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BALTIMORE LOCK HOSPITAL
VS V RKPUUK PKOM QUACKKKT
fie Only Place Where a Cure Can ,
be Obtained.
UK, JOHNaON lias discovered the
iu.mt. Certain. Spevdy and only Effectual Remedy in
world fjr all Private Dist-use*. Weakness of the Back
i ji.m, iti ihiurt-s Affections of the Kidneys and Blad
iuvoluruury UUciurg^.iiapotuiKy,General Debility,
Oviipepsy. Languor. Low Spirit's; Confusion
i i'.iv Palpitation of the , Heart. Timidity, Tremblings,
'„f Sight or Giddiness, Disease of . the lleid,
,r. So>*o or Skin, Affections of the Liver. Luug*.Stom>
~ ~ b ovids—'llnwe Terrible disorders arising from the
- ..irury HiidU of Youth—those secret and solitary prac*
, ujr - fatal t<> rheii victims than the song of Syrens to
. vUriuurs of Ulysses. blighting their most brilliant
ov anticipations, rendering marriage Me . impossi-
YOUNG MEN
■ .i.edkilv, who have become the victims of Sdlisa?y Jice,
.insidful and destuctive habit .which anmtnLy -sweeps
' mi untimely gtave thousands of Young KUp of the most
v ; died talents aud brilliant intellect, who might other
'u.tvo entranced listening Senates with thunders
uence. or waked to ectasy the living lyre, may call
.. ; , full confidence.
MARRIAGE^
tr , j e i Persons, or Young Men ctnemplating marriage,
, of physical weakness, organic debility, defor
i .\. i . speedily cured.
;i- wlnt places idnueU under thn cure of Dr. J. may re
.■.■.u»ly confide in his honor as a gentleman, and ccmfi-
*■.lly rdv upon his skill as a physician.
ORGANIC WEAKNESS
l iieiii iieiv Cured, mid full Vigor Restored.
: n- Ui-n’easing Aff-.-ction—which renders Life miserable
:.i image impo-.-ible—is t!ie penalty paid by the
• :ii- ..f improper indulgences. Young persons are to
uuinil exces e- from uol being uwaie *«f the dread
■av.pleuccn lh»l may ensu«*. Now. whit that under
1u tiu* subject will pretend to deny that the power of
i ati .n is lost so.-uer by those falling into improper
.•r> Uiau bv the prudent \ Doside* being deprived the
••.or--of healthy offspring, tin* most morions and de
u. iivh svtnptoin- both body and mind arise. The
• -( in '.KVi’mios Deranged. thv Physical and M*-ntal Fnnc
i is Weakened. Lo>- d Procreative Power. Nervous liri
.: 1 1j v. l)\sp -psia, Palpitation of the Heart,indigestion
-Mitutmnal Debility, a Wasting of the Frame, Cough,
•u-umption. Decay and Death-
OFFICE. NO. 7 SOUTH FREDERICK STREET,
h.oid side going from Baltimore street, a few doors
i*ii rii- -'orner. Fail not to'observe name apd number
must i»e paid and contain u slump. The Doc
■«iDiplomas hang in his office
A CURE WARRANTED IN TWO DAYS.
Xn Mercury or Xiueon? Drug*.
OR- JOHNSON.
• -mt.or of the Royal College of Surgeons, Loudon. Grad
t from one, of the most viuineut Colleges ifi the United
-•;!I,-, and the greater part of whose life has been spent In
.. hospitals of London, Paris, Philadelphia and else
.L?n-. has effected some of the moat aatouislring cure*-
i.d w**Ve ever known: many troubled with ringing in,the ,
’ >vl and e*r« when asleep, great nervousness, being
:.rmed at sudden son ids, baahfuloesa, with frequent
’ ’i-diing. attended sometimes with derangement of mind.
• re cured immediately.
TAKE PARTICULAR NOTICE-
Dr. J. addresses all those who have injured themselves
\ mproper indulgence aod solitary habits which.ruin
>• >:h body and miud, unfitting them for either business.
' •!>•. society or marriage. 1
These urejome of tlie sad' and melancholy effects pro
•ii -il by eaHy Imhifa of youth, vis: Weakness of the
’ < -k and Limbs, Pains iu the Head, Dimrewi of Sight,
i -s of Muscular Power, Palpitation of the Heart. Dys
• j.<y, Nervous irritability, Dvrangement of the Dlges-
Functi<«n«- General Debility, Symptoms of Cousump
• ni. ic. . • _ ' -
Vlcxtlllt.—The fearful effects of the tuind are much to
L«. of Memory, Confmion of Ideue, De-
of splrita. Evn*Forc.Uodings. Aier.ion to Society.
■ :; Ui-tru-t. Lore of Solitude, Timidityi 4c;, are some of
'•■e eril» produced. I
riior sjixDS of persoue of all age, can now judge what ie
m cau.e of their declining health, limi-ig their rigor, be
•ling weak, pale-nervous and en&"clatM. having a sin
,-n!ar appearance the eyee, cough undi symptoms ot
••sumption.
YOUNG MEN
■' no have Injured themaelvei by a certain practice in
lilgod in when alone,» habit frequently learned from
•'ii companions, or at-.school, the .effects :of which are
-,-hlly folt. even when asleep, and if not cured render*
i irrlagtt linposjble, aud destroys both mind and body.
. ; *uia apply Immediately. . /
What a pity that a young hope of his countiyv'
r t darling of bis parents, should be snatched from all
i.'iHpects and enjoyments of life, by the consequence ol
■tvi aiug from the path of nature, and Indulging* iu a
vt mu sorrel habit. Such persons mcst, before coi^tem
.Ltllisp
MARRIAGE. ;
that a sound mind and t»My »re the mosl necessary
■■.‘•nusiiiii to promota counal>i‘«rhftppinoM. li'deed, wltli
•>ut ih«i<o. the journey through life becomes » weary pH*
the prospect "hourly darken* to' the view; the
■ '■n I becomes shallowed with despair and filled with the
n-'*nirhnly reflection that the bapplneasijt another be
•ieji blighted with onr bwn.
DISEASE OP IMPRUDENCE. ,
When the misguided abd Imprudent rotiry of pleasure
that he lias imbibed the eeed* of twe” painful die*
w. H too often happen* that an 111-timed #snse of shame.
■ 'i>ad of discovery, him from applying to tho*e
» , from odueittion -and respectability, <?nn alone bc
•tid him. delaying till the constitfitipnal symptoms of
i ! » * U «rrid disease make their appearance, such as ulcere
u ■ We itirortt. diseased nose, boctornal pain s in the head
",d limbs, dimness of sight, deafnesa, nodba on the shin
■••to* and arms, blotches on the head, fitch and extreml*
■progressing with, frightful rapidity, tfll at last the
1 usife of the month or the bones of the nose fall in, and
victim of this awful disease becomes a horrid object; of
■injiNPration, till death pots a period ;to hi* dreadful
‘iif'jrings, by sending him t»that Dudiscovered Cooutry
1 jui whence no traveller returns.” . '
i« a melancholy fixcl thnt thousands fall victims to
u-rrible disease, owing to the unskUlfoloea* of igno
;j? pretender*. who, by the use of that’ ptadXy ft/Uon.
V rcary. ruin the constitution and make th# residue of
• i'-miserable.
STRANGERS' V
l i ust not your lives, or h«Hllh toth* car#, of the nwny
I* burned and Worthier* Pretcndhfs, destitute of knowl*
-•U r «, rmm? or character, wh> copy Dr. Johnston's advcr
foments, or stylo themselws, In the newspaper*, regu
larty Kducated Physician*. lAcapable of. Curing, they keep
T-Ji ti ifl[ng mouth after month, taking tbetr filthy and
{voiiiAiiotw compounds, or as long as the smallest fee cau
b * >i*Uined, and in despair, leave you with ruined health
'igh over your galling disappointment. =
hr. J.»hn*ton is tho only Physician advertising,
Uii credential or diploma* always hang lit hla office.
His remedies or treatment fire unknown to all others.
i*r«:* \r?d fr.un a I if* spent in the great hospitals of Europe.
tu«s first in the a more extensile Private Prae*
f,fy tlinn any other Physician in the world.
_ indorsement of the press.
l he many thousands cured at this Institution, year after
J*ar. and the numerous important fcorgictl operations
j>srformod hr J<>hu*t<m. witnessed by the report*™ of ;the
5 ‘ Clipper,” and many oth*r paper*,. notices of
*uicb have appeared again and again before the public?
nesnus his standing aaijs gentlemen of character and re
»norwibiUiy, U a sufficient guarantee tothfc affllcted.
.. SKIN diseases speedily cured.
>o letters received unless post-paid vid containing a
«s«apt-> be used on the reply Persons writing should slate
Hjaaii ««ndp>rtiou «»f advertisement describing symptoms
should be particular iu . directing their
Wr< t 0 ‘hi* Institution, in the following manner:
JOHN M. JOHNSTON- M. D.,
Of the 9*Ulaore Look Hospital, Maryland
Hhcitf go«tr§.
H. C. DERKy
I tell yon friend.—there never was
another -girl like mine;
Oo her l r m sure the eon
Coaid not afford to shinel
Tee* yee—the is the greatest girl
walked beneath the skies;
None star had such rosy cheeks,
none snch pretty eyes!
Sbei has a smile for all around.
So gladsome and so free*
Bat then of course she always keeps
Her sweetest smiles for me.
She is so good and kind at heart*
: po pleasing in her Way;
Obi she’s an angel—with a form
Wrapped round in robes of clay!
la oo
My Nettie >boasti no lordly name.
Nor i**n!«l>e bout of pelf;
Dot, the lifts h heart that i*
A fortune in itself.
A fortune that will yield delight,
Long After wealth has flown ;
The beet of all is, now— «Ue »a>>
(hat fortune's all my own.
With rtll li- r beauty ad>l her charm*
1 atill fitid cause fur blame:
I tell you iwbat, 1 d«> u»t like
The last of Nettie’s outnc;
’Bout chaugitig it, my mind this night
Shall be to her mode known;
And if she think* she’d like ir.
Why >»h* may have my own
THE GAMBLER’S VICTIM
“Allow me!” said a bland, persuasive
voice at my elbow, and a white, shapely
hand, stretched forth .above my shoulder,
took the cup trejm mine, and dipped it in
the sparkling spring. : An instant later, a
handsome, dark face, which I had ire
quently observed during the last few days,
was bowing before me. A grave respect
ful smile lighted it up. The whole air
and manner of the man were those of a
perfect gentleman. He gave me the glass,
bowed again, and sauntered away after
some slight deprecation of my thanks.
There was not much in this interview,
surely, but It made its impression upon
me. From under the shadow of my
straw hat I looked after him furtively,
lest he should detect the act, and mentally
commented thus:
“He is a handsome man ; what a tine
figure! He must be Somebody. 1 won
der who he is; and 1 wish he might be
presented to roe.”
Then I drank another glass of the water,
sauntered along the walks a little, en
joying the dewy coolness of the morning,
the auroral tints in the sky, the* faint,
chirping birds, gradually swelling to the
fullness of matin songs, and then got back
to the hotel, and my room, before any
body but servants wsts stirring, without
having seen any one but the stranger. —
Often I slept an hour, after these matuti
nal walks,: before the breakfast gong sent
its harsh thunders through the house, but
ibis morning I sat down in a sort of wak
ing dream, haunted by the dark eyes and
bright face of 'the stranger, which lasted
till my chaperone , Mrs. Courtney, knocked
at my door, to inquire if I was ready to
descend.
Paul Courtney was waiting in the hall,
as we went down. Paul was not very
.handsome of mornings. He was always
pale, and had a general air of having
been awake, all night. He never had
nquch to say,,nor any admiration to spare
from himself, or his toilet, which on this
morning in particular #as unexceptiona
ble. I knew that my father and Mrs
Courtnejy agreed perfectly in the opinion
that Paul and I were especially designed
for each other.; But I had, for some time,
been inclined (o believe that the soul ma
ted with mine an Heayen had got astray
when it came to earth. I was pretty sure
that it was not the soul which inhabited
Paul-Courtney’s body.
While at the breakfast-table, I noticed
the tall, elegant form of the stranger, tra
versing the room to find a seat at the
crowded tables. A parly dpposite tons
had risen, and he sat down in the only
vacant■ place that they had left. He
glanced at our party as he sat down—*
something that was not a smile, but the
reflection of a pleasant thought, perhaps,
lighted his face for a moment. He bowed
slightly, and then, without looking up
again, commenced his meal. ’
Out of. Paul’s mustache I heard a low
growl. It seemed to shape itself into a
word “puppy,” but as I was uncertain, and
the time noi suitable, I took no notice. —
But no; sooner were we out of the room,
than he turned to me, almost fiercely.
“ What iluegt that fellow mean, bowing
to you?” be; said, hoarsely. “Do you
know him, or has he the impudence to
claim a chancy acquaintance?”
I might not have answered Paul, -but I
saw Mrs. Courtney looking at me inquir
ingly, and felt, constrained to reply.
“ When I vyas at the spring, early this
momiogr he came and Glled my glass. 1
have not spoken to him except to thank
him'fot the service. There was nothing
intrusive in bis manner, then, nor in. his
very slight recognition of - me,at the table.”
MY NETTIE.
BY C. VAUGHN
ALTOONA, PA., TUESDAY, MARCH 17, 1863
“ Certainly not,” Mrs. Courtney said,
and then she drew Paul aside, and I saw,
by her face and gestures, that she was ex
postulating with him upon his treatment
of me-
I did not like Paul Courtney before ; 1
almost hated him now. I wearied myself
that day thinking how it could ever be
possible to drag out life by his side, and
in his constant companionship. But the
coils were closing around me. I did not
see hpw I was to evade my father’s wishes,
and escape from this hated marriage. 1
grew reckless, and‘resolved at least to en
joy my freedom while it remained to me.
At evening I went to the ball-room.,—
Of course Paul Courtney claimed me for
the first dance; but that over, 1 would nol
promise a second. I had partners enough.
I danced and flirted to my heart’s content.
Mrs. Courtney looked grave, and uttered
one or two quiet rebukes. But I would
not listen.
The stranger did not enter the ball
room. At intervals during the evening,
I saw him standing upon the verandah,
near an open window that gave him a
perfect view of the scene. He.seemed to
know no one, or seek to know. He looked
very picturesque leaning there in the
moonlight that shimmered through the
vine branches. Henry Adriance —that
was his name upon the register, and that
was all any one seemed to know.
So that day passed, and several more ;
and though the stranger was at the springs,
no one knew him and I had not again met
him. I was very cool with Paul Court
ney. Edmund Gray, whom I always
liked, had come down and he quite devo
ted himself to me. We rode, wa.ked, and
danced together, practiced duetts, and
read poetry. If that dark, handsome Mr.
Adriance had not constantly crossed my
path, I might have had a right pleasant
time. Pul one glance from his eyes
would haunt me for a day. And, if 1
met him at the spring in the morning, as 1
was sure to do if 1 went there early,
that I presently gave up the visit and
rambled another way, the simple words of
courtesy, that any stranger might have
uttered, would ring in my ears all day,
while I foolishly enough strove to search
out seirne mystic meaning hidden in them.
I was a very silly, vain girl, 1 fear ; but
let this be my punishment —this frank
confession.
Ail these weeks I had not once men
tioned the stranger to Edmund Gray. —
But one morning as we were rambling,
Edmund and J, in the grounds, Mr,
Adriance passed us, and, with his grave
smile, lifted his hat to me. I surpose i
blushed a little, for Edmund looked at me
with surprise, and a pained, puzzled ex
pression came to his face:
“Is it possible, Ada, that you know
that man” he said, when we were quite
out of his hearing, as he sauntered slowly
alomg.
“ No,” I said hesitatingly, “ I do not
know him. Then, with a laugh that I
tried to make unconcerned, “ I wish I did.
There seems to be something strange and
mvsterious about him,”
“Not so mysterious as strange, I fancy,”
said Edmund,'"with something that sounded
like a sneer.
I was angry,
“ Tell me what you know of him,” I
cried, “ I don’t like hints and inuendoes.”
“Nrilherdo I, Ada. the little
I know of him is not much to his credit ;
and, therefore, I ought not, perhaps, to
speak.”
“ But I will know,” I said, growing
more angry with every moment. There |
might be something that I ought nut to
hear, nor Edmund to mention to me.—
He dropped- my arm, turned and looked
at me with a grave surprise that restored
me to myself, much ashatned at my era
petuosity.
“I must speak now” he said, after a 1
moment. “ P had not deemed, Ada, that
yuur feelings were so much interested.
Do you fancy that you love this man ?”
“ You have no right to ask this ques
tion,” I replied; “but 1 will answer you.
I do not love him, nor fancy I do. 1 meet
him daily, and he seems so strange, so
different from other gentlemen here ”
“ You have been• creating a romance!
from very slight materials. Ada, I be- j
lieve the man is a mere adventurer —a j
gambler, • if not worse. Nobody here i
seenw to know him, or even to have met 1
him before. Yet he has gained a gradual
acquaintance with the fast set here.— j
Ask Paul Courtney what he knows of,
him. But no, Paul would think 1 had
betrayed him ; that will never do. Ada,
will you take my word for it, that the
fellow is not a proper person for you to
know, and that the ‘mystery’ you have
been puzzling your innocent soul about is
not one that you ought to unravel-”
“No, I will not, Edmund Gray. If
you know anything against this man, you
ought to tell me frankly. At all events,
yoiir words seem to imply that he is no
worse than Paul Courtney, and my father
considers him good enough to be the hus
band of his daughter.”
Edmund turned very pale. He looked
at me almost wildly.
“Qh, Ada'?" he said, “ I have feared
[independent IK EVERYTHING. J
this. But since 1 have been here, you
have seemed to treat him so coldly. I
took heart. Is it possible! Can it be I”
*• Quite possible that my father thinks
as I have said.”
But you!”
What I think concerns only myself,
surely,” I answered, haughtily.
“ Pardon me. I had no right to ask.
But this Adriance* Ada, treat me as a
brother, if you can, and tell me abont
him.”
But I was in no mood to do so then. —'
Edmund's words and conduct were ithpli
cable to me. We had grown up together,
had played and quarreled a*children, been
on those neighborly terms of intimacy,
that close every day acquaintance, that
leprives the intercourse of two young per
sons of opposite sexes of so many of the
pretty reserves and mysteries that make,
up half the romance of more conven
tional association. I had never known a
brother, but I fancied that Edmund's
place iu my regard was near the same.
Still this gave him no right to criticise my
actions, and I would not submit to any
thing of the kind- As to the emotion he
displayed, 1 dismissed it by simply think
it strange, without seeking for a cause.
•• I wish to go home,’’ I said. Mrs,
Courtney wants me, at eleven, to ride
with her. Good morning. You need
not go with me,” and leaving him stand
ing in the path, I hastensd away, waiting
for no reply.
I had walked for five minutes, perhaps,
and was passing through a shaded part
of the grounds, when the shrubs by the
side of the path suddenly parted and
Mr. Adriance stood before me. The
unusual grave calm had deserted his
face. He looked heated and excited.
Pardon me,” he said, the moment he
stood before me. “I saw Mr. Gray talk
ing to you. and inferred from his gestures
and manner, as well as from a word o r
two that reached my ear as I followed the
winding path that brought you near
me again, that he was speaking ot
me. Miss Lester, do not, I beseech you,
allow your mind to be poisoned against
me. soon as I return to town, I will
seek your father’s acquaintance. My
friends and associations are all at the
South. But I can easily bring credentials
that will certify my claim to the position
and character pf a gentleman. 'Jill 1
have done so, will you suspend your judg
ment of me ?"
“ This is strange, sir,” I answered.
’ “ True, but I am strangely situated at
present. Except yourself, there is no one
here for whose opinion 1 care, save as it
might influence yours As for Mr. Gray,
I shall hold him to strict account for his
words.”
“No, do not, do not I” I cried, fearing
I knew not what, from these menacing
words.”
“ Oh, I would not harm him. I will
not, 1 mean, unless he plants himself in
my way, and strives to build up his own
1 cause upon the ruins of mine.”
- “ You must not be angry with Edmund,
sir. He is my friend, almost my brother,
and if he has said anything disparaging
of you, it was but because of his interest
in me —” the full force of my words sud -
denly occurred to me. 1 blushed and hes
itated. “ I have known Edmund from
childhood,” I added.
“ Have no fears for your friend,” Mr.
Adriance replied, almost gaily. “If you
will but allow me to speak to you occa
sionally, and kindly forget my lack of
proper introduction, 1 will promise to
forget, on ray part, his attempt to injure
me’, even though it was in a most sensi
tive point.”
'i hose dark beautiful eyes were upon
me, that fine mouth, red-lipped as a girl’s,
smiling down into my face, and 1 bowed
my head in assent. I was the captive of
this bold stranger.
’1 hat afternoon Mr. Adriance handed
me wafer at the spring, and at the even
ing he entered the ball-room for the first
time. Paul brought him to me, and in
troduced him, and I danced with him
He and Paul escorted Mrs. Courtney and
me to the door of our parlor, when the
evening was over, and went away to
gether.
“ A very pleasing man,” pronounced
Mrs. Courtney. “ I wonder what Paul
knows of him.”
Paul only knew that he was “ a deuced
good fellow—from the South—knows
nobody here, but all right —rich as
Croesus —must invite him to the house
when we‘go home.” '
Every day added to my enthralment,
Adriance was at my side constantly. A
glance of his eyes, a word from his voice,
sweet, deep.’powerful—brought me captive
To his feet. I. was not sure 1 loved him,
but he nad obtained a power me that
made me wretchecfwhen he was not near.
Edmund kept aloof from me, and, though
he remained at the Springs, never ap
proached, or scarcely spoke tome from
that day.
When the season was over we returned
home. Two days afterwards nty father
informed me that my marriage with Paul
Courtney was arranged to take place that
autumn- Paul came, and said that he
“ supposed it must/ be so; old folks were
bent on it, and for his part, he’d never
seen a girl he liked so well.” He put a
magnificent diamond upon my finger, sent
me every day splendid odorous bouquets,
and other costly gifts, and so—we were
engaged.
And all the time Adriance came al
most daily to the house. As my father
did not object to his presence theie, I
concluded that he bad satisfied himself as
to his position. And Edmund never
came. 1 met him on the street,, and at
the houses of friends, bat never at home.
X fancied he watched me strangly. But
I was unhappy ani suspicious.
Paul and Adriance were much together.
fancied that Paul feared his new friend
—at least sometimes 1 caught a glance
rom his eye that expressed both fear and
hatred ; but Adriance was always bland,
and Paul, who had ho conversational
powers, appeared to great disadvantage
in his presence. He might hate him for
that cause.
And so, in a whirl of excitement, ter
ror stricken, sad, apprehensive of I knew
not what, completely enslaved by the
malign influence, 1 passed the time till my
wedding-day drew near.
The evening of the day had come,
whose morrow was fixed for my nuptials.
I sat alone in my room. iVul had been
with me, in a strange mood, during the
evening. He had complained for the first
time that I did not love him, and had
gone away angry and sullen.
1 sat listening to the sounds in the
house as, one, by one, they died away. —
My father had gone to his room. The
servants had fastened doors and windows,
and sought theirs. ~ All was silent at last,
and midnight was near.
I arose, and quickly arrayed myself in
the traveling dress prepared for the mor
row. Then taking in my hand a illttle
bag, stole silently down the stairs. The
bolts grated and the lock clicked, but 1
was not dismayed. Softly closing the
door behind me, I stood beneath the sky
of a wild, stormy night. I could see
nothing, but distinctly heard the stamp of
horses’ feet, and the low sound of voices a
few doors below, and presently out of the
dark, a figure approached. It was
Adriance. He drew my hand witl in his
arm, uttered a few encouraging words,
and led me toward the carriage. I was
going away with him that night.
1 never could describe the scene, it was
so awful and sudden. But two figures
rose out of the darkness, the coachman,
with a terrific yell darted down the street;
Adriance was seized, but wrenched him
self aiway. T here were curses, both loud
and deep, and fearful epithets were
bandied. I stood unnoticed, when, sud
denly, a little bine flame, a faint click,
and then a sharp explosion; the retreating
footsteps rapid aud-measured, and 1 stood
there with a dark form stretched at my
feet, another bending over it. T ben doors
and windows opened, voices were heard,
lights appeared upon the scene, and 1 was
lifted in a strong pair of arms and borne
swiftly into my father’s house. Just be
hind me four men bore the dead body of
Paul Courtney. And so I was saved 1
Adriance was the murderer, and he had
fled, nor was he ever found. Afterwards
we knew who be was—that he was all
and more than Edmund had suspected,
his true name—a terror in many homes.
It was Edmund who saved me from an
awful fate. He had been watchful. " He
saw not only the power Adriance bad
gained over Paul, but my danger. He
was my truest friend in my bitterest hour
of need. Two or three years after these
occurrences I became his wife* My sorrow
and my penitence bad earned bis confi
dence. 1 had learned to love him as he de
served, and there is nothing now to mar
ray happiness but my deep regret for my
youthful folly, and its terrible results.
A COLORED PREACHER'S ADDRESS
TO A NEWLY HARRIED PAIR
In the last instalment of the “ Merchants’
Story” in the Continental Monthly, there
is a capital description of a negro wedding,
from which we quote the address of the
“ officiating clergymanMy chil’ren.
love one anoder'; bar wid pne anoder ; be
faithful wid one anoder; you bab started
on a long journey; many rough places am
in de road; many truhbles will spring up
by the way side: but go on hand an*
hand togedder, love one anoder; an’ no
matter what come enter you, yon will be
happy —fur IPve will sweeten ebery sor
rer, lighten ebery load, make de sun shine
in cben the cloudiest wedder- I know’s
it will my chil’ren, ’case Psp been ober de
grdun’. Ole Akgy an’ I hab trabbled de
road. Hand in hapd we hab gonp ober
de recks"; frudemud; in de hot barnm*.
sand; ben out togedder in de cole, an’ de
rain, an’ de storm, for nigh onter forty
yar, but we hab clung to one anoder ; we
hub loved ope anoder; an* fru eberything,
in de iery darkest days, de sun of joy an’
pehce hab broke fra de clouds, an* sent
his blessed fays down inter oar hearts.
“ Wo started jessiike two young sapiens
you’s seed a growiu’ side by side in the
woods. At fust we seemed way ‘part,
for de brambles; an* de tide brush, “an*
EDTTOBS AND
de ugly ferns—dem war our bad ways—
war atween os; bat love, likedesan,
shown down on as, an’ w® grow'd. W«
grow’d till cur heads gpt above de bashes;
till this little branch, an’ dat ' little
branch—dem war oof holy feeUh’s—
put out toward one anoder, an’ we
come closer an’ closer togedder. = An’
dough we’m old trees now, ah* tome times
de wind blow an* de storm rags fen de
tops, an* fireaten to tear off de limbs, an*
to pull up de berry roots, we’m growin’
closer an’ closer, nearer an’ nearer togedder
ebery day. An’ soon de ole tops will meet;
soon de ole branches, all eobend ober wid
moss, will twine round one anoder; soon
de two ole tranks will come togedder, an’
grow into one forever—grow inter one up
dar in de sky, whar de wind neber‘ll blow,
whar de storm neber’U beat; whar we
shall blossom an’ bar fruit to de glory ok
de Lord, an’ in his heabenly kingdom
forever.
*• Yea, my chU’ren, you hub started on
n long journey, an’ nuffin’ will git you fru
it but love. Nuffin’ will hole you up,
nuthn’ will keep you faithful to one
anoder, nuffin will make you bar wid one
anoder, but love.; None of us kin lib
widout it; but married folks want it
most ob all. Dey, need it more dan de
broad dey eat, de water dey drink, or de
air dey breath. De world couldn't go
on widout it. De bery sun would go
out in de bcabena but fur dat! An”
shill I tell you why 1 You hab heerd
Massa Robert talk ’bout the great law dat
make de apple fall from do tree, de rock
sink in de water; dat bines our feet to dje
round ’arth so we don’t drop off it as it
go fru de air; dat holds de sun an’ de
stars in 'pointed places, so dat, day after
day, an’ yar after yar, dough dey’m trab
lilin fasscr dan de light in’ ebor went, de’in
right whar dey should- be.
“He call it ’traction, an’ all de great
men call it so ; but dat hint de name ! It
am love. It am God, fur God am love,
an’ love am God, an’ love bines de whole
creashun togedder! An’ shill I tell you
how to do it ? Does you see dis hand 1
how I open the lingers ; how I shut’m up;
how I rise de whole arm 1 ? Does you see
dis foot, dat 1 dose wid jess de same ?
Does you see dis whole body, how I make
it, in a twinklin’, do jess what I like 1
Now what am it dat make my hand move,
an’ my whole body turn round so sudden,
dat I’s only to say: ‘Do it,’ an’ it am done*
Why it am me. It’m me dat libs op yere
in de brain, an’ sends my will fru ebery
part—fru ebery siner and ebery muscle,
an’ ebery little jint, an, mak’tn all do jess
what 1 like.
“ Now, man am made in de image ob
God, an' die pore, weak ole body am a
small pattren ob de whole creashun. —
Eberything go on jess as it do. Ebery
tbing am held togedder, an’ moved 'bout,
jess as it am—but it’m God dat move it,
not me! He libs op der in de sky—
which am His brain-—wid de stars for His
hands, de planets for His feet, an* de
whole nnivarse for His body; an’ He
sends His will —which am love—fru ebrey
part of de whole, an’ moves it about an’
makes it do jess as He likes.
“ So, you see, it am my will sent fru
ebery muscle, an’ ebery little siner, dat
moves my body; so it ami His will sent
f.u what de ’stronomers an' de poets call
de beabenly ether, dat moves his body —
which'am the ’arth, an’ de sun, an de
stars, you an’ me, an’ ebery libin’
ting in all creashun! His will move em
all; an’ His will am love 1 An’ don’t you
see dat you can’t do widout bis love t
Oat it am de beiy breaf of life 1 Oat ef
it wiir tooken’ wty from you. fur jess one
moment, you’d drop down an’ die, ant
neber come to life agin—no, not in dif
worle, nor in any Oder worlet
‘• It am so my chU’ren; an’ de more
you bab ob dat love de happier you’ll be;
de more you’ll low) one anoder, de easier"
you’ll go fru you’ life—de more joyfuller
you’ll meet your death—de happier you’ll
be all fru de long, long ages dat’ra
cornin’ in de great yeieafter! Den Omy
chil’ren! Love God, Love one anoder 1
You can’t be happy widout you love God,
an’ you can’t love him widout you love
one anoder.”
pedestrian attacked by
three highwaymen, defended hinuelf with
great courage and obetingcy, but was at
length overpowered and his pockets rifled.
The robbers expected, from the extraor
dinary resistance they had experienced, to
lay their hands oh some rich booty, but
were not a little surprised to discover that
the whole treasure which the sturdy
Caledonian had been defending at the
hazard pf his life, consisted of hp more
than a crooked six pence. “ The deuce
is in him,” said ope of the rogues ; “ if he
had had eighteen 1 pence, I suppose' he
would Have killed the whole of us.” *!
O* An editor out west wants to know
“ what’s to become of the women if muslin
goes up much higher t” Ohr devil thinks
that the result will be that they’ll turn
out to be a poor Mg/Hess set
OF The sunset clouds sure the visible
song of the day that is dead. 7'
-o>.- %
NO. 7