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JOHN E. BACON & THOS. J. ADAM
THE D2ATH OF X FAITHFULL
(M /*i i ?. ?\ ij
The children are dreary and sad to day,
And some of them are crying;
Their little long faces are wet with tears,
For Rover-old .Rover is dying.
They call him pet names and stroke his
They whistle and chirrup together,
But the old playmate is with them lhere
For the last, last lime, forever.
lie opens a moment his wistful eyes;
"They see it and call him "Rover;"
A faint, low whine, and he tries to rise,
And then-poor fellow-it's over.
And never again through the tangled
The bees and wild birds chasing,
Shall the old dog scatter the partridge
Or bound with the children racing.
'.'.' # '^iey call him again, again and again,
They raise his head and shake him;
Their little hearts break, but all in vain,
They never more shall wake him,
No more through the copse and theunder
Shall he leap, the hare pursuing;
No more will he bark at the tender thrush,
Or bay when the storm is brewing.
r They will miss the old dog with his honest
And his tail so briskly wagging,
And their summer days will have lost
And their daily plays go lagging.
They will miss him, away from the old
And the yard will look dreary without
And those merriest days will come no
When the children were all about him.
When, patient and plodding, he bore them
With never a growl of warning:
And trod so gently that none might fall,
And guarded them night and morning,
And when the little ent-s sank to re8t,
Asleep on the grass and clover,
Tiley nestled their heads on the shaggy
( >f faithful, dear old Rover.
Aral so the children are dreary and sad,
And all of them are now crying;
Their little long faces are wet with tears
Where Rover-old Rover-is lying.
They make him a grave in the hillside |
Where they may forget him 1
Then cover him gently and
Iii his peaceful rest forever.
Inciter years, when their ..hair.
The children will still remen
How '?icy buried their friend tl
In the beautiful month, Sept
And marveling much why that childish
So hing in their hearts has striven,
Will hope they may meet, why should it
Good oid dog Rover in heaven.
I '_ * %~==
"^i^?l^?s^past midnight-the lights
on the stone bridge which crosses the
River Main at Frankfort were still
burning, though the footsteps of pas
sengers had died away for some time
on ?is pavement, when a young man
approached the bridge from the town
with hasty strides. At the same
?izne another man, advanced in years,
wa-* corning toward him from Sach
seubaureo, the well-known suburb
on the opposite side of the river. The
two men had not yet met, when
the latter turned from his path and
went toward the parapet, with the
evident intention of leaping from
the bridge into the Main.
The young man followed him quick
ly, and ?aid hold of him.
"?ir," said he, "I think you want
to drown yourself."
. What i* that to you?"
"I was only going to ask you to do
ree the favor to wait a few minutes
and allow me to join you. Let us
draw ck se to each other, and, arm
in-arm, take the leap together. The
idea of making the journey with a
perlect s.ranger, who has chanced to
come for the same purpose, is really
rather interesting. For many years
I have not made a request to any hu
man btir.g ; do not refuse me this
one, whi' h must be my last."
The voting man held out his hand
His companion took it. Pie continu
ed with enthusiasm: "So be it; arm
in-arm. I do not ask what you are,
oood or bad-come, let us drown."
The elder of the two, who had at
first Leen in so great a hurry to end
his existence, now restiained the im
petuosity of the younger.
"Stop, sir," said be, while his
weary eves tried to examine the fea
tures of his companion. "Stop, sir.
You seem to be too young to leave
life in lids way ; for a man of your ?
years life must have still bright pros- j
"Bright prospects ! in the midst of,
rottenness and decay, vice and cor- ?
rupfion ! Come, let us end it."
"And you sc young ! Let me go
alone, and do you remain here. Be- \
luve me, there are many good and
honest people who C"uld render life
charming to }ou. Seek them, and
you are sure to find them."
"Well, if life presents its -If to you
in hues so bright, I am surprised
that you should wish to leave it."
"Oh, I'm only a poor old sickly
man, unable to earn anything, and
who can endure no longer that his
only child, an angel daughter, should
work day and night to maintain him.
To allow this longer, I must be a
tyrant, a barbarian."
"What, sir !" exclaimed the other,
" you bave an only daughter sacri
ficing herself for your sake ?"
"And with what patience, what
sweetness, what love, what perse
verance ! I see her sinking under
toil and her deprivations, and not
a word escapes from her pallid lips.
She works and starves, and still
bas always a word of love for her
"And yon commit suicide? Are
you mad ?"
"Dare I murder that angel?
The thought pierces my heart like
a dagger," said the old man, sob
"Sir, you must have a bottle of
wine with me ; I see a tavern open
yonder. Come, you must tell me
your history ; and I will tell you
mine. There is no occasion for you
to leap into the river. I am a rich
man ; and yourdaughterwill no long
er have to work, and you shall not
The old man allowed himself to be
dragged along by his companion.
In a few minutes they were seated
at a table in the tavern, with full
glasses before them, and each ex
amining curiously the features of the
Refreshed and comforted by the
wine, the old man began thus:
"My history is soon told. I was a
mercantile man, but fortune never
favored me. I had no money myself,
and I loved and married a poor girl.
I could never begin business on my
own account. I took a situation as
book-keeper, which I held until I be
came useless from ?ge, and younger
men were preferred to me. Thus my
circumstances were always circum
scribed, but my domestic happiness
was complete. My wife, an aneel of
love, kindness and fondness, was good
and pious, active and affectionate ;
. . . :.~ dai!?biei ts the true image!
.iori ' .' H '. 1 W* .'.._"."' OJ
.Vg?i .. .r . . \y . ?? . . ? ? ? '
serve or prolong th vt of my ri ar
"You are a fortunate man, my
friend." exclaimed the young man*i
"what you call misfortune sheer
nonsense, and can b* ~'red- To-mor
row I will m^my W?I, 70u s}lil11
ke ti. creTrof all my possessions, and
to-morrow night I shall take the leap
from the Main Bridge alone. But
before I leave this world, I must see
your Bertha, for lam anxious to look
upon one who is worthy to be called
a human being."
"Sir, what can have made you
so unhappy at this early age ?"
said the old man, moved with com
"I am the only son of one of the
richest bankers in Frankfort. My
father died five years ago and left
me the heir to an immense fortune.
From that moment everyone that has
come in contact with me has endeav
ored to deceive and defraud me. I
was a child in innocence, trusting
and confiding. My education had
not been neglected, and I possessed
my mother's loving heart. My friends
or rather the villlains I mistook for
friends, and to whom I opened my
heart, betrayed me and then laughed
at my simplicity ; in time I gathered
experience, and my heart was filled
with distrust. I was betrothed to a
rich heiress, possessed of all fashion
able accomplishments ; I adored her
with enthusiasm; her love, I thought
would repay me for every disappoint
ment. But I soon saw she wished to
make me her slave, and yoke all oth
er men beside to her triumphant char
iot. I broke off the engagement, and
selected a poor but charming girl-a
sweet, innocent being, as I thoughti
who would be my life's own angel.
Alas! I found her one day bidding
adieu with teais and kisses to a youth
.vhom she loved ; the had accepted
me for my wealth only. My peace
of mind vanished. I sought diver
sion in travel. Ev ery where I found
the same hollowness, the same tr ach
ery, the same misery. In short, I
became diegusted with life, and re
solved to put an end to the pitiable
"Unfortunate youngman," said the
other, with tears of sympathy, "I
pity you. I confess that I have been
more fortunate than you. I possess
ed a wife and daughter, who came
forth pure and immaculate from the
Land of the Creator. The one has
returned to him in the whiteness of
her soul, and so will the oilier."
"Give me your address, old man?
and permit me to visit your daughter
to-morrow. Also, give me your word
of honor that you will not inform
her, or insinuate in any manner that
I am a rich man." The old man held
out his hand.
"I give you my word. I am anx
ious to convince you that I have spo
ken the truth. My came is William
Schmidt, and here ia my address;"
giving him at the same time a bit of
paper, which he drew from his pocket.
"And my name is Karl Traft. I
am the son of Anton Traft. Take
these bank notes, but only on condi
tion that you do not leave this house
until I fetch you from it. Waiter,
a bedroom for this gentleman. You
require rest, Herr Schmidt. Good
night. To-morrow you will see me
In one of the narrow and ill-light
ed streets of Sachseuhausen, in an
attic of a lofty and unsightly house,
sat a b ondine, about twenty years
of age, busily employed with her
needle. The furniture of the room
was clean and tasteful. The girl's
whole dress would not have fetched
many krentzers ; but every article
fitted her as. well as if it had cost her
hundreds. Her fair locks shaded a
face brightened by a pair of eyes of
heavenly blue. The spirit of order,
modesty and cleanliness reigned in
everything around her. Her features
were delicate, like those of one no
bly born ; her eyes betrayed sleep
lessness and anxiety, and ever and
anon a deep sigh rose from the mai
den's breast. Suddenly steps were
heard on the staircase, and her face
lighted up with joy. She listened,
and doubt seemed to shadow her
brow. Then came a knock at the
door, which made her tremble so
much that she almost wanted tue
courage to say "Come in." A young
man, shabbily dressed, entered the
room, and made a low, awkward
"I beg pardon, miss," said he ;
" does Herr Schmidt live here ?"
"Yes, sir ; what is your pleasure ?"
"Are you his daughter Bertha?"
"Then it is you that I seek. I
come from your father."
"For Heaven's sake, where is he ?
Something must have happened-he
has stayed away all night."
" The misfortune is not very
"Oh, my poor, poor father! what
shall I hear?" 1
The young man seemed to observe
these visible marks of anxiety with
great iuterest ; he said-"Do not be
frightened ; it is nothing of great
importance. Your father met last
night an old acquaintance, who invi
. 1 1 . ? TM._1_J_
w:.-.' ig?ther; poi. when the i.;:;d j
"Three florins and a half."
"O God!" sighed the girl, "all that
I have does not amount to more than
one flo*?? ?" but I will go at once to
Aradame Berg, and beg of her to ad
vance me the money."
"Who is Madame Bare,?"
"The milliner for whom I work."
"But if Madame Berg does not ad
vance the money-what then ?"
The girl burst into tears.
"I am much afraid she will refuse.
I already owe her one florin, and she
is very hard."
"For what purpo.se did you borrow
the money you owe her?"
The girl hesitated to reply.
"You must trust me."
"Well, my father is very weak, and
requires strengthening. I borrowed
that money to get a quarter of a low!
"Under these circumstances, I fear
Madame Berg will not give you any
more. Here is one florin, but that is
all I possess. Have y<?u any valua
bles upon which we could raise some
Bertha considered for a moment.
"I have nothing," said she, at length
"but my mother's prayer-book. On
her death-bed she entreated me not
to part with it, and there is nothing
in the world I hold more sacred than
her memory, and the promise I g-ive
her; but still, for my father's sake, I
must not hesitate." With a tremb
ling hand she took the book down
from the shelf. "0, sir," said she,
"during many a sleepless night I
have been accustomed to enter the
sscret thoughts of my heart on the
blank leaves at the end of the book.
I hope no one will ever kno.v whose
writings they are. Will you promise
me that? '
"Certainly, Bertha. I will take
care that your secrets shall not be
profaned. But now get ready that
we may go."
Whilst she left the room to put on
her bonnet and shawl, Karl Trait (for
the young man was no other than
our hero), glanced over the writings
in the book, and his eyes filled with
tears of emotion and delight as he
read the ou'poarings of a pure and
pious heart ; and when they had left
the house together, and she was walk
ing beside him with a dignity of which
she seemed entirely unconscious, he
cast upon her looks of respect and
They first went to Mme. Berg, who
did not give the advance required,
but assured the young man that Ber
tha was an angel. Certainly this
praise Mr. Traft valued more highly
than the money he had asked for.
They pawned the book, and the re
quired sum made up. Bertha was
"But if you spend all your money
to-day," remarked the young man,
"on what will you live to-morrow ?"
" I do not know, but I trust in
God. I shall work the whole right
When they came to the tavern, the
young man went in first to prepare
Mr. Schmidt for the part he wished
him to act ; then he fetched Bertha.
It is impossible to describe the joy he
felt when he saw the young girl
throw herself in her father's arms
and press him to her heart,
She paid the bill, and tria
ly led him home. Traft ace
ed them, and said she had a fi
kreutzers in his pocket she
ter go and get them somethin.
It was late before Traft wer
that night; but the leap fi
Main Bridge..was?no more
of. He came'to .the hon;* .
evening in order, as he said,:
with them his scanty earning.'
About a fortnight after) aa h
going away one evening, he
Bertha: "Will you be my w
am only a poor clerk ; but I ara ?ion
est and upright "
Bertha.blushed m and cast' li -
upon the ground/ . '
A few days'after, the youn :
pie, plainly but. respectably ;
and accompanied by Herr Sc.
went to church, where they we:
ried in a quiet way. Wher
came out, man and wife, an e.
carriage was standing at the
and a footman in rich livery let
''Come," said the happy hu
to his bewildered wife, who 1
at him with amazement.
Before she could otter a wort
three were se.ited in the car; is ;
driving away at a quick pace,
carriage stopped before a sple
house in the best part of Frank
They were received by a numb?
domestics, who conducted then:
apartments decorated in the n
" This is your mistress," said T
to the servants, "and her comma
you have henceforth to obey. 1
darling wife," said he, then/'turn:
to Bertha. "I am Earl T-, one
the wealthiest men of this city."
From ?he Germuji of Ludwig Store
A VISIT TO THE SHAKEB
CLEANLINESS WITH, OR WIT!
[From the News and Courier]
In our nineteenth century we fin
many singularities in modes of woi
ship which are hard to reconcile wit'
the spirit of the age.
For instance, the "Shakers," a sei :
singular in the habits of life, perron
aspect, and form of worship of i
members. We visited atShaker vi
l?ge in the summer among thg Ber-:
?mire Hills of New York, and four.'
one virtue at least perfectly illustr?t'
-cleanl.ness. Of 'godliness"
saw nothing. Within a mile of t
village we met a lumbering vehi(
proceeding abra funeral rate, wi
two men anfTtwo women sitting ve ?
-* ~-i i~^i,:.,/? rtv,?rto^irig]y unco
Ble; A "r?c* -
?blo ?rtuL, s.tia ourunver, "mai, yu
never lind one min and one woina
riding together. It's either oie ma
au 1 two women, or two men an>
several women." "Then they do nc
allow flirtations, evidently," remarket.
a young lady, who certainly lookei.
as if .she was not above such amuse
merit. "Bless your heart, no!" h .
exclaimed, ' the men haven't nothing
to do with the women." At the en
trance to the "Sinker Village," field:
of onioiH, then going to see 1, (fo:
which these people ar? note 1,) anc
prim looking apple orch irda borderer,
the road, forming a relief, however
to the stiff, pinkish houses, the abode:
of the people. These "dwellings'
are very large, built of stone an^
brick, and generally of a pinkie
color-most offensive to the eye of
the fastidious. The men live on one
3ide of the house and the women on
the other. As we were anxious to
make a few purcluses, as relics ol the
place, we stopped at a store.
The articles for sale were verv ex
pensive, nearly all of them being
fancy, such as baskets, boxes, fans &c.
One thing att.acted us strongly, and
that was a box of maple sugar, which
everybody said was pa- ticularly well
made by the Shakers. All of us ate
it until, as Mark Twain would say,
we loathed the very sight of it. ?Lt
tasted like a mixture of brown sugar
and water, which to me was not very
appetizing. The store was painfully
clean, not a speck of dust to be seen ..
on the floor, ceilingorwall, the la'ter
being adorned by little placards with
directions for becoming good. Seve
ral of us were advised to invest in
these, but we endorsed the sentiments .
and didn't buy. A Shakeress now
came in and asked if we would not
like to go down to the dairy. The
maple sugar-eaters welcomed that
idea gladly, thinking of a hospitable ,
invitation to partake of milk, &c.
Poor creatures! they were doomed to
disappointment, for we were not al->
lowed to touch nor taste. The dairy
was cleaner than the store, if a com
parison be possible. Large hospitable
cheeses adorned the shelves and
tables, creamy and inviting in their
appearance. Tull, bright looking
tans of cream and milk rested on the
floor, while bright tin plates and pans
adorned the walls. We passed from
thc dairy into the laundry, and there,
ensconced in a rocking chair, was a
pretty young Shakeress. Now there
was a handsome young man in our
party, (a necessary appendage to all
parties,) aud by a strange coincidence
(such things happen some times)lie
looked at her, and she-I regret to
record such a vanity and frivolity of
a Shakeress.-looked at him and
laughed. This little coquetry was
stopped, however, by the appearance
of our Shakeress guide-an elderly
lady, who neveT.dbi such things when
she was young, at least her dignified
expression implied. But, as the old
adage runs, "Let young people alonep
for enjoying themselves." As we left v
thc room, our handsome young gen
tleman lingered behind to have a j
little chat with the pretty young '.
Shakeress. "What avery clean place
you have here," he remarked, glan
cing furtively at his companion. "Ll
suppose you are never troubled with'!
flies; there seems to be a perfecil
; '.. jre. Why if one
lld be necessary
o-fly, eh?" "Not
y . ? i ," she co)ly an
refi juncture, when
t were running
sntered and the
r&A ordered to leave
fa . submissive "yea"
i . without a back
"What are we
ni : . - id a spinster of
. en Shakers flirt!**
church next, but
rica would be held
./. As it was Sat
i to return the
" e. Accordingly,
i . ?rning. about 10
?-- . . -:: "?id. The yr.:,
were tola tu ^
? 'brethren" while
the right with
loor was so spot
. u positively felt
/our ' heretical'"
1 ..es were placed
-acceeded in ob
ont seats. The
: , the Shaker?,
i audience,) had
: e women wear
thing as an over
curious 1 i ttl a
? ? seated on one
the men, with
mug audits auu pauis of a deep bluish
color, were seated on the other. The
hair of the men was long behind and
banged in front.
After sitting a vhile in profound
silence, about 25 men and women
rose and formed a circle called the
"Singing Circle," or, it seemed to us,
the "Tuning Circle." The rest of
tne congregation ::ow rose and formed
a long line, preparatory to their
dance around the "Singing Circle."
One of the "sisters" having given the
key-note, a dismal wailing was set up
and the congregation commenced to
dance around. No description can
convey an adequate ideaof how ihese
people dance. To enjoy it, one
should see them. There was one
man who struck our attention par
tic .liai ly and he may serve as a model.
He was tall and thin, with a most
sanctimonious countenance. He
walked on his toes with a most elas
tic spring of the body-bending for
wara at each step and waving his
hands up and down in a most effect
ive manner. Now and then, as if
moved by the spirit, he would jerk
himself up and then give a long stride,
stride. After dancing two or three
around the circle, they all stopped,
and then a brother, and sometimes a
sister, would speak. One sister gave
us the benefit of one of her visions.
It so happened that she had had one
that morning on her way to church.
When they had danced about eight
times, the signal was ?iven for them
to stop. Tney all then went to their
seats, the men on one side and the
Women on the other, and, after
spreading their pocket handkerchiefs
on their laps, composed themselves to
listen to the "leader," who now came
forward to address "the people of the
world," as he called us. Turning his
back on the Shakers, he commenced
"We are all glad to see you here
to day, and hope proper decorum will
be observed; no frivolity, and all
worldly thoughts put aside. I know ?
I am addressing Methodists, Episco
palians, Baptists, and many other
sects; but I tell you just what it is,
my friends, the time for a new reli
gion' has come, and . you can now
throw off your old.'hackles and em
brace the new faith. All of tbe-e
religions are ruled by an authority
which is absolateiy damnable.
There's the Church of England.
Why, who's at the head of that?
Victoria. She's at the head of the
church and the army. Wesley leads
the Methodists, and that's the way
with all of them. I would rather be
damned than be under the authority
of these sects. Then these people
believe in the resurrection. What
stuff and nonsense! Instead of rising,
you all die like so m.>ny cows and
horses, and you needn't have any
other hope. How different we are.
We live like angels (they certainly
didn't show it) and don't believe in
marriage. We are proud of the
name of Shakers, and live honest
lives, tilling the soil and earning our
own bread. Then, again, what
bigotry rules these people. Just the
other day I met one of these men of
Mie world and we had a discussion on
religion. Immediately his eye flash
e 1, and I knew right off that that
man had the devil in him. No
Christian with charitable feelings I ]
: .-.* iii sr c in ? ?ae? <ior
br?a tue .-:rw religion, wo b?*. rn?
Shakers. A hymn was then sung,
and the people were dismissed. The
wom-n then walked in a sanctimoni
ous manner to their respective pegs,
took down their bonnets and tippets
and walked slowly out.
Our party soon after left, moralizing
ou whit we hid seen and heird.
E P. p>.
BEI'. ROBERT ULM (M
The subject ot this sketch was born
March 21, 1817, in Providence,
Mecklenburg County, N. C., some ten
miles South of Charlotte.
In May, of 1833, in his 17th year,
he r paired to Canonsburg, Pa., and
entered Jefferson College, then in the
full tide of success, under the popular
presidency of Dr. Matthew .Brjwn,
where he gralu ited in September, of
Having the ministry in view, he
commenced the study of Theology
under his father, Dr. Isaac Grier, but
completed his course in the Theologi
cal Seminary at Due West, then un
der the charge of the R>iV. E. E.
Pre-sly, D. D. Having de'ivered
the usual trials, be was licensed ir
April, 1839, by the First Presbytery
In 1848, he was elected and inau
gurated into the Presidency of Ers
They who are conversant with
collegiate institutions know that it
requires peculiar qualifications to
preside over them successfully. Schol
arship ahme will not sustain a can
in the Presidency, nor good elocution
ary gift", nor fine social qualities.
Hs may fail with all these. And yet
talents, scholarship, a plausible ad
dress, personal dignity, a well-devel
oped, communicative faculty, a know
ledge of human nature, self-reliance,
self control and a sort of impertura
bility which will fortify him against
excessive grief or the occurrence of
difficulties, are all neces-ary. But
they must be blended together in
proper proportions, and act in their
legitimate spheres. An overstrained
dignity may merge into the austere
and make his person repulsive. If,
in aiming to be firm, he becomes in
flexible, Burne of the objects of disci
pline will be defeated. If his social
qualities are not attempered with a
prudent reserve and dignified bear
ing, thev will sink into a jocular
familiarity. If possible, he muet j e
strike the medium between the rigid
and the lenient, between the austro
and the too familiar.
An experiment of seventeen years
of an actual Presidential life evinced
in the late Dr. Grier the existence of
the requisite qualifications. In per
son he was tall and well formed; his
EB, D. D.
head fuinished a model for the ma
nipulatiori8 of the phrenological pro
lessor; his c juntenance was open
imiable and of an intellectual cast.
His upiight posture, his noble brow,
Iiis piercing eye, his more than ordi
nary fair special efforts on extraordi
nary occasions, but nevertheless and
attractive countenance, his manly
movements, gave him a preposbcssing.
Imposing appearance and command
ing presence. His articulation was
iistinct, measured and deliberate,
)rdinarily, but was sometimes rapid
We have already intimated that he
lad the requisite disciplinary talents
...? position ?5 wiiefc fae ws*
ulled: andyetit nwy be proper i?>
;.vV '. ex .':..? ."' .'. ; ?.,..< ?' SC
well lu that dor s: .-.*.*? #ho h?'1, sc
titi . r >h.it we .. Juki -nU *.ae
? '..iv-; > th? 'i . .? of ?<.'::,;iii.?-fra
jive ability evinced by n:m, in spite
)f ahiA^arerit deficiency in the first
md of-an excess in the latter, which
:au be accounted for only on the
supposition of some peculiar combi
tation of qualities, constitutional and
educational, thatmade him successful
?vhere others would have failed.
When a crowd of one hundred
roung men looked upon that majestic
brm as he moved along the college
grounds or ascended the college steps,
ir caught the glance of that intelli
gent eye or heard the utterances of
.hose lips, or he, from the rostrum of
he chapel, announced the decisions
)f the Faculty, they were conscious
jf Leing in the presence of one whom
they were bound to respect. If there
is any advantage in having a fine
person, a commanding presence, a
benevolent, majestic air, a clear, mel
lifluous voice, equanimity and self
possession in exciting scenes, he had
t. We have already intimated the
)redominancy in him of the gentler
malities over the authoritative and
nagisterial, or the saumier in modo
iver the forLLer in re, but we have as
listinctly asserted that his efficiency
LS a presiding officer was not materi
illy impaired by that disposition.
His success was not ephemeral.
Elis administrative ability was tested
ind .sustained during an incumbency
.f seventeen year?, in which time he
leered his way in conjunction with
he Faculty through the usual vicis
itudes of a colic ge life. Such indeed .
ire the difficulties connected with ;
his office that he who succeeds in it 1
nay be regarde 1 as having attained 1
i proud pre-eminence and as having
vorked his way up to an altitude in
he professional world which compar- ?
itively few can reach.
If we undertake to analyze Dr.
Jrier's mind it will be discovered j
hat hs was constitutionally and
tactically a logician. Start him on
ound premises and he will seldom ?
ail to reach sound conclusions. '
Though not a practical polemic, he '
lad superior polemical gifts. He '
tad the elements of a warrior though
ictually not one. On the field of a ]
iterary or theological conflict he |
vould have been a formidable antag- 1
mist. His qnick and intuitive per
ception, his readiness totrace the line .
it demarcation between truth and I
irror, and to discriminate between (
?oints identical or similar to common
ninds, but different in reality and
lifferent in his judgment, his com
nand of language, his powers of j i
-idicule and sarcasm, his ability to
ixpose the weak points of his oppo-1
lents and to fortify bis own, were
?quivalent to good controversial ?
constitutionally averse to public con
troversy. He WM seldom seen out in
the field of a newspaper strife.
For the departments of tbs mental
and moral sciences and. political econ
omy he had a special aptitude. The
subjects that seemed! to less .philo
sophical minds abstruse, complicated
and involved, were seen by him in_
their relations to each other, and
traced out in their bearings and
teachings; so much io that that which
was ideal and visionary with others
was with him perhaps a reality, or
that which was a reality with others
was with him an uncertainty, a
nonentity by ', reason * of the severs
logical tests to which it was sub
He was a good pilot to his students
when oat in the field of metaphysics,.,
(where so many are lost in s peculation,
-or when groping-tbeir way-among
the labyrinths and dark places of
Batler's Analogy, where little pr?
gi ess can be made without clear
heads and a discriminating, percep
tive faculty. ->-*
But his skill in logic or the analyt
ical faculty did not exceed his rhe
torical taste or his gift of language,
which was evinced in the class-room,
the pulpit, in conversational parties,
and in the criticisms made by him in
the committee on the revision of the
To his peculiarly sagacious mind .
there were really very few synonyms.
In his judgment thara -were, only a a?
few words so precisely similar in their
import that they could be used inter
changeably in every possible relation
or condition,.and therefore his criti
cisms on the revision of the v^raion of
the Book of Pf alms now in progress,
as to rhymes, accents, measure, the
significance and suitableness of
phrases, the harmony of the verse
with the original, wt-re appreciated
and frequently adopted by the com
mittee. The higher classes in college
will bear testimony to his distin
guished ability in this respect, as long
and eloquent harangues and hair
splitting criticisms on the several
subjects coming np in his department
were ponred ont almost daily in their
presence, and if ever there was a
pause or hesitancy in the middle of a
sentence, it Was amply compensate^
by th? sir,gul?rl? Hf
deed, wt' nov?V'0?j;:-:i'.-C
?asionsl patiWi. OJ? borne
... . j whcxber in tb*
:' - ? . ... 1 . < ;.y ' 'j ...
rank and file with the requisite'
promptitude, appropriateness and
force. It was sure to be just the
word, strikingly expressive and beau
As an evidence of the estimate
fixed upon his talents and public ser
vices, he received the honorary title '
of Doctor of Divinity from Washing
ton College, Lexington, Va., about
the year 1852 or 1853, before he had ""^
attained the maximum of professional
eminence, or the maturity of his
powers, being in his 36th year. Not
worn out, but wearied with his Presi
dential duties, he resigned in 1858.
If Dr. Grier waa pre-eminent in
the class-room, he was scarcely less
so in the pulpit, and sustained him
self there under apparently unfavo
rable circumstances. Selecting his
text on Sabbath evening, he rumiX.
nated upon it during the leisure mo
menta of the week, .consulting but"
few authorities, and having reduced
his thoughts to a system, he very
frequently, at least in later years,
did nothing in the way of writing
until Sabbath morning, when; in
presence of his wife and children, he
sketched off rapidly, in pencil marks,
the notes of the sermon for that day,
and with thu apparently partial
preparation, he entered the pulpit "
and delivered himself with such an-*
accuracy and copiousness of phrase
ology, with such unction, self-posses
sion and appropriateness of iuuutra
tion, and with euch force as to pro
duce the impression with strangers W
that the eermon was the result of a
written, elaborate effort. . There
was no stumbling, no overhauling
and reconstructing of awkward sen- Y
tences, for there were no such-aeTT*-^
tences, no unnatural pauses, no vain v
repetitions, no dragging in of extra
neous matter, no dogmatical asser
x>k here, Pete," said a knowing
JR "don't stand dar on de rail
"'Kase, if de cars see datmouf of
yours, they think it am the depot,
ind run right in."
Behind the scene.-Stage manager
-"John, go and see whether the
ballet are all dressed." John returns
-"About ready, sir; got most of their <
clothes off." ^
There are now in the State Treasu
ry at Columbia different Consolida
tion bonds and certificates of stock
?waiting the Governor's signature.
They were consolidated either just
after the accident to Governor Hamp
ton, and before Lieutenant-Governor
Simpson was proclaimed Acting-Gov
ernor. Gov. Hampton cannot sign
them, nor can Acting-Governor Simp- - -sj
son, and in the meanwhile the own
ers of the bonds and stock who ex
pected to get them immediately are
subjected to both inconvenience arid
The Industrial Exhibiten in Char
leston last week was a.-fine affair and
a splendid success,