;.-
COME AND TAKE ME. Dcvivier.
YOL. 1.
OLEAEFIELD,: WEDNESDAY, MAY 9, 1855.
NO. 40.
0
UAFTSMAJTS JOURNAL.
Bns. Joxes, Publisher.
Per. annum, (payable in advance.) $1 30
If pail within tho year, 2 00
No paper discontinued until all arrearages are
paid.
A failure to notify a discontinuance atlhc expi
ration of the term subscribe : fur, will be consider- j
a a new enjrasrement.
THE SPRING THE WAKING.
We CnJ the following beautiful and seasonable
poem in au exehanrfl. Its personification of Spring
Is pretty and cer readers will read it with pleasure.
A LAftv came to a snow-white bier,
Where a youth lay pale and dead.
And sho took the veil from her widowed head,
And bending low, in his ear she said
Awakrjn! for I ain hero.
She pa.-'sod, with a smile, to a wild-wood near,
Where the boughs were barren and bare;
And she tapped on the baik vith her fingers fair,
Andshecalled to the leaves that wero buried there
Awaken! for I am here.
The birds beheld her without fear,
As sho walked through the deepening dells;
As she breathed on their downy citadels,
And fiha Eaid to the your.g in their ivory shells
Awaken! for I am here.
On the grave of the llowers she dropped a tear,
I5ut with hope and joy like us;
And, even ad the Lord to Lazarus,
She called on the slumbering sweet flower thus
Awaken! for I am here.
To the 111 lies that lay in the silver mere,
To the weeds by the golden pond.
To the moss that roundad the marge beyond,
the spoke, in a voice so soft and fond,
Awaken ! for I ain here.
The violet peeped with its blue eye clear,
From under its own grave-stone ;
lor the blessed tidings around had flown,
And before she spoke, the mandate was known
Awaken ! for I am here.
The pale grass lay with its long locks soro.
On the breast of the open plain !
She loosened the matted hair of the slain,
And cried as she filled eah juicy vein
Awaken ! for I am here.
The rivh rose up with its pointed spesr, -The
flag w ith its falehion broad ;
The dock uplifted its shield unawed, sod
As the voice rang clear thro"--the. thickening
Awaken ! for I am here.
The red blood ran through the clover near,
And the heath on the hills o'er head;
'ihe daisy's fingers were tipped with red
As she 6tarted to lifo. as the lady said
Awaken! for I am here.
And the'young year rose from his suow-white foar,
And the fiowers from their green retreat;
Anl they came and knelt at the lady's feet,
Saying ail, witlf their mingled voices sweet
0 lady! behold us hero.
ivritts Fon me jvrnxAL.j
THE
COPtRIGai SECTRKJ).
:0:
CHAPTER XX.
Vriilia gradually revived, and, in a few
days, had so far regained her strength, that
aha was able to walk about. Into kinder
hands, she could not possibly have fallen; and
hor rapid recovery was not a little owing, to
tho unremitted attentions of the motlfer and
her daughter.
She was very weak, however, for several
days, and could not endure the least undue
exertion. .She had a constant pain and diz
ziness in her head, ar.d her rhind, at times,
was very much unsettled. She could not fix
her thoughts, for any length of time, upon
any subject at all. There was a dreamy list
lesscess about all her thoughts,' and she seem
ed to herself to te living iu some strange,
visionary sort of stato, from which every
thing real and tangible was excluded.
And may we not perceive in this tho bene
ficent hand of Fr0vid2r.se. Had the reality
of h;r situation, with her recent trials, been
ruddenly presented to the mind, it might have
been beyond the power of endurance. Cut
hottven is merciful ; and the memory is allow
to recall the past, only when there is strength
of mind and body to bear it.
That memory, however, was faithful to its
trust. The scenes of the past were too vivid
ly impressed upon it to lc forgotten. There
were images there that no time nor adventure
could possibly efface. They had been engra
ved, perhaps, for eternity's endurance. And
thongh veiled over fop a brief season, yet the
veil after a little is removed, and there they
arc, in bold 'and living reality.
One afternoon she felt almost well. The
pain, in a measure, had left her head, and she
felt stronger. In the cool of the evening, for
the first time, she ventured a walk into the gar
den ; although from the door of the cabin,
ehe had frequently gazed at the flower-beds,
nd out upon the dark forest. But ' every
thing hitherto seemed to have, a strange hazi
ness about it, and presented itself to tho eye
Jn some queer distorted form. This evening,
however, things had a new and more life-like
appearance. Tho flowers looked natural, and
emitted their usual - odors ; the birds sang
again their old favorite songs; the trees had
the Same dress of .living green ; and. the sun,
whoso declining rays were shooting, arrow
like, through the tops of the tall forest, look
ed like the same whose setting glories she had
Booften admired. .-.
Then, she seemed Aere" again. Sho could
realize her individuality. But where was she?
She looked at the old gray: mouldering walls;
at the or, grassy-roofed rabinj at the sur
rounding forest i- t, tho .flower-beds at the
flusters" of vines; ; and' then sher tnroed her
up to the blue,' distant sties. But all
was strange; she had never seen the place be
fore. Net a dream of ber life had ever reali
zed it. Then, how did she get there? She
sat down under the sliaddow of an overiiang
vine, and thought and thought ; but all to no
purpose. See could recall the feint image of
a chariot, and a tall man, with a coarso husky
voice. With a little more distinctness, she
could recollect how she had entered the cabin;
and how the tall man had put a small s ap of
parchment into the hand of the strange wo
man, just cs he wheeled round, and hastily
passed out of the door.
As she sat musing about these things, her
thoughts, all of a sudden, were in Home. Tho
city, with its burnt, black districts, lay before
her. Then the shouts and imprecations of
the soldiers the blazing, crackling fires and
the shrieks and wailings of the dying, fell
with a sad, awful distinctness upon her cars.
Then too, from out the misty depths of the
past, rose up the home of her youth, with the
recent history of its sorrows. Her sister's
death the sudden disappearance of Valdinus
the arrest of herself and father, and the for
lorne condition of her poor, dear mother, did
her memory, at that moment, recall, with a
most painful accuracy. But where she was,
or how she got there, she could not conjec
ture. This seemed the strangest thing of all ;
and she resolved, if possible, to find out some
thing, at least, about it.
But, at present, another thought was in her
mind the thought of her dear father and
mother. Ere that, she doubted not, her fath
er had goue to his joy and reward. But where
was her mother that mother, whose sparkling
eyes, peering fondly into her own, had first
waked her into childhood's dreams; and which,
like two unsetting orbs, had brightened and
cheered her giilish days, and watched over
her inexperienced steps, in the dangerous
walks cf youth. Ilhd she been put to death
or did sho still live? And as the anxious
thought pressed more heavily on her mind,
she bowed her head forward on her hand, and
burst into tears. Sho wept sore for some
minutes; and then, with her golden ringlets
falling about her pale face, and a last, linger
ing ray of the setting sun falling on her moist,
dewy cheek, she went on her knees, and pray
ed earnestly to the great, good Shepherd.
And then, again reseating herself, and bowing
her head on her hand a3 before, she sighed
out :
"Oh ! mother ! mother !'
Just at this moment, she felt tho gentle tap
of a hand on tho shoulder. . She started
looked round : there was the light, fairy form,
and the wild, staring eyes of Letta.
"Mother says come in ; she dont want you
out too long."
"Yes, kind girl ;" and Vertitia qnickly
wiped away her tears, rose to her feet, and
followed feetta into the cabin.
She found tho good mother seated just in
side the door, looking out upon the dark for
est, pale and thoughtful, and with a deeper
melancholy thau usual in her countenance.
As now appeared, she was subject to sudden
paroxysms, and during the absence of Verti
tia, had had one of her spells. Sho soon re
covered, however, and had thus seated herself
at the door.
"Guess, you think it lonely here ; we used
to think it so, too;" she remarked, as Verti
tia took a seat at her side; while Letta, throw
ing asido her thick, matty hair from her thin,
pale face, sat down on the door step.
"You needn't though," she added, looking
pitifully at Vertitia, whose moist eyes betray
ed the sadness of her heart ; "we'll be kind,
yousee,and doall we can to make itAome-like."
At the mention of home, Vertitia burst in
to tears.
Letta looked up, and a tear rolled down her
cheek.
"Ah ! now; poor thing," said the good
mother, sympaihyzingly, "she's got a home
I see thai. I shouldn't have named it. I know
how it is."
Letta then, rising quickly, and in her kind
artless way, began smoothing back the soft,
wavy tresses of Vertitia'a hair, which had fal
len over her face, and upon which her tears
wera pouring in profusion.
"This is a weakness," thought Vertitia. "I
must not yield to it. My master calls me to
such a time as this. lie doeth all things well.
Then it is unworthy such kindness ;" and with
an effort, she suppressed her emotions, and
said : . .. .
"Yes, good mother, this is my home now.
I think I shall like it. I love the solitude- of
the forest, the wild flowers, the sweet song of
the birds, and seclusion from the follies and
pleasures of the world. My tastes have chan
ged with my hopes. I think I shall be quite
happy here. Then you're so lind." "
Letta looked rouncLinto. Vertitia's face, as
she said this, with a most kindly , smile; and,
fingering and smoothing back her curls a mo
ment, again seated herself in the door, with
a glad, bright countenance. .
"Yes, yes," observed the good mother, with
a sigh, we should be kind to one another ;
we all have our troubles. I've mine."
As she said this, a deeper shade , of melan
choly 6pread over her features, while her pale,
thin lips quavered, and her bent frame trem
bled. r .' . , . ' , ' '';
' An unaccountable enriositv came over Ver
titia, at this "moment, to ' know- something of
the woman's history. It was quite evident,
that she had seen more of the world, than her
present abode could possibly admit ; and then,
her refined, courteous manners, as well as the
remains of what was once a neat, graceful
form, rendered highly probably, as Vertitia
thought, that she had once moved in the high
er circles of society. But any inquiry upon
tho subject just then, she felt might be out of
place, if not, perhaps, an intrusion upon the
treasured memories of a heart, which sho
would not for the world purposely wound.
She was soon, however, relieved ; for the wo
man herself, as if in anticipation of her desire,
broached the subject, as follows:
"You may think it queer, pretty stranger,
that we live in this wild, lonely place. But
I'm as happy here as I would -be anywhere
else. It's not the ccc, you know, that makes
one feel right. Sorrow is in the heart, and we
connot leave that behind us. Dannus,and Let
ta there, have often wanted me to goto Rome;
but I tell them, I must take my broken heart
with me, and they say no more about it. Yes,
3'es I can never forget it; that despairing
look he gave me, as they dragged him out of
the door there; and then the cuttingand slash
ing of their swords, as they hewed him to jie
ces, is still ringing in my ears."
Hero the woman shuddered, and her eyes lit
up with a strange wildncss. Vertitia felt
alarmed, and earnestly begged her to desist
from saying any thing more.
"Yes, yes; I must tell you. It's no harder,
you kuow, to speak of one's troubles, than to
think of them. And so I must tell you all."
Vertitia assented, by casting her eyes anx
iously around her a moment, and then fixing
them silently on tho earthen floor; while Let
ta sat, with tearful eyes, gazing iuto the gath
ering shades of night.
"My family," she continued, "resided in
Rome. My parents both died when I was young,
and left me an heir to a large estate. I was
their onlj- child. At 18 years of age I was
married to a young man of rank and fortune,
and the person of my earliest love. lie was
thought to be the handsomest man in Rome,
and myself the most fortunate of women. And
so I was; for a kinder husband and more affec
tionate father, never was. My j-ears glided
away smoothly and happily. I knew no want
no care no sorrow.
My hussbaHd had long held a high and re
sponsible office under his sovereign, theduties
of which he had ever discharged with the ut
most fidelity. At length, howevc, a plot was
discovered against tho Emperor's life, in which
my husband, though innocent, became, by a
most singular circumstance, implicated. I say
he was innocent, and his innocence was proved,
and the Senate, to wipe away the stain from
his family, had it publicaly announced in the
Forum. But, it was too late yes, too late!
With several of the nobility, he had been ar
rested, tried, and condcnThed to death.
My son it was him brought yauhcre gain
ed access into the Tower in -which his father
was coulined, the night before his death. In
what way he managed to get into that black,
horrid place, I cannot tell; for I can never get
him to speak about it. But about the middle
of the night, he'eame home, carrying his fa
ther in his arms. He could not walk, for his
feet and hands were tied. In a moment, how
ever, the fetters with which he was bound
were lying on the floor, and my husband caught
me up in his arms. I cannot tell you any more
of what happened just then, nor for a long
time after, for my senses had left me. About
day-light, when my senses retnrned, I found
myself in my son's arms, and my husband at
his si le. They were going at almost a run.
But I knew not where we were. The country
and every thing looked strange.
About tlii s time, I observed they left the
road, aud struck into the forest. There was no
path, and in many places it was hard getting
through, so dense were the bushes and trees.
My son, however, still bore me along, some
times resting me in one arm, while, with the
other, he parted the thick, matted branches,
to open up a way. My husband, I observed,
by this time, was barely able to support him
self, and get along. ... i
We travelled on a long time, till, at last, I
was set down in the midst pf these old ruins.
My son then immediately left, bnt returned
again during the night, bringing with him
some food, and some other things. The next
day they set about erecting this cabin, and
which was soon completed, just as you see it.
I felt happy; for I was happy with that hus
band and son anywhere. Letta there wasn't
born then not for three or four months after.
But, oh ! my happiness was brief, and my joy
at my husband's deliverance was soon -cut
short, My sou had returned to Rome one day,
to bring away, if possible, some of our things.
In the meantime, the place of our retreat had,
in some way, been discovered. ; I know not
how. But J was setting just where I am now,
with my poor, dear husband at my side; when,
the first thing we knew, a company of soldiers
stood right there before the door. It was just
getting dark like it is now. My husband sprang
to his feet; J screamed and fell down there. I
still had my senses, however, but was unable
to speak or move. The soldiers rushed in, and
seized my husband, and dragged him out there,
and then round the corner there. . Just as he
passed out of the , door, he turned his head
round, and gave me, fhatjook and, O, horrid !
the next instant almost, I heard their swords
cutting aud hewing him to pieces, and my
husband give a deep, heavy moan. .
Here the woman quickly rose to her feet;
and, approaching one of the couches, drew out
from under it, a large, veiled, earthen urn.
"See bore, pretty stranger," said she.
Vertitia, with great difficulty, rose and step
ped forward to her side; when the woman, lif
ting the veil from off it, said, with a faltering,
sinking voice,
"There are his ashes."
The next moment, sho was lying insensible
on tho couch. She had another of her 6pclls.
Conclusion r.ext week.
Jttisrtllnnfons.
THE BRIGAND'S FATE.
The Governor of a city in Italy, in the king
dom of Xaples, wishing to repress the depre
dations of a numerous band of robbers, who
ravaged the surrounding country, published a
decree, in which he promised pardon and a
sum of money to every brigand who should de
liver np to him one of his comrades, living
or dead. This decree reached the ears of the
brigands, who were collected together in their
retreat in the mountains. They had just cap
tured a rich booty, and were dividing the
spoil, which they owed to their own audacity,
and above all to the courage of their young
and intrepid leader. He, seated apart from the
rest silent and dejected,partook not of the gen
eral satisfaction. Slightly wounded in the com
bat which had taken place with the travellers,
who had dearly sold their lives and fortunes,
he was holding out his arm to a pretty young
girl, who bound up the wounds. Near him
laid the black mask, which he had just
taken off, and which served as a disguise in
this perilous enterprise.
Upon hearing the decree read the brigands
started up, and grasped their weapons in in
dignation at the govenor who could believe
them capable of purchasing their liberty and a
few pieces of gold, at the price of treason and
infamy. The lieutenant, especially, could not
overcome his boiling fury; for although he had
grown gray in crime, he possessed that species
of honor which revolts at the idea of a mean
ness, and he swore he would punish the govern
or for having treated them so contemptuously.
The captain alone expressed neither indig
nation nor anger ; he was heard to murmur
these words: "The govenor does his duty.
Do we not merit the contempt of mankind, as
well as their hatred ? Are not they worthy of
every species of affront, every kind of punish
ment, who daily outrage every law, human
and divine, by committing depredations upon
their fellow beings ?"
Guisardi, such was the lieutenant's name,
entertained a violent hatred towards the cap
tain ; for this young man had disputed the
command with him, which was due to his long
services, and had proved successful. Deeds
skilfully achieved, calmness and daring cour
age, united with a mental superiority, which
imposed upon these ferocious but simple mind
ed men, had quickly obtained from Paola the
title of their captain, and with the title the con
fidence and blind obedience of the whole troop.
This enmity towards the young commander
operated very powerfully in the unregulated
mind of Guisardi, and was augmented by jeal
ousy, for he had become enarmored of Florel
ta, the young girl whom we represented dress
ing the arm of. the yonng chief. Floretta had
accompanied this young man upon his joining
the troop, and ever since she had constantly
shared, with the devotion of love, the fatigues
and dangers of his new condition, repulsing
tho addresses of . Guisardi with just abhor
rence. He was, however, in possession of iu
important secret.
Tho brigands had entered their mountain
cave in order to take some necessary . repose,
and once more count over their treasure ero
they gave themselves np to sleep. .Tho cap
tain remained alone, but soon retired to take
his customary ramble among the recesses of
the mountains. Guisardi followed his step at
a distance, when he suddenly took a winding
road, and placing himself at the turn of a de
file, awaited the arrival of Paola. As soon as
htfapproached Guisardi, with a stroke of his
poignard, extended him dead at his feet ; he
then severed the head from the body, and pla
cing it in an iron casket, immediately set off
to the town where the governor resided. -
Upon Guisardi's arrival at the governor's
palace, everything wore a joyous aspect ; it
was a day of festivity, for they were celebra
ting the . marriage of one of the governor's
daughters. Before admitting him the guards
demanded his name and business ; he made
himself1 known, pronouncing a name which
was the terror of the whole country, adding
that, taking advantage of the amnesty, he had
brought the head of his chief, the famous
Paola, a name no less famous than his own.
He was introduced into the saloon where the
governor was seated, surrounded by. his cour
tiers and family. ' The governor's daughter's,
horrified, would have retired- from the apart
ment had not . their father prevented them.
"This man," said he, "is guilty; bat repent
ant," and ha avenged society with his . own
hand. Remain, my children, and endeavor to
overcome this weaknens. Give,'ddedhetothe
attendants, a "seat to our neVguestyand some
refreshments. Lieutenant Guisardi repose
yourself awhile: here is wine, and when I rise
from table, we will open your casket, for I am
curious to behold the head of this famous
captain who has caused us so much alarm, and
in exchange for this present, you will receive
liberty and the promised reward.
The feast continued nniid songs and rijoic
ing, when at length the governor rising from
table, and approaching the brigand,, silently
seated near his casket; he opens it. What
does ho behold? The head of his own son,
of that son whose wild youth and ungoverna
ble passion.s had long affected his family, and
who tho previous year, had disappeared from
flic paternal home, without leaving any traces
of his flight, at the moment of contracting a
brilliant alliance, which would have fulfilled,
not his own wishes, but the hopes and ambi
tion of his father. Tho unfortunate father
subdued his grief, and presented the robber
the promised reward. "Keep your gold," said
the man haughtily. "I wished to xuiiish you
for believing us capable of such infamous
treachery. The evil you wished to ciuse us;
falls on your own head. Iam revenged! I
am satisfied ! I am free ! Adieu !
Krs. Partington on the Kar'-iets"!"
I don't understand the bill,' says Mrs. Part
ington, as she wipes off her specks to read
over a second time the market returns. 'Tliey
say the market is 'Jinn;' well, so it ought to
be, for they've newly paved it with granite.
And I wonder what they mean by a better feel
ing in the market. I am sure I don't feel any
better there; and I don't believe anybody does
but tho butchers, and that's when they're
pocketing tho money things aro so dear.
Then it says that the trade embraces ten hogs
heads of tobacco ; I should like to have seen
that; it must have been a real tcchlng sight
Why do they say 'coffee is a drug?' I always
thought cofl'ee was a vegetarian: but perhaps
that's before it undergoes the necessary pro
cession. Tallow, it says, was 'firm;' well, I'm
glad of that; let's hope now that our candles
won't ignate away so dreadful fast. The tea
market, I find, was 'dull;' that must have been
before it was lit up. In wheat and bailey
there was cio alteration;' I shculd think not
indeed, how should there be 1 But on the
whole, tlie trade ruled brisk at last 'q-ao.'aiions;'
why, what quotations could there be to make
the farmers so brisk 'We hear that in the po
tato district the diseased produce does not ex
ceed one potato in a bushel.' 'Why, it's
enuff to breed a famine. 'Hay was stationary;'
well that must have been a topographical er
ror, unless they hare found out the way of ma
king paper out of fibers. 'There was a liberal
supply tf flour;' ah, that must have been the
work of some filamprofests who cared for tho
poor. Heaven bless 'em ! 'And last week's
rates were readily obtained;' well that's a good
hearing; considering how bad the times are,
it's a wonder to mo how rates and taxes can be
readily obtained.' Bless thee, Dame Parting
ton, fcr thy simple and honest criticism upon
market returns!. Evidently thou art not
deeply versed in technicalities.
Amcsing. The editor of the Albany Regis
ter, having been disturbed by an assemblage
of cats under his window, thus gives vent to
his indignation: - . , . -
"But those cats, in our opinion, are in dan
ger, and we warn all who have any interest in
them, either present or expectant, to look to
them. We have been constrained to watch
for hours, when wo ought to have beon asleep.
We have heard the clock strike twelve, one,
two, at intervals in their performances, and
have been tempted to the use of terms not to
be found in any religious work, or any of the
standard sermons of the day. We have drop
ped many brickbats among them, wasted more
wood upon them . than we are able to spare,
have taken cold by exposure to the night air,
and become hoarse by hollowing "Scat." We
have exhausted our loose pieces of brick, the
smaller sticks of our . wood pile, and our pa
tience. In view of all these facts we submit
that there is nothing left for us but to move
ourself, or move those cats, and tee shall not
move. We have prepared a double-barreled
gun, a full supply of powder and percussion
caps, and in our opinion, somebody's cats will
go homo some moon-light night complaining
of feeling ; unwell. - If . theyr do,- we must be
held harmless. ' - - - --
Trcst is God. We cannot lift the curtain
that veils the future.' Bitf God does not leave
us in the dark. Encouraging our faith, and
cheering us on, and inviting our trust in and
confidence, he condescendingly, meets' us in
time of greatest need, as he does in every em
ergency " hen wer seek his aid, and offers to
us, in kindest terms, his promiess.
Tecst is God is inscribed in living letters,
on this side of the veil that hides futurity; and
God, faithful to his promises according as his
creatures comply with their conditions -distributes
every little rill of comfort that flows into
the soul to cheer and tustain it, in each hour
and moment of its pilgrimage. -;
David, acknowledging this truth, stretches
out his hands unto God, as the author of. all
his happiness ; and, with that grateful affec
tion which is more than anything else accept
able to the Father of merciet from bis crea-
l tures, says, ".111 my spring art n Thee.' - '
Freiji the School Journal.
Decisions of State Superintendent.
1. Xcn-resideuSs not to be Directors : Xo per
son can serve as Direclor, who docs not rcsido
in the District for which he was elected.
2. Vacancies by Hcmoval from District to bs
filled by appointment : When a Director has re
moved from tho district, it is the duty of the
Board to fill tho vacancy by appointment, un
til the next regular election.
3. Last adjusted ralvation not to be modeled
or enlarged : In levying school tax, Directors
are limited, in their assessment, under the
2'Jth section of the school law, tu the "last ad
justed valuation," furnished by the County
Commissioners, an I cannot modify it, to make
up for either real or supposed omission and
mistakes on tho part of assessors.
4. Ordinary school tax mot to be cif-lied to
Building : Tho tax levied under the SCth sec
tion of the School Law should be appropriated
solely to the support and maintenance of tho
schools, an I to defray their ordinary expenses,
including repairs; and Directors cannot legal
ly use any portion of it as a building fund.
5. Building t.:x limited ani tote kept separ
ate : The special tax for building purposes un
der the J!3d section of the Law, cannot exceed
the "amount of the regular annual tax" for
the current school year, levied under the 30th
section. A careful account should be kept of
each fund separately.
C. Treasurer not to get any per cctiiageon bal
ance : An out-going School Treasurer is cot
entitled to percentage on the unexpended bal
ance in the District Treasury, handed over to
his successor in office.
7. Xumber of days in a Teacher's month To
ascertain the exact number day s in a Teach
er's month, first deduct all the Sabbaths from
each calender mouth taught, then deduct every
alternate Saturday, or tho latter half of every
Saturday,' and the remaining time, but no
more, should be exacted of the Teacher. The
better policy would be to have no school at all
on Saturday; and whenever this is' done, the
days thus vacated should not bo charged to
the Teacher.
8. Teachers' Cerlificales iul in force out of
the county .- County Superintendents' certifi
cates to teachers are not of authority out of
the county for which they were issued. A
change of location to another county would
require a re-examinalion by the Superintend
ent of tho proper county, and a fresh certifi
cate. IIoi'E. The anchor of the soul is nope.
Were it not for hope the heart would often
times break under the heavy weight of woo it
is doomed to bear. It is the sun and moon of
this world, tho day star of existence. Ever
aro wo living in hope. When tossed on beds
of sickness we hope to recover when sad and
weary of life we hope to be again happy when
in trouble, we hope the cause will be removed
when separated from friends, we hope soon
to meet them. The weary soldier, worn with
incessant toil and privations, is cheered by the
hope of being soon restored to home and
friends the hope of a plentiful harvest encour
ages the husbandmen to till the soil the hope
of finding 'the buried spoil its wealthy furrows
yield,' sustains the schollar 33 he ploughs tho
field of 'classic lore' the hope of acquittal,
pardon, or escape sustains the prisoner in tho
gloomy cell, as he tosses restlessly on his pal
let of straw, or paces in agony the cold damp
floor. But the Christian's hope ! It is tho hope
of hopes ! Every other hope fades before that
as the stars before the sun in his rising from
the ocean. That is the only hope which . ex
tends beyond tho gloomy portals of tho grave.
All other hopes are earthly, and soon, alas!
they fade away. This hope enables us to bear
the bitter disappointments, cares, and sorrows
of this dark world with fortitude, and how tru
ly, blessed is he who possesses that glorious
hopo which fadcth not away but brightens
through eternity. ,
Pjieparatios roa Death. When you lie
down at night, compose your spirit aa if you
were not to awake till the heavens be no more.
And when you awake in the morning consider
that new day as your last, and live according
ly. Surely that night cometh of which you
will never see the morning, or that of which
you" will never see the night; but which of your
mornings or nights will be such, you know not.
Let the mantle of worldly enjoyment hang
loose about you that it may be easily dropped
when death comes to carry you into another
world. When the corn is forsaken the ground
is ready for the sickle, when the fruit is ripe it
falls offthe tree easily. So when a Chiristi&n's
heart is truly -weaned from the world, he is
prepared for death,1 and it will be moro easy
for him. A heart- disengaged from the world
is a heavenly one, and then we are ready for
heaven when onr heart is before ns.
D" Let us adopt the love of peace, that
Christ may recognize his own, even as we rec
ognizo him to be the teacher of peace.
CFMost arts require long study and applica
tion ; but' the most nseful art of all, that of
pleasing, requires only the desire. '
" -rjjT'An Ohio Editor, in announcing that he
had seen a Bloomer, says 'she looked renaart
ably weUar at ht cwM set! ' f-
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