The pilot. (Greencastle, Pa.) 1860-1866, May 05, 1863, Image 1

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North West Corner of the Public Square,)
file following rates, from which there will be no
ogle subscription, in advance
ithin six months
ithin twelve months
No paper will he discontinued unless at the eption
the Publishers, until all arrearages are 'paid.
No subscriptions will he taken for a less period
an six months.
.clect f) o ctn.
Turn you to the stronghold, ye prisoners of
.e."—ZActrAntsu 9: 12.
Prisoners, art thou worn and weary,
'Neath sin's heavy, galling chain?
Post thou in deep anguish struggle,
Its dark bonds to burst—in vain?
"Deep and heavy is the bondage
Under which I vainly pine:
Is there hope for one so wretched
Shall I ever freedom find ?"
Weary captive, why thus sadly
Dost thcrt shed the bitter tear?
E'en for thee is found a ransom :
lope shall yet thy spirit cheer
Raise thine eye, that long has rested
On the chains that sin has wound
O'er thy spirit,—see how precious
Is the rest in Jesus found.
See how glorious is "the stronghold"
Thou may'st find in Jesus' blood ;
If thou wilt "believe" thy Saviour,
Thou shalt all His mercy prove.
"Tell me, can I conic Jesus,
Willi my sins, my doubts, my fears,?—
Will he listen to my pleading?
Will he wipe away my tears? •
" Will my sorrow move Ms pity.?
Will he calm this tempest. wild
In my bosom I Tell, oh! tell me,—
Will Ile own me as His child ?"
Mourner! say, was it the righteous
Jesus same to seek and save!
Was it. such he came to ransom
From sin's power—from the grave
Fly to thine Almighty Saviour,
Lost and ruined!—trust His grace! •
To His cross by faith fast clinging,
There thoul't find thy hiding-place!
.—New York Observer
eoub Ztorn.
Timothy Chandler was five•and•thirty years
age, and he had a wife and four children.—
is oldest child was a boy, fOurteen years old
r Tim. had married young,—while his young
t a girl of six. His wife was one of
ose busy, tidy, loving womeh,.who seem "raised
by Heaven to show to a degenerate age, hOw
ueli the wife and mother can ;do towards
king fireside heavens on earth. „Thu was a
per by trade, and no man could have asked
a better business than ho had it in his power
`command.' And Tim was one of those kind
rted, generous, free-spoken, impulsive men,
o can so easily engage the love and esteem
'their fellows.
:But Tim had faults. He had sonic very had
ults. Be %Vasa discontented mortal; and he
s a 'convivial mortal. Ile envied those who
. • sessed more worldly wealth than did he ; and
spent a large portion of his own effects in
e company of riotous companions. In Short,
In was becoming intemperate. It was to be
,n in the unsteadiness of his step ; in the
natural flush of his cheek t and in the dying
ht of his once clear, bright eye. And, alas !
•was to be seen in his ones happy home--but
i'py not now. It was to be seen in the fad
of the bloom upon his wife's fair 'cheek ;
i the tears that stole down her drooping
es; in the sighs that broke from her lteav
: bosom.; and in the look of deep unrest that
dwelt upon the facesof his elder children.
d it could be seen, too, in the foct-niarks of
esolation that was beginning to creep around
"Timothy," said his wife—it was early in the
:ro in g, before the children were up—" Joseph
William must have some warmer clothing.
e ground is beginning to freeze and they
hat's easier said than done," replied Tim,
rough, uneasy way. "They'll have to
till I can make a raise. Confound it!
was not I born as other folks are born ?
wasn't good luck in my star ?. Why
't there a fortune left to me by wealthy
he wife made no response. This was her
land's envious hobby. When be felt the
of money he invariably found fault with
Look at Stiles," he continued, growing
e bitter; "and 'look at Butler; and at
ne;—see how they lite: They had money
to 'em. They inherited wealth from their
eats. They don't have to work, and dig,
be dunned for what they eart't airord.—
ses on this poor luck s I say !"
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Hannah Chandler could not help speaking
what she felt. She had heard this same coin
plaint so often and had tried to cheer her hus
band so much, that she felt like telling him
the truth.
"Timothy," she said, in the kindest way,
but yet with firmness, "you do wrong to talk
so; you do wrong to allow your thoughts to
flow in that direction. Instead of looking at
those who are pecuniarily better off than yon
are; why not look upon those-who are worse off.
Instead of mourning for whEit you cannot pos
sess, why can't you think of 'what you might
possess if you would ?"
"Well—what might I possess ?" asked Tim,
"You might possess enough.. There is no
mechanic in this town with a better trade.—
You might possess enough to make your home
a .comfortable and a happy one. 0, my hus
band, listen to me," she cried, with her folded
hands upon her bosom. "You, are making us
all very unhappy !—you are making us all very
miserable. Your children , feel it. In the
street they hear your name coupled with un
holy things. They bow their heads in shame
—in a shame which their fatker. —"
Without allowing his wife to finish the sen
tence, Timothy Chandler started from his chair,
and seized his hat, and went out into the shed,
where he busied himself in working up some
odd bits of wood until the children were up,
and breakfast was ready. And this was the
way he always did. He had not yet come to
treating his wife with much harshness ; but he
would not listen to her when she spoke of his
faults. When breakfast was over he went
forth to his shop, Itut the words of his wife
were not forgotten. He could not so easily put
them from him. He could not hide from him
self the fact that his children were suffering;
but unfortunately, the presence of this fact did
not lead him into a healthful state of mind.—
It made him fret, and he straightway laid it
upon the shoulder of Stiles. and Butler, and
Crane; who had been born with fortunes.
As time wore on Tim Chandler became worse
instead of better. His wife suffered more, and
his children suffered more; and he, icko, suffer
ed more. His shop was much of the time
neglected, and his income was so small that he
had none for his home. His wife worked hard
with her mop and her needle, -while he spent
a great part of his time at the village tavern.
And as Hannah Chandler sat by her work-table
during those long winter evenings, with her
children crawling close to the fire to warm their
shivering bodies, she prayed continually fur
her wayward husband.
One night—or rather, one evening—Tim. sat
in the bar-room of' the tavern. He had drunk
but little that day, for lie had no money, and
he bad not yet fallen so low as to get trusted
for his rum. His appetite for the exciting
beverage was keenly active,and he was wait
ing for some of his friends to come in, in hopes
that they would ask him to drink. lie had
asked them so ninny times—he had spent so
much for rum for others—that be looked now
Mr a return of the favor.
The bar-room was of a moderate size, with a
deep; broad fireplace standing out ofrom the
wall, and in the recess beyond the' chimney
was a wooden bunk, upon which the hostler
slept during the few hours of night that he
bad for rest. Upon this bunk was an old buff
alo robe, and upon that buffalo robe was Tim
reclining. As ,
he thus quietly reclined, two
gentlemen, who had reached the inn at a late
hour, and had had a supper ordered for them
selves, entered and took 'seats near the fire.—
They did net notice the man upon the bunk,
and when the landlord went out, which he did
shortly after they came in, they evidently
thought that they were the sale occapants of
the place.
"Webber," said one of the gentlemen, after
a silence of some moments' ensued between
them, "before we went'in to tea you asked me
to drink."
"Yes, Carleton—l did."
"And I refused."
"I remember."
"Well," said he who bad been called Carle
ton, "since you asked me to drink with you,
and I have refused, I feel that I may tell you
why I du so."
Webber threw the stump of his cigar into
the fire, and then remarked—
" Tell me by all means. I remember that
we used to take a glass together before you
moved away from our town, though not often.'
"I never drank much," resumed Carleton;
"and finally ,I quit it entirely. I'll tell you
Low it was. It was a very slmple affair; but
still, in our journey through •life we shall find
that circumstances, very trivial in themselves,
sometimes exert wonderful influences over us.
My parents were very poor, as you must re,
member; but they left we with _a fair educa
tion, and many good lessons of' life.. As I
grew . up I longed to be rioh. Close by me
lived John Boynton. He had inherited great
wealth from his parents, and flourished in grand
style. I envied John Boynton. When I
thought how easily he Prime by his money, I
was almost disheartened at my own prospect ;
and very often I found myself complaining be
cause my parents had not left me something
with which to make a start in the World. I
married, and went into business; but the old
complaint.was upon me. I dreamed of Alad
din's lamp, and of the magic ring, nod, spent
half .my time in wishing that I had them; and
during all this time I was in the habit of using
intoxicating'. drink. I didn't drink much,
though I often drank more than '.I ought..
- "Wel lone . day I picked up a paper from 'my
native town, and saw therein that John Boyn
ton was dead. Aye—more than that: he had
died poor'and degraded, and his children were
left entirely destitute. Their mother had died
of a broken heart a year before! , And this
was the end of a man whom I had so envied.
His wealth was all gone—he was gone—and
all that his children could inherit from him
would be shame and sorrow.
"I went home and reflected. I saw my wife
and children sitting by the hearth, and I fan
cied that I could detect' lines of sorrow upon
their faces. I walked out into the pale moon
light, and my thoughts came down to a plain,
practical issue. I asked myself: Shan have
an inheritance to bequeath to my children ?
When am gone, shall those loved ones in
herit anything from their father which shall
be of value to them in their great work of
life? And I said to myself: I may not leave
them money—l may not store np for them a
board of material wealth; but I can leave for
them that which is better: I cat:Cleave to them
a father's name unsullied; a father's honor un
tarnished; and a• father's LIFE after which
they May copy with safety.
"I went back to my home, firmly resolved in
my new course. I kissed my wife and chil
dren ; and when I retired, I prayed 'that God
would give me strength. And from that mo
ment I have not faltered. I cast away the cup
and its associations forever•; I ceased to envy
those who might be richer than myself; ,and
am now at work, with hand and heart and soul,
to lay up for my children•an inheritance which
cannot, be lost to them by any revulsion, of
earthly fortune. Now you know why I refus
ed to drink with you. And surely You for'give
"More, more than that," cried Webber,
reaching forth his hftid. "I forgive you; and
I bless 'you for, tbe lesson. From this' time
forth lam withyou. The last cup has been'
pressed to my lips—the last convivial hour is
passed. Here, in this .warni grasp, is my
pledge l"
The host came in, and the two guests arose
and left the room. In a little while Tim
Chandler glided down from ihe . bunk, and num•
ed towards the door. In the entry he met a
number of his boon companions, who were just
in for a time.
"Hi-lo! where now, Tim? Come—join"us
What'll ye have?'"
"Not now—not tow,". replied Tim.
. • •
"Then come and take a glass."
. .
"No—not now."
And with this Titn. Chandler hurried out of
doors, The snow-track was hard and sntooth,
and the air was sharp and cutting.. Tim.
noticed not the cold. He walkedt slowly,
thoughtfully on, ever and anon muttering to
hiMself, with his head bowed and his hands
clenched. Finally, when he had come within
sight of his own cottage, he stopped, and spoke
aloud. He had been thinking deeply, calmly,
and solemnly, and his decision had beonarriv
ed at. with clear comprehension and firm pur
"Tim Chandler can leave his children an in
heritance !" he said, with his feet planted firm
ly, his swelling breast thrown nobly out, and
his 'head proudly erect "These arms are stout;
this heart is strong; and this brain can be clear
again. As God lives, and suffers me to live,
my children shall have an inheritance which
will not cause them to blush for the father
who left it !"
Carleton had made one convert that night of
whose existence, even, be did not know.
Timothy entered his house, and sat down by
the fire. His wife was alone, and had been
weeping. He dared not speak then, but suf
fered her to retire with the weight of sorrow
still upon her. And Hannah Chandler slept,
and dreamed, and did not dream of the angle
that come to her home.
In the morning Timothy was up first. When
his wife came out he had a warm fire built, and
the tea-kettle on. She looked into his face,
and through the blue cloud, came a light which
had long been hidden, gleaming upon her like
golden rays from the morning sun, penetrating
to her souhas did the old• love•light in the
years agone. While yet she stood,• gazing
upon him like one in a 'dream, he reached
forth .and took both her hands. _
"Hannah"• he said, with voice as strong and
firm as man ever spoken, and in tones as true
and tender as . • were those which fell from his
lips before the altar, "from this hour I begin
to make an inheritance for my children. It
may not be money—it may not be - material
wealth; but if I live, ataltall be an inheritance
which they shall not blush to own in the years
to come. It shall be a FATHER'S NAME un
sullied ; a FATHER'S HONOR untarnished ; a
FATHER'S EXAMPLE which may be safely fol
lowed! Help me in the work, Hannah. Love
me as you ever have; and trust me as you would
trust your awn soul. And may God bless and
keep us to the end!"
And did Hannah help him? Oh ! how she
loved and cheered him !—how she clung to
him, and blessed him ! How bright was the
heavens of that home I—how sweet the music
of its angel voices.
And Timothy Chandler went forth to carve
out the inheritance for his children. His arm
was strong, and so was his heart. His soul
was firm, and so was his purpose. The years
crept on apace, and the frost of age was upon
his brow as white as snow. His work was done,
and he.sat down in the evening of life, by his
Hannah's side, to rest and repose. He had carv
ed out the inheritance, and he lived to see his
children, and his children's children enjoy it.
As father, and as grandfather, he was tenderly
loved and worshipped; and as friend and citi
zen he was honored and respected; while, as
counsellor and guide, to the young, and to ,the
middled-aged, none stood higher than did he.
Timothy. Char s uller had not been able to.lay
up much money for his children; but did he
not give to them for an inheritance something
of far greater worth—something nearer the
worth of heaven? Ah—lid he not?
Here is an amusing scene from the-vaude,
vill4 of the Prisoner of Rochelle, which, says
a Paris journal, keeps the audience• in a roar
of, laughter every night of its performance.
"Corporal. Cartouch" amuses himself by going
through the .manual exercise, while, "Leza,".
seated at her work-table, abstracedly questions
him 'concerning matrimony. :•
Lesa—lf a girl would fall in love with you,
Corporal, what would you do Y._
Corporal—(blaneeuvering with his musket).
Present arms !
L.—She would doubtless look to you for—
C.—Support •
L.—And what a heavy burden you'd have
C : —Carry
L.—Your butcher and baker would, have
, I.—And your prospects, of course, would
C.—Advance 1
L.—And you'd have to—
C.—'Bout face !
L.—And,never have any— •
th—Rest I
L.—Now, Corporal, praygive me your—
C.—Attention !
L.—A. man of your years is not able to bear
such a--
C.-Load !
L.—But you are not in your—
C.—Prime I
L.—Your wife may—
C.—'Bout !
L.—Leave you, but she will soon—
C.—Return I
L. 7 —And then you will have to bear all on
C.—Shoulder !
L.—You should be—
C.—Ready !
L.—l think you have some other—
L.—And you'd throw all your epistles into
C.--Fire !
To win love and esteem, it is far better to be
gracious tban graceful.
the following rates
1 column, one year
of a column, one year„.,—
;} of a column, one year.,
1 square, twelve m0nth5,..,.,,
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I square, three months •
1 square, (ten lines or less) 3 insertions...,
Each subsequent insertion
Professional cards, one year
NO. 14.
It is well that the poet's heart is full of
sympathy; he finds little elsewhere.
Party zeal is often received as a substiute
for every exoellence.
A man may undertake $o many things that
he can't overtake half of them.
An unhappy death is God's frown, a happy
one is His smile.
[Fires the musket.]
Advertisements will be iuserted iu TUE PILOT at
„ ... .. ....... ....... . ...
Cavalry are the wings of war
It takes four springs to make a kap year
A bad man, when he is alone, is in the corn
pany of fiends.
The worst and most unendurable of all our
Its are the imaginary ones.
With what kind of fire did Samson lay waste
the fields of the Philistines? Fox-fire, to be
When you are told to obey the golden rule,
don't think that it means the rule or sway of'
Armies don't like to 'be haid-pressed. We
can't say how it would be with an array of wo,
Many a preacher complains of empty pews
when they are really , not much emptier than
the pulpit.
The loud tones in which some people appear
to reason imply that reason is a great distance
from them
'Tis little wonder that men so often lie when
they find how many enemies they make by tell,
lug the truth,
Good works are the fruit of righteousness,
not the cause. The tree makes the apple, not
the apple the tree.
am surprised, wile, at your ignorance
Have, you never seen any books at all ?" "Oh,
yes, in, a number or eases.".
Every sound spoken over the round world
whioh we ought to hear will vibrate to our
A man with an influenza must be content to
stand or sit still. He can't travel unless his
nose does, and the influenza stops that.
A:Tortreas is generally '
eapiured more easily
the'seconA time than' the first This is as true
of a widow's heart as of oth . or strongholds,
If %the proverb that valor isfire, and bullying
smoke, is true, that other proverb that where
thereis smoke there must be fire is false.
"I am , astonished, my dear young lady, at
your sentiments; you make me start" "Well,
sir, I have been wanting you to start for the
last hour."
If a railroad man mere to listen to the rail
ing of a set of sharp-tongued woman around a
tea table, he would - think it a rare speoimeu of
the trail. -
souie of the, epitaphs in our country burying
grounds show that persons who try to be pa
thetic are more comic than those who aim to be
A bad man may brave courage in some things,
but it lurks not in his badness; it is his re
deeming trait. The stoicism of the savage is
a savage virtue
A brave heart may dwell in a body that
dangles,tretnulously in the unstrung plight of
its material fibres—as a strong man may lodge
in a creaking hovel.
Many a man, who would shudder at the bare
thought of being visited here by a single dis.
embodied apirit, feels no dread or apprehension
at the thought of visiting a world of spirits.
Some of„the boldest conceptions of genius
are fortuitous, starting up and vanishing almost
in the perception; like that giant form, some
times seen amid the glanders, afar from the
opposite traveller, moving as he moves, stop.
ping as he- stops, yet in a moment lost, and
perhaps nevermore seen, although but his own
Genuine bravery has an acute perception of
danger. No man is so cautions of the move
ment of the ship as the stout-hearted captain.
No heart beats so fast in the battle, -no eye
seeks so many risks, as the eye and heart of
the commander, whose rigid mucles do not
flutter as he utters his stern monosylables in
the crisis.
85.0 C