is engrav
en as with a point of steel I should believe my
love for Anna a blissful dream from which some
rude hand had suddenly awakened me. Would
it had been a dream from which there could have
been no awakening. But these things happened
long ago—long before the hand that guides this
pen become palsied by age. Then I lived to en
joy the pleasures of the world—lived for ray Anna,
and for myself. Now I only crave life that I may
be enabled to do good and to get good, to atone
in some measure for the errors of youth.
How happy, if these sad memories might win
some erring one from paths of sin and reckless
folly.
I knew now that Anna loved me, and offered
myself in due form. She accepted me, too wiii
itigly unless I had been more worthy. were
betrothed, and was I happy ? Aye exquisitely,
supremely so at times. But there were moments
when her trusting love and unbounded confidence
stung me to the 6oul; for I knew that there were
parts of my past life which would make her blush
with shame for her lover. Anna knew nothing
about me before I came to Alabama, and I bad
never told her that I had once—not once, but of
ten reeled through the streets of my native village
a d) unken vagabond whom ail decent people
shunned. That was when I first graduated in my
profession and came into possession of my proper
ty. I had returned to my village home happy
blushing with the honors that had been showered
upon me. Great men took me by the hand and
said, ‘‘l am proud to know you.” What might I
not have been if I had never fallen from manhood.
If no demon had lured me into the gate way of
Hell. That was before the great and glorious
temperance reformation. W here our Temperance
Hails and Division rooms now stand in mv o'd
home, there were then grog-shops, and fashionable
tippling saloons. These pit-falls of Hell greeted
me on every corner, and the weight of my purse
made me an object of attraction to the demons
who inhabited them. I was only human and I
fell. Slowly and by degrees I was drawn into the
net they had prepared for me. In a few months
I had fallen from my high estate, and the first year
that should have been given to my profession was
devoted to pleasures fit only for denizens of the
lower regions. ’lwas not until my money and
credit was entirely gone that a change came. —
Then my companions deserted me. ’Twas then I
regained my lost reason, and found that some es
fort must be made to rise in the world. I made
my resolutions and attempted to follow them. A
friend of my father assisted me in my efl'orts. ‘I
came to Alabama determined to be a man, by
energy and perseverance I won a name in a year
or two, and that enabled me to win Anna. But
could I retain her love when she knew ail the past?
Ah ! I feard not, I dared not tell her. When she
applauded my moral life and expressed such dis
gust for those she thought beneath me, I could
not tell her that I had once been lower than any
she knew, and when she would tell me her little
faults and ask if I could love her with them, I
would be strongly tempted to confess all, but then
the fear of loosing her, prevented me. I thought
I would wait until she was wholly my-own,and
then I would tell her. I once sought her with the
intention of making a confession. But during the
conversation she happen to remark that she had
no confidence in the pledges of reformed drunk-,
ards. She had seen them broken so often that
she would fear to trust one. My jealous love
made me a coward. I went away without telling
PENEIELD, GA., THURSDAY, MARCH 5, 1857. UNIVERSITY OF GEORGIA LIBRARY
her. We were to be married in a week. I call
ed on her one evening, and met, going out the
gate, one of those necessary appendages to overt
village, a gossiping old rnaid. The consciousness
of my wrong course made me afraid of her, for I
hid hoard it whispered that she know everything
about everybody, and so it seemed, for on reaching
the parlor I found Anna in tears. I trembled with
fear, and not without cause. She had heard all
about my former life, and her first question was,
“How could you deceive me so ? If you had onh
told me I could have forgiven it, hut you made
me believe you were so sinless—l cannot forgive
your deception.”
I loved Anna, but her words stung me to mad
ness, and I replied-sharply that, “what I had been
should have no influence with her; she ought to
love me for what I was.”
“But you have deceived me J”
I could not deny it, I could not then ask her
U> forgive me, or rather my pride would not let
me. I felt hurt that she should doubt that my
future life would be a stainless one. I left her, and
without time for reflection, wrote to her saving if
she was not willing to marry me atMie appointed
time, I should withdraw my suit altogether. She
replied kindly, tenderly, that she could not do so.
If I was not willing to protract the engagement
for a year she would not see me again. She could
not marry me unless she knew that I had, indeed,
reformed.
Ah ! how little alike we were; she so noble, so
pure in word and in thought, and I so selfish, so
deceitful. But this very dissimilarity in our char
acters was a bond of union that endeared her to
me—without her I was miserable—life was a
blank—but my pride would not let me bend to
Iter will, I had determined not to renew my suit
without some advances being made by her, and as
I waited day after da? without hearing from or
seeing her, I grew almost mad, and in this’ state
of feeling sought relief in wine. Fatal moment!
my pledge once broken, I had no restraint over
tnv wild passions, so maddened I was, by grief and
shame, that I cared not what became of me.—
Each day I drank deeper and deeper. This con
tinued for three months. At one time I seriously
injured my head by a fall in one of my drunken
sprees, and as I lay suffering from pain, my phv
sician in order to make me forget myself, com
menced telling me of the village news. He knew
nothing of my love for Anna, and carlessly men
tioned that she was to be married soon to Mr.
Black, an honorable man, living in town. That
she had been engaged to one who proved himself
unworthy in some way, and that her parents had
prevailed on her to marry another, I uttered no
exclamation at this. A strange feeling seemed to
take possession of me—’twas neither grief or re
pentance. Would that it had been 1 I recovered.
The first day I was Anna’s bridal eve. She
married, and from that day my whole nature was
changed. I became a fiend. In two months I
married a young and innocent creature who had
loved me from a child. She wa* pure and gentle
as a babe; none but a fiend, as I was, could have
so deceived her. She knew not, until after her
marriage that I still drank, and that I was, when
under the influence of wine, too near crazy to care
for her happiness or any one else. When I was
myself, I treated her kindly, but I could not de
ceive her long. She soon found that I did not
love her. No doubt she often wondered why I
married her. I never told her why it, was. I
hardly knew myself, unless I thought it would en
able mo to persecute Anna, more than when I was
single. Anna’s husband commenced building a
house for his bride. I bought the adjoining lot, and
commenced one for my bride. They were finish
ed and we moved in about-tbe same time. I had
never spoken to Anna or Mr. Black since the day
Anna sent me from her, and I forbade my wife
either visiting or speaking to them. It was an
infinite source of pleasure to ine to witness the evi
dent pain and vexation this caused Anna, to have
a neighbor who despised her, and who lived near
enough to watch from his window all her move
ments. If I had been myself this would not. have
been, hut I was no longer a man. I drank deeply
in secret, and that degraded me to the level of a
brule. I look back upon ray past life and wonder
how it could be possible for mv nature to change
so as to make me delight in inflicting pain on one
I loved as I did Anna. If she opened her gate to
walk in the street, instantly mine was opened, and
I followed her at a distance, never speaking but
taking the greatest delight in following and in
meeting her on all occasions and gazing into her
face. Ifshe and her husband started to church I
followed them going and returning. This course
of conduct continued for a year. So intent was I
in vexing Anna that I scarcely ever thought of my
own wife. She was pining at home from neglect,
and soon the effects began to tell upon her delicate
constitution. In a year after our marriage I was a
widower. My friends thought I ought to break
up house-keeping, but not so thought I; my ob
ject was not yet achieved, I expected to be always
near Anna to vex her with ray presence. That
was the only way in which I could revenge myself
without being brought to account.
Anna’s husband was a noble man. He always
looked at me with pity rather than indignation,
but I deqused him and would have killed him had
I dared. For years I lived thus, always haunting
Anna like a shadow. I had not given up my
habit of Bight drinking. After every one else had
retired T went to a drinking house and spent the
greater part of every night. Anna and Mr. Black
went one evening to visit a neighbor. I followed
them as far as I could and then turned in the di
rection of a grocery—l drank more than usual,
but returned earlier. As I passed Anna’s home
and saw the light burning in her room, and
through the open blinds saw that she was still
away. . The cheerful home-look of every thing
maddened me. I drew near and peeped in upon
the neat and cosy little chamber. What a de
lightfull retreat it was, and how happy I might
have been in such a home with such a wife, if 1
had only been man enough to have confessed all
mvTaulis. Now she dwelt in this happy home
with another, his presence and that of their body
made it a little Eden to her. The thought of this
was maddening—l must have revenge. I stood
near the open window, Anna’s beautiful bed was
near enough for the inusliu curtins to drop out
side. Why should they be so happy and I so
miserable?.. They should at least have some sor
row in their Eden. The next moment I had
drAwn a box of matches from my vest, lighted and
slipped it among the bed curtins, then crept home
into ray own bed, drew my blinds and watched
the result. The light grew every moment lighter,
still no one gave the alarm ; the servant’s room
was in another part of the house. I watched the
flames des roy the window-cimin then the bed and
bed-curtains blazed up. There was an alarm of
fire, then a noise in the yard, the neighbors rush
ed in, I drew farther back in my bed, still watch
ing. Anna and Black had seen’ the flame and
now came running in. with the others. The ser
vants were running about wildly. Where is my
baby ? screamed Anna. In the house with the
nurse was the answer. “Great God save him !”
How that agonizing cry peirced my soul, I had
not thought until now of the child ; degraded as
I was I had a horror of committing murder. I
wonder I did not think of the boy vylien I was gaz
ing into the room. The thought of this alarmed
me so that I could not look out again in some
time. A scream from Anna aroused me. I looked
again, the fire was nearly extinguished, but the room
almost destroyed. Anna sat in the yard weeping
and praying over her insensible child which had
just been rescued from the flames. I heard them
cry, a physician, and knew it still lived—heard
them say that it was in the bed and that the
smoke had strangled it. Before long a wild peirc
ing scream from Anna, assured me that the babe
wassurely dead. About this time someone rtisb
ed into my room, I was cautious enough to feign
sleep. They came to the bed and took hold of me,
my haggnred looks and the strong smell of bran
dy in the room helped me in my deception. Rude
ly pushing me in the bed again they passed out say
ing the beast is drunk, no wonder lie slept sound
ly. The fire was all out and I lay shivering and
cold that summer night, listening hour after hour
to Anna’s cry of distress and the child’s groans of
agony. My quick ear caught every sound, and
once I heard them say she is dying. After this I
grew insensible, the excitement was too much for
me. A slow fever set in, and when the servant
came in the next morning, I was rolling in the
bed in the greatest agony, and perfectly insensi
ble. A physician was summoned, and for six long
weeks I was a sufferer under his care. The first
day I was conscious, I opened my eyes on Anna’s
husband as he stood near the bed preparing my
medicine. I was week, and feebly asked how came
you here? “To attend you,” he replied. “We
heard you were sick and needing attention and
Anna persuaded me to leave her and stay with
von while your attendant slept.” “Havel been’
sick or what is the matter?” “A few weeks ago
you were taken with the fever. ’Twas the night
my house was burned and the physician thinks the
smoke and heat from the house entered your room
and first caused your sickness.”
“Smoke and heat! Great God ! I remember it
all now,” and covering my thee, shook witn terror.
I felt as if he must know all about it. But he did
not suspect me as I afterwards learned. In a few
days I was able to be up and about to ask ques
tions. ’Twas then they told me of the fire, of the
death of Anna’s child, her long illness from which
she had just recovered. He had doubtless left his
sick wife to see that I was attended to properly.—
In the midst of all his misery—to be thus kindly
thought of. It melted my heart. My own recent
sufferings had taught me to think seriously of my
past life. I felt that a just God was punishing me
for my sins. My agony and grief for the past was
so intense I wonder it did not kill me —hut I still
lived, still suffered. As I had once reached the
acme of human enjoyment, so had I sounded
the deepest depths of human misery. No living
thing could give me pleasure. ’Twas the bright
month of June, everything around seemed to re
joice at life. Earth was smiling in beauty —flowers
shed their fragrance on every passing breeze—
birds warbled their sweetest notes—merry children
laughed in glee— omaio, soft saltan strains wore
breathing around me, hut not for me —ah ! no.
not for me, 1 was alone and miserable. None of
this gladness reached rny heart. How I longed
to die, and leave a world where gayety accorded
with no feeling of rny heart. I feared to die by
my own ha <l, yet. I longed for someone to kill
me. 1 begged the servants to do so and they fled
from me in terror. I wandered about the house
alone, and lonely. I could not dare to look upon
Mr. Black—when he Caine in I hid rrw face, re
fusing to look up, until he ceased to come alto,
get her. I was gazing into Ann a’s home one even
mg and saw them kneel together for prayer. I
knelt and prayed* too ; prayed for death. I arose
thinking ihal God would forgive me if I confessed
ail. I thought that Black would certainly kill m>
if I did and that was what I most desired. I drew
a pistol out and loaded it, weak and trembling I
entered Anna’s home—’twas near sunset, he had
drawn an easy chair upon the verandah that she
might have the fresh air. They looked surprised
as I entered the house—Anna seemed frightened
at first, but seeing m v look of distress she looked
np kindly and offered her hand —Black offerin'* a
* o
seat.
No, I said I came that you might revenge your
self, and offering him the pistol, I knelt at Anna’s
feet, saying yes Anna, angel that you are, and
much as I loved you I caused you all this—all
the misery you have ever known. ’Tw; s I who
burned your house, and killed your babe, and 1
wish to die for it. A startled scream from Anna,
and a revengeful look from Black stopped me.—
“Man say you so truly, if so then die,” he raised the
deadly weapon and was about to fire when Anna
sprang between us and threw it down saving—
“My husband : you too, would not be a murderer,
pity the poor wretched man.” She conquered ;
and despite my entreaties to the contrary —I was
not only allowed to live but was carried into the
house, for I was unable to go alone, so much ex
citement brought the fever back. For weeks I
was unable to leave my bed, and all the time I
was attended by her as though I had been her
best friend. I was a perfect child, humble and
penitent. They strove by every means in their
power to make me comfortable and to restore me
to myself. Iw as weaker than usual one day when
Anna brought me a glass of wine—l bursted into
tears and exclaimed, “Oh ! Anna it was this that
has caused all my misery in life, how can you
tempt me wi>h ihat. which first made me lose you,
and then changed me to a fiend, to torment you, to
rob you of your richest treasure ? Throw it out, and
forgive me ot all the past, and the remainder of my
poor wasted life shall be devoted to your happi
ness, I will never again touch the accursed stuff.”
Anna threw it out the window and assured me
again and again that I was forgiven. As soon as
I was able I went to my own home, hut not until
they had left me alone in my own room and I had
looked into a mirror did I learn that I was as much
changed outwardly as inwardly. I had not seen
myself since the fire, and was astonished at the
pale, haggard face that met my gaze. My glassy
black hair was white as that of an old man—
changed in that short time. Before that mirror I
vowed to live again and to live to some purpose.—
Alas! how humiliating the thought that I had
left only the winter of life for good deeds. But I
prayed for length of days, they were given, and I
bless'God, that, if my youth was unblessed and
wasted the winter is calm and serene. God and
Anna iiave forgiven me and I am as happy in my
situation as one can he. Now lain an old man, the
shadow are lengthening around me. Slowly, vet
surely, the sand in the hour glass are running out.
The best days are gone, and with them the rosy
dreams and fresh hopes of youth, but one * bright
star still shines on my way, the only one I ever
prized. True its brightest ravs fall upon another,
but I was unworthy them, and am content that
the lesser light, should, fall upon my way. A lit
tie frame hangs upon rny wall, (enclosing a draw
ing of Anna’s.) representing Calvary and the Gross,
beneath it, fairy fingers (those that I once toyed
with and called my own) have written the words,
“Come unto me all ye weary and heavy laden and
I will give ydu rest.”
Goii bless you angel Anna, I have looked upon
the Cross, have bowed beneath it, and found peace,
peace, at last! a heavenly guest ever abides with
me. May these memories of the past lead other
erring ones to the Cross, and may they be blessed
as I was.
Pine Grove, Feb. 9, 1857.
Tears. —Robert Hall considered the word “tears”
surpassingly beautiful. It belongs to the Saxon
family he so dearly loved. The tear itself often
glows like a.diamond on the cheek where the rose
and lily blend. Its moral beauty, as a perfect
daguerre of compassion and benevolence, is the
greater. * * * There are tears of gratitude,
joy. There are tears of penitence. Angels cele
brate them with their heavenly harps.
Slopping Papers. —An exchange says: When
a man gets mad and stops his paper, he always
borrows the next number of his neighbor, to see
if the withdrawal of his patronage hasn’t killed
the editor and dressed the columns in mourning.
This grows out of the fact that none try to show
their spite in this way, but the kind of people who
imagine that the world rests on their shoulders,”
f TERMS;
’ $1 in advance; or, $2 at the end of the year.
) *
v PK INTER.
VOL. XXIII.-KCMBER 10.
Tiie late Mrs. Wirt;
llow she reclaimed her husband from inlcmpemnce.
We yesterday recorded the death of Mrs. Wirt,
the wife ot the late ami distinguished and eloquent
William Wirt, whose commanding abilities and
great learning gave him an honorable position
among the greatest men our country ever produced.
There is an anecdote related of the early life of
this couple, which is in itself very beautiful, and
exhibits in a pleasing light one of the noblest traits
of a true woman. In his youth Wirt was addict
ed to intemperance and passed whole days and
nights in the society of the degraded. Ilis pas
sion for drink was constant, and the remonstrance
• 4 friends as well as promptings of a high and gen
erous naiure, were disregarded. He had offered
himself to this lade, but. she was forced to reject
bis uit because of his intemperance. This refusal,
no doubt, served only to increase tiie intensitv of
his appetite, and lm .-• itinued to sink in the scale
of humanity without making one effort to regain
his manhood, until one day, becoming grossly in
toxicated, he laid down bv the road-side and fell
asleep. The sun burning hot, and its scorching
rays fell upon his up turned face. The object of
Wirt’s affections happened to pass by, observed
his precarious situation, in view of the hot sun
falling so directly upon him, and actuated by a
sympathy toi the unfortunate—to which woman’s
heart is always so keenly and truly alive ; she
alighted from her carriage and placed her handker
chief over his face to protect him from the hot sun.
It may be remarked, that when she alighted she
lid not recognize him, so altered and distorted
were his features. She drove on, and it was sev
eral hours ere Wirt awoke. When be did so,
what was his astonishment at beholding the hand*
kerchief of a lady placed over his face, and divin
ingjts object, picked it up and observed, neatly
worked in one corner, the initials of his heart’s idol.
Remorse and contrition seized him. Ho reform
ed, and became once more an honored member of
society. Afterwards they were married, and en
joyed long years of peace and happiness in the af
fection and society of each other.— Albany States
man.
“You Love me so Dearly!
There are times when we learn as much from
our children as they learn from us. There is
■ something in the artless simplicity of childhood
that proves stronger than the careworn severity of
mature years.
I was sitting on the piazza at evening, musing
too doubtfully upon the future, and letting the
clouds of care darken the beauty of a brilliant sun
set. I will not say what burden weighed upon
the spirit, nor what ‘doubt has risen as to the
course of divine providence.
Just then little feet were heard and my child
ran gayly to my extended arms. Catching the
playful spirit of my girl, I seized her in my hands
and held her over railings as if to let her fall. As
tonished at her want of tear, I asked, “What, not
afraid ? Why don’t you cry ? Won’t I let you
fall.” “iVo papa, you love me so dearly /” was
the instant reply.
I cannot tell what instruction distilled like cor
dial through my soul. The words of perfect con
fidence lingered in my ears and entered my heart.
It is impossible that a father’s love should let fall
the child who lies smiling in his arms. How then
can the Heavenly Father let fall the children who
trust in him. Every doubt is rebuked, and every
dark and foreboding put to the blush, by the les
son which a child has uttered. Are we not the
sons of God ? And is our future destiny too sub
lime for comprehension, so it doth not yet appear
what we shall be; and still shall we fear to lie
passive in our father’s arms? —Does he not love us
too dearly to let us fall ? If he did not refuse the
greatest boon, but “delivered Him up for us all,”
will he not also freely give us all things? With
an adequate idea of our relations to God as his
adopted ones, can we justify one doubt, can we
harbor one fear as to the future? If God is our
fa.her does he not love us too dearly to let any
evil befall us ? Will he not make all things work
together for our good ?— N. Y. Observer.
“Once.”
“Did you ever attend a theatre ?” said a young
man to a blue-eyed maiden, who bung on his arm
as they promenaded the streets of New York, one
ini!d evening in October. The gin’s cheek crim
soned, as she answered the interrogatory in the
negative, and added ;
“My mother lias taught me from childhood that
it is wrong to attend such places.”
“But your mother formed, perhaps improper
prejudices, from exaggerated accounts given by
others ; for I have often heard her say she never
attended one in her life.”
He spoke eloquently of the drama, comedy and
tragedy, and dwelt with pathos on the important
lessons there to be learned of human nature.
“Go with me once,” he said, “and judge for your
self.” J
Persuasion and curiosity triumphed over ma
ternal precept and example, as she hesitatingly re
plied :
“I’ll go but once.”
She went, and in that theatre a charm came
over her like that which the serpent sent forth
from bis dovelike eye. She went again, and again,
and from that house of mirth and laughter she
was led to one, from the portals of which she nev
er returned.
jfStTMnn doubles all the evils of his fate by
pondering over them ; a scratch becomes a wound,
a slight an injury, a jest an insult, a small peril a
great danger, and a slight sickness often ends in
death by brooding apprehensions.
That high sufiering which we dread,
A higher joy discloses ;
Men saw the thorns on Jesus’ brow r ,
But angels saw the roses#
ssrWinchell tells a story of a dog which un
dertook to jump across a well in two jumps.—
There are a great many people just like that dog
—folks who think they can jump across a well in
two jumps. They that undertake it usually “bring
up apd down iu the water,”