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The Sumter banner. (Sumterville, S.C.) 1846-1855, May 02, 1855, Image 1

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JOHN S. RICHARDSON, Jn., 0--ile ol r u.atibr Ra..A N OG
VOL. IX. SUMTERVILLE, S. C., MAY td, ts5 -O-_28
Is l'UftliSntD
Every Wedusesday Moraiang
John S. Richardson, Jr,
TWO DOLLI.AS in'advance, Two Dollars
anti Fifty Cents at tieexpiraion of slix inonths
or Three Dollars at the enl of tite year.
No paper iliscontintued until all arrearage
are PAtPtinless at lite option of the 'roprietor.
- All subscriptions are expected to be pmail for
in Advance.
AdvVrisenents insertel at tile rate of 75
'-enta persquare for the firmt ; Fifty centN tor
site second, ani Thirty -Neven anl a' imif centi
for enim snlsteint immarijoeti timder mlree
mentihs. Ollieial aivertisements iuserted ti
"eventy five cerats for eamhim insertionm.
Smingle insert ioni" One Dolmir per sqmare,
kiemii Montlmy, 1intim y am1ud Qimrteriy ad
vertisentersta cimrgeil time maIme aL siagle immer
lusiness carls of live lines ain itder insert
eel at Five-Dollars a year.
Three Mothls amlvertisemnents.-One su are
$1 00, t wo squares $7 00, three symtmares $10.
0W, foiur squa:ires $12 00.
Six Months amivertiseinermat.-One sq tare
$7 00, two aqmares 912 00, three msmnrepm
$16 00, amnl four sqaares $20 00.
Yearly amlvertimanents with the privilege of
e:amnging three times, one square $10 0W, twos
squares $18 W0 tiree sqieares $25 00, four
,inares $30 00, aund five sitittrea $31 0.
A sqiare tomes ist of the saiace occupieid by
12 ijnes of ininion type.
All job work, cash, and transient ailvertiing
paid for in aivtace,
SObfituary animtices and trihbites of respect over
12 nues ciargel am ituivertisemen ti.
All adlvertisementm iot iarkecl witih the
numiber of itimertions wili lie pulsieised until
forhidl and charpel accoreiingly.
Comnnunicataoms calculatel to promste pri.
vate interest, or recommmieniatiens (of caneiieiaates
for oflicesof imonr, profit or trust will be clar
ged for asadvertiemnents
Amiouncing a tinmtimiate Five iloilar a year.
For all marriages time printer fee 1is expeeled.
Fron Arthur's Hone Gazelle.
DY T. S. AtTnUlt.
Xo. 2.-Only a few Words.
Mr. Jamnes Winklenman shut the
door with a jar, as he left the house,
and mnbved down tite street, in the di.
rection of his office, with a quick, firim
top and the air of a mian slightly dis.
turbed in minid.
Things are ge'ting better fast,"
.aiid he, with a touch otf irony in hsis
voice, as lie alimiost fluttr iitiuself itto
his leather-cuAhioned chair. "mLjts rat her
hard when a man has to pick his wordi
inl his owin house, a4 carefully as if he
n'ere picking diamonds, and trend as
sofily as it' lie was stepping on egges.
I~don't like it. Mary gets weaker and
smore foolish every day, anid puts a
breadth of iieaning oil imy words that
I never intended thetm to have. I've
not been used to this conning over of
sentences aud picking out all doubtful
expressions ere vetttring to speak,
and I'm too old to begin now. Mary
took me for what I atm), and she must
make the most of her. bargaitt. I'm
past tite age for learning new tricks."
With these and many other justif3 ing
sentences, did Mr. Winkleman seek
to obtain a feeling of selfapproval.
But, for mill this, lie could not shut ont
the image of a tearful face, nor get rid
of an annoying conviction that he had
.acted thoughtlessly, to say the least of
it, in speakiig to his wife as lie had
But what was all this trouble about?
Clouds were in the sky that bent over
the house of Mr. WVinkleman, arnd it
is plain that Mr. WVinklemana himself
had his own share in the work of pro.
dueing these clouds. Only a few uan.
guarded words hiad been spoken.
Onuly words ! And was that all ?
Words aire little things. but they
sometimes strike hard. We wield
them so easily that we are apt to for.
get their hidden power. Fitly spoken
they fall like the sunshine, the dew,
and the fertilizing rain- but, when
unfitly, like thme frost, the hail, and
time desolating tempest. Sonme menm
speak as they feel or think, without
calculatinmg the force of what they say;
an1d then seem very much surprised if
any one is huirt or oll'ended. T1o this
class belonged Mr. Winklemnan. His
wife was a loving, sincere wvoman,
quick to feel. WVords, to her, were
inideed things. 'They never fell upon
lier ears as idle.' sounds. How often
was her poor heart bruised by them !
On this particular morning, Mrs.
Winkleman, whose health was feeble,
round herself in a weak, nervous state.
It was only by an effort that sh'Ocould
rise above the morbid it ritability that
afilicted her. Earnestly did site strive
to repress the dibturbed beatings of
hier heart, but she strove in vain. And
it seemed to her, as it often does in
such eases, that everything went
wrong. The children were fretful, the
cook dilatory amnd cross, and Mr. Witi
kleman itmpatient, because sundry
little matters pertaining to his ward.
robe were not just to his mimnd.
mm Eight o'clock, and no breakfast
yet," said Mr. W~inikeman, as lie
drew out his watch,'oen completing his
own toilet. Mrs. Winklemnan was in
children, all of whom had passed un.
der her hands. Each had been captious,
cross, and unruly, sorely trying the
mother's patience. Twice had she
been in the kitchen, to see how break.
fast was progressing, and to enjoin the
careful preparation of a favorite dish
with which she had purposed to sur.
prise her husband.
" It will be ready in a few minutes,"
said Mis. Winkleman. "The fire
hasn't burned freely this morning."
"If it isni't one thing, it is another,"
growled the husband. "'m11 getting
tired of this irregularity. There'd
soon be no breakfast to get, if I were
always behind time in business nat.
Mrs. Winkleman bent lower over
the child she was dressing, to conceal
the expression of her fice. What a
sharp p:ain now throbbed througli.her
temples. MA r. Vinkleman commaenceed
walking the floor impatiently, little
imagining that every jarring footfall
was like a blow on the sensitive,
aching brain of his wi'o.
"Too bad ! too bad !" he had just
ejaculated when the bell rung.
At last !" he muttered, and strode
toward -the breakfitst room. The
children followed in considerable dis
order, and Mrs. Winklenan, after
hastily arranging her hair, and putting
on a morning cap. joined them at the
table. It, took some moments to
restore order among the little ones.
The dish that Mrs. Winkleman had
been at considerable pains to provide
for hIe. husRbald, wasa met. Ieside is
plate. It was his favorite among ina ny,
and his wife looked for a pleased re
co'gnition thereof; and a lightning tp
of his clouded baow. lut he did not
seem even to notice it. After sup.
plying the children, Mr. Winkleman
helped himself in silence. At the
first mouthful lie threw down his
knife and fork, and pushed his plate
fioma him.
" What's the matter ?" iniquired his
"You didn't trust Bridget to cook
this, I hope," was the response.
"What ails it ?" Mrs. Winkleman's
eyes were filling with tears.
"Oh ! It's (of no consequence," ala.
swered Mr. Winkleman, coldly, "any
thing will do for mae."
.1 dines !" There was a touching
sadi:ess blenled with rebuke in the
tones -of his wife ; and, as she uttered
his name, tears gushed over her
Mr. Winklenan didn't like tears.
They always annoyed him. At the
present time, ho was iaa no mood to
bear with them. So, on the iiapuilse
of' the moment, lae arose from the
table, and taking up his ha1t, left the
Self justificatian was tried, though
not., as has been seen, with complete
success. The calmer grew the mind
of Air. Winkleman, and the clearer
his thodghts, the less satisfi. d did lie
feel with the part lie had taken in the
morning's dramna. Hy an inversion of
tholutlalit, not usual among men of his
temperamieaat, lie had been presented
\ ith a vivid realization of his wife's
side of the questioa. The consegnaueance
was, that, by dinner time, he felt a
good deal ashamed of himself, and
grieved for the pain lie knew his hasty
words had occasioned.
It was in this better state of Maisnd
that Mr. Wiaakleman a'eturaned home.
The house seemed still as lhe eaaterecd.
As ho psroceeded up stairs, he heard
the children's voices, pitched to a low
key, in the anursery. ie listened. but
could not hear the tones of hais w ife.
So lie passed into the front chamber,
which was darker~ed. As soon as lie
could see clearly in the feeble Iigvht,
lie perceived thant his wife was lying
on the bed. 11er eyes were closed,
and her thin fiaee looked ro pale and
death-like, that Mr. Winklemnaa felt a
cold shudder creep through his heart.
Coming to the bed side, lie leaned over
and gazed down upona her. At first,
lie was in doubt wvhether she really
breathed or not; and lhe felt a heavy
weight removed wvheni lie saw that her
chest rose and fell in feeble respiration.
'"Mary !" lie spoke in a low, tenader
Instantl y the fringed eyelids parted,
and Mrs. 'Winkleman gazed up into
her husband's face in partial bewild.
Obeying the mnonment's impulse, Mr.
Winklemani bent down and left a kiss
upon her pale lips. As if moved by
an electric thrill, the wife's arms were
ilung around the husband's neck.
"I am sorry to find you so ill," said
Mr. Winkleman, in a voice of sym.
pathay. "WVhat is the matter ?I"
''Only a sick head ache," replied
Mrs. Winakleman. "But I've had a
good sleep, and feel better now.
didn't know it was so late," she added
her tone changing slightly, and a look
of concern coming into her counten.
anco. "I'm afraid your dinnter is not
ready;" and she attemipted to rise.
uther husband bore her genthy back4
with his hiand(, savinig:
"Never mind about dinner. It, will
come in good time. If you feel better,
lie perfectly quiet. Have you suffered
much pain ?"
"Yes." The word did not part her
lips sadly, but came with a softly
wreathing smile. Already the wan
hue of her cheeks was giving place to
a warmer tint.' and the dull eyes
brightening. What a healing power
was in his tender tones and consider.
ate words. And that kiss-it had
thrilled along every nerve--it had
been as nectar to the drooping spirit.
"But I feel so much beter, that I will
get up," she added, now rising tfrom1
her pillow.
And Mrs. Winklenan was entirely
free from pain. As she stepped upon
the carpet, and moved across the room,
it was with a firm tread. Every
mimuscle was clastie, and the blood
leaped along her veins with a new
and healthier impulse.
No trial of Mr. Winkleman's
patience, in a late dinner, was in
store for him. In a few minutes the
bell summoned the fami ly; and he
took his p)ace at the table so trinquil
in mind, that he almost wondered at
the change in his feelings. Ilow dif.
ferent was the scene from that pre
sented at the morning mecal
And was there power in a few sim.
ple words to etllbt so great a change as
this ? Yes, in simple words, fragrant
with the odors of kindness.
A few glerns of light shone into
tihe immnd of Mr. Winkleman- as he
retorned musing to his office, and he
saw that lie was often to blame for
the clouds that had darkened so often
over thle sky of home.
'iary is' foolish," he said, in par
tial selfjustification, "to take mv has.
ty words so much to heart. I speak
sften without kmaningr half what I.
say. Shte ought to know mie better.
And yet," he added, as his step be
came slower. for he was thiinking closer
than usual, "it may be easier for ic
to choose my words more carefully,
and to repress the, unkindness of tone
that gives then a double force, thani
for her to help feeling pain for their
Right 'Mr. Winkleman ! That is
the common sense of time whole mat.
ter. It is easier to strike, than to
help feelinig, or showing signs of pain,
under the infliction of a blow,. Look
well to your words, all ye mem bers
of* a ho.nao circle. And especially
look well to your words, ye whose
words have the most weight, and f(ll,
if dealt in passion, with the heaviest
From t-he 11lhick Rtiver Watcehman.
Revi~onisaiossary MessueorasIn.41.
From the collec4tion of the late Judge Jamn.
Col. Kershaw was an Eiglish nier
chalnt, and was the fir.st to see the ad
vantages ofCaiden as a place of coi
inerce, and settled it. Camden was
first called Pine-Tree, from a pine log.
by which the Indians crossed the creek
near it, which name has since belen
transferred to the creek. There Col.
Kershaw engaged in commerce upon
an enlarged and liberal scale; and
eijoyed, in tihe highest degree, the
confidence of the people of that part
of' the country. At the commence'
nment. of tihe dispute with Great lit'
in, lie declared himself in fiuvor of
his adopted country. lie was thien a
Colonel of militia, and soon after
served under G3ov. Richardson in the
expedition againist the Tories. In the
y'ear 17~99 lie acted under Lincoln
and Moultrie. Butt his severest trials
wereyet to comec. At the time ofi
the fall of Chiarleston, lie and his bro'
thmer, Capt. Eli Kershaw, were exten
si vely engaged in trade at, Caimden,
Cheraw, Ilocky Mount aind Gr'anby,
anid had large possessions and much
money due them in the conntry.
Wheni Lor'd Coi'nwalis marched up to
Camden, lie sent Major' Pitcairn, one
of hits aids, ahead to ch< ose a house f'or
him; and lie selected Col. Kershaw's,
the best in the town. Thle Col. was
then iminmed iately compel led to move
out of it with his wife and family.
But this was not the worst of his
Lordship's proceedings. lie sent Ma'
jor Pitcairn with an order to deliver
to him his plate; but Col. Kershaw
had used the precaution of sending it
off to Philadelphia. Disappointed in
this object, his Lordship soon af'ter
sent him and his brother orders to
repair, byr way of banishment, to New
Providence, or Ilermudas; as being
men too dangerous to remain in a con'
quered county. And notwi thistandIing
their possessions, so disappointed was
the enemy at the tine, they were
obliged to comply with that order,
under the greatest pecuniary embar'
rassipents. Capt. Kershawv Ieft home
sick and died on his .passage to thme
Biermudas. Lord Cornwallis built
forts at every one of' Col. Kershaw~v's
establishments, and his property was
wvasted in the most w~ant'un manner.
Finally Lotd 1lwdon, when retreat
ing, burnt his valuable Mill, near Cam
den; and set fire to his house, but it
was extinguished by his friends 'after
the British had retreated. At the end
of the war Col. Kershaw returned from
exile; but it was only to see, in the
decline of life, his fortunes destroyed,
his hopes blasted and .himself and
family left to stiuggle ith a state of
insolvency. The district where he
lived is now imined after him.
N4)1 a Fictiona,
-It was a weary tale to tell how often
he repented mid was forgiven; how lie
passed fiom the editorship of one
magazine to another; how lie vent
from city to city, and State to State
an energetic, aspiring, sanguine, brill.
iant mnan -bearing ,the curse Of irreso.
lution-never constant but to the se
ductive aid dangerous besetments of
dissipation and profligacy; how friends
advised him and publishers remon.
strated; how, at one time, he had con
quered his propensity so as to call
himself in a letter to a friend, a imodel
of temperance and virtue; and how
at another he forfeited the high occu
pation (editor) which was the sole
dependane If his amly byfeun
relapses into his f'ormer dissolute hab
its; how lie committed under the ex
citemnent of intoxication, fiilts and
excesses that were unpardonable, how
lie forfeited the esteem of the.public,
exue whiist his talents commanded
admiration; how lie succeeded in
bringiig many literary speculations
into lif.e, which his vicious habits and
inattention to business murdered in
their youth; how lie became a firm
inebriate, with only now and thlen a
fitful hour or so with which to throw
ofl on paper the vagaries of a miniid
rich widlh learning and imagiiative
fimeies: how his young and beautiful
wife died, broken hearted, and how lie
became so red-iced in appearance a
io longer to be able -to -make his
appearance among his friends; how
his wife's mother, coistant to his irall
en firtunes, and anxious to Conlcal his
vices, went wisi his manuscript from
oflice to ollic., an.1 fromi publisher to
publisher, in search'of meams to slip
port him; how, 1;r a little while lie
shik off the lethargy of intoxication,
and appeared in the gay, aristocratic
aid wealthy circles of New York eity;
how lie was caressed, and admired,
feted and congratulated by the bpeauty,
fashion. and elite; liow the ellrts of
his miagic pen and towering genius
were sought by rival publishers; how
lie was engaged to be married the
second time to ln) accomplished, weal
thy and beautiful young lady; and how
the engagement, was finally broken off
through his return to his pernicious
habits. It was a weary, melancholy
tale indeed.
The versatile, unhappy scenes of
Edgar A. I'oe's life wk re soon to close
-sapped rudely asunder by his own
hand ! Ile had partly recovered f rom
his dangerous curses, and was engaged
in delivering lectures in different
towns. The -e were unanimously at
tended; and it was with something like
reiiewed confidence that the ardent
frieiids of the distinguished lecturer
watched his conduct, which was now
distinguished by extreme sobriety.
ie eveni appleared to have renewed
his vigor and yout. aiid it was with
pleasuire and delight that his friends
and acquaintances received hiim in to
their society and homes again. At
the brilliant parties given at the houses
lie generous acquaintances-at which
hwas the lion of the evening--i
Poe met with a line aiid hovelyv wo
nman; whomt lie had formerly kinown.
Their friendship wvas renewed, an at
tachmient was reciprocal, and they
wereingaged to be miarried. Every
higseemed to promise well; the
dawn of thle better day appeared, and
the w ish fl reformation so long com
img, seemed to comec at lost ! On a
suiiny atfterniooni ini October, 1849, lie
started to fulfil a literary engagement.,
and prepare for his marriage, i~e
arrived ini Baltimnore, where he gave
his luggage to a porter, with instrue
tionis to carry it to the railroad depot.
in an hour lie would set out for Phil'
adelphia. But he would just take a
glass before lie started--for refresh'
ment sake-that's all. Oh, fatal hour!
In thme gorgeous driniking saloon he
met sonme of his old acquaintance and
associates who invited hima to join thoem
in a social glas4.' "n a mnoiment all
his good resolutions-homne, duty,
honor, and~ intended bride wvere forgot
ten: ere the night had man~ted the
earth with its dark canopy, lie was ini
a state of beastly intoxication. In
sanity eiistied; hie was taken to the
hospital and the niext morming lie (lied
a miserable, raving maniac. Poor
unf ortunate, misguided creature ! ie
was thirty-fivo yeamrs old whemn this
last seene of' his life's tragedy was
K ind rea'ler. this is no limaey sketch
of drapery or fiction. No single cir
cumstance here related nor solitary
event recorded, but happened to Ej
gar Allen Poe, the Editor, Critic and
P0oct, one of the most popular and
brilliant writers in America.-North
er Organ.
Oely Soseae Laborer's child.
Diogenes sought, with a lantern in
his hand, in open daylight, for an
honest man. We are no Diogenaes,
and carry no lantern-neither do we
make it a point to hunt up embodied
honesty. But we do look afier items,
and, Sometimes find them where and
when we least expect so to do.
Passing down a certain street, a
few nioons since, we overtook a lady
evidently one who claimed to belong
to the Iiristocracy..-accompn1anmie(d by
what we took to be her nurs -or in
fashionable parlance, her "companion,"
T hey had just reached an unpretend
Ing cottage, in front of which a sweet
little lump of a girl was drawing her
doll in a toy sleigh. Her thubby
face was as bright as a new star, and
her eye danced as merrily as the brook
that, while it dances, sings. As the
ladies-beg pardon of the one that has
the more money for ihe conjunction -
passed by, Li gir stopped her play
to gaze at them tfor a momnent-prob
ably attracted by the rich habilinients
of the mistress-a gaze that was mod
est and childlike, and yet big with
meaning. The "lady" would have
passed without noticing the fair face
that looked so curiously upon her; but
the nurse, true to her instincts, caught
the expression, and. turning to her
nistres, said. "Oh ! what a pretty
little girl," The other suffered her
haughty eyes to rest for a moment
upon the youngling, and sneeringly
answered. " Only~ some laborer's
child." At Lhe next corner our ways
"Only some laborers ctild." What
then? Is labor, is poverty a criine?
Is it any more honorable to be the
OTspring of a banker, a professor, a
poet, or a peer, than the child of in
dustrious toil? Pshaw ! These in'
dividual distinctions, barriers, demnar
Cations, which so infest the present
timie, are among the greatest pests of
society. There would be no such
things as tipper and lower classes, if
men and women were not poisoned by
the hurtful venom of Fashion and
Aristocracy. We owe our condition
to ourselves, and stand alone in our
opinionas of men. lie who made us
is no respecter ofpersons.
"Only some laborer's child." A
pretty speech for the lips of a woman
to titter. She must forget the o:igin
of Jesus-she cannot have read the
story of* Bethlehem. Perhaps she has
irgotten her own birth history. We
wonder how her children are-wheth
er they are more beautiful, and pron
ising and brilliant than the children of
her poorer neighbor. We have known
many a rich man to father a deformi.
ty. Perhaps this very lady is the
mother of a w retch, who smokes ci
gars and wears sta.nding collars, and
drinks Otard in his furteenth year.
' Only some laborer's < hild." Oh!
how -we hate such nonscence. And
yet the term contains a compliment.
God knows we had rather have that
,little girl's mother for ours than to
be the son of thme exquisite feminine
who uttered this sentence. Labor is
honorable, glorious! we huave yet to
find any such characteristics pertaining
to the soft-headed aristocracy. We
have yet to learn that money arid sta
tion enlarge the heart, expand the
soul, and multiply the moral princi
pIes of one being. If Justice was
done the crown would b~e placed upon
the brow of the peasant, anid kings
would do the grubbiing."
We hope the lady who made the
remark which forms the subject of
this article, will ponder over what we
have written-and see if' the sneer
looks well in print. WeT lay a reason'
able wageir that she herself, was nursed
by a poor n.other and that her station
is due to chance rather than desert.
This niay be plain talk, but it is bon
"Only some laborer's child." A
ruhy to a rose that this very child
does mnore good, gains more affection,
and lies down in a more tranquil grave
than the, very " lady " whose silly
sneers we have thus recorde I.
Buf'. eprens.
Ts SAMS F"AULr.-Laura was dis'
consolate. Henry had long flirted,
but never put the question. Henry
wecnt his way. Laura's aunt. for con'
soltion, brought her a love of a span'
iel pup. "My dear," says the aunt,
"the pnpy can do every thing but
speak. W hy will y ou agonize me?"
says Laura, "that's the only fault I
found with thme other."
AX good man is influenced by God
hisl.and has1 a~ kind of' divinity
witna hi n.
The Pasionaate Father.
"Greater is lie who ruleth his spirit
than lie who taketh a City."
'Come here, sir,' said a strong, ath
letic man, as lie seized a delicate look
ing boy by the shoulder. 'YQ have
been in the water again, sir. idvn't
I forbidden it?'
'Yes, father, but--'
'No buts!--havn't I forbidden it?'
'Yes sir. I was
'No reply, sir!' and the blows fell
like a hailstorm about the child's head
and shoulders.
Not a tear started from Iarrv's -
eye, but his 1ace was deadly pale, aid
his lips firmly comipressed,'a-i he rose
and looked at his ftather with ai in
flinching eye.
'Go to your room, sir, and stay
thue until you are sent for. i'll nts
La that spirit before yuud tire many
days older.'
Ten minutes after, Harry's door
opened and his mother glided gently
in. She was a fragile, delicate woman,
with iournful blue eyes, and temples
startlingly transparent. Laying her
hands softly upon Harry's head, she
stooped and kissed his forehead. I
The rock was touched, and the wa
ters gushed furth. 'Dear mother!'
said the weeping boy.
i Why didn't you tell your fathaiEf
that you plunged into the water to
save the life of your playmate?'
'Did he give me a chatice?' said I
Harry, springing to his feet, with a
flashing eye. Didn't he twice bid me I
be silent, when I tried to explain? I
Mfother lie's a tyrant to you and nel'
'llarry, lie's my husband and your
'Yes, and I'm sorry for it. What
have I ever had but blows and harsh
words?-Look at your pale cheeks and
sunken eyes, mother! it's too bad I
say! lie's a tyrant, mother! said the I
boy, with a clenched fist and set teeth
and if it had not been for you, I would
have been leagues off long ago. And
there's Nellie, too, poor sick child!
What good will all her medicine. do
her? She trembles like a leaf when
she hears his foot-step. I say 'tis
brutal, mothed' t
'hlarry',-and a soft hand was laid
on the impetuous boy's lips--'for my
'Well, 'tis only for your sake,.
yours and poor Nellie's,--or I should
have been on the sea somewhere- I
anywhere but here."
L.ate that night, Mary Lee stole to
her boy's bed-side, betre retiring to
rest.--'God be thankful, he sleeps!'
she murmered, as she shaded her lamp
from his face. Then, kneeling at his
bed side, she prayed for patience and
wisdom to bear uncomplainingly the
heavy cross tinder which her steps I
were faltering; and then she prayed
for her husband.
'No, no, not that!' said Harry,
springing from his pillow, and throw.
ing his arms about her neck. ' can
forgive him what he has done to me,
but I never will forgive him what he
made you suffer. Don't pray for him;
at least don't let me hear it.'
Mary Lee was too wise to expostu.
late. She Knew her boy was spirit
sore, under the sense of recent injus. t
tice; so she lay down beside him, and t
resting her tearful cheek against his,
repeated in a low, sweet voice the sto. r
ry of the crucifixion. 'Father, forgive ~
them, for they know not what they
do!' fell upon his troubled ear.
lie yielded to the holy spell.
'I will,' he sobbed. Mother, you
are an angel; and if!I ever get to heav.
en, it will be your hand that hasle
me there.'edt
* * * * * *
There was hurrying to and fro Roe.
bert Lee's house that night. It was
a heavy hand that dealt those angryt
blows on that young head!
The passionate lather's _repentanceI
came too late,---came with the word
that his bov' must die!
'Be kind'to her!' said flarry, as his
head drooped on his mother's shoulder.
It was a dear.bought lesson! Bie.
side that lifeless corpse, Robert lee
renewed his marriage vow; and now,
when the hot blood of anger rises to
his temples, and the hasty words
spring to his lip' the pale face of the
dead rises up between him and the
offender, and an angelic voice whispers
'Peace, be still.'
-FEELING APPEA.-Shopheeper:
"That's a bad fifty cent piece, Ican'tI
take it; its only lead silvered over."
Customer.--Well, now, admitting1
such to be the fact. I should say that
the inginui ty displayed in the decep
teon might Induce you to accept it.
Admire, sir, the devotion of the earth
to the divine idea of Liberty. Liber-I
ty the idol of us all ! Hie, having
wrought her effigy in humble lead, in
order to makeit worthier of that glo
iious impression, resorts.to the harm
less expedient of silvering it over !
And shall we harshly repudiate his
work ! Oh, no, sir ! you'll take it;
I know , ou willn'
IN DEDT AND O0UTof VDnTe_' .What
a hideous progeny of ill is de4 the
lhther ! What meannesses; what in. i
vasions 6'n self respect, what cares
what doulnle dlltig! How, in due
season, it will carve the frank open
face into wrinkles; how like a khife,
twill stab the honest heart. And then
ts transformation I flow it has been
known to change a goodly face inta
maIsk of brass; now, with the-"damne -
3usto," of debt, has the true man be.
.ome a callous triukster! A freedom
irom debt, and what nourishing sweet.
less may be foiund in cold water; what
toothsueness in a dry crust; what
imubrosial nourishment in a hard egg I
Lie sure of it, he who dines out ofdebt,
hu' his meal be biscuit and an onion,
lines in "The Afollo." And then fur
nitnut; what warmth in'a threadbare
:.af, if the tailor's receipt be in your
Weket; what Tyrian purple in the
aded waistcoat, the vest not owed fur
iow glossy the well-worn hat if it co
,r not the aghing head of a debtor I
'lext, the home-sweets, the out door
ecreation of the free manl. The street
loor falls not a knell on his heart; the
out on the staircase, though he lives
n the third pair, sends no spasm
brough his anatomy; at the rap of his
loor lie can crow forth "come in." and
.is pulse still beat healthfully, his heart
ink not in his bowels. See him
ibroad. How confidently, yet how
>leasantly he takes the street; how he
eturns look for look with any passen. U
rer; how he saunters; how, meeting
.n acquaintance, he stands and gos.
ps - . t, the', thel iss ma Knows not
lebt; debt, that casts a drug into the
ichest wine; that makes the food of
lie gods unwholesome, indigestible;
hat sprinkles the banquets of a Lu.
ullus with ashes, and drops soot in
he soup of an emperor; debt, that
ike the .moth, makes valueless furs
nd velvets, enclosing the wearer in a
estering prison, (the shirt of Nessus
ras a shirt not paid for;) debt, that
vrites upon frescoed walls the hand
rriting of the attorney; that puts a
- a - ur us We xnoxce-; tUt
nakes the heart quake at the hunted
reside; debt, the invisible demon that
ralks abroad with a man, now quick
ning hia steps, now making him look
in all sides like a htmnted beast, and
ow bringing to his face the ashy hue
r death, as the uriconcious passenger
ooks glancingly upon him ! Poverty
a bitter draught, yet may, anl.
ometimes with advantage, be gulped
lown. Though (he drinker makes
vry faces, there may after all be a
holesome goodness in the cup. But
ebt, however covertly it be offered,
3 thre cup of a Syren, and the wiie,
picy and delicious though it be; as
>oison. The man out of debt, though
ith a flaw in his jes kin, a crack in
is shoeleather, and a hole in his ha,
a still the son of liberty, free as'tie
ingin:g lark above him; but the debt
r, though clothed in the utmost
ravery, what is lie but a serf out
pon a holiday--a slave to be reclai:a.
d at any instant by his owner, the
reditor? My son, if poor, see wine
a the running spring; let thy mouth
rater at last week's roll; think a
hreadbare coat the "only wear," and
cknowledge a white-washed garret
lie fittest housing place for a gentle.
aan; do this, and flee debt. So shall
by heart be at peace; ahd the sherlir
le confounded.--Douglas Jerold, in
Ifead4 of the People."
SnoRT PAT3axr Sitatox.--Perhaps
may not be amiss to remind you or
he printer, in my discourse, lie is
a a very disagreeable situation. Hie
rusts every-body, .he knows not
rhomn; his money is scattered ev'ery.
rhere, and lie scarcely kqe9ws "where
o look for it.. His paper, his ink,
11s type, his journeymeta's labor, hi.
iving, &c., must be punctually paid
na hundred others I could name,.
are taken his paper, and you, your
hi Idren and your neighbor., have
meen amused and informed,.and im.
roved by it. If you miss one paper
'ou would think* very hard of the
~rmter--you would rather be without
pour best meal than be deprived of
rour newspaper. Havem you ever
omplied with the termsiof your sub
cription? Ilave you takien as much
>ains to furnish the puinter with his
noney as he has to ftarnish you with
isi paper? ~Have you paid him for
mis type, and his press, and his jour
seymsen's work? if you have not, go,
ay him off. DOW, Jr.
Tu WORD "Iv."--Through the
whole of our authorised version of
he Bible "its" does not once coeur;
he work which it now performs being
acoomplished by "his,' -or "her," ap
plied as freely to ininimh~e things as
o> persons, or else by "thereof" or "of
t.' Trench remarkeithat "its" oe''
,urs but three t pes infall Shakspeare.,
anid doubts wh ther it is in paradia6

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