,'attic d.
THE GUERRILLAS
The following appeal for the cowardly, murderous
guerrilla, and his hellish occupation, is from the pen
of a recreant Marylander, now a prisonor in Fort Dola•
Mare. Ile was detected furnishing aid to the rebels :
Awako and to horse my brothora,
For the dawn Is glimmering gay,
And hark In the crackling brushwood,
Thorn aro foot that tread this way.
"Who coraoth I" " a friend," "What tidings ?"
Oh God I sicken to tell,
Vor tho earth seems earth no longer,
And it's sights are the sights of hull.
. .
Fiotri tar off conquered cities,
Comes a voice of stifled wail,
And the shrieks nod groans or tho houseless,
Ring out like o dirge on the gale.
I've seen from the smoking v
Our mothers and daughters fly,
I've seen where the little children
Lay down In the furrows to dlo.
On the hanks of tho battle stained river,
stood as the moonlight shone,
And It glared on the fare of my brother,
As the waves swept him on.
Where my home was glad, aro ashes,
And horrors and shame had been there,
Nor I found on the fallen lintel,
A trots of my wife's torn hair.
They are turning the slaves upon us,
And with more than fiends' worst art,
llave uncovered the fire of the Rayne,
That slept in his untaught ho art.
The ties to the heart that bound him,
They have rent with curses away;
And maddened him with their madness,
To be almost as brutal as they.
'ith halter, and tmeh, and Bible,
And hymns to the sound of the drum,
They preach the Gremel of murder,
Andliray for_Lustle,kingdom to come.
To saddle, To saddle, my brothers,
Look up to the rising sun,
And nNk the God who shines there,
Whether deeds like these shall be done
Wherever the vandal cometh,
Press horne to the heart with your steel,
And when at his bosom you rannot
surpout go strike..at .1.11. n. eel .
Through thicket and wood, go hunt him,
Creep on to his camp-fire side,
And let ten of his corpses blacken,
Where clip of our brothers bath died.
In his fainting feet sore marches,
In his flight fn m the stricken fray,
In the snore of the lonely ambush,
The debts we owo him pay
In Goo's hand ainno Is vengeance,
But ho strikes with the hands of men,
Aud Ilk blight would wither our manhood,
If svo surtto notthtrsmiter-ngatn----"
Ily the graves where our fathers slumber,
By the shrines where our mothers prayed,
By our homes, and hopes, and freedom,
Let every inan swear on his blade.
That ho will not sheath or stay it,
Till from point to hill It will glow,
With the hush of Almighty vengeance,
111 the blood of am felon to.
They swore and the answering sunlight
Leaped red front their lilted swords,
Andthe hate of their hearts made echo
To the wrath in their burning words.
There's a eoping in all New England,
And by ',.chuylkill's hank a knell,
And the widows there and the Orphans,
Il ow the oath was kept can toll.
iTi,allaneDuo
•
FAT_TSTINE
CONDENtiLD FROM THE FRENCH OF MDME
REVBAUD
In the south of France there is a lit
tle town, badly situated, ill built and ex
posed to that uncomfortable north-west
ind which the Provencals call the min
stral. Industry has never flourished
there. It has no theatre, museum, libra
ry, histcrical curiosity, or ruin. The
houses upon both sides of the main street
have a singularly retired and tranquil
look, and one might think that the in
habitants had abandoned their hearths,
except that here and there an open win
doit reveals smoky ceilings, ugly flow
ered paper and draperies of white cotton,
from which hang cotton tassels. At
extremity of the street, some dwellings
diverging from the straight line from an
irregular place. It is shaded by stunted
horse-chestnuts and decorated by a foun
tain, always dry in the sutmner, but which
is supposed to he supplied from the urn of
a niad crowned with ruses. This figure
had suffered much injury from time but
still more from the pupils of the primary
school. These turbulent yolth fired at
its nose chestnuts, pebbles and other pro
jectiles, with unparalleled ardor. At the
corner of the place there is a cafe with
the significant sign of two billiard sticks
surmounted by three balls. Adjoining
the cafe is a kind of a hotel, of which the
public is informed by a picture, which at
first sight appears to be intended for a
pie-crust on a plate of blue porcelain, but
which really represents a city with a
ramparts rising out of the sea. Beneath
one reads, "The City of Algiers, Gatevin,
Innkeeper." Opposite these two estab
lishments is the finest house in the town.
Its double door is adorned with a brass
knocker, the windows are furnished with
green Venentian blinds, and an iron bal.
cony runs'along.the first floor. The fa
cade of this edifice which is called the
Colonel's house, is also embellished with
a sun-dial, by which all the watches in
town are regulated.
Ono day in the month of January, a
young man of fine face and figure, and
apparently well-born and well-bred, sat
smoking outside the cafe. It was M.
GaSton de Giropey, son of the Baron de
/Gimpy, who, having been educated in-
Paris, had been at home but once for five
years. He was joined by a traveler who
had' lodged - at 'the hotel, and who was as'
vulgar in looks dress and bearing, as the
other was finished and - elegant. Ho was
a grocer in excellent business in Paris,
and was jouxneying — in-the provinces to
collect articles for his shop. Ho called
liiroself,M. Alexander, ignoring-his coarse
surname, Pompon. He appeared to be
simply trying to kill time, but he was in
reality seeking information respecting
pa - ustinc, the Colonel's daughter, who, an
orphan, lived with her aunt,
~Mdle Vie
toirc, in the paternal mansion. He dis
covered that her mother was noble, but
that her„ father had only his corninissiolK
.As! he tllked,, ho watched the house with
SingUlar. pertinacity, and was rewarded
by seeing a little white hand'set a pot of
mignionottee °Weide a 'window, IX the
drawing=-roomy end+ lift the mudiri :ear-
VOL. 64.
A. K. RHEEM, Editor & Proprietor
tain which intercepted the light. Then.
a charming, profile became visible. It
was that of a young. girl who wrought
steadily and rapidly upon an embroidered
band. She wore a simple brown dress
with a little kerchief of fine calico, her
hair, made into a heavy knot, allowed
one to see the pure oval of her fbce, and
her cheek of a rosy whiteness. Present
ly the stranger returned to his chamber
in the hotel and fixed his eyes upon Fans
tine, from who he scarcely withdrew them
until long past midday. After this, tak
ing advantage of an announcement upon
a placard, "First flour to let," he called
upon the ladies upon the pretense of in•
quiring terms. Ills visit was satisfac
tory. inasmuch as he was introduced to
Mdlle. (le Gondoville, and received from
her a package of embroidery to be deliv
ered to a merchant at Marseilles.
The ladies of the great, house were
very poor, but ;Wile. Victoire had a hor
ror of being thought so. They dre.sed
in old garments, kept no servant, scarce
ly allowed themselves any fire, r•rised
silkworms, and spun silk, and embroid
ered fur the market; yet she encouraged
the belief that she was prompted by av
arice, and that there were fine line n, plate
and jewels under lock and key, besides a
magnificent dowry for Faustine invested
in the funds.
. .Dl me de pi N p c y,
,was - deceived, like
every body else, and therefore selected
Faustine for a bride fir her son. With
womanly tact she furnished him with an
excuse for recommencing an acquain
Lance which had long been confined to
occasions- of c.•remony, and when she
found that his affections were firmly fixed
upon the maiden, she went her- , elf to de
mand her hand of her aunt. To her
amazement that lady refused her perempt
orily and without assignint4 a reason,
-but-her niece,- who loved as fondly as-she
was beloved, confessed with tears that her
great poverty had alone coo pellet' her to
this course.
Pecuniary considerations would have
weighed lightly with :Unto, de Giropey
but that_she, also, was obliged to li.e
scantly and anxiously. Iler bii , band
was entirely a man of the world. Ile had
drank hard and played deeply, and only
paused in It is ruinons career when paraly
sis had reduced him to a daily journey
from the bed to the sofa and frmit the so
fa back to the bed. If she had been rich
she would have been satisfied with the
rare loveliness both of person and char
actor of her intended daughter in law .:.
but, situated as she was, she th.iugh.t .
n cessary for Gaston to marry a fortune.
With much regret she withdrew her pro
posal, and without infirming Gaston of
it, she sent hint to Thirseilles, ostensibly
upon immediate business, but with a let=
ter of introduction to a wealthy •gentle
man, the Meier of a marriageable maiden.
She hoped thus to divert his mind and to
soften his reirret when he should come to
know the who e truth.
Soon afterward M. Alexander reap
peared. lie had, as he said, been de
tained by fever. Certainly he had suf
fered, but it was as much from his wind
as his body. Ile had fallen passionately
in love with Faustine, and he feared, not
without reason, that she would reject his
suit. Upon reaching his old apartment
at the hotel, he ran to the 'a innow, and
looked at ihe Colonel's house which ap
peared as silent arid desolate as before,
except at one casement, where a pot GI
mignionette still flourished, and where
Mddle. sat working in her accustomed
place.
"It is she, herself," he murmured, his
heart palpitating, his lips trembling.—
"Ah !what happiness ! It is almost pin !
It seems to we that I shall die ! Uh,
love is both sweet and terrible."
He fell back in i.is chiiir a moment,
then throwing .aside the black silk cap
which he had worn over his traveling cap
fur the sake of warmth, and the hideous
socks which covered his leather shoes, he
put on a hat, buttoned his frockcoat over
his colored shirt, and presented himself
at the great house in order to offer his
hand to 1(111e. Faustine. lie was so
overwhelt»ed with emotion that it was
with the utmost difficulty he could in
troduce the subject but when did so, it
was in a frank, straightforward manner.
lie spoke of his birth—it was low but
without stain ; of his business—it was so
flourishing that he hoped in a few years
to retire upon a fortune. He had lived
to the age of thirty•four without any
thought Or marriage, having never before
seen a woman whose society appeared to
him particularly attractive. Now, exist
ence would be a burden it' unshared by
Mdlle. He would not, however, have
had courage to address her, but for a sin
gle circumstance. Ho had been very
jealous of a fine young man named Gi
ropey, who ho feared would marry 'Mlle,
but he had met him in'MarSeilles, accom
panying a very pretty young girl who was
on the arm of an oldzentleman with . dec L
orations, and he had so decidedly th eair
.ora lover who sees no difficulties in the
way, that .his happiness gave him cour
age to return and seek a decesion of. his'
own fath.;With sincere humility he Said
that' be knew he had, little to recommend
him to her regard, yet he hoped that va
rious considerations would induce her to
weigh his
,proposal.
Mdlle. Victoire had listened angrily
and impatiently, and now haughtily re
pulsed- the eager , Jsuitor, 'but gaustine
said, "Monsieur, you perhaps expect in
marrying to find a considerable 'dowry."
"Not at all," he replied earnestly, "fur
I know that you labor. The merchant at
.Marseilles-told-me that. you earned_ forty
franee a ,menth by your needle, and that
it was all your income."
"I will, think of what, you have just
said," . returned Faustine, . "ttitd—wie
seo'you again."
I '.
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- Some days afterward the marriage- of
this apparently ill-sorted couple was cele
brated at the early mass. No one was
present at the ceremony except Mdlle de
Giropey and Mdlle. Victoire ; and the
newly wedded departed immediately,
leaving for adieus a hundred francs to be
givert to the poor. °
About two years later, an elegant car
riage passed down one of the avenues of
the Champs Elysces. It contained a
young woman, whose charming face was
framed in a hat of pink crape, and a fat
man in a bleak coat and yellow gloves.
"Look upon this side, Mdme. Alexan
der," said the fat man. "See that little
woman. She has a very handsome shawl
upon her shoulders ' lon mast have a
shawl like that, Aldine. Alex-an lair."
"Thanks, thanks," returned the young
woman, hut it is too han Iswie, too ex•
pensive—"
"Can anything he too beautiful for you,
Mime. Alexander ?" replied the fat man,
re ,, arding her with intense admiration.—;
"As to the price, I must judge," and he
struck his hand upon - his - foIi,WIII;FC the
crowns rattled with a metallic sound.
"The clear air has given me an appe
tite. My wife, where do you wish to dine
to-day ?" asked. M. Alexander.
"L do not know—where you pledge."
"No, choose yourself."
"Ali well at the line dish cafe."
"‘\ e will go to the English cafe, and
from thence to the Comic-Opera; will we
not ?"
"Very willingly, my friend."
"That. will he perfect. I do not care
very much about the opera. If it were
not fur the dancing and the view of the
boxes, I should nut go to he it the uproar
But what ani L sa-ying? I should go all
the Caine, my puss, because you love mu
sic r,
What, signifies i I-- renounce-the
Opera from to day. Do not thank me. I
make-this little sacrifice very willingly''
"I know you do," exclaimed M. Alex
ander, wi!li transport. "L know you are
an incomparable woman. I thought this
morning when I was dressing, have now
I been married two years and wy wife has
contradicted me in - nothing. Truly, I
should be monster not to render her happy.
-There are Many better woman than
I am," murmu red Mdme.
du not believe it," sail 11. Alexam
der, with energy. "You have but a sin
gle fault, that of being naturally a little
sad, but I do not reproach you with it,
Any pussy, I. only think bow to cheer you
---4t r pret.ent, i , uf a rtunately, 1 can only
take you to drive and to the theatre on
Sunday, but when we shall have retiled
from wale, when I shill have time to
ainat.e you, every day shall be a festival
'day for you. We will have a ear.iage of
our own. We will, go into the co , :ntry,
we will take a join !ley to Italy, we will
lead a happy life together—you believe
it, do you not?"
"Yes, iny friend," replied Faustine,
with, a sb.. t h of gratitude and resignation
Then she looked from the window and
her eyes encountered those of Gaston de
Giropey. She concealed with an effort
the mingled joy and sorrow which this
glance gave her, but the kind of tranquil
ity in which she had hitherto lived was
gone. Iler husband inspired her at the
saute time with the roost opposite emo
tions ; a lively gratitude and an uncon
querable aversion, a high respect for the
honesty of his character and a deep dis
dais for his narrow mind and vulgar man
ners. The marks of tenderness and con
fidence which ho heaped upon her filled
her with remorse. Still lier self-control
and her extreme sweetness of disposition
prevented any suspicion of her sufferings,
until one day when a letter, btaring the
custour.ry marks of mourning, was laid
011 the counter. M. Alexander broke the
seal and exclaimed, "field ! hold ! wife,
that poor M. Giropey is dead. What a
misfortune I Ile was such an amiable
young man 1"
At these words Faustine cast upon her
husband a look of despair, and then fled
to her chamber. Then she threw herself
upon her knees, extended her hands for a
moment toward heaven with suppressed
t! en she sank down shedding a
torrent of tears. [ler husband had follow
ed her, and when this paroxysm of grief
was partially over, she saw him standing
beside her. He regarded her wi h quiet
fury, and said, "I am not jealous of a
dead man, so you can tell me the truth
and clear your conscience. Did you love
this young man ?" -
She held down her head and remained
silent.
"Ah, do you not dare to tell me that
you have been his mistress !" cried Mr.
Alexander.
,
, " I loved him, but lie has never been
my lover," haughtily replied Faustine.
She took the letter with a trembling
hand, but,searcely had her eyes fallm,
upon the first linos than a faint color re•
turned to her cheeks, and she breathed
more deeply and easily.
M. Alexander ohsorvod her with
amazement. He then again looked at
the unfortunate missive, - and muttered
through his shut .teeth. All I was
deceived. li, is another Giropey who is
dead."
There was a long silence ; then the
'husband turned toward his wife a coun
tenanno as impassible as marble, and paid
with cold authority " descend to the coun
ter."
After that, M. Alexander avoided all
allusion to this scene. One might have .
thought that he had forgotten it all to
gether, but that he was so changed in
manner and - disposition: He labored
with the feverish activity of ono who
hopes for repose only from excessive fa
tigue. - .
-1-Ic i treated Dwaine—with-cold rcapeot
and watched her 89 closely.that.ahe had
CARLISLE, PA., FRIDAY, MARCH 11, 1864.
not a moment of liberty. He relinquish
ed all out-of-door business and never left
the shop except on Sunday, whop as for
merly, he took her out for a dri#e and
finished the day at the theatre.
While they were thus enstranged, the
revolution of 1848 . broke out. M. Alex
ander was at first distracted by the grand
commotion, and wheetle national guard
was reorganized he revolter fiat]] the
idea of serving the republic. At first
roll of the drum he shut up his shop and
contented himself with looking oat from
behind the venitian.blinds. All at once,
he became sombre, silent and indifferent
to every thing. The livid pallor of his
face gave him a sinister aspect, and for
the first time Faustine trembled in his
presence.
The dreadful days of June - afrived, M.
Alexander did not open his shop, but re•
mained in his chamber observing all that
passed. itichletily he cried, "There is
one whom I know, and,. whom I have
watched." and he seized his musket.
" Where are you going ?" asked Fans.
tine in affright
"To tight," he replied, "behind the
barricades, for he will be before them."
Ile hastened from the house, and was
already at a distance when his wile had
reached the lower steps of the staircase.
The moments passed heavily. By and
1 21 4 t44,111 t wag ___heard and_ a
_crowd
brought the unfortunate groder on a lit
ter, bathed in blood and giving no signs
of life. Ile was removed to eis be& and
a physician examined his wound while
Faustine, standing by his pillow, would
willingly have given her life to null that
of her husband.
" ylv wife." said NT. Alexander in a
feeble voice.
" I am here, my friend," she answered,
bending over him.
not-grieve f my-poor- wife—it-is
not your fault that I die thus. Pardon
me [ have given you many sad days,
and you have given Me two years of hap
piness.. I die ‘vithout regret because I
believe you will yet be happy. You may
marry him whom you love. It was not
lie who wounded me. I am (lying.—
Embrace me, my wife,"
She bent down with tears, and put her
arms about with an indise:ibable
movement of pity, regret, uud tender-
GEM
" Ah," niiu•uiured he, "itis the first
lime !''
ro
lie breathed with difficult ,but found
strength to say " ly wife, f rtunat-ly I
have ri , :ot destroyed my *ill''- it" is with
the notary.. I 'tire you all • :at I have.
I !lever loved any one but yaii."
Ile added stone rambling words and at
length expired.
Ab tut two years later Mdine de Gil.-
opey walked one fkfrernoon upon the ter
race of a little house which she had hired
near Chantilly. At each turn she looked
toward another dwelling upon the bolder
of the woods.
Soon Gaston appeared. " You have
not gone, inother ? said he, surprised.
" No, my dear boy," she replied, tak
ing his arm. "The mourning of the
young widow is over ; and you will ac
company me to her house to-day."
" Will she permit me?" cri^t,l the
yo•ing, man with an expression of troub
led joy. "Ali, [nether, Ino longer hope.
Your silence, th pertinacity with which
she has made !mt. retirement absolute,
has made me 1' ttr a resolution which all
my love cannot change. Alas, who
knows if she will riot cast me into de
spair by a refusal ?"
" When [ tell you to come !" replied
Mdme. de Giropey smiling. " She would
not see you during her widowhood; but
was I not there every day ? Go, Faus
tine already calls me mother "
EA nt NO.—Reading is one of the great.
est consolations of life; it is the nurse of
virtu,:, the upholder in adversity, the
prop of independence, the support of a
just pride, the strengthener of elevated
opinions; it is the shield against the
tyranny of all the petty passions ; it is
the relit:ller of the fool's scoff and the
knave's poison.
RECREATION (says Bishop Hall) is in
tended to the mind as whetting is to the
scythe, to sharpen the edge of it, which
otherwise would grow dull and blunt He,
therefore, that spends his whole time in
recreation is ever whetting, never mowing
—his grass may grow and his steed may
starve ; as, contrarily, he that always toils
and never recreates, is ever mowing, never
whetting—laboring much to little pur
pose
What is called the keeping up of ap.
pearanees is oftentimes a mord, or rather
inatuOral;attering of countorfeit coin. It
is astonishing how much human bad
money is current in society, bearing the
fair imprass of ladies and Ontlettieu.
An hotel'andlirery-s*le keeper at a
fashionable watering plae4adrertises, a
tuotwsi, - -other —iriducerrie46—to;:s 7 Viaktors,
sociales for young ladies and gentlemen,
and sulkies for married folks.
A YOUNG SAGE.--First.boy r"I say,
Dili, then you're gettino a?orown a week
now ?" Second boy : "Well, you might a
know that, by seeing all the fellers come
soapin' around me that wouldn't a noticed
mo when I was pobr." , •
A certain Irish attorney threatened to
prosecute. a Dublin printer for inserting
the death of a living person. The menace
concluded with the remark that "no printer
should publish a death *cps informed
of the fact by the party thlobasedP...
A servant heineaont to",Miatch a ohina
i t
r
plate returned - with; one! of- - am entirely
different pattern.: Afteri ' !ding for.
time, the mistress said, ' tupid, I do you
not hoe that Ow' two are 'entirely :differ,.
- mit?": - -:"Nb mum," was t o reply i..."1y
ono. of theta is', different.' . ..
I._
~~~
TERMS:--$1,50 in Advance, or $2 within the year
LOVE ON THE ICE:
Mother Is asleep—
Father will be late :
Bre the night is deep,
Let u e have a skate.
0 I ouch ,jolly rum , -
0, but It Is nice
Just from nine till ono
Flirting on tho Ice.
t.•
Dashing from the land
With the swallows speed,
You can squeeso my hand
If there's any need:
No one hero can see—
Even if they do,
What Is it to me t
What Is it to you I
There, Sir, In your haste
You have caught my gown—
Clasp me round the waist,
Or I'll sure go down.
Roll, I do declare.
Such a fervid grip ;
Maybe nest you'll dare
Just to touch my lip.
My ankle Insn't strong—
Down and fix the strap;
Why so precious long I
Such an awkward chap.
Love me! whew I such talk)
Dc I lovo,youl No.
home you'd hotter walk,
I'll find another beau.
AN AFFECTING PICTURE
-The following is the most beautiful and
affecting incident we know associated
with a shipwrecl. The Grosvenor East
Indianian, homeward bound, goes asiio e
on the cost of' Caffraria. It is resolved
that the officers, passengers and crew, in
number one hundred and thirty-five souls,
shall endeavor to penetrate on foot across
the trackless deserts, infested by wild
beasts and cruel savages, to the Dutch
settlements at the Cape of' Good Hope.—
With the forlorn object before them, they
finally separate into two parties—never
H wore:to-- meet-on --earth
4. There is a solitary child among the
' passengers—a lit'tle child seven years old,
who has no relation there; and when
the first'party is moving away he cries af
ter antic member of it who had been
kind to Ihm The crying of a ehi-ld 'night
be supposed to he a little thing to men in
such great extremity ; but it touches
them, and he is immediately taken into
that detachment.
Front which time forth this child in
sublimely mai° a sacred Aarge. lle is
pushed on a little raft, across broad rivers
by the swimming sailors , they carry him
by turns through the deep and long grass
(h~ patiently walking at all times;) they
share With him such puorbl fish :Is they
fintito eat ; they lie down and Wait ler
him when the rough carpenter, %Oil be
comes hi•i especial friend, lags behind.—
Beset by lions and tigers, by savages, by
thirst, by hunger, by death in a crowd of
ghastly shapes, they never-0 Father of
all mankind, thy name be Meisel for it !
—forget this child. The captain stops
exhausted, and his l'aithful coxswain goes
back and is seen to sit oown by his side
and neither of ihe two shall he any more
beheld until the great last day ; but as
they go on fur their lives, they take the
child with them. The carpenter dies of
poisonous berries eaten in starvation ; and
the steward succeeding to the command of
the party, succeeds to the sacred guard
ianship of the child.
God knows all he does for the poor
baby ; how he cheerfully carries him in
his arms when he himself is weak and
ill ; how he feeds him when he himself is
griped with want ; how he folds his ragged
jacket round him, lays his little worn lace
with a woman's tenderness upon his sun
burnt breast, soothes him in his suffer
ings, sings to him as lie limps along, un
mindful of his own parched and bleeding
feet. Divided for a few days from the
rest, they dig a grave in the sand and bury
their good friend the cooper—these two
companies alone in the wilderness—and
then time cornea when both are ill and
beg their wretched partners in despair,
reduced and few in number now, to wait
by them one day. They waited by them
one day, they waited by them two days.
On the morning of the third, they move
'very softly about in making their prepa
rations for the resumption of their jour
ney; for the child-is sleeping by the fire,
aed it is agreed with one consent that he
shall not be disturbed until the last mo
ment.
The moment comes, the fire is
dying—the child is dead.
His faithful friend, the steward, lin
gers but a little while behind hints. His
grief is great, he staggers on a few days,
lies down in the desert and dies. But he
shall be reunited in his immortal spirit—
can doubt it ?—with the child, where
,he and the poor carpenter-shall be raised
up with the words, "Inasmuch as ye have
done it unto the least of these, ye have
done it unto me."
ACCOMPANYING a Noah's ark from
Germany, and on sale in our toy-shops,
is a catalogue of thTintnates thereof in
German, French, aira li:nglish. Amongst
,
them me -find r44.0.-,6 •miees, -three shofp-u-;"
but, best of all "eight men, viz,: four
men and Wises:'
The Troy , Whig says :—"A gentleman
of this city who took the occasion.on last
Sabbath, to doctor some cider; sous to
keep it sweet, was taken to task by • his
good wife, for laboring on - the Stibbath.
His reply was, that no good Christian
ought 'to find fault with his Work on that
day, as he had been doing his best to pre
;,•ent his cider from-working."
An. Unpoetioal Simile : Adolphutt
Seatterorash remarks that_" the parting.
glory of . a summer's eve?' would• bo all
very fine and enjoyable., only that it al
ways. unpleasantly reminds " a follah , " o:
expiring bills, being so Closely, allied to
fulling dew.
UN EAUOA.TED, , ORSAB.—OwIs sitting
in pm:lgen:tent on then light..
11.
MIND.
The school, the; college, the press and
the pulpit, all address themselves to the
mind, and while they are so doing, they
admit the superority of the invisible over
the visible—of the immaterial over the
material—of mind over matter. The
Senates have to deal with it. The courts
and the Judges consider it. The laws
are made for its guidance and control.—
It directs commerce. It tunnels moun
tains and fills the valleys. It has soared
on a silken thread to the cloudy of heav
en, and taken the lightning captive, and
biought it as a harmless element to the
earth. It sends it, as a courier, with
messages of love to friends far distant.—
It has made the "iron-horse," and driven
him on his journey of a thousand miles,
carryingi in his train a community of peo
ple and of goods. It has fashioned the.
ships, and drawn the winds into the white
sails of comtnerce, and wrought an inter
! change of the blessings of God's bounty
in all clinics and regions. By its aid,
steam has set at 'nought the unfavorable
currents and the contrary winds. It has
made machinery to take the place of mus
cle and of bone, and now it clothes, and
feeds,, and lodges the lowest mortal, in a
more 'bountiful and comfortable manner
than kings in former times could com
mand. The music of the poet, the pa
thos of the writer, the eloquence of
- the
orator, and the Spirit of the divine, are
but illustrations of the influence, the
power, the activity, and the immense su
periority of mind over 'motet-in The at
,tributes of God—those attributes which
we perceive by a perception higher than
that of the senses—such as power, wis-
Com, love, like the life which they have
endowed us, are fixed arid unchangeable
—the same at the creation of the world,
as they will be through the never-ending
-ages. of eterriiity- -These-- attributes—ore
in finitely above the perception of the cum
prehension of ma•n. As it• was said of
mortal organs cannot come in con
tact with these—material senscsigocannot
be impressed with their undivided splen
dor and glory, and continue to exist.
The universe owe++ its origin and its
continuance to the power, wisdom and
love or God All th j material objects
which surround us from the tiniest grain
or sand, or the floating atom that is only
(E.:covered by the high?st convexity or
the. lens, to the bright orbs of heaven,
llontinl around their central sphere all
ire.ent traces of those Divine att ibutes
•
which, when viewed in emt.binatimi, we
attempt to define by the term Divine
Beauty. And yet all that we receive in
these is but the 'mines; or the immateri
al upon the. material structure--which
impress leads us to observe the shadowy
outlines or the beauty with which they
have been brought in contiet. The tin.
twat:Hal—the essence ()I' this beauty is
inexpressible, incomprehensible, and in
conceivable by any finite power.—N.or
ristoica
Tho Nature of Science
Many persons entertain the most erro
neous notions re petting the character of
science. They think and speak of it as
if it were sonic mysterious intellectull
subtlety, revealed to the few and denied
to the many. Such ideas may have come
down from the olden times when all uteri
believed sincerely in mysterious powers
communicated through incantations and
charms by deities and spirits who had
power over "the earth, the water, the air,
and fire." The ancient alchemists and
astrologers kept w hat they called "science"
secret, as something too sacred to be com
municated to the mass of men ; hence
they taught favorite disciples only.—
Many of these old plodders in the paths
of science were sincere in their peculiar
views, but it must be admitted that too
many of them employed secret discover
ies in chemistry for the purpose of astoun
ding their unlearned fellow teen by their
curious experiments, in order to obtain
power over them. Astronomy also, such
us a superior knowledge of eclipses and
the movements of the heavenly bodies,
was employed in a sort of quack manner
to obtain power by foretelling events.—
Many of these imposters were very like
the learned Irish prophet set forth in
Hibernian verse, who knew every event
before it happened after irtook place.—
Science simply means knowledge of any
subject—its nature and operation ; and
whoever knows most of any branch of
knowledge, and can apply it in the best
manner, is the most scientific in that
branch. Knowledge means truth, as
there can be no knowledge based upon"
ficticn. A man, however, may perform
a mechanical or chemical operation in a
very superior manner and yet not be
scientific. A parrot can speak, but a
parrot is not a linguist, nor has it any
knowledge of the science of language. A
man to be scientific, should know "the
why and the wherefore of the operations
he performs." Mathematics is a scien..e,
evidence of scientific acquisition. Some
individualti, not much above the reach of
idiocy, have been great calculators. Yet
mathematics as a science requires a high
grade of intellect and great persistency
of niental effort to master. Science may
be said 'to be a collection of facts and ex
perience accurately arranged and proper.
ly understood. Chemistry, for example,
is an art and a science, because it is a
~ c ollection•of the results of careful experi
„meats: Geology is simply a' oollection
of facts carefully arranged. A theory -is
not a science; it is simply the etplana. :
tiorc of. phenomena. Every science has,
according to Ma Muller, first an empi-.
rieal stage,, in which facts are gathered
anti "analyzed. After this they are classi
fied or arranged, and according to their'.
duotive method., the.try'explains the par
pose 'or plan of the whole.—Sc:iintific
.American.
The Wrongs of the Stomach
A capital hit is the following at the
habit we all have of eating and drinking
too much. It may serve to give some of
us a valuable lesson on the subject:
,
In most of the early literatures to bo
found a dialogue between the Body and
the Soul, in which each accused the oth
er of their mutual perdition, recapitula
ting the offences which have.produeed it.
Something similar might be written, with
good effect, dividing the imaginary con
versation between, let us say, the Stom
ach and the Man, making an attack of
gout the subject of their - recrimination.
The Man might accuse the Stomach of
having dune its duty so badly that he is
tormented. with a burning fire"in his.ex
tromities, which will neither let him eat,
drink, walk, nor rest. The Stomach
plead justification, and say that he light
ed the said fire as the only means of get-.
Ling a moment's rest from an intolerable
taskmaster. Again, the Man might com
plain that he had lost all enjoyment of
life, that his spirits were depressed, hio
mind gloomy, his appetite gone, his once
fine muscular system reduced to flabby
indolence; that his food did him more
harm than good, so that it had become a
misery to eat, and that every meal was
followed by a leaden oppression which
rendered life an insupportable burdbn.—
The Stomach having listened to all this )
delivered in a tone of angry accusation
would reply :
" My case is just as bad as your own.
Before I had well digested your break
fast, you gave me tklucat luncheon to see
to, and before I had got that out of the
way you thrust a dinner upon me large
enough for three stomachs. Not satis
fied with that, you wound up the day
with a supper, drenching me all the time
with ale, wine, spirits, tea, coffee, rum,
more wine, and more spirits, till I thought
you had taken leave of your senses; and
when I heard you groaninr , in your sleep,
starting up every now and then as if ap
oplexy had broken into the house and
was going to carry you off, I said to my
-righ t it'did- ~lnzl
in this way you went on, year after year,
treating all my remonstrances with con
tempt. I gave you headache after head
ache ; I tried to recall you to reason with
a half-a-dozel attacks of influenza; gave
you a bilious fever; made you smart with
rheumatism ; twintred you . with gout till
you roared. But all to.no purpose. You
went. on making me digest till the work
broke my back, and now I can digest no
longer."
NO. 11
This reproach might be made even pa
thetic, by a description of the Stomach
watching its hard task come down to it
'rum the regions above between dinner
and bedtime. First comes a plate of
soup and bread, and a glass of sherry.—
"I_ can manage that," says the Stom ,
itch. Then a plate of fish, with - more
bread and more sherry ; " and that," adds
the Stomach, " though these sauces don't
quite agree with ine. "'Tien comes beef
or mil , ton, or both, and stout; then gam.:
and sherry ; then -a dish of tart. " Con
found this pastry," says the Stomach,
" it gives me more trouble than anything
else; but; if the matter will only stop
here. I think, if I put out all my pow
ers, I (1,111 get even this rubbish out of
But. shehas hardly taken this hopeful
view ()I' the case, when down collie cheese
e- cry', apples, oranges, nuts, figq, al
mond); and raisins, port, sherry, claret,
and a tumbler of hot llollands and-water.
Good gracious," was there ever such a
mess ?'l exclaims the Stomach "What
can the itatt mean ? Does he think one
pair of hands can manage all this r"
Still the Slave goes to work, when
presently there is a rush of hot tea front
above, when a thin slice of bread and
butler. And when the Stomach, with
infinite labor, has got the hodgepodge
into some sort of homogeneous shape, and
is preparing to take a nap after her ex
lo ! a deviled drumstick rushes
into its laboratory, two deviled kidneys,
a bottle of stout, and three tumblers of
hot brandy-and-water !
RECORD OF A LOCAL REPORTER.—The
local reporters have their jests and fun as
well as other people, and here is a simple
record from the "local" of the Memphis
Bulletin. As the various insurance com
panies, savings banks, State officials and
missionary societies are making their an
nual reports and publishing lung columns
of figures which are of the most intense in
terest to the reading public generally, the
Memphis local reporter gives his for the
year IG3 :
Report.
Been asked to drink
Drank
Requested to retract
Didn't retract
Invited to parties, receptions, presen
tations, &0., &c., by people fishing
for puffs
Took the hint
Didn't take the hint
Threatened to br, whipped-
Been whipped
Whipped the other fellow
Didn't come to time
Been promised bottles.of chant
pagne, whisky, gin, bitters, box
es of cigars, &0., i 4 we-would go
after them
Been after them
Going again
Been ask ed "What's the news ?" 300,000
Told ' 13
Didn't know
Lied about it
Been to church
Changed .pnlities
Expected to change still
Cash on hand '
Gavo for charity
Gave for terrier dog
Sworn off bad habits
Shall swear off this year
Number of bad habits
800IETY.—There is not, and there
never can be, social enjoyment without
social. sympathy. There "is a class with
which each man has more sympathy than
with any other class—a class in which he
Linda himself the happiest and the most at
home. Therefore he belongs int this
class, socially; and he will go above it, if
there be anything below it, only to make
himself; and those with whom he associ
sees - , uncomfertable. "
All men, if they work - not as in a great
Task master's eye, will work wrong.
Times.
11,393
11,392
416
416
3,333
33
3,300
174
170
3,650,1-4
200,000
99,987
33
33
SOO
5
$23
722
723