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Clayton herald. (Clayton, Del.) 1867-1870, July 03, 1869, Image 1

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TERMS : Two Dollars a Year,
INDEPENDENT IN EVERYTHING; NEUTRAL IN NOTHING.
CLAYTON, DEL., SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 3, 1869.
>>
Invariably in Advance.
YOL. III.
NO. 10.
ilclcdcfe poetry.
[Written for the Clayton Herald.J
To One Who Thought of Me.
BY VIOLA.
vritten
I thank thee, kind friend, for such
words,
y heart they will prove ever dear;
.'or forgot,
To
111 the future remembered, yen,
By one who craves sympathy hero.
Sorrow's my lot, ns sorre
And tlio heart knows It
bitter grief;
Yet sympathy lightens tho load, it is said,
Giving us hope the future to cheer.
" The first plighted vow we ne'er will forget
While memory serves as our guest ;
For it taught us to read witli critical eye,
The heart submitted to the test.
If my hopes are nil shattered,
My pathway all strewn
With the wrecks of the past,
smber tliy promise to me.
I'll remember that "owe my image doth
keep"
ru
• in my grief—
That "/if# memory" doth wunder.to when wo
first met
As strangers, yet brother and sister in
faith.
And
■s witli
My thanks, then, dear brother, receive once
again,
thy kind written words unto
Looking hopefully forward to that blest
time,
Fr
r and sin we'll be free.''
"When fr
sorre
[Written for the Clayton Herald,]
Not Judging, But Judged.
BY VIOLA.
I «lhl not judge t lice wrongly,
( )r traitor call thee, the
I took It fr
thee kindly,
Took it in friendship's name.
bore in mind,
The golden rule y
tho words ;
""^MMt^Lreoelved it from a friend
ATtfi-trehHured every word.
Too liJh ! yet not unheeded,
For It thrilled
know, a perieckfct ranger
*ed for aught ü£it I might do.
My words were w^Lls of kindness,
A sad strain in iw tone,
oiHkgotteu
I knew it ft*
y heart
T
- ■' «Vtw*»
Not destroyed, befrahed, forgotten,
Kept 'twill be for inf ny a day,
And when
Appreciative thoughts will bear
Blind not thyself to actions
Which are pure,
Discern the motive of the action,
And then thy song prolong.
»mory turns towards it
vuy.
i, und strong,
;1 t
§clcdcb Steen.'
Kitty Cutting's New Collar.
ITT Y CUTTING was a nice, plump
little maiden of eighteen summers.
Her uncle was a miller, and pretty well
to do in the world. As Kitty was likely
to be his heiress, this consideration alone
would have attracted lovers, if Kitty had
been considerably loss attractive than
she really was.
It so chanced tluit Kitty's affections
happened to centre on a young man
whom her uncle, tho miller, by
opprovod.
young farmer in the
miller's sole ground of disproyal wus,
that tlio young man had not quite so
large a sharo of worldly possessions as
he thought his niccc had a right to ex
pect in a husband.
The consequence was, that he forbade
young Billings the house, and required
Kitty to givo him up.
Her eyes snapped in a very decided
inaunor, and though she said nothing it
was very evident that she meant con
siderable. However, sbo was obliged to
dissemble, and Ilarry thought it most
prudent not to approach tho house when
tho miller was at homo. By way of
compensation, Kitty was in the habit of
letting him know when her uncle was
absent, and on these occasions they
would pass a sociable evening together
in the great square kitchen, Kitty sitting
one side intent upon her knitting,
and her lover fully occupied in looking
at her. lie succeeded in getting away
before tho miller arrived, otherwise
there would have been a rceno. *
" Kitty," said her uncle one day, " I
have got to bo away this evening ; and,
probably shall not bo back before elev
o'clock."
Kitty's oyes sparkled—I dare say my
readers may guess why.
"I have got to go ovor to a town ten
miles distant, to see Squire Hayden. He
owes me some money. So yon will have
to pass the evening by yourself."
" I don't think I shall feel lonely, un
cle," said Kitty, " I shall bo so busy."
" I shall bo at home as early as possi
ble," said the miller.
" Don't hurry yourself on my ac
count," said Kitty, innocently.
Tho miller went over to his work, and
Kitty hastily scratched tho following
note :
"Dear Ilarry-.—Uncle has got to go
away this evening, and thinks he shan't
be back before eleven o'clock. I thought
you might like to know .
Folding this up, and directing it toiler
lover, slio called a little boy who was
passing. " Do you want to earn a threc
cent piece?" she asked.
" Don t I though !" was tho reply
•'young America."
" Then carry this and give it to Mr.
Billings, and mind y
lv
means
This was Henry Billings, a
•igliboi hood. The
on
Kill v.'
don't let any bo
dy.see it." The boy nodded, understan
dingly, anci was oil'on his mission.
Kitty was unusually lively and cheer
ful through the day, and w as unusually
active in expecting her uncle's depar
ture.
" I am afraid it's going to snow'," said
the miller, looking up at the clouds.
"O, no it won't," said Kitty, deckled
iy.
" You scorn quite positive," said her
uncle.
"At any rate, I don't think It will,"
said Kitty.
"One might almost think you want to
get me off," remarked the miller, con
siderably nearer the truth than he ima
gined.
"So I am," said Kitty, with lucky
self-possession. " You said; uncle, you
expected to receive some money, and I
thought if you did you might give me a
little to buy a new collar."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the miller, " that's
it is it? I thought there was something
behind. Well, Kitty, you shall have
the collar if it costa a bag of meal to buv
it."
Kitty was seized with momentary
compunction; but after all she was not
going to do anything much out of way,
and so slio soon got over it.
Precisely ten minutes after the mil
ler's cart was seen rumbling up the
road, Harry Billings made his appear
ance,
Perhaps tho reader will not bo aston
ished at his hitting the time so well,
when he learns—I beg pardon, «Ae learns
(I always givo precedence to my own
)—that Harry had been watching
round the corner for some over an hour,
in great impatience, for this sign that
the coast was clear.
Kitty was knitting demurely by tho
lire, when slio heard " Harry's step on
tlio door-sill."
" Good gracious, Ilarry, liow.you sur
prised me," said she, looking up with a
merry smile. "So unexpected, you
know."
"I thought IM just look in upon you,"
said hor lover with answering smile. "I
suppose your uncle is at homo."
" I am vory sorry to say that he will
be off all the evening. You will have to
call again."
comes TjaoÇ^SclwïïŸry
in an immediate proximity as he von- [
tu red upon.
I am not going to detail the conversa j
tion that took piaco that evening be- j
tween Kitty and lier lover. Though in- j
tcresling to them, I have strong doubts j
whether it would bo equally so to my !
present readers. The general subject,
however, was devising ways and means
to propitiate the determined uncle, and
remove tho obstacles to their union.
'This, however, was rather a difficult
matter, and they could not decide upon
anything which they thought could an
swer the purpose.
Meanwhile time was passing, and that
rapidly. Ten o'clock eu mo.
Still Harry staid. There was no im
mediate haste, for as the miller express
ly said he should not be home much be
fore midnight.
Kitty and her lover were in the midst
interesting disquisition, when, to
their inexpressible consternation, the
familiar nimble of tho miller's cart was
« T
mm*
I
go
of
of
heard ns it entered tlio yard.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Kitty,
have'brought undo homo so
" What c
soon." 0
"Its only toil minutes past ten," said
Ilarry, looking hurriedly at Ids watch.
" Something or other has happened to
hasten his return. Is it possible lie sus
pc-ctod anything about your being here.
O, what will lie do when ho finds you?"
"lie can't any moro than order me
out of tho house," said Ilarry.
bo alarmed,
" Don't
Kitty, 1 will take tho
blame."
"But you can escape. You must.
This seemed to be impossible, as just
then the miller was heard knocking his
foot against tlio seniler.
" Quick, let mo hide you in tho clos
et," said Kitty.
She flew to the closet opened tho door,
pushed in the bewildered Harry and
buttoned him in.
little flushed»
Then, with her fope
she plumped down in tho rocking-chair,
and
when her uncle entered.
" Hey, Kitty," said her undo, " I sup
pose you didn't expect to see mo quite
so soon."
knitting very industriously
vas
Why it
"No, uncle," said Kitty,
isn't much more than ten."
" The way of it was, I happened to
meet the Squire ut tho store, four miles
this side of his house, and we transacted
businoua thoro. So, you see, I gain
ed un hour or more in that way."
" I wish tho goodness tho squire had
stopped at homo," thought Kitty.
" Have you been lonely, Kitty ?" in
quired her uncle. .
"No, sir," said his neico demurely. "I
was so busy, you know."
" You're getting to be quite industri
ous."
The miller took of liis boots and sat
down composedly at the fire.
Kitty was in hopes that ho would go
to bed, in order that she might givo her
lover a chance to escape,
did not appear at all inclined to do.
" Isn't it most your bedtime, uncle?"
But this he
said Kitty.
"I don't know.how it is, but I don't
feel at all sleepy to-night."
Kitty inwardly groaned.
" But if you aro sleepy, don't wait for
me."
bo
"O," said Kitty, looking particularly
w'ide awake, " I feel as if I could sit up
all night."
" Where's the weekly paper, Kitty?"
Kitty would liked to have said she did
not know, for she knew' that if her un
do got hold of that he would disregard
the passage of time. Unfortunately
there was the paper on the table under
the kitchen-glass. It was tho first ob
ject that met her gaze as she looked up.
I see I am in a seigo," said Kitty to
herself, " but I shall $ land it as loug as
ho can. That's a comfort. Hut I'm
afraid Harry will find it pretty dull
work in the closet. What would uncle
say if he should find out ho was there!"
Half an hour passed.
The miller, who was a slow reader,
was intent upon a story which interested
him. Kitty saw', with despairing glance,
that ho was not quite half through it.
She w r ns beginning to be sleepy her
self or w'ould have been if she had not
had so much to keep her awake.
" Kitty," said her uncle, looking up
suddenly, " you had better go to bed.
"It's most eleven o'clock."
" Arc you going to bed, uncle?"
"No, not just yet. 1 want to finish
this story. It's a pretty cuto one."
" I will sit up to keep you company,"
"Rut I sliant need any company. This
story will bo company enough. So don't
sit up on my account."
"I shouldn't go to sleep if I went to
bed, uncle. Resides, I want to get so
much done before I go to bed."
" Well, child, just as you liko. Bless
me, what's that?"
Kitty turned pale. There was a sup
pressed noise in tho closet. Harry had
evidently got tired of his constrained po
sition, and was stirring round a little.
"It must be the cut," said Kitty hur
riedly.
"The cat! Do you allow her in tho
closet ? She ought to bo driven out."
Tho miller rose, but Kitty hurriedly
anticipated him.
She went to tho closet, opened it a tri
fle, and called "Scat !"
" No, tho cut is not there," she said,
return*ng to her seat.
Quarter of an hour passed.
Again a noise of a more decided char
ac tor wa s heard.
,
ffdmTit*feuTuh
to the floor,
miller rising,
Ho threw open tho door and out rusli
ed Harry, looking rather foolish,
"Well 1 never!" ejaculated tlio mll
1er.
piaie
" I'll see what it is," exclaimed the
Before he had time to suy anything
further, Kitty said, hurriedly, "Uncle,
didn't you promise me a collar?"
" Y'es," returned the miller, "but—
Kitty pressed to the side of her lover,
passed his right arm around her neck,
and then said, wliilo her eyes twinkled
with mischief, "This is the collar I
You promised me, you
want, uuclo.
know."
" And I'll keep it, K.lty !" exclaimed
the miller, bursting into a hearty laugh,
" no matter wlnit it costs."
Two months from that day Kitty Cut
ting changed her name. Some years
have elapsed ; but she has not yet got
tired of tho "collar" which her unci?
gave her.
ed
If
it
•cely
An UiiconiM Lover's Quarrel.
M Y harp is all out of tune ; the pi
ano is discordant ; tho cannric*
i shrill whistle instead of their soft
a
pipo
notes; nnd it rains—and—"
"And wliat child?" said the pleasant
voico of Aunt Mary Demman, as sho
examined the countenance of her niece*
"And 1 wish I was dead, or had never
been born—or something—I
know wliat;" and Maggio Meredith's
beautiful lips were pouted, and a strange
cloud of sullenness and dissatisfaction
hung portenteously over the fresh young
face.
"I dislike very much, Maggie, to hear
such remarks as these you have just ut
tered from any lips; much more my
dear, from yours. Lifo is not all sun
shine and sweetness; but it remuins
with us, as God-loving, Gcd-fearing in
dividuals, to live it out patiently."
"Oh, yes, that i3 all very nico to talk
about, but suppose
putienco to start with ? Does a body
possess a little root or slip of anything,
why, ono can cultivate it, of course ; but
patience can't be manufactured, llar
vey is all tho time lecturing.me. It it
be necessary to find so much fa llt now,
the probubiiitios^nro we shall never bo
happy ; for 1 cannot
so much badgering. J told him so last
night, and gave him back his engage
ment ring," and Maggio hold up her
forefinger dubiously ; "and told him
never to come near me again. I vow I
won't bo everlastingly talked to;
there !"
"You have trifled, Ma#?* 0 « with
of the hoblest men ever made ;
thrown away the costliest pearl He
ever offer you. Maggie, 1 am astou
asn't given any
d will not endure
st ■
•ill
Lhed.
"Oh, mercy, if this isn't tedious! You
talk, Auntie, liko a crazy person,
you imagine, for
this everlasting hum drumming I am
compelled to listen to, at homo aud
abroad, from relatiees, friends, and
lover ? Do you suppose that I do uot,
from tlio bottom of my heart, deplore
tho fate that 'sent me into this breathing
world, scarce half made up, and that so
Do
momeut, that I court
lamely ami unfashionable that dogs
bark at mo as I halt by them?' Richard,
I suppose,
on his back ; 1 refer to my mental and
moral deformity. Someway everybody
seems to foel at liberty to descant on my
infirmities and right before my eyes
too. I di<ln'U.oll Harvey to make love
to me, and run after mo two years be
fore he got a chance to whisper a word
of it. He hn^ impudence—there is no
mistake about that."
"What^stlv trouble between you and
Harvey my dear?" inquired Auntie,
endeavoring to culm herself, for Maggie
very dear to hor. Ever since the
death of her parents, some five years
previous, Aunt Mary had had the care
of her niece. She was keenly alivo to
the faults of the girl, but believed that
time, exjterience and the love of the re
ally worthy man to whom Maggie was
betrothed, would round oil* the rough
edges of her Character, and bring out,
like gold from the refiner's lire, tho
traits of true nobility she kno>v she pos
sessed.
"Like tho majority of quarrels," re
plied Maggie, "it originated from noth
ing. I said that I hated beggars, that's
all."
"Why, MaggfST'are you deranged ?"
said Auntie, who could with difficulty
repress a smile. "You of all others to
say such a thing !—you who keep tho
kitchen filled with the objects of your
charity. How could you tell such a
falsehood ?"
ifet been a drunkard. Harvey insisted
that society was to blame for that sin;
and lie as a member of it, would never
turn his hack upon a r*"— —lie know
, was cobl mid hon.^A^ | ^ B< ^ i \»uld not
' cnWWyto him us a Starving minister.—
Good gracious, didn't his eyes snap
though ! lie's as much too radical as I
am too willful. Then I said I hated
beggars, any way."
Aunt Mary could say nothing, advise
nothing. She saw that, by a little ju- 11
dictons management on the part of the
lover, tho great ffualo might have been
averted, but men are not natural di-1 a
plomatists. And so, with ae
nervation in regard to tlio w»eath*-r, she j
withdrew. Several days passed, and ;
nota word from llarvey.
"Oh, dear, how lonely that poor little
finger looks," said Maggie one day soft
ly to herself. "It had been there long
onough to leavo a ridge loo. I reckon
the next girl that llarvoy Crittendon is
engaged to will have an easier time with
him than I baye. He has learned a les
son from this as true as you live Mag
gie." "It's always the way with
woman has to be victimized in or
der that another »nay be decently treat
ed ! Well, I am glad for somebody !
If that fellow docs not send home my
photograph by-to-morrow, I'm just go
ing to send for it. And now, Maggie
Meredith, if you make n fool of your
self another minute longor, for any
biped under the sun, you deserve the
rack. You do hate beggars, stick to
it and Maggie surveyed liersell in the
mirror, and promised she would.
"Miss Maggie," said the cook, break
ing in upon her reverie, "there's an < I
man down to tho door who wants
thing to eat, and a job of light w
Och, lie's asick looking old foliar emu -
lj\ Will ye bo alter coming down,
Miss?"
talking about the hump
"Well, tho othé" night, just as wo were
getting out of the carriage at Pike's—I
was in a hurry, 1 knew tho opera had
commenced—a folorn old beggar, bis
breath smelling Of whiskey, stopped us.
It was awful cold, and Harvey kept mo
standing a minute or tw
the walk,
while ho fumbled in his pockets for
money to give the old vagabond to buy
more rum with. I was vexed and cold 5
and if ho had let mo alone, and not kept
asking questions, 1 should not have
said the awful u nds. I declared it
would have altered the ease had the man
•eiess ob- 1
"Another beggar !" mused Maggie.—
"Another beggar !" mused Maggie.—
"I'm thankful Auntie is out, or I might
receive a lecture on the beauties of con
sistency. Well !" said she, open ng tho
back area door, where tlio old man
stood, "what can Ido for you? Cook
tells mo you aro ill and hungry, and
in want? '
"Yes, Mity," said the old' bundle o^
tatters, in low trembling tones.
"What is tlio matter with you?" nnd
Maggie's voice was full of sympathy.
"Oh 1 nothing but tho rlieuniuliz. I've
had it all winter. It's all I can do to
tako a step. But, lor tlio love of mercy,
give me a mothful to eat; I'm almost
starved."
"Come into tho kitchen, and we'll see
what ww can do for you. Cook, get him
a good warm cup of coffee, and what
ever you Jnyc guomo ent. Would
you like to \\ ish your face and hands?"
"Oli yes, i îa'am, if you please," re
plied the be :gar. "I w as trying to put
in some coa for tho folks below, but I
was obliged o leave it, I hadn't got the
strength."
Maggie w th her own hands placed a
basin of wa er, soap, und towels before
him ; poured out liis cofl'oe, and set the
chair to the kitchen table.
"Now eat just as much as you can,"
said she, filling his plate. "How much
coal did you put in for tlio family bo
low* ?"
"Oh, aboitt half a ton."
"Well, didn't they pay you for that?"
"Ch, no, jna'am," lie replied. "How
could I expect it when I didn't do as I
agreed to V *
"Well, that man deserves hanging.—
I'd take my affidavit that it was a man
who made that bargain with yon, and
allowed you, hungry and sick, to leave
without being paid ;
over serve a human being so scurvy
trick."
The old man pressed his hand to his
face a moment, and then replied :
*VYos, my dear Miss, it was
but then there are very few like you in
the world."
"That's so," she replied, and burst
into a hearty laugh. "Very few like
me, you poor, sick, old man ; very few
like me, indeed! You wouldn't believe
now that I hate beggars, would you ?
That I have no patience with anybody
who is poor, ill, or unfortunate? Oh,
pshaw, what in tho world
about? Why bless your soul, good
man, you haven't eat enough to keep a
mouse alive. Now tell me about this
rheumatism. Where does it trouble
you ?"
"In my knees, Miss;" and tho old
man again bid bis face in bis hands.
"Go to my closet," suid she to the ser
vant, "and bring mo that big bottle of
liniment. I'll give them a real good
rubbing myself, and then you can take
the bottle home, and bathe them two or
three times a day. Rheumatism must
be terrible."
Bridget returned with the desired ar
ticle, and Maggie took her seat on the
floor. **
"Oh, no, Miss," said tho beggar,
strange tremor in his voice, "I can not
permit that."
"Why, you old goose," said Maggie,
laughing, "I can do you more good in
five minutes than you can do yourself
in an hour. I am used to these things.
I've a dozon on my sick list now, for
whom I have to perforin just such offi
ces. What are our hands made for, if
they are not to do good with? Come,
don't be foolish !"
"Maggie, Maggie, Maggie," and in
the twinkling of an eye, tho old gray
wig, whiskers, and eyebrows were re
moved, and llarvey Crittenden, his face
irradiated with joy, love, and a pccul
iar soul-satisfaction which Maggie had
never seen there before, confronted her.
Maggie was like one stunned fier a mo
kissos showered upon her, remarked
saucily:
"Humph ! Don't you suppose I know
it was you all the time? Just doing it
to show olf, that's all."
«ut a good, genuine burst of tears told
11 different story ; and Maggie, clasped
fondly in her lovers arms, sobbed out
her joy and repentance,
a wife, but
j sufficient to send her blushing from tho
; room,
woman woul«
a
man ;
I talking
a
Maggie is now
allusion to the r lieu ma
bottle of liniment, is quite
1 twin, or
Teach your Children to Pray
The Rev. J. Ryle, speaking on this
subject, says :
If you love your children, do all that j
lies in your power to train them up to a I
habit of prayer. Show-them how to be
gin. Tell them what to say. Encour | or
age them to persevere. Remind them
of it if they become careless or slack
about it.
This, remember, is the first step in
religion which a child is able to take.—
Lohg leforo he can read, you can teach
him to kneel by his mother's side, and
repeat the simple words of prayer and
praise which she puts into his mouth.—
Beware less they get into a hasty, cure
less and irreverent manner. Never
give up the oversight of this matter to
nurses, or to your children
vI ii*ii left to themselves.
That mother deserves no praise who
W \ I looks after this most important
f lier child's daily life herself.—
nthors, surely If there bo any habit
uich your own hand and eyes should
help in lorming, it is the hubit of prayer.
If you never hear your children pray
yourself, you aro much to bluino. Y'ou
aie little wiser than the the bird de
scribed in Job, "which.leaveth her eggs
in the earth, and warmeth them in the
dust, and lorgetteth that the foot may
crush them, or that the wild beast may
break them. She is hardened against
her young ones, as though they were
not hers; her labor is in vain without
fear."
Prayer is, of all habits, tlio one which
wo recollect the longest. Many a gray
headed man could tell you how his
mother used to make him pray in the
days of childhood. Other things have
passed away from his mind, perhaps.—
The church where he was taken to w
whom ho hoard
uo mTio used to
play with him—all these, it may l>e,
have passed from his memory and left
no mark behind. But you will often
find it far different with his first pray
ers. He will often be able to tell you
where ho first knelt, and wliat he
taught to sa}*, and liow liis mother
looked all tho while. It will come up
fresh before his mind's eye us if it
wus but yesterday.
Reader, if you love your children, I
charge you, do not let the seed-time of a
prayerful habit puss away unimproved.
If you tiain your children to anything*
train them, at least, to a habit of
prayer.
Frayer is the incense of the «oui,
The odor of the flower,
And rises, as the water's roll.
To God's conti oiling power.
of
a
|M
or
ship, the minister
(,
Liberty Makes Brother's of us all-"
During a stay of a few months abroad
in 18G2,1 visited Ireland and spent a day
in Dublin. I felt a special interest in
that city, connected as it is with the his
tory of the many struggles of the liber
ty-loving Irish for political freedom.—
Moreover, in tlio da}» when O'Cornell
and his compatriots plead for " tho Re
peal of the Union," I tried my Yankee
tongue in advocating the claim of Ire
land. Ileucc I felt the greatest interest
in anything connected with the mem
ory of "the Great Agitator," and at my
earliest moment paid a visit to the
ground where ho lies buried. It wn9 a
plain vault in a hillside in the cemetery,
although I was told by the old soxton
that a beautiful monument, then in
course of orection in another part of the
yard, was for O'Connell.
As I stood in front of the iron door
which hid all that was mortal of "the
Great Commoner," I noticed a mound
close by with a cheap, plain slab at the
head of it, on which was this inscrip
tion : "Sacred to the Memory of Thomas
Steel ; who departed tills life-, aged
- years." I well remember Tom
Steel (for we nickname those whom we
love—as we say Tom Moore and Robbie
Burns.) and if my reading was correct,
he died a martyr for liberty. I remem
ber still more that he was a Protestant.
So, I turned to the old man who stood
by as I read aloud tho brief record on
tho stone, and asked, with au assumed
tone of surprise :
" Was not Steele a heretic?"
" Faith, he was !" responded tho man
with great emphasis.
" And," said I, " Is this not consecra
ted ground ?"
" In dude it is," lie answered.
" And was not Daniel O'Connell a
good and faithful son of the Holy Mother
Church?' I continued.
" lie was," ho responded, "didn't ho
have tho blissing of the Pope himself?"
" Now," said I, " I am a heretic and a
heretic priest; but I judge you from y
own .standpoint. Why do you let a he
retic lie in sacred ground?"
I never knew the quick wit proverbi
al of the natio
I never heard
a
;
wov but,
\ttyIs tarii
on '
*rm
"ZJaiiiof O'C
nell was for liberty !"
"Ho was tho Groat Agitator,
plied,
" And you know Tom Steele was for
liberty!"
" lie was a martyr," said I.
And then with
yond my description, ho added :
" You KNOW LIBERTY MAKES BROTH
ERS OP US ALL !"
I took the dear old patriot's Roman
Catholic hand in my Protestant hand,
nnd shaking hands over Steele's grave
I repeated the eloquent declaration of
my clear brother: "Liberty makes
BROTHERS OF US ALL !"
That is the grand key-noto of true po
litical union—North, South, East, West.
And the lien it which does not echo the
I rc
look and tone be.
j
I voice sounding from the cemetery in
Dublin, whether it throbs under fustian
| or satin, is the heart of « traitor and a
tyrant. I thought the old sexton had
sounded the watchword for
nation,
•a only, but all who love
nnd not for
liberty. — Exchange .
Beautiful Simile.
An Alpine hunter, ascending Mont
Blanc, in passing over the Mer de Glace
lost bis hold and slipped into one of
those frightful crevices by which the
sea is cleft to its foundation. By catch
ing himself in his swift descent against
the points of rocks and projecting spurs
of ice, he broke his fail so that lie readi
ed tho bottom alive, but only to face
death in a more terrible form. On eith
liand the ice rose up to the heaven,
abovo which lie saw only a strip of blue
sky. At his feet trickled a little stream
formed from the slowly melting glacier.
There was but one possiblo chance of
escape—to follow this rivulet, which
might lead to some unknown crevice or
passage. In silence and terror ho pick
ed his way, dow*n the mountain side,
till his farther advance was stopped by
a giant cliff that rose up before him,
while the river rolled darkly below.—
He heard the roaring of the waters be
low, which seemed to wait for him.—
What should he do? Death was beside
him, and, he might fear, before him.—
There was.no time for reflection or de
lay. lie paused but
plunged into the stream. One minute of
breathless suspense—a sense of darkness
and coldness, and yet of swift motion, as
if ho was gliding through tho shades be
low, and me
faintly in tlio
stant lie was among the gre.-n fields and
flowers and the summer sunshine of the
vule of Chamouny.
So it is when believers die, They
conic to the bank of the river, and it is
cold and dark. Nature shrinks from
the fatal plunge. Yet one chilling mo
ment, and all fear is left behind, and the
Christian is amid the fields of the para
dise of God.
or
instant, and
a llgfiv Wegnii to glimmer
at*rs, and the next in
Who arc the happy r Not they wno
dressed in gaudy attire spend their life
in ball-room and theatre ; it is not those
who possess great wealth and ubuud
auco; it is uot the pi easu re seeker, but
it is those who do not posses wealth that
know* true happiuess, it is the child of
God.
The Gong Mountain.
Cuptain Palmer, who is engaged with
a party of royal engineers in making a
topographical survey of the peninsula of
Mount Sanai, has sent home an interes
ting account of the " Je bel Nagua," or
"Gong Mountain," so called from the
extraordinary sound, something like a
gong, that isemilted Promit. The moaii
tain, from this cause, fiasTong'been a
curiosity with travellers, and one ofawe
and superstition among tho Arabs.—
Capt. Falmcr has
périment, that the sound is occasioned •
by the finest sand. Ho found a slope of
sand, 400 feet in height, which filled a
wide gully in tlio mountain. This saud
is so extremely fine and dry, and lies at
so high an angle to the horizon, as to be
easily set in motion from any poiut on
tho Mopo, or even by scraping away a
portion at its base. When any couside
rahlo portion is thus in movement, roll
ing gradually down tho slope, then tho
sound begins—at first a deep, swelling,
vibratory moan, gradually rising to a
dull roar, loud enough when at its full
lieiglith to bo almost startling, and then
gradually dying away till the sand cea
es to roll. Captain Palmer describes tho
sound as much liko the hoarsest notes of
an JEolian harp. It is not to be wonder
ed at that tho ignorant Bodouiu, wan
dering in solitude among these dreary
mountains should have invented u wild
legend to account for this strange and
melancholy sound*
r proved, by ex
Savine for Old Age,
No one denies that it i
provision for old age, but wo
all agreed as to the kind of provision it
is best to lay in. Certainly we shall
want a little money, for a destitute old
man is indeed a sorry sight,
money by ail mean». But an old man
needs just that particular kind of
strength which young men are most apt
to waste. Many a foolish young fellow
will throw away on a holiday
amount of nervous energy which lie will
never feel tho want of till ho is soventy ;
ant * then botv much he will want it ! It
./tni iQTy ^ bu t true, that a bottle of
that overtasking the eye«-.jtf fourteen
may necessitate the aid of spectacles at*
forty instead of eighty. Wo advise our
young readers to be saving of health for
their old age, for the maxim holds good
in regard to health as to money—"Waste
not, want not." It is tho greatest mis
take to suppose that violation of the laws
of health can escape its penalty. Na
•ror. She lets
vise to mako
not at
Yes, save
certain
h ■ /acl
ture forgives
off tho offender for fitty years some
times, but she catches liim at last, and
inflicts tho punishment just when, just
where, and just hew he feels it most.—
Suvo up for old age, but save know
ledge, save the recollection of good and
noblo deeds nnd innocent pleasures ï
pure thoughts, save friends, savo love.—
Save rich stores of that kind of wealth
sin,
wliLh time cannot diminish, nor death
take away.
Another Heroine.— Ida Lewis, tho
of the keeper of Lime Rock
daught
Light in Newport harbor, has suddenly
achieved an enviable and far-reaching
fame. A short time since the noble
souled girl pulled her little boat out in
to the harbor, in the midst of a heavy
squall, and by her single effort saved
two soldiers belonging to Fort Adams,
from drowning. And this is but one of
many similar deeds of courage. Spend
ing her days on a bleak, wave-washed
rock, this Grace Darling ol America has
saved half as many lives as she is years
old, heedless alike of exposure, storm
and danger. It is cheering to note how
her beautiful and modest heroism is at
last meeting with its well-earned re
cognition. Tbo press all over the land
is echoing her praises with kindly and
encouraging words; tho garrison at Fort
Adams
hundred dollars ; the soldiers she saved
have presonted her with a valuable
watch and chain ; the citizens of New
port are building a life boat for her ; and
substantial testimonials of esteem aro
being sent her from all quarters.
making up a purse ot three
One's Mother.
Around the idea of one's mother, tho
mind clings with fond affection. It is
the first dear thought stamped upon our
infant hearts, when soft and capable of
receiving most profound impressions,
and all the after feeling aro more or
less in comparison. Our passions *>ul
wilfulness may lead us from the
ttub.ioat of
come wild, headstrong and anj*ry at her
counsels or opinion ; but when death
has stilled her monitory voice, and
nothing but calm inoinory remains to
recapitulate her good deeds, affection
raises up her head and smiles through
her tears. Around the idea, as we have
said, the mind clings with fond affection;
and even when the earlier period of our
loss forces memory to be siient. fancy
takes remembrance, and twines tlio
image of our departed parent with a
garland of graces, and beauties which
wo doubt not she possessed.
filial lovo ; we may be- *
(
-A plucky girl in Jasper county In
diana, who, it is said, gottiug jilted, in
stead of taking arsenic, took a stout stick
and licked the fellow* hands
"came to" und married her.
ly.
1U

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