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J. H. SEALS, ) ,
iND > Editors.
L. L. VEAZEY, )
NEW SERIES, VOL. 11.
TUPIiRAM CMAIH
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The Awakening Spring,
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
A softness in the zephyr,
A sweet music in its tone,
All unlike the ceaseless sorrow
Os its dreary winter moan.
A law laughter ’mong the alders,
Where the streamlet steals along
And loosed from its icy fetters,
Wakes again its voice of song.
Fleecy clouds in the blue ether,
Floating slowly or at rest,
Seeming isles of pearl and jasper
On a fairy ocean’s breast.
Light and shade each other chasing,
Like birds on airy wing,
And a soft gray haze at morning;
These are heralds of the Spring.
Then some evening still and balmy—
Startling all the listening air—
The Thrush’s cherry warbling
ltises wildly sweet and clear.
Then blithely forth you wander
To some sweet secluded lea,
Where last Summer’s latest sunshine
Lingered long and tenderly.
Or some hill-side, where the shadows
Os the pines like spectres play,
And there, with pleased surprise you find
That Spring has crossed your way;
Leaving her light, fragrant foot-prints
In the violets wild and blue,
Peering from amid the mosses,
Shrining each a gem of dew.
Soon Earth, so long a mourner,
Gives back the smile of Spring,
And the freshly budding woodlands
With her pleasant voices ring.
And her golden hair is waving
In the long, bright Jasmine wreathes,
Around whose floating garlands
The soul of fragrance breathes.
Her wand of radiant sunshine
She waves o’er earth and skies,
And winter’s spell is broken,
And forms of beauty rise.
In the meadow, graceful lillies
Droop their bells of pearly white,
Where softly rock the fairies
In the breezy moon-lit night.
And bowed by feathery tassels,
The willow droopeth low,
While the Hawthorn in the valley
Is a bank of fragrant snow.
And soon, enthroned in beauty,
Spring reigns acknowledged queen,
And the sunbeams chase the shadows
Far into the forest green.
Even thus, oh! sunlight golden,
Chase the shadows from uiy heart,
Voices of awakened Spring time,
Bid tny spirit’s gloom depart,
Thomasville, Ga,
[From tlie Golden Legacy.]
The Ladies’ Benevolent Society.
“On charitable lists—those trumps which told
The public ear who h id in secret done
The poor a benefit, and half the aims
They told of, took themselvei to keep them sounding,
lie blazed his name.” [Pollock.
“They do sty,” said Miss Pilkins to her next
neighbor, at a meeting of the Ladies’ Benevolent
Society, a few months after Melville Thornton’s
marriage; “they do say that Miss Thornton is a
dreadful stuck-up thing.”
“Yes,” replied the other, “and hadn’t a cent to
her back neither, when she came there. Such
people always do hold their heads higher’n any
body else, if they happen to get a little money. —
For my part, I wouldn’t take no notice of her if
she should come near ra *. I’d let her know that
some folks was as good as others,” and Miss Tomp
kins gave her head a most significant toss.
•‘Hadn’t a cent!” repeated Miss Pilkins, with
surprise; “why, what was that story about her
rich legacy ?”
“Oh, la ! I know all about that,” Miss ‘Pomp
kins replied, with a consequential air: “’twas just
nothing at all ”
“Do tell us about it,” cried several ladies, who
had gathered around the speakers to hear the
news.
“Why, you see, I got Dolly Martin her place
there with the old housekeeper, a purpose, so I
could know something that’s going on. So when
Mr. Thornton brought his wife home, I says to her.
‘Dolly, keep your eyes and ears open,’ and she
did. Well, the very first day after Miss Thorn
ton had been round and seen all the fine things
he bought for her. I s’pose she fell kind o’shamed,
so she brings a nice little bundle and gives it to
him, telling him that’s her legacy, Dolly says he
looked real pleased when he first opened it, and
she could see through the key hole something shin
ing just like gold, but pretty soon he said some
thing to Miss Thornton that made her cry, and
then he got up and put it on the mantle shelf,
Dolly didn’t dare toctiy any longer, for fear they
would come out and catch her, but she went in
afterwards to see what it was.”
“Well, what was it?—what was it ?” cried the
eager listeners, as Miss Thompkins suddenly stop
ped.
“I would call this meeting to order,” said the
president, whose reproving glance had silenced the
loquacions spinster; “we have several items of
business to be disposed of, which may as well be
done now. I should like to know the opinion of
the ladies as to the appropriation of our present
funds, and also the object to which we will devote
our labors during the coming year. We have in
the treasury about seventy-five dollars, which,
rightly used, may do much to advance the cause
we profess to love. The meeting is open for dis
cussion on this point.”
“I hear,” said Mrs. Robinson, the deacon’s wife,
‘that we have many fatni ics in town who, fiom
sickness, hard times, and other causes, are sulfer
ing, in some cases at least, for the necessaries of
life. I think that sum, even doubled, or trebled,
would be well applied in relieving their wants.”
“This is a matter in which we are all equally
interested,” remarked the president, blandly,; ‘we
hope to hear from each of you.”
‘Tt’s my decided opinion,” said Mrs. Worm
wood, “that in a thriving place like this, where
work is plenty, there is no excuse for poverty like
what Mrs. Robinson speaks of. For my part, Igo
against encouraging idleness.”
“I thought we were at work for the poor heath
en,” suggested Miss Pitkins; “I’m sure I shouldn’t
have made so much effort to attend these meet
ings, if I hadn’t supposed so.”
“A box of clothing for the missionaries, I should
like best,” added Miss Tompkins.
“There seems to he such a division of opinion
among you,” said the chair, “ that I will ven
ture to make a suggestion. I see our estimable
pastor coming ; why not refer the whole matter to
him ? Ilis judgment must surely be better than
ours, for his position gives him a comprehensive
view of both home and foreign wants.”
This happy expedient was well received, and
Rev. Mr. Flint, as he appeared, was at once chosen
their arbiter. Gray hairs and wrinkled brow, so
oft the type of wisdom,did but render more con
spicuous and revolting the hard, restless eye, the
sinister mouth, and the whole contour of selfishness
which bespoke the inner nature of this professed
man of God. Dollars and cents were the gauge
of men’s souls in his estimation—money the only
evidence of worth ! Alas! that among the holy
brotherhood of God’s ministering servants, even
one such should be found —one whose sheep’s
clothing could not conceal the wolf beneath. All
honor would we render to that noble class of self
denying men, who shrink not from the call of their
Master, though earthly reward pertain not to his
service. But when some ministerial Judas turns
the house of God into a temple of money chang
ers, sharp indeed should he the scourge which
should drive him thence.
Naturally enough, the people under Itev. Mr.
Hint’s charge, with here and there a nobe excep
tion, had partaken somewhat of his nature. Ex
ternal religious forms were most scrupulously ob
served, hut the gentle, peacahle fruits of the spirit
were fearfully wanting.
But while we are thus digressing, eager faces
are looking to the pastor for his decision. Ilis
worthy co-adjutor, the very devoted president, is
“sure his extensive knowledge and sound judg
ment will render it easy for him to point out at
once the fittest object for their benevolence.”
Rolling his tongue in the peculiar manner he
was wont to do when pleased, he “thanked the
President for her compliment, and would only say,
that he considered the ladies present fully compe
tent to decide their own case.”
“Do you not think,” asked Mrs. Robinson, “that
we should take care of the poor among us, before
we send our charities abroad ?”
“Not aiways,” replied Mr. Flint; “there is much
danger in helping our poor neighbors, lest we learn
them to depend on us, instead of trying to help
themselves.”
“That’s just vrhat I said*” chimed in Mrs.
Wormwood ; “folks haint any business to be poor
herq, where they caifget work.”
PENFIELD, GA., THURSDAY, MARCH 19, 1857 , UNIVERSITY OF GEORGIA LIBRARY
“Work is plenty, to be sure,” said Miss Priscil
la Page, with a significant glance at the last
speaker; “pily the pay wasn’t plenty, too.”
“I would beg the ladies’ attention to the subject
under discussion,” remarked the chair; “Mr. Flint
has not yet given his opinion, which I hope he will
do freely.”
“As you have called upon me quite unexpected
ly, ladies, to advise you in this matter,” said Mr.
Flint, rising very deliberately, it would he natural
for me to mention the subject wh*cb, just at thR
time, interests me most. Our society —and I say
it without boasting—has become one of the larg
est, wealthiest, and most influential in the State.
It become;, us, therefore, to send a good name
abroad, by the liberality with which we enter into
the spirit of tire great reforms of the day. Among
these reforms, none seem to me so important as a
union of the two continents, in one great ‘Society
f- r evangelizing the world.’ Such a society, you
know, exists, and in its councils are found some of
the greatest men of the age. One hundred dol
lars would constitute your pastor a life director in
this society, and give you a name and influence in
its councils. I merely mention this subject for
your consideration, as we are apt to forget the du
ties we owe the world, and confine ourselves to a
narrow circle of benevolence.
Here Mr. Flint took his seat, with an air of pro
found humility.
“You have heard the very excellent remarks of
our pastor,” said the president; “I hope it will en
large our views of duly. Will you take any ac
tion on the subject ?”
“I move,” said Mrs. Wormwood, “that we con
tribute one hundred dollars to this great object
Mr. Flint has explained to us, to constitute him a
life-director.”
The motion was seconded, and carried without
any opposition, save that expressed by indignant
looks and motionless hands.
“Really, ladies,” said Mr. Flint, again rising,
“your liberality is praisworthy. In the name and
behalf of the noble society you have honored bv
your generous vote, I tender you my sincere thank-'.
Your testimony of respect for myself will receive a
more public acknowledgment.”
“Yes,” muttered Miss Priscilla, in an under
tone, “I Vpose it will be trumpeted all over crea
tion, how very benevolent we are, while these poor
folks around us are dying from neglect.”
“Oh, Miss Tompkins,” whispered a young lady.
“I am dying to know what that legacy was of
Mrs. Thornton’s, do tell me now, won’t you?”
“Oh yes, yes, tell us all now,” said another, as
a knot of ladies gathered around her.
“Oh, ’twas nothing but just a little brass frame,
with a verse from the Bible in it, made of brass
letters,” replied Mios Tompkins, contemptuously.
“Well, that was mean j” “Who ever heard
anything like it ?” “What impudence !” “I don’t
wonder he was angry!”—these and many other
similar expressions burst from the indignant la
die?, as Miss Tompkins concluded her informa
tion.
“One side of a story is good till Pother’s told,”
cried Miss Priscilla, who had heard the whole
thing; “and as this is a benevolent society, got
up for the benefit of our fellow creatures, it wouldn’t
do no harm to tell the t’other side right here, let
it hit where it will.”
“Oh, by all means, let’s have your story, Miss
Priscilla,” was the universal exclamitiorv, amid
cries of “order” from the president.
“I don’t wai t to make no disorder,” said she,
turning to the president; “hut if they’ll all listen
quietly, I’ll tell the story as I heard it; and may
be some of you’ll find coats to fit: if you do, why
put ’em on, that’s ail.”
By this time eyes and ears were all open ; ft r
Miss Priscilla, an odd, quaint little body, had a
way of saying things that was perfectly irresistible
to all but the immediate subjects of tier’ sarcastic
tongue.
“Well,” said she, “asyou all seem to be listen
ing, I’ll begin with what I saw myself. I didn’t
get no Dolly Martins to peep through the key
hole for me, ’cause, you se“, news that conies that
way, lias to be made all over after it squeezes
through ; and l don’t like mine second hand, no
how. So, as I was saying, I’ll begin with what I
saw ; and if any on you want to know what true
benevolence is, you’ll find out, I guess, before I get
through. Well, a couple o’ mouths ago, [ should
think, as I was coming home from my sister Sal
ly’s, over the fields, I took a notion to go down
the lane where old Miss Fletcher lives, who’s been
sick'y all along, you know, and so l went right in
to see her without knocking. W hen I got inside
the door, I stood stock still in perfect wonder; for
there was her old room, fixed up as nice as could
be —real white curtains and bed spreads—a piece
of carpet on the floor, and clean, nice dishes on
her stand. And then the old lady herself looked
so comfortable in her white night cap and gown,
I thought some fairy must have been there and
done it all. But right close beside her bed sat one
of the sweetest looking ladies you ever seen ; they
didn’t neither of ’em see me, so I kept still, and
the lady read away jn the Bible; and then she
kneeled down and prayed —Oh, so beautifully ! I
didn’t wonder a bit that the tears trickled down
the sick woman’s cheek, for I couldn’t keep from
crying myself.
When she’d done, I slipped out as still as I
went in, for I felt like an intruder there ; and on
my way home who should I meet but Polly Bem
is, who was bedrid for I don’t know how long.—
‘What on earth has set you on your feet again,
Polly 1’ says I. ‘I never was so amazed in all
my life.’ ‘Well you may be,’ says Polly, says
she, for I’m amazed at myself; but come into my
house, and I’ll tell you all about it.’ When we
got in and sot down —‘There, Priscilla,’ says she,
‘did you ever see a nicer room —bran-new sto/e,
and wood enough in the cellar to burn all winter
— this new rocking-chair, aufflhat nice bit of car
pel ; and what’s better’n all, here am I, able to
walk about and earn tny own living! Who do
you think has done all this? ‘I guess,’ said I,
‘may be the Benevolent Society’s been helping on
ye.’ ‘No, not a bit of it,’ says she; ‘I might a’
been lying on that bed now for all they’d a’ done
forme; ‘tain’t their kind of benevolence to help
such as me.’ ‘Well, do tell me who it was,’ said
I, growing impatient.’ ‘’Twan’t nobodv more
nor less than Squire Thoi iithon’s new wife,’ savs
Polly 7 , says sire. ‘She found out how f was, and
then she went and got something to cure me ; and
every day she come here herself to see how I got
along, and brought me ad theso things, and when
I got better, she gave me sewing to do, so as i
should feel independent, she said.’ L never was
so beat in all my life, and I told Polly so, ‘Oh.
well,’ says Polly, says she, ‘if you’d known half
she’s done among the poor folks here, you’d be as
tonished, but she has such a still wav with her,
nobody but she helps knows anything about
it.’ Just that minute somebody knocked at the
door, and in walked the very lady l saw at Miss
Fletcher’s ‘Good morning, Miss Betnis,’ said she,
‘how do you find yourself to-day?’ ‘Nicely—
many thanks to you, Miss Thornton,’ said Polly.
‘Oh, no, not to tne are your thanks due,’ said tlie
lady, with a sweet smile, ‘but to Him who has
restored your health.’ And then she sat down
and talked like a saint to us both. I’d heard this
very story you’ve been telling about her, Miss
Tompkins, and I couldn’t hardly believe my eyes
and ears when I saw her; but I ineaut to find
out the truth about it ; so when she went away, I
jest followed her out, and she asked me to walk
home with her. I told her*l should like to, only
for one thing. ‘And what is that, pray ?’ said she.
‘To see the curious legacy I’ve heard so much
about,’ said I; ‘I s’pose you’d have no objections
to show it to me.’ ‘You mean my mother’s lega
cy, I suppose,’ said she ; ‘I don’t know what you
have heard about it; but come with me, and I
shall be most happy to show it to you.’ And
then, as we walked along, she told me what a good
pious mother she had, —how she tried to impress
upon her children’s minds the great object for
which they should live —that the world might be
better for their having lived in i‘. She wan’t on
mite stuck up, Miss Pitkins, ’cause when we got
to iier house, she axed me light into her grand
parlor, and told me to sit right down in the best
seat there was.
I felt dreadful shamed when Mr. Thornton corne
into tlie room, and she told him what I’d come
for; but lie looked teal p'eased. ‘That legacy,
Miss Priscilla,’ said he, ‘is worth coming miles to
see. If my wife had brought millions of gold to
me, I should not have prized it as I do this little
talisman, which has made so many hearts leap for
joy, and changed so many abodes of misery into
happy homes. The world has but few such gems,
Miss Priscilla,’ said he, as he took down from tlie
mantel shelf a small frame of solid gold, and hand
ed it to me, ‘and fewer stiil are they whose, lives
are guided by these words, which shall usher in
the earth’s millennium.’ I didn’t know what to
say, he talked so beautiful ; but I made up my
mind that that legacy was goin’ to do more for
poor people round here than all our benevolent so
cieties together.”
“But you haven’t told us what the legacy was
yet,” said several.
“I told you that Mr. Thornton showed .me a
frame of solid gold :—well, in this frame were
these words, all written in solid gold, too, —I wisdi
you would ail attend, ’cause I’m afraid our gold
en rules have been made of lead, or somethin’
wors“, —this was it: “ Whatsoever ye would that
others should do unto you , do ye even so to them..”
Did you ever hear those words before, Mr. Fiint'?”
asked the spinster, with a mischievous look.
‘You are very facetious, Mis Page,” replied he,
“I presume we have them g-ave i on all our
hearts.”
“When you voted, just now, to let our poor
folks suffer and die in their poverty, and send
such a lot of money to a rich society, just to buy
us a great name, I didn’t see how we could recon
cile it with such a rule,” said Miss Priscilla.
“Oil, fie! for shame, Miss Priscilla!” exclaim
ed several voices, while the sanctimonious presi
dent looked with holy horror upon the audacious
speaker.
“\ ou take a very narrow, view, you must allow
me to say, Miss Priscilla, of the vast system of be
nevolence that rule enjoins,” said Mr. Flint, with
feeling; “but we pardon the allusion in consider
ation of your ignorance of these matters. Shall
we eloserthis meeting?” ho continued, addressing
the president,
What but the cold, solemn mockery, to Him
whose bosom glows with sympathetic love for the
suffering child of poverty, were the words of this
world hardened, money-loving, professed disciple,
as he besought a blessing upon their benevolent
operations.
Would that from imagination only this picture
were drawn, but, alas ! for human nature, even
here truth is stranger than fiction.
—-4 • ♦- •
“The Lost Soul.” —Among the birds of Peru
is one known as the alma perdida , or lost soul,
tor tlie following reason :
“An Indian girl, while colleciing balsam, left
her child alone in the forest, and on her return to
the place where she had left it, she could not find
it. Calling aloud its name, the only reply she re
ceived was the singularly mournful note of this
bird, which from that time was denominated “the
lost soul.” The legend is beautiful, and might
have been invented far from the land of the Incas,
in the vales of Hellas. The poetical reader will
recollect that a similar idea is developed in llie
closing part of “The Bride of Abydos,” the most
charming of all the lesser works of Byron. The
soul of Selim is represented as inhabiting the body
of a bird, and that bird’s song is a “magic melody,”
uttering “Zuleika’s name.” The idea, however,
is not original with Byron, being old as the hills,
which are a little older than the valleys, and com
mon to many countries. The Peruvian legend is
the best of all those that have been founded upon
it.”
iK#"“Mothcr, T should not be surprised if our
Susan got choked some day.” “Why, my son ?”
“Because her beau twisted his arm around her
neck the other night, and if she had not kissed
him be would have strangled her; besides, moth
er, he sits by her, and whispers to her, and bugs
her.” “Why, Edward. —Susan does not suffer
this, does she ?” “Suffer that —golly ! she loves
it.” ‘ ; v
Man and his Master.
JUV JOHN li. GOUGH.
There is no power on earth that will make a
man a fiend like (he power of drink. One circum
stance in my own reminiscences, I will give (o von.
I was asked by an individual to go and see the
hardest case then in town. I said “I have no right
to go and see him : he will say to me, ‘Who sent
v-'U to me; who told you I was a drunkard ?
You mind your business, and I will mind mine;
you wait till you are sent for; anil when I want
you, Iwi 1 send for you.’ I have no right,” I said
‘to go to him.” “Well,” said he, “he is a hard
case; he beat adaugh'er of his, fourteen years of
age, with a shoemaker’s strap, so that she will car
ry tlie muk to the grave.’’ Said I, “lie’s a brute.”
“His wife is very ili now whh the fever, and the
doctor says he thinks she cannot get over it; the
man has not been drinkmg for some days, and if
you can get at him now, 1 think you might do
him good.” I thought 1 would go. I knocked
at the door; he came to open it. IP had been
to one'or two of our meetings. The moment he
saw me he knew me. Said he, “Mr. Gough, I
I beiieve?”’ “Yos, that is my name ; would you
be good enough to give me a glass of water, if
von please?” “Certainly,” said he; “come in.”
Si t got in. I sat on one, side of the tab e, an i
he sal on the other. There were, two children in
tlie room, playing together, and a door halfway
open, that led into the room where the wife was
id. I sat and talked with him ab ut everything
I could think of, but the subject; It a iked of trade,
and crops, and railroads, and money matters ; and
then 1 got on to the puhiic-l louses, and then drink
ing, and he headed me oil'again. I look ‘d, and
I thought I saw a malicious twinkle in his eve, a
mueh as to say, ‘ Young man, you are not up to
your business \et.” I was about to give it up:
hut I think proviuentiady I saw the children. I
said to him, “Yo.i’v • g.utwo Fright-looking child
reu lewe, s ; r.” “O ! yes. yes, bright littl- Hungs!”
Said I, “You love vour children, don’t- you ?”
“13!es- t e children, to be sure I love them.” Said
I, ‘W ouldn’t you do anything to benefit your
children ?” He looked at me as if he thought
something else was coining after that. “Well, to
be sure, sir,” said he, “a man ought to do every
thing to bemfit. his children.” Then I stood ujl*
so that I might get out of tlie door as speedily as
possible, and said, “Don’t be angry with me; I
am going to ask you a plain and simple question ;
you know who I am, therefore you won’t be angry.
Suppose y'ui never used any more intoxicating li
quor, don’t you think vour children would be bet
ter off ?” “Well, well,” said he, “you have got
me this time.” Said I. “You have got a good
wife, haven’t you ?” “Yes, sir, as good a woman
as ever a man had ft >r a wife. 4 ’ “And you love
your wife?” ‘To be sure Ido ; it is natural that
a man should love his wife.” “And you wou'd do
anything you could to please your wife ?’’ “Well,
I ought to.” “Suppose you were to sign a tem
perance pledge, would that pleas tier ?” “By
thunder, I rather think it would; I could not do
a thing that would please my wife like that. If I
vv s to put my name down there, why, the old wo
man would be up and about her business in two
weeks, sick as she is.” Said I, “Then you will do
it?” “Yes, I guess I will do it.” And he at
once opened a closet, took out a pen and ink, and-
I spread out the pledge, and he wrote his name.—
The children had been listening with eyes, ears,
and mouths wide open, while we were talking
about temperance. They knew what a drunken
father was; they knew what the principle of ab
stinence would do for him; and when he had
signed, one said to the other, “Father has signed
the pledge 1” “O! my!” said the other; “now I’ll
go and tell my mother;” and away she ran into
the other room. But the mother had heard of it;
and l listened to her calling. “Luke! Luke!
come in here a moment.” Said he, “Come in here
along with me; come in and sec my wife.” I
went in and stood by her bed-side. The face was
ghastly pale, the eye large, and sunk deep in her
socket; and with her long, thin, and bony fingers,
she grasped my hand, and with the other took the
hand of her husband, and began to tell me what a
good husband she had. “Luke,” said she, “is a
kind husband and a good father ; he takes care of
the children, and is very kind to them; but the
drink, O! the drink makes terrible difficulty.”—
That difficulty 1 Gd only, and the crushed wife
of the intemperate man know anything about it.
The man shook like a leaf; he snatched the hand
from the grasp of his wife, tore down her night
dress from her shoulder, and said, “Look at that! ’
and ou the white thin neck, close to the shoulder,
was a blue mark. Said he “Look at that;” and
when I saw the mark of a bruise I felt my flesh
creep. Said lie, “Look a* that, sir !” “I did it
three days before she was taken down upon the
bed ; and she has t< Id you that she lias a good
husband. Am I ? Am Ia good husband to her?
God Almighty forgive uuW” and he bowed over
that woman, and wept like a child, gripped the
bed clothes in bis hands, and hid his face in them.
And she laid her thin hand upi n his head, and
said, ‘ Don’t cry, Luke ; don’t, please don’t ; you
wouldn’t have struck me if it had not been for the’
driftk. Mr. Gough, don’t believe him ; he is as
good a man as ever lived. Don’t cry, Luke !”
The Mother's Influence. —The solid rock, which
turns the edge of the chisel, bears, forever, the im
press of the leaf and the acorn, received long, long
since, ere it had become hardened by time and the
elements. If we trace back to its fountain, the
mighty torrent which fertilizes the land with its
copious streams, or sweeps over it with a devas
tating flood, we. shall find it dripping in crystal
drops, from some mossy crevice, among the distant
hills; so, too, tire gentle feelings and affections that
enrich and adorn the heart, and the mighty pas
sions that sweep away all the barriers of the soul,
and desolate society, may have sprung up in *the
infant bosom, in the shelled re irement of home.—
“I should have been an atheist,” said John Ran
dojph, “if it had not been for one recollection, and
that was the memory of the time, when my depart
ed mother used to take mv hands in hers, and
caused me, on my knees, to say, “Our Father which
4ft ill Heaven T’
C TERMS:
1 $1 in advance; or, $2 at the end of ttie year*
J JAMES T. BEAIN,
A PRINTER. ~,
YOL. XXIII.-IUMBER 12.
The Ball Room.
Stop, mother 1 Why deck thy child thus for
the altar of fashion ? Why send that daughter,
as yet untainted by the affection and fo)iy of the
world, to join with those who, having entered the
■ >uter circle of the whirlpool of fashion, are fast hast
ening on, on, to destruction. Q think of tbat im
mortal soul, whose destiny God has committed to
von ! Do you think she will be better prepared
for the duties of life, or be fitted for the society of
angels in heaven, after having been trained for the
hall room ; after having learned to love the so
called pleasures of the giddy dance ? No, there is
a higher destiny for that undying spirit, than to be
fhus decked, like the gaudy butterfly, to while the
midnight houis away. Better far that God had
not given yon so many talents, than that you
should burv them tlgts forever. Let us use the in
huence that God has given us, for the good of im
mortal souls in following our Messed M ster. Let
us sit at hi- feet, clothed in the garments of humil
ity. and “learn of him who was meek and lowly of
heart.”
I have stood ia the festive throng, when the mer
ry laugh went round, and my cheek flushed by ex
citement, and I for a time thought I was happy ;
hut when the music was hushed, and that excite
ment was over, O how mv heart has aspired for
.something better and holier than these fleeting
joys. I have siood apart from the thoughtless
throng, and gazed with surprise on mothers lead
ing their little children atrial associations and scene*
hke these, and behold with pain, men whose hair,
-ilvered o’er with the frost of time, told that soon
they would be called t>- j in another assembly be
♦"•uid the grave.
fell me, mv d\ ing hue ~) * add you have God
• •all you from the. see <•*- the I'•alt room to the
awful judgment ? T> o ■■■••. mo)her can you kneel
in prayer, atid askt’ e L *rd <o bless you in sending
ihai little one forth to j •••) m company’ with the
[•raverless, the di*-ip.a ed ? No, she’ needs the
prayers of a mother, tin.-..earnest watch-care of that
best of earthly friend-, a faithful mother to guide
her lent in the paths of religion and virtue.— The
Morning Star.
was the first cold storm of this winter,
the beginning of that bitter snap ihnt fastened on
us, hke the bite of a tiper; just before New Year’s.
I was walking hurriedly up Chatham st., in the
edge of the evening. On an errand that called me
tor the only time within a year into that quarter
of the city. As I passed one of the many saloons,
shows, theatres, and temples of so-called pleasure
with which that locality abounds, a rough door
keeper was pushing a beggar woman out of the
porch into the street and the storm. She made no
other resistance than to turn a despairing look
upon him as he thrust her along by the shoulder,
and to beg that she might stand out of the cold
awhile, lor she was almost perished. He hurried
her on, and the words that caught my ear, as they
fell from her skinny lips and hissed through the
wind and snow, were these,
“Well, maybe you’ll want to get into heaven,
and God will put you out of that.”
They cut me to the heart. Many a time had I
turned a deaf ear to tlie cry for mercy, and if I
had never turned a poor creature out of doors when
she wanted shelter from the blast of winter I had
done worse, perhaps, in leaving many a wretch to
peri di whom I might have sought and saved. And
the time will come, as sure as these days and years
are passing, the time will come when I shall stand
at the door of Heaven, and, poorer than this starved
beggar, I shall ask to be taken in. I wonder if
God will turn me out in that day ! Then came to
me those sweet words of Jesus, that fell from his
lips when he sat on Judea’s hill, and the disciples
gathered at his feet, “Blessed are the merciful, for
they shall obtain mercy.” Down through eight
een centuries they have come to me, and they sing
at my heart’s door to-day with the music of heaven
in I heir silvery tones, and whene’er a cup of cold
water, or a loaf, or a piece of gold is mercy, if it is
mine, it shall be given in the namA of Him who
said, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of
the least of these, ye have done it unto me.”
Immortality. —How beautiful the following
gem from the pen of Prentice, and how happy the
heart that can see these beauties as he portrays
them :—“Why is it that the rainbow and the cloud
come over us with a beauty that is not of,earth,
and then pass away, and leave us to muse on their
faded loveliness ? Why is it that the stars, which
hold their nightly festival around the midnight
throne, are placed above th reach of our limited
faculties, forever mocking us with their unap
proachable glory ? And why is it, that bright
forms of human beauty are presented to our view,
and then taken from us, leaving the thousand
streams of affection to flow back in Alpine torrent*
upon our heart ? VVe are born for a higher des
tiny than that of ear h. There is a realm where
the rainbow never fades, where the stars will be
set out before us like islands that slumber on the
ocean, and where the beautiful being tbat passe*
before u< like a meteor, will stay in our presence
forever.”
A Famous Irish Epitaph. —“ Here lies the
laxly of tlie Lady O’Looney, great niece of Burke,
commonly called the sublime. She was blind,
passionate, and deeply religious; also, she painted
in water colors, and sent several pictures to the ex
hibition. She was first cousin to Lady Jones, and
of such is the kingd m of heaven.
Guess Not. — ln a town in Orange county, N. Y.
are living a man and his wife who have not spoken
fr eight years. They sleep in one bed, take tbeir
meals at llie same table, and show not the slight
est anger towards each other. The only reason
for their obstinate silence is that each is too proud
to speak first.
—■ • —•——
LOST’ I say, old boy !” cried Paul Pry, to an ex
cavator, whom he espied at the bottom iff a yaw
ning gulf, “what ar yon digging there ?” “A big
hole,” the old boy replied. Paul was not to be
put off in this Lsbiota .‘What are you going to
do with the hole ?’’ he asked. “Going tefeut it up
into small hob*s,” rejoined the old boy, “and retail
them to farmers for gate posts.”