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M iwimaffili
X A. TURNER. EDITOR. |
VOLUME 1.
(Ontiiiutl.
'OH THE INDEPENDENT PKFSS.
WINONA *
AN INDIAN LEGEND OP LAKE PEPIN.
Winona young was gay and light,
And loved her warrior true—
Her fortune yet \va.-> fair and a* bright
Ah drops of morning dew.
The loveliest of her tribe was she—
Her eye was bright for one,
Who vowed that eye should ever be
His beacon and bis sun.
Her haughty sire—a mighty chief—
Betrothed her as a bride—
Then soon her bosom filled with grief.
And hope and pleasure died.
For Logan was the youth she vowed
should o’er her bosom reign,
But Mingo came, a chieftain proud,
And sought her heart to gain.
In vain did Mingo bend the knee,
And worship at her feet—
Her maiden heart could only bo
With him she loved to meet.
Ondaygtia—proud and haughty sire—
Vowed Mingo she should wed,
Or Logan his avenging ire
Would number with the dead.
By moonlight, on Lake Pepin's shore,
With Logan by her side,'
Flie thought the saddened question o’er,
Would she be Mingo's bride?
Then jumping in their light canoe,
The oars did swiftly splash,
And on the little vessel flew,
Mid rays of lunar hash.
• Winona, why that pensive gaze.
Why heaves that bosom now?
Why darkly mid the lunar rays
} ppears thy saddened brow ?
“The moon is gently shining bright,
The stars are smiling too—
All nature now is gay and light,
And naught is sad hut you,
“Has warrior dared impeach thy famo
Or chieftain dared offend?
."•peak out his base and dastard name—
Great Spirit, vengeance send!
“Tell who has done the hateful deed—
Let anger wake its fire :
That warrior by my knife shall bleed,
To slake my burning ire!”
Winona answered with a sigh
About the spirit land,
And raised unto her weeping eyo
Her light and gentle hand.
he sobbed, “We meet on earth no more,
But see yon azure sky—
My spirit, soon, will thither soar,
And there these tears will dry.”
Ondaygtia came with Mingo then,
And bore her thence away,
Amid a crowd of savage men,
Like raving beasts of prey.
To save her Logon, she professed
Tliat sho’d consent to be
The bride of Mingo, as she pressed
Her haughty lather’s knee.
The nuptial hour was hastening near,"
The banquet was prepared:—
Winona's heart was sail and drear,
Os peace on earth despaired.
At eve, just as the setting sun
Ha<l lit. the western sky,
Her heart was on her idol one,
And she resolved —to diet
]b-r brow no longer pensive seems—
With smiles her face is bland,
For now she’s filled with golden dreams
About the spirit land.
fTo gather berries for the groorn,
And bluff sho wanders o'er,
shrubbery all in richest bloom,
Upon lake Pepin's shore.
Her maids with laughter rent the air—
Winona only smiled—
They knew not of the canker there
That gnawed Ondaygua’s child.
Ftill on they wandered o'er the bluff
Upon its'shaded brow,
Where nature’s works are wild and rough—
And, lo! they’re silent now.
Upon the bluff Winona stands,
Her death-song fills the air—
To heaven she lil’td her clasped hands,
As if in fervent prayer.
' Farewell, my sisters, I shall go
Unto the spirit land—
And leave this barren waste below,
To join the heavonly band.
>‘My warrior soon will meet me there,
And clasp me to his breast—
To seek me Mingo shall not dare,
I shall be so much blest.”
Thus having sung, she made a leap,
Into the lake below,
And left be friends upon the steep,
To tell her tale of wo.
* For the Legend of Winona, sco Sou, Lit,
Mess. voL 13, p, 404.
fit was the custom with the Indians for the
maiden who was betrothed aa a bride, to go. out
with her companions, on tbo eye ,of her marriage, to
gather berries and wild fruit for the groom,
I Mcclilj journal:—lltMeii to pewtui pitas, wit general Pstellm.
Peep in the bosom of the lake
Now sleeps the Indian girl-
The billows o’er her body break,
Her hair the mermaids curl.
Then Logan—made a madman—strayed,
To find Winona fled,
But only found his faithful maid,
When numbered with the dead.
Jan. 1848. i.. i.
miscellaneous.
FOR THE INDEPENDENT PRESS*
Jjoose Paragraphs.
T .
Mr. Stiles, in his very eloquent, pol
ished and scholarly address, on the
(’ommeneement Day, at Oglethorpe
University, said, that “Grey was eight
years composing his celebrated ‘Ele
j gy;'” and he adduces this, among others,
{ as an example, to prove that genius can
accomplish nothing great, without the
aid of severe labor. In this one of
his illustrations, the orator was unfor
tunate. Grey was not eight years
composing his “Elegy,” although that
length of time elapsed from the time he
wrote the first verse, till he gave his
production to the world, lie labored
very little. When the spirit moved
him in such a way that he could write,
without much effort of mind, he wrote,
and at such times only, did he write.
It was seldom he felt in this way ;
conseqently he wrote but little. Nor
does the fact that he went through
with a prodigious amount of reading,
prove the incorrectness of my position;
for, “ what writing was to Cowper,
reading was to Grey—occupation with
out fatigue,” or labor.
In a short address on the same
Governor Johnson said, in effe* V r
no one conld be a true orator, a!,I ’ ,t]
• •' u
was not possessed of deep feeling, or
passion. lie seemed to give Nature
more credit for the powers of the mind
than did Mr. Stiles ; and in this he
was certainly correct. Governor John
son’s remarks caused me to think of a
remark 1 have often made in reference
to actors —that “no one can act trage-
dy, who does not feel tragedy.' 7 Avery
strong illustration on this point is fur
nished us in the ease of a smooth, fat,
good-natured, common-place John Bull,
who has been in our State now, some
thing over twelve months, attempting
to enact high tragedy. His attempt to
act the part of Macbeth, on one occa
sion when 1 was present, was a most
signal failure.
Perhaps no two terms in the Eng
lish language are less understood than
these —courage, cowardice. A full
exposition of what I understand by
these terms, would cover many sheets
of paper. A short space, however,
will suffice for the expression of a few
leading thoughts. All men arc cow
ards, and all men are brave. That is,
every man regards some things with
fear, and there are certain things which
every man can look upon without
fear. Os course all men do not fear
the same things ; and this is what con
stitutes the difference, as the world re
gards it, between a brave man and a
coward. One man may fear above
all things else, the pangs of remorse ;
because nature has given him a sensi-
five and uneasy conscience. The same
rnan may be' so constituted by nature
as to be able to endure much physical
pain without shrinking. Such a man,
if the alternative were placed before
him, would suffer wrong and blows,
rather than take away the life of a fel
low man. The world would call him
a coward ; and lie is u coward, if fear
constitutes cowardice. Another man,
placed in the same situation, may be
possessed of a callous conscience, and
he may feai, above all things else, the
scorn and jeers of the world, as well as
the upbraidings of the pugnacious spir
it, which nature has given him. Such
a man would kill his antagonist, rath
er than submit to insult or wroim—
O
The world would call ]dm a brave
man; but he, if fear constitutes coward
ice, is as much a coward as the other;
differing from him only in that he
fears one tiling more than all the rest,
while the other fears a different thing,
more than all the rest.
The truth’"seems to be this. Kacli
man, when placed in. a position of dif
liculty or danger, will do the thing
which he, in accordance with the nat-
EATONTON, GA., SATURDAY AUGUST 12, 1854.
ural constitution of his mind, least fears
to do. lor instance ; suppose a man
to be placed in a situation where he
must either kill, be killed, or run
away. He who fears death, least of
all these alternatives, will suffer death,
rather than inflict it, or run away. He
who fears the renjorse consequent on
homicide least of all these things, will
kill his antagonist, rather than be kill
ed or run away. lie who fears the
name of coward—running away—least
of all, will run away rather than kill
or be killed.
Nor does the result of such contests
as I have mentioned, always prove
which of the three things mentioned is
least feared by a man. The difficulty
seems to be, to convince a man of the
certainty of the alternatives placed be
fore him. Most men think that the
exchange of a few blows, will be the
beginning and ending of a difficulty ;
or they think that the other party will
yield and that there is, consequently,
no danger. Such men frequently meet
death, not because tlieydu not fear it,
but because they arc unconscious that
it is impending. Once convince such
a man that death is impending, and he
will give up a point, rather than face
it.
This is why we so frequently see
a man who, in one contest, will con
duct himself with great apparent cour
age. and seem perfectly reckless of
death, in another contest, will show
himself to be an arrant coward. He
is convinced that his antagonist, in the
first instance, will rather yield than
push the contest to the “bitter end,”
while he knows that the other will
place before him the stern alternative—
“kill or be killed.”
It is then, true, that all men fear
danger to some extent; while some are
q/yorc ersily persuaded of its existence
i o ,v.ian others. Those who are easily
convinced of its existence constitute
the cautious elnss, while those who ai*e
not easily pursuaded of its existence,
constitute the reckless class. And
nine times out of ten, the cautious man
in the hour of extreme danger , proves to
be more courageous than the reckless
man.
“Mr. De Quincy, in his preface, hopes
that there is no trace of vanity in thus
exposing his most sacred confidences,”
&c. Aye, but there is vanity Mr. Dc
Quincy. No man ever yet published
anything, one of whose objects, at
least, was not the gratification of vani
ty. However, Mr. De Quincy expres
ses himself more modestly on this
point than do the greater number of
the writers of prefaces. He merely
“hopes”—he is not certain —he mere
ly “hopes that there is no trace of van
ity” &c. Most writers roundly assert
that vanity, or egotism has nothing
whatever, to do with the publication
of their writings. Why can they not
give the subject the go-by, taking it
for granted that the world, as a mat
ter of course, will know that the grati
fication of vanity is one of the chief ob
jects they have in view in publishing
their writings ? —or, if they must say
something about it, say “they but grati
fy the vanity natural to the human
heart, in thus giving their, writings to
the world? ”
• Lying, the mark of a coward.— |
In “Father Brighthopes.” a curious
and interesting book, we have a story
aboutaboywho was dreadfully ad
dicted to lying. After a remarkable
case, in which he had been adding
one lie to another, with the hope of
saving his back from the rod, “Father
Brighthopes,” an “old clergyman,”
who was spending a “vacation” in the
family, had a talk with him on the fol
ly anil wickedness of lying.
“I am sure,” said lie, in conclusion,
“that with as much real good in you
as you have, the falsehood has cost,
you more pain than half a dozen flog
gings.” ■' s
Sam acknowledged the truth.
“Then, aside from the wickedness
of the thing, is not falsehood unwise?
Don’t you always feel bettor to be
frank and honest, let the consequences
be what they will?”
“I knowed it all the time,” sobbed
Sam, “but I daren't tell the truth. I
wish I had told it; but I daren't." t
“Then we may conclude that lying
is usually the mark of a coward. Aten
would tell the truth if they were not
1 afraid to.” , '
“1 s’pose so; but I never thought of
what you say before,”
Now let our readers, if they are
ever tempted to utter what is not true,
remember that lying the Shark gs a
coward,
“without ff.iii, r.tv'on m *iFFECTio.r”
Small Eater. —When Jmes kept
the United States hotel, at Philadel
phia, it was a favorite hous't with us.
Jones always liad the first gt’eu peas,
and the earliest strawberries
One day, when young pigs first
came round, Jones, as usual, secured
the only four there were il market,
for his dinner-table. A tall, lank in
dividual, with a sort of yellov>‘h phiz,
sat at. our elbow. lie looked although
a basin of gruel or barley‘vTotli at
most, would be as solid fare as hTs sterny
ach could contain. A waiter, think
ing him to be very sick, asked him in
a commiserating tone, what he would
be served with.
!‘Nothin’, as I knows on,” replied
the sick man. “I am not quite well
to-day; but I’ll take a bit of the
pork.”
One of the pigs was placed by the
side of the plate, which disappeared
in double quick time, under his succes
sive and determined attacks.
“Will take something moie?” asked
the waiter.
Casting, his eyes up and down tie
table, with a sharp piercing look; at
the three empty dishes.
I say, landlord ,’ he inqu ired , “have
you got any mare of them young hogs?'
Conjugal Affliction.—One of
our merry friends hands us the follow
ing, for the Berkshire Cos. Eagle, which
is verp “coot” in him :
A wealthy Dutch farmer in Pean
sylvania, having the misfortune to
lose his wife by death, went to the
store of Messrs. Duncan & Foster to
buy some crape.
It was a peculiarity of the worthy
man, whenever he met either of the
firm, to use the partnership name in
full, and on the morning in question
he began as usual:
“Coot morning, Misder Tuncan &
Vauster.”
“Goot morning, Mr. Fike.”
“Mr. Tuncan & Vauster, ’ave you
cot any ov dem tings vot dev'put
arount tehats ven de mammies tie?”
“I suppose you mean crape , Mr.
Fike.”
“Yes, grapes ; dem’s um; dats vot
Bets told me. Misder Tuncan & Vaus
ter, vill you measure off enough of
dem grapes vot will go around my hat?
Sad worlt dis, Misder Tuncag, -and
\ Illisloi, mitt n ...li, ...,1 .. v-i It.*’
“Yes, Mr. Fike, we have heard of
your late misfortune and sympathize
with you warmly.”
“Oh, tear, tear, tear! I had racier
lose ary one of my horses; and den,
she was such a boogur to work!”
One of the Know Nothings.—
Some years ago, a lady noticing a
neighbor who was not in her seat at
church on Sabbath, went on her return
home to inquire what should detain
such a punctual attendent. On entering
the house she found the family all busy
at work. She was surprised when her
friend addressed her with :
“Why, la! where have you been to
day, dressed up in your Sunday
clothes ?”
“To meeting.”
“What day is it?”
“Sabbath day.”
“Gal, stop washing in a minit! Sab -
bath day! Well, I did not know it, for
my husband has got so plagued stingy
he won’t take the the paper. We know
nothing. Who preached?”
“Mr. B
“What did he preach about?”
“On the death of our Saviour.”
“What, is he dead?” Well, all Bos
ton might be dead, and we know noth
ing about it! It will not do, we must
have a newspaper again, for every
thing goes wrong without the paper.
Bill has almost lost his reading, and
Polly has got quite mopish again,
because she has no poetry or stories to
read. Well, if we have to take a cart
load of onions and potatoes to market,
I’m resolved to have a newspaper.
(Reader go thou and do likewise.)
—
At a tavern, at which Judge Dooly
of Georgia hoarded, there was much
complaint among the lawyers and
boarders, that the victuals were not
prepared in a cleanly manner. Judge
Dooly took the landlord aside, and
said he had something to communicate
to him that might be advantageous to liis
house. ‘lt relates,’ said he, ‘to your
table. If you were to have the' dirt
on one plate and the victuals on anoth
er, and let your guests mix to suit
themselves, according to their different
tastes, it would be a decided improve
ment in the entertainment.’
Poison Antidotes.— For oil of
vitriol, or aquafortis, give large doses
of magnesia and water, or equal parts
of soft soap and water.
f For oxalic acid, give an emetic of
mustard and water, afterwards mu
cilages and small doses of lauda
num.
For opium or laudanum, give an
emetic of mustard and use constant
motion, and if possible the stomach
pump.
For arsenic, doses of magnesia are
useful, but freshly prepared hydrated
oxid of iron is considered best.
——
Circulate no report unless you know,
that it will do no harm,
American Manners. —Dr. Potter,
in a recent address at Albany, N. Y.,
said:
“I am a little afraid that a great
many people in this country are rather
too prone to undervalue this part of
education. Certainly we have no ad
miration for anything finical or affect
ed in manners. We do not want the
manners es a village dancing school.
But genuine good breeding, gentle
manners, ease, modesty and propriety
of bearing, we do exceedingly .value.
W hen shall w*e cease to be described as
a lounging people? when shall we cease
i’o be known by our slovenly speech,
y our practice of sitting with our feet
igher than our heads? During an ex
ursion of several months in Europe
ist year, I met hundreds of English
fit home, and on the continent in ev
ery situation. I never saw one spit.
I cannot remember that I ever saw
i'one, however fatigued, lounging or sit
ting in any unbecoming manner. So
long as the State shall feel itself oblig
ed to provide spittoons for its legisla
tive halls—so long as the directors of
our railroads shall find occasion to put
inside their carriages printed requests
to the passengers to use the spittoons
and not the floor, and not to put their
feet upon the seats —so long as we shall
continue to fill our conversation aud
our political harangues with the slang
of the fish-market, let us not be sur
prised nor angry, if foreigners some
times make themselves witty at our
expense, and in the meantime, let all
those who are entrusted with the care
of the young, use their utmost sefforts
to correct these national barbarisms,
and to form the manners of the rising
generation after a model more elevated,
and more refined.”
•
Tiie Evening Prayer. —We can
scarcely imagine a scene more full of
beauty and meaning than that presented
by the little child who kneels at his moth
er’s knee to ask God’s blessing upon
the sleep into which he is about to en
ter. There is a great deal of signifi
cance in the nightly prayer. It recalls
the past to-day, and it reminds of the
future to-morrow; leads us to feel how
much to-day’s words and deeds will af
fect to-morrow’s; and above all, to
teach us that the greatest physical or
moral power which we may possess is
but lent to us by a kind
Creator. Sir T. Urowne says’mar
“Sleep is Death’s younger brother,
and so like him that I dare not trust
him without my prayers.” Who will
deny that the night’s rest is sweeter for
having received a Father’s blessing?—
received, we say; for does not every
one who asks receive ?
You look upon the babe asleep in
liis cradle, and say it is a picture of
perfect repose. The child will grow
to manhood, and his face will no longer
wear that happy look of peace and
faith, unless he has learned to turn
from a mother’s to a Father’s care and
love. If at his mother’s knee, he has
daily asked for that love, he will still
have the trustful child’s spirit which
hung so beautifully over his infancy,
and grew every day more like those
who, having “become like little chil
dren,” are ready to enter the kingdom
of Heaven.
A lady, about forty years old, had
suffered'for twelve years from period
ical attacks of palpitation of the heart,
so violent as to shake the bed on which
the patient lay. During one attack,
feeling thirsty, she expressed a desire
for some soda-water. No sooner had
she swallowed the first draught when
her palpitation left hex’, and recurred
no more until the period for the next
attack. As soon as it commenced she
sent for the medical attendant, and told
him what had occurred a month pre
viously, and requested to be allowed
to try the same remedy a second time.
He consented, but wishing to ascer
tain which of the ingredients of the
soda water had relieved the complaint,
he gave her a dose of the critic acid
by itself. This had no effect. He
then gave her a dose of carbonate of
soda, which also failed. He then mix
ed the powders, and gave her some
ordinary soda-water, placing his hand
at the same time on her heart. The
moment she swallowed the first mouth
ful, the palpitation ceased, and recur
red no more for that time. From that
period, whenever the palpitation came
on, she could always stop it by this
simple remedy. It appears from the
experiments made by the medical men,
that -carbonic acid was the active ele
ment in relieving the complaint, be
cause until the gas was liberated by
the mixtxxre of critic acid and the car
bonate of soda, no benefit accrued.
[Journal of Health.
An Overheard Conversation.—
“Jim, when you grow up, do you
mean to be a lawyer, or keep a con
fectionary store?”
“I havn’t made up my mind, Tom,
but ma wants me to be a minister.”
“Oh, don’t be a minister, Jim, for
you can’t go to circusses then.”
“I know that, Tom, but a minister,
ma says, is the best profession. You
know how Mrs. Lovegrow adores Mr.
Prettyface, arid should’nt you like to
be adored, Tom ?”
“Perhaps I should, but then you
can’t drive fast horses.” Y": " ;
“Oil, yes you can, ministers drive
fast horses nowadays; and besides that,
Tom, when they have a billious at
tack, the worshippers send them on a
foreign tour; he gets remembered in
wills, too, and often has presents, and
ma says it won’t be long before every
minister has his conntry seat, and a
collegiate to write his sermons. Won’t
that be high ?”
Tom acquiesced, and the juveniles
indulged in another game of marbles.
Mr. T womb ley’s Mistake.—Mr.
Twombley had drank but six glasses
of brandy and water, when he, being
a man of discretion, returned home at
the seasonable hour of 1 A. M., and
went soberly to bed. Mrs. Thomas
Twombley was too well accustomed to
the comings and goings of the said
Thomas, to be much disturbed by the
trifling noise he made on retiring; but
when she discovered that he had his
boots on she requested him to remove
them, or keep his feet out of bed.
“My dear,” said Mr. Twombley, in
apologetic tone, “’skuse me! How I
came to forget my boots I can’t con
ceive, for I’m just as sober as I ever
was in my life.”
Mr. Twombly sat on the side of the
bed, and made an effort to pull off his
right boot. The attempt was success
ful, though it brought him to the floor.
On regaining his feet, Mr. Twombley
thought he saw the door open. As
he was sure lie shut the door on com
ing in, he couldn’t'be mistaken, he
was certain. Mr. Twombly stagger
ed towards the door to close it, when
to his still greater surprise, he saw a
figure approaching from beyond. —
Twombley stopped, the figure stopped.
Twombley advanced again, the figure
did the same. Twombley raised his
right hand, the figure raised its left.—
“Who's there? ’ roared Twombley be
ginning to be frightened. The figure
made no reply—Twombley raised his
boot in a menacing attitude—the fig
ure defied him by shaking a similar
object.
Cried Twombley, “I’ll find out who
you be, you sneakl” He hurled the
boot full at the.head of the mysterious
object, when—crash ! went the big
looking-glass which Twombly had mis
taken for the door.
A Magical Duet on the
4w»*i f *»»*.
Bonnet, in liishistoire de la Musique,
gives the following extraordinary ac
count of a mathematician, mechanician
and musician named Alix, in Provence,
about the middle of the seventeenth
century:
Alix, after many years’ study and
labor succeeded in constructing an
automaton figure, having the shape of
a human skeleton, which, by means of
a concealed mechanism, played, or had
the appearance of playing, on the gui
tar. The artist, after having tuned in
perfect unison two guitars, placed one
in the hands of the skeleton, in the
position proper for playing, and on a
calm summer evening, having thrown
open the window of his apartment, he
fixed the skeleton with the guitar in
his hands in a position where it could
be seen from the street. He then, tak
ing the other instrument, seated him
self in an obscure corner of the room,
and commenced playing the piece of
music, the passages of which were
faithfully repeated or echoed by the
guitar held by the skeleton, at the
same time that the movement of its
wooden lingers, as if really executing
the music, completed the illusion. —
This strange musical feat drew crowds
around the house of Alix, and created
the greatest astonishment. But, alas !
for the ill-fated artist, this sentiment
was soon changed in the minds of the
ignorant multitude, into the most su
perstitious dread. A rumor arose that.
Alix tvas a soccrer, and in league with
the devil. He tvas arrested by order
of the parliament of Provence, and
sent before their criminal court, La
Chambre de la Tournelle, to be tried on
the capital charge of magic or witch
craft. In vain the ingenious but un
fortunate artist sought to convince his
judges that the only means used to
give apparent vitality to the fingers of
the skeleton were wheels, pulleys, and
other equally unmagical contrivances,
and that the marvellous result produc
ed was nothing more criminal than the
solution of a problem in mechanics.—
His explanations and demonstrations
were either not understood, or failed
of convincing his stupid and bigoted
judges, and he was condemned as a sor
cerer and a magician. This iniquitous
judgment tvas confirmed by the par
liament of the Provence, which sen
tenced him to be burned alive in the
principal square of the city, together
with the equally innocent automaton
figure, the supposed accomplice, in his
magical practices. This infamous sen
tence was carried into execution in the
year 1664, to the great satisfaction and
edification of all the faithful and devout
inhabitants of Aix. . /
‘Ma,’ didn’t the minister say last
Sunday that sparks flew upward?
‘Yes, my dear, how come you to be
thinking of it?’
‘Because, yesterday I saw one of
cousin Sally’s sparks staggering along
the streets and tall downwards.”
‘Here, Bridget, put this child to bed;
she must be getting sleepy.’
| TERMS, 52.00 A YEAR'
NUMBER 17.
Authorship of the Dible.
There are in all sixty-six books
which comprise the volume of Holy
Writ, which are attributed to more
than thirty different authors or writers.
Os the whole, half of the New Testa
ment was composed by St. Paul, and
the next largest writer is the gentle
and beloved St. John, With the sin
gle exception of St. Paul, neither his
tory or tradition has testified that those
powerful thinkers and writers ever en
joyed the benefits of education, or that
they ever were trained to scholarship
and reasoning, yet how ably Lave they
written, what eminent characters have
been chronicled by them, what great
events recorded for time and eternity.
Jeremiah is sorrowful; Isaiah sublime;
David poetical; Daniel sagacious; Hab
bakulc and ITaggai terse and denuncia
tory ; but they all seem to have exer
cised their natural gifts under the in
fluence of divine direction and inspira
tion. Moses with his vast knowledge,
and proud intelligence—the legislator,
the reformer, the believer, commenced
the work; and John, with his depth of
feeling and exquisite tenderness and
simplicity, completed it. And what
do we know of the lives of all these,
or even of the last two mentioned ?
Nothing that human vanity might ex
ult in. Moses was rescued from the
oozy rushes of the Nile, and John died in
his old age a lonely exile on the small
island of Patinos.
My Peace I give unto you.
How many bring reproach upon the
cause of Christ by failing to maintain
peace in their hearts, when surrounded
by the petty trials of everyday life!—
Yet these same individuals flatter
themselves, that should God lay his
hand heavily upon them, should sick
ness and distress be their portion, they
would bear with fortitude and Chris
tian resignation all that God, in his
wisdom, should mete out to them.—
But, like the haughty Syrian, they
chafe under these insignificant tests
of their submission, and think if God
would try them by some marked dis
play of his judgment, would call upon
them “to do some great thing,” they
would be able to convince the world
of the strength of their faith, and exhib
it a lively exercise of the Christian
graces.
Alas! there are too many who man
etv we would not call in question, but
who permit their daily trials so to dis
turb the equanimity of their minds,
that they neither enjoy peace them
selves, nor suffer those around them to
do so. When will such consider that
by patience and cheerfulness they
may preach a sermon, which, with God’s
blessing, would win the hearts of those
within its influence to the love of the
religion of Jesus?
Counsel to Parents.— Be very
vigilant over thy child in the April
of his understanding, lest the frost of
May nip his blossoms. Wile he i& a
twig strengthen him; while he is a
new vessel season him; such as thou
makest him, such commonly - thou
shaft find him. Let his first lesson be
obedience, and the second shall be
what thou wilt. Give him education
in good letters, to the umost of thy
ability and his capacity. Season his
youth with the love of his Creator,
and make the fear of God the begin
ning of his knowledge. If he have
an active spirit, rather rectify than
curb it; but reckon idleness among his
chief faults. Above all things, keep
him from vain, lascivious, and amor
ous pamphlets, as the forerunners of
all vice.
As his judgment ripens, observe his
inclination, and tender him a calling
that shall not cross it; forced marri
ages and callings seldom prosper. —
Show him both the mow and the
plough ; prepare him as well for the
danger of the skirmish as for the hon
or of the prize. If he choose the pro
fession of a scholar, advise him to study
the most profitable arts. Poetry and.
mathematics take up too great a lati
tude of the soul, and, moderately used,
are good recreations, but bad callings,
bring nothing but their own reward.
If he choose a trade, teach him to
forget his father's house and his moth
er’s wing; advise him to be conscien
tious, careful, and constant. This
done, thou hast done thy part; leave
the rest to Providence, and thou hast
done it well.
A Trap for a Troublesome
Tongue. —Sheridan was one day much
annoyed a fellow by member of the
House of Commons, who kept cry ing out
every few minutes, “Hear! hear!” Du
ring the debate he took occasion to'dfe*|
scribe a political cotemporary that \
wished to play rogue, but had only,,
sense enough to act fool. “Where’
exclaimed he, with great emphasis
“where shall we find a -more toolish
knave or a more knavish fool than'he? ’ {
“Hear! hear!” was shouted by the
troublesome member, fchcridan turn
ed round, and thanked him for the
prompt information, and sat,down amid
a general roar of laughtej*. ' jj
Affection ceases not while living—
neither docs it at death—-Faith j|omes
to its assistance at the raouthjjpfi the
grave and it finds its way to H<«n.