The World We Live In in Cincinnati, Ohio
11 Feb 1860

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The World We Live In in Cincinnati, Ohio
11 Feb 1860

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The World We Live In (Newspaper) - February 11, 1860, Cincinnati, Ohio f :foetK/Y. for the H orU H> Live /». Our Dream. WIIAKTt>«j JR. Bryopd the mea.K»» »n<I over the lea. CluM where the »ilv«rj- droi*» train the jr*U om the    *i*d tb« b«rrru iwck* tlMr .«tetiaet r WM4ta« • n0tmemml09 •>r m»~ CkooMBS • «pot wlMTe in bnppineM w« Pntetod n ftitn?» ntost Tirid and rare. ,'er tba lea and the meadow eo eweat— I in tike *k» wKere tba green aha^wa mmC, I in tin fknaltiMM the bubbling ep^ng ñon»— Wbare bloom* tba eglantine, lilly and ro*^ WWe gntot nature In bappy rutraat, ^^ Oflbeu the aanMa repoae at iu fcat— Qunnrbing the Utter pang* earth only know*. our mtnro—my Caith's yunthfhl brtda— IWa bhxwaedowr hopee and oer joya aide beeide: thrjy^ 'naath the willowy ahnia «Ñff cU, by love’* fcncy aande. jMt «n the brink of the atrenaa'a purling tid*-^ Jwd wUw* ta* mnnaarin«**ng •**» triad WlA the chanelar’* aong in ttie be* and the glada. O., r*b,, 7tb, IWi. ssrj JtMdat • -»«•» I    WUhtha    c Fbr ^ WtrU Wt LitM I». itr 7^ BT ww. w. npan On a torelgn *óre bia gravé wan hni nene were there t* lor* him ; in-g toralgn land hi* «oree waa laid, «he bright blue aky above him. GL, %Hh a earehaa aaein they l«id>lm thara. Far, Ur team the Irtanda uf hi* benam, i.t, hiuaat wa* now cold ae tha winter air, hi* heart Hke a withered btomom. Ihnetraneer ¿ai*tbey baartid n* aigh, Aad abed no taar of pity. But moved away aa careleaalr, tiM t* vn of a crowd^ city. eOarttm* no aaaiden came. To alrrw Mb grave with roaea, oa plain atone U carved no name, gfBam the eatranged one aapoee*. ^mA there ha Um neglected atill, Ifith hto brightaat deed* unapoken ; i^d none tbare were, who e’er could tall, ■uw hia heart and hop** were broken. Fonnke Me Hot, My God. ^ — ■■ Tnanaidtnn rnon xn* onnna*. PM paU rvr write «.ythln, mom moomfully awnU and cmr-rwing wltklt a deeper devotional apirit than this: PM-aahe me not, my tiod. Thou Ood of my aalvatioo Giv* ma thy light to be ]gy emu illumination. «y aonl to Mly tnm*. Saeking ah* know* not what. Ok ! lead her to thyaelf— I    My    Ood,    fcraak#    me    aot    I V Poraak* aaaneC, my Ood t TBh* not thy tpirit ftnm aa*; Ofaia to overturn* me. A Mthar pitiath Th* chUdiwn be begot; My fcthar, pity me; )lj Oad, foraak* me not I Foaunhe ma not, mT Oo**' Thon Ood of Ula and power B^een, atrengthen me. In every xwU hour; And when the einful ftre Within aw heart to hot. Be not *on far from me ; My Ood, hnanke om not I Faranke aa* not, my Ood! CphaW me in Bay goiag; That eaarmore I may name thee la all well-doUig ; And that thy wfll. O Lord; May waur he forgot Xa alt aay worka and way— My Ood, foraake me not t Pir- I*- aae not, my Oudi 1 wonM bathlne forever, OmAbÚb aa* aaightUy Inevucy right ead^vor. And arhmi my hour i* coaM, egennaad from all atain and apet Of ahmemive my aoul; My Ood, foaaake me not ! Winter Sunset By gvneaM aeroUa ef toe-llke, panrty Mne, And iliiak- of viofot-red, like new-born flnme, P P Amn of gntbered stnbUe leaping through. Pala gold in lengthentng hue, and aaany a hn*. gfctfrtng too anidanly far eye to nm. On liiatin i rl-r-* oiouda, thick and dark, Aa naamar at* th* biatwiing annaet drew, 1 knew whan drunry, arBd Muvimber mma It was a pleasant room ^nongh. Nothing grand ■ élegant about it, but ]^iin, taatofiil, ami neat. The curtains were of plain white mu.slin, looped back with bows of rose-colored riblnui; the coiling was low and painted, and thV>^lls. papered with cheap, neat paj)cr, were adorned by .several pic-i« pljkito mnfcd|ftl.ny fmiann. TlM>r« wncu two. i windows in ftront; between these windows waa » aide table covered with books; a few willow chairs, h chintz covered lounge, and a little round table drawn up near the biasing wood fire, completed the furnishing of the little sitting room. I said it was a pledsant room: it might have been the firelight dancing out upon the gay, home-made carpet—it might have been the little round table, with its snowy cloth and white stone ware, bright silver, and the bountiful supply of delicacies for tea with which it was spread—or it possibly might have been Ruthie Bennett’s bright face as she flitted here and there, arranging slippers, dressing gown, and the great easy chair for her husband's comfort, when he should come home from his hard day's labor, that made this littlé room look so cheerful. For Charles Bennett was a mechanic, and worked industriously day after day, to his credit be it said.    ' Ruthie had been Mrs. Bennett a year. She was a tender, loving little wife, ancbno wonder Charles forgot his weariness when he returned to his pleasant home, and was greeted by her\^eet smiles and cheerful welcome.' Well, this particular evening, Ruth awaited im-pa.tiently her husband's return; the secret of it may be that there was something she wanted to tell •Charlie so very much—and that was thfi reason. Ruth went to the window ; it was frosted over so thick that she could not see distinctly, so she went to the door and peeped out, down the street in the direction Charlie would come. The snow was falt^ ing, and the wind blew it into her Vacc. “ Poor Charlie!” she said, “ if he was only 'at home now, in place of having a long three quarters of a mile to walk!” Ruth was an affectionate little wife, and said tliis over as she placed more wood upon the-blailng fire, and drew the easy chair and slippers nearer to it, so that they might be nice and warm. Then she took up her knitting-work—Charlie's sock that she was footing—and sat down, and while her fingers were busily employed, her thoughts wandered away to Charlie trudging home in the storm and through the gathering darkness, after a hard, wearying day of toil. “I wish we were rich,” mused Ruthie; “1 don't care so ipich for myself^ I'm sure I don't; but to think of ^ being obliged to work day after day, week after week, year after year, to find food and dothing ftr us; ’tis too bad, yes, indeed, it is. Aa for Charlie let us glance backward an hour and find him husiij engaged^at his work. He is » fine enough ? “ Why, I said everything suited me.’’ “ You said only—" ‘‘tio I did,” replieil Charles absently, drinking his tea. “What did you mean ?” ' “(111, nothing, only 1 thought the supper rather bftter than we cau afford^ << STyéáiailiiI “ I didn’t say so.’’ “Oh, you didn't—you might as well, though. I'm sure you like good victuals as well as I do, and it was only last week you complained that the tea was weak, and the pie sour, and said you liked this kind of cake better than the simple tea cakes I used to make; you know that, Charles Bennett.” That was all truth, the young man knew it and did not reply. “Well, I wouldn't talk about afford after that,'’ said Ruth, her Ihice reddening with vexation. Better would ¡V have been had Charles Bennett told his sympathizing little wife the true state of affairs then, but he did not wish to trouble her, so he was silent. Iluthie's good nature again came to the rescue. “You don’t know what I made to-day, Charlie?” . “What was it?' This was said merely mechanically, not as if the speaker was at all interested.. “Oh, something,'’ returned Ruth playfully. “Guess, Charlie.’’    ' “ I'm sure I couldn’t.’’ “ Well,.^ust once.” No reply. “ You knbw I told you last wwek I’d have to have a new bonnet ?” “ Y'es.” “ Well, look here.” Ruth arose from the table, and going into the adjoining bed-room, she quickly returned with a bandbox. “Now prepare to see something wonderful,^and Ruth removed the cover ariU took from the box a pretty bonnet of black velvet. “I made it all myself; 1 11 tell you how I did it, Charlie. I took the frame of my summer bonnet and covereil it with that black velvet basque—you remomker the one I used to wear, but out of fashion now—Fwll, I took that and cut it into folds, damjv enod it, and raised the plush by drawing it over a warm iron on the wrong side. The velvct_iaj*rfce and looks as well as new, and the strings are the bows of rich ribbon that trimmcil the basque pressed out; and the flowers I took from my last winter's bonnet—and 1 think it looks as well as if I had paid five, eight, or even ten dollars for it, don't you ?” Now Ruthie all the afternoon had been planning what Charlie would say. She imagined he would take her in his arms and call her his dear, economical little wife, his genius, his little milliner^im^ say she was worth her weight in gold—something •f this kind she had fancied h« w«wl«l.*i7, Kn* ia looking young man, of five and twenty years per- 4 place of this he dropped liis face upon his hands haps, but there was a cloud upon his brow, and a sad troubled expression in his brown eyes that betokened anything but an enviable frame of mind. The reason of his disquietude wa^ this: a few moments before, his employer, Mr. Hammond, had informed him that owing to the fa^rd times, he found it impossible to dispose of what furniture he had now on hand, and should he obliged to dismiss several of his workmen; he was sorry to throw Charlie out of employment, very sorry, dut it could not be helped.  ✓ The village of Olenvale tioaaicd of but one ftMVii- ture establishment, and Giiarlie was* a cahMbi maker by trade. What shonld    The    mnter    was just coming on, and the twentj^fiTe dollars Mr. Hammond had paid him that afternoon was all the money he possessed in the world; for his summer's earnings had gone towards paying for the little cottage in which he lived. What tkould he do? This was the question that and said “ Y^s, I suppose it will do well enough.” , Oh, what a fall of hopes was this I Roth sat down, buried her face in her hands and cried. She waa disappointed; she could not help it. “Y’ou had better attend to your dishes than be there playing the baby,” said Charlie in none of the most pleasant tones. “ Oh, dear, oh, dear me,” sobbed little foolish Ru^h. “What ails you, I'd like to know?’’ Only a burst of tears was the rtply. Now, we may as well say here, that Charlie and Ruth Bennett were mortals, like you and I, no doubt, reader, and being mortals, they were not perfect—and not being perfect they quarreled. Ruth called her husband all sorts of hard names, and he replied cutt^g and sarcastically. Ruthie cried and Charlie paced the room with fierce, blaz-ing eyes, and determined, compressed lips. Finally, Ruthie declared to her husband that she wished she had'never married such a bear; and he hand'a face. “Whervid you got all that, Ruth?’’ It was a light musical laugh Rat burst from the young wite's lips—it did not make Charlie's head ache at all. lie reached out his hand and cointed over the peices of money. “ Why, there's over seventy-five iollars, Ruthie, tell me, am I dreaming?" “I’ll tell you, Charlie; >en*efortl all secrets between us shall be at an /énd. WtiefI was married, father gave me my choice, a sbnjie or expensive wetlding dress; I chose the fortoer,(you remember I was married in sijnplc swiss aauiliu,) and father gave me the difference, some thkty dollars, for spending money. That was a kindof nest egg, and I have been constantly adding to i. Y'ou gave me money to pay for hiring my. sewing done; 1 did it myself and saved the money, Y«u gave me fifty cents every two weeks to pay for a washerwoman, those fifty cent pieces found theii way into this purse, and Ruthie Bennett did up your shirts and collars in the most approved style You will see, therefore, as we have been marr'ifd a little over a ye.ar, that this would amount to twenty-six dollars. Now, add fifteen dollars saved is sewing, and it will be forty-one ^ollai-g; whiclqíTith the nest egg, amouuts tío seventy-one dollar*—the rest I have saved in various little ways—a* all is easily explained, you see, dear Charlie.” i AVe can not report the young husband's exact words—they might have been onething, they might I have been something else; at all events, whatever 1 they were, they were satisfactory for Ruth leaned ¡ her licad upon her husband's bos«m and wept tears of happiness—they were nct of s4rrow or anger. Well, 'Charlie Bennett speedilj rccovea^. ^The last payment for the little cottageWas mafic Christmas, a payment of twenty dollati. And' Dr. Morrison declared he coul«li> t have Re heart to make out a large bill against them; i^ieed, Jiard-workr ing, honest joung men he rarclwcumbered with a large doctor's bill, ‘and Dr. Mo/neon waa rich, so he did not mis it. Towards spriif(, indeed, as soon as he was able, Charlie was informed by his old employer, Mr. Hammond, that he desired his services again ; moreover, that he hadeome to the conclusion to retire from active business, and wished Charlie to go into the shop as superintending work^ man. There is oi\e thing Charley BenMtt and his wife have learned—to share their joys aprrows with each «ther, and'vrlien tliBT    ctther, they remember as a warning the circumstances thq,t brought about tA«r /r*i <7ni io*t joorrel. I R'ntten /or The Worlt^ We Live /n, by MARY" I A. KEABLES.] Voi^ I’VE FORGOT.’ pose. This habit of forgetfulness is one so Very bad, so ruinous both to yourself ah4^hose x^ith whom you are connected, that you ought to cste3m no labor too ‘arduous, or any exertion too great, to shake yourself free from its trammels. “ I remember, Tom," said Mrs. Campbell, “that jtmr uncle James, through this vile habit, lost an opportunity, whioh never afterwards returned,, of mnicing his fortune. "His generu'T'knowledpfe business, combined with agreeable manners, recommended him to a gentleman, who, having money, but no experience, wished to bef^n business in a line of which James possessed a competent know-ledge. After some time spent in consultation,'lI’Ttny was named for the completion of arrangements. ' I The day arrived, but James forgot to make his ap- j • pearance. lie went the following day, apologizing, i by saySng that he had forgotten the day. ‘ Very well, was the reply, ‘if in a matter of so much im- I portance j'ou forgot your duty, I will not forget mine, and that is to have no further connect»^ with j you.’ Y'our uncle, thu.s, through his own capable | carelessness, lost the opportunity of securing a val- | j liable business for life.’’ “ And Emma Gardner,” interposed Mary, “lost ^ her sweetheart, and perhaps a husband, through i her forgetfulness; for she received A letter from ' him, telling her that a girl who remembered nothing would make but an indifferent wife. ’ “ Y'ou are now all against me, " exclaimed Tom, “and all because I have omitted to bring a certain article home.” “You are mistaken, Tom,” continued the father, “ if 3'ou suppose that the remarks which have fallen and which will yet fall from my lips, are occasioned by to-day s forgetfulness. I wish to warn you against this baneful habit, convinced, as I am, that a continuance in it will be of the greatest dctrimiMit^ to your interests in after life. I hope, then, you will listen with patience to what I 'nave to say on this matter, and act upon the advice I have to give. I need not, at any great length, point out to you the great disadvantages accruing from a forgetful disposition. You, first of all, sadly- inconvenience youraeif. By omitting to discharge certain duties at the time wheh they could have been properly manageil, you entail upon yourself serious annoyance, and it may be, loss. Suppose you have to balance your cash account, or make up your books at stated periods, your allowing the** to slip over without jierforming the task, plunges 'you into a sea of troubles. Y'our cash do4* not    with your books, and you can't tbll th«- raaBFA. so long has been the time since you la#t bnhuio«á. Just now you told me you are twenty dollar» bohind, and you know not what ha*,become of it.” “ I ve found it now, ” observed Tom; “I met Dick Johnston, yesterday, and he paid me that sum, which I had loaned him, an4 omitted to make a memorandum of it.”    . “Well, iba^ A.cogfiripiti# ing,” continued Mr. Campbell. dishonest, you would never have received your money, because you knew not where it had gone to. You are secretary to a Society, and in attending its The evil habi^of procraSlination is prevalent to a great extent in all classes of society, and holds sway over many who pride themselves on their promptitude and punctuality. Alive to the defects of their friends in thia way, they see not their own, and, wrapped in self-conccit, they^uke upon themselves the office of censor, aiyl S)4 in judgment on their fellows. Others, agaim tejiere are who fully perceive the danger consequ/ent on indulgence in procrastination, and are conl^inced that they ought fo shake themselves clear frdta its trammels; but whojxcither from listnessness hr sloth, make no ef-fbrt the matter, and drag pn their existence, the prey of ctrqumstances or the sport of accident. Proorastinbtion is a habit easily acquired, but not so easily diwosed of. Let it one?obtain a hold upon our nature, «ui it will increase in strength, unless continually wbtehed and vigorously opposed. To put off till to-morroV^ so agreeable to t^e nature of men in general, tmtt. they insensibly defer to some other;A«tre’Hhe perfo^ance of that which they could^s easily and mioréyeffectively--accomplish at fhe^present moment. xThie love of ease proves stronger tjian the love of aiKy, and the imperative calls otf,4he latter are lost in the insiduous whisperings of the former.    ‘ The most inveterate procrastinator will by no means acknowledge thatJt is right and proper to defer the execution of aM business to a future riod, if it can be efficiently discharged at once, negligent and procrastinating habits cause him much annoyance, but yet he makes no effort to correct the evil. He is one of those 9. His\ Vi « vm ' nd w: Conil«nin tlie wrong, and tbe wrong puniie.” Could the votaries of procrastination show any . good resulting from it, we might be tempted to excuse their habitual yielding to its fetters. I would make a wide._distlnction, however, between executing any büsines» rashly and without consideration, and procraslinatini^y. I believe that, “ In the middle path there is the greatest safety.” , One decided disadvantage resulting from procrastination, is that it has been beautifully said :    “    God    only    gi^M us one moment at a time, and withdraws it as tttn as given.”    ' Nothing is so fatal to • asan ia busiaeee as pro-craatination. While he igAhinkiag, and heeitatiag, and deferring the execution of a plan that givw ample promise of a good return, ^aotbfr step* ia, and by prompt prbceedings, reap» the harveM, W. fore he has    ipad* up bis 'saind ia    The    aaaa who, in *11 hisbmnsactfoni, aeta yraipttiBfi# and decision, who adoptsWs his motto:    * ** Wh*l*««r to riabt    '    / Purane with mi|rlit.”    ' Is as sure to make his way prosperously thfougk the world as the procrastinator, the timid, find the irresolute, are sure to sink and lose themoelveo ia the world’s rapid current. 'It is of iafeSto imporA;. tance Or|Gmeithe right raiments—to s*i|^ thw^oidea opportunity to catch that flowing tide which, ia th* affairs of this world, “ leads oi^ to fortune.” H^at great naval hero, Lord Nelson,^aew well th* «d-vanUges derivable from promptitude and deelaion, and in all his actions, foom purduiag aa enemy to ^ the execution of th« most trifliag duty\<m ship-board, showed himself to be actuated by Uam* great qualities. \    / “At a qu»rt¿p-to six,” «bid he, tc^flne of hi^ tradesmen, who promi^j^ to render hie aeoMuM at six o'clock the following morning. “ iffi tt'qnartcr to six, sir, if you please; upop quarters of ha b<mr my success in life has often «íppended.” And in a similar manner was theq:gply'given by oiA~>óf oar ^ Revolutionary offic^, who was appointed to a oer-Uin command, and'bei^ asked w^en he would be ready to proeeed, answered, “ThiVevening.” The procrastinator has nohrpe idea of the val^ of time. Time flies over his head ia rapid ii^t, and leaves him as careless and procrastinating as before. Temper fugit has now almost become anglicised. Of time, none can sUy the rapid flight; for like the tide, it heeds not the voice of man, thoagh it should thunder forth from the mouth ef a eaanen. ‘In courtship, as in business, promptitude aad a speedy coming to the point, run the fairest ehaace of success. The man wh^ visits; and talks and caused the cloud to rest on Charlie Bennett’s usu- '■ answered, she could not regret it more than he did. WMhi ÍI watehad theM • aight. MBMa «fca eoal tefghtaaad, wUle th* yowg Ft* ni Ml ^ vaatahsd. twaight aank to alght, Aad aSar kg «Sar hang omt tta lamrif Ught, 0*ar Mfo «r daiii Sa atratch * aai—rch rmj, Uka haaasa Ught aafoaa tha aaartaer’a way; Bataivtha avaaiafglary took ito light, SaamfaaaSfei BwagMa knathed on aa* aa 1 gaaad. D*«al aa« al aartMr «haage the wiatiy aight; Be foéth ia Oad thg feaanaa'a eonataat gnaat; atratcbas o’er the* atlll; ha wiU work hia will; chmda now bright tha piigrtai’a net. Warm hawSF.’wMk eartaJaa dowa, aad frcah-trtmmwl Or harryMghadb* with omstle-Miielded BMemlag sad chSMnlag. we aito* the eight OrhasB^ ia th* wlntiy eky, more bright Thaa ta tha qstag or eamaaer time we *e*; Aadma vtoleacamothe** theaghmtoaw Xa th* fair ere oT that VovMaber night. When hMktag aa tbát abeen of nambeii*** dy**. -MhaSWF UtHytam Mf *i*f/br Jvmmry. Skau. Mkass.—The power of money is, on the whel*, over-estimated. The greatest things which have been done for the world have not been accomplished by rich men, or by subecription lists, but by ama generally of small pecuniary means. Christianity was propagated over half the world by men of the poorest class; and tbe greatest thinkers, discoverers, inventors, and artisU, have been men of ■aoderate wealth, many of them hardly raised above the condition of manual laborers in point of worldly eireuBBaiaaees. And it will always be so. Riches are ofteaer an impediment than a stimulus to action, and in many eases they are quite as much of a misfonuae as a bleasing. The youth who inherits Mealth is apt to have life made too easy for him, »nd he sbon grows satiated with it, because ^e has nothing left to desire. Having no special object to struggle for, he flnds time hang heavy on his hands, he resaaias morally and spiritually asleep, and his poeitioa ia society is often no higher than that of a polypus, over which tbe tide floats. ** Hto hnty Ubur to to kill the time, Aad labor dire it to, and weary wo*,’’ KaeusH Wombn.—The Philadelphia BuUetin ridicules the censure against feminine skating, and says. They erder these things better abroad. Ladies of sstablished position, whose genuine modesty no one would think of questioning, and who belong tp families which have been the best in the country for hundreds of years, engage In robast exercises which Biany of our ror-dUarnt ladies would think as vulgar. They drive epirited horses along all tbe beautiful laaes sad by the bloesoming hedge-rows of merry Bnglaad. They ride on horseback with brilliant cavalcades to visit all the spots sacred to historic lhac and eld rmaanee. They think nothing—even a lady Arabella or aa Honorable Oeraldina—of walk-five Bailee in the country,, auitably dreseed and ckmmeertoT the purpose. They are skilled in archery. Some of them even ride after the the hounds, aad harden their aristocratic hands by rowing plcaeure boats ia a style that would captivate the earts of our whole Schuylkill fleet. ally cheerful brow, aad brought ike troubled look to his eyes.    j Then there was their nsMit to be bought for the winter, wood to be engaged, and only that morning Ruthie had told him “the flour was nearly out, and that he had better look around town for some butter and eggs as the next was baking day and she would need a supply, and some tea and coffee too ; and he might as well buy some raisins for the mine^ also.” “Twenty-five dollars!” Charlie Bennett compressed his lips and his | hands trembled, “ twenty-five dollars, and the last payment for the cottage comes Christmas!” Perhaps it is no wonder the young man was almost discouraged, and that when he reckoned up what they murt have, he concluded raisins, butter, and eggs could be dispensed with, at least, until he could find some method of earning the wherewith to pay for the aforesaid articles. “ ril not tell Ruthie anything about this,” thought | Charlie to himself, “it will only worry her, poor girl, and do no good at all.” AYith this determin- i ation he set out for home—and the perplexities of the last hour was the reason why he scarcely replied to his little wife’s “How glad I am you’ve come, Charlie!” Ruth put on the tea to draw, and busied herself with the dishes to hide the disappointed look upon her face. “Did you see about the flour, Charlie?’’ “Yes.” It was a short answer, but he was thinking the flour only left him but twenty out of the twenty-five dollars Mr. Hammond had paid him. “ Did you get the eggs and butter?” asked Ruthie looking around a# if in quest of those articles.-“Are we out of butterV’ “What therejsxin the table is all; don’t forxet it to-morrow, Charlie.” There was no reply. “Did you get the raisins, Charlie? ’ “ No.” “ Why not ?” “Mince pies are good without, are they not?” asked the young man stirring the tea. “Dry as chips,” replied Ruth a little poutingly. “But the tea and coffee; you certainly did hot forget to bring the tea and coffee, Charlie?” There was no reply. “ What ails you, Charlie? you are as sober as an ewl, asked RutU a little vexeil, “have you one of your old headaches?” “ No.” “ Well, what then?” No answer. “ Are you tired ?” “ Not very.” “ Well, what is the matter then ? are yon angry with me, Charlie ?” “ Oh, no.” “ Doesn't the supper suit you ?” “ Yes, only—” “Only what?” asked Ruth, vexed in spite of her usual good nature, “ what don’t suit you?” “Oh, every thing suits me well enough,” replied the husband in a tone that belied his words. “1 know there’s something that don’t suit you. Isn’t the bread light, the sauce well stewed, the tea strong enough, the pie sweet enough, the cake ric^ “Oh, dear! dear! ’ sobbed Ruth. “ Oh—oh ! ’ groaned and sighed Charlie^ “ It is not too late, uow, to remedy it in a manner,” said the latter; “any time you want to go back to your father's, you can do so.” And spirited little Ruth said, “Well, Mr. Bennett, I’ll go to-morrow, if you please.” Charlie Bennett drew on his boots, put on his coat, cap, and mittens, and went out into the night, Ruth threw herself upon the lounge, and wept tears of mingled anger and grief. “Oh, if I only had not talked sOj'^she said at length, “but he was so provoking. Oh, dear, dear, where has he gone? gone ahd left me; oh, dear, dear me!” Time passed : oh, how long it seemed to Ruth. How many times she went to the door and strained her eyes gazing into the darkness, and growin weary listening in vain for his footsteps. Wil and wilder grew the storm; the snow came down in drifts, and the winds howled mournfully—only the sleet dashing against the windows—there was no'sound of footsteps; and thus hour after hour passed by. Bitterly Ruth condemned herself for her rash, harsh words; she felt that she was greatly to blame, and that Charlie's quick and unkind answers were provoked by her passionate and unjust remarks. Where had he gone ? would he ever, ever come back to her and forgive her? were questions that tortured her.. The clock upon the mantel-shelf struck the hour of midnight when the clicking of the gate and the sound of footsteps caused Ruth Bennett's heart to flutter like a caged bird : then there was a sound of voices, then a loud hurried knock, and before she could obey the summons the door wus opened’, and two me'iT'entered bearing in their arms the senseless form of her husband. . * “A fit, I think, mem,’’ said one of the men, “or a faint, something of the kind.. He was sitting in the bar-room of the “Red Lion” looking wonderfnl troubled-like, when all at once—but don’t take it so, Mrs. Bennett, the doctor'll be here before long, and he'll come to, 111 warrant, and be well enough in an hour or two.” As for Ruth, those who listened to her wild cries did not know why they were so full of agomzing remorse. “Oh, Charlie, do not die, do not die! Onljl ive and forgive me; it is I, your own little Ruth, o speak to me!” But from the pale lips there came no response; and for days afterwards Charles Bennett was entirely unconscious of the dear one who watched over him. And it was only by his wild, delirious ravinge that Ruth liecame acquainted with the true state of affairs that had been the cause of so much anxiety to him, and which he had feared to trouble ¡ lier with lest the knowleilge should give her pain. Biit Charles Bennett recovered. Through a kind Providence, good medical treatment and the best of nursing won him back to life, as it were from the dead. “Only tell me that you forgive me, Charlie,” whispered Ruth one day as she saC by his side, and held his thin hand between her own soft palms. “ Forgive me, Rutliie,” said the young man, smiling up into lier face. “ Y'ou should iiavc fold me of your trouble, yoti should have le,t rac been your confidant, Charlie.” sai*i lAIOaVA T    X^auiVIlA|^    A1WZA4    V-    ^    a    aavi    oaavaa w    f    IfilKA    UliBS    MHC1 the accumulation of business. By jokes, but nothing more, may please for a tiMC, kui ^ “ AY’ell, Tqjn,'’ said Mrs. Campbell to her son, as he entered the breakfast-room, “have you executed for me the message with which I entrusted you?” “ Message ! did you say ? ” ejaculated Tom. “ Oh I remember now. AVhy really, mother. I’ve forgot it! "    / “That’s always the way with you, Tom,” said hie sister Mary, ‘‘you are continually forgetting. Mother and I are going to insert your name in the black-l>ook, you are so thoroughly irreclaimable.” “‘Come now, Mary,’’ replied 'fom, “ don’t be too hard upon me. I am not so bad os you would make me. It is only occasionally you find me tripping.” “Not so bad!” echoed Mary, “why, I have not painted you in sufficiently black colors. I know of no youi\g man who can for one moment be put in comparison with you. I really believe, were it hot that your head is attached most oompletoly to ypur body, and cannot be shaken off, that that too would be forgotten.” “ One thing you must confess, however,'’ said Tom laughingly, “I never forget to ceme home to din<- ; Y on can , claini no credit for that,” said Mrs. Campbell, “an inward monitor, aa well as the example of those aroand you, tells you pretty plainly when that time al^ivea.’’ “Y’our forge^lness. Master Tom,” said Mary, mischievouslyAbetrayá your whereabouts. Y’oung men attempt (o conceal from their sisters occasionally in what cffiirming spot they spend their t^e-nings. Now I Wve found out, ia spite of all your in» ^nning, where Mid in whose company you spent ^j^^rf'last Tuesday evening. Don’t you try after this to ' conceal from me your visiting quarters, for I'll find them out.” “ Y'ou’re trying to draw me out, Mary. It won’t do. I'm too old to be caught,” said Tom. ‘I Old as you are, or think yourself to be, Tom, you ^have been caught. Do you knew this umbrella, with the words ‘Tom Campbell’ legibly engraved on the top? Now tell me where I procured this?’’ “Why, let me see—aye—yes—hem,” ejaculated Tom, looking rather queer, “this is certainly like my umbrella; but where you got it, is out of my power to—” - “ Come now, Tom, no nonsense,” said the triumphant Mary, “ I found it in the house of a certain lady, whose name, respect for your bashfulness, forbids me to mention. Only, in future, when you go to see ladies, and don’t wish your sister to know it, be sure not to leave your umbrella behind you.” “So, Tom, my boy,” uttered Mr. Campbell, who just then entered the room, “have yon brought the papers I wished you to bring from the office?” “Why, father,’’ a-as Tom’s response, at tliaá moment recollecting his father's expressed wishes, “the fact, is that on my way to the office, I met with a few companions, whose conversation drove your message entirely out of my head, and I—I—’’ “ In short, you entirely forgot it,” said his father, displeased. “ What a weak memory yju've got. It seems to be of no earthly service to you. 1 might just as well pour water into a sieve, with the expectation of its being'retnined there, as entrust you with a message, aud expect to have it properly executed.” “ Y'ou are rather hard upon me, flather,” said Tom, abashed, “I flatter myself I am not quite so bad as that.” “Every whit,” replied the father, with emphasis, “and it gives me pain to observe the numerons illustrations continually occurring of this baneful habit of forgetfulness. Y'osterdny morning you went off to the office, leaving the keys behind you, and had to come trudging back home for them, in the midst of a heavy fall of rain, while the men were lounging about the door, awaiting your return, and laughing, no doubt, at your stupidity.” “ This rarely occurs,” said Tom, his face reddening. “Rarely occurs!” echoed his father, “let me have no excuses; I have some hopes of a young man when he sees liis error, and strives to overcome it, but I liave none of him who searches through the whole category of excuses to find one to answer his pur- meetings you find you have forgotten to take with you the minutes of tlie previous meeting. Last year, when you had clambered with much effort to the summit of Mount AVashington, you found that you had left your spy-glass at home. ‘ Y’ou had laid it out on the table, and forgot to take it with you. Thus, in the course of your limited experience, you have felt the jiersonal inconvenience resting from forgetfulness. It rnffies your temper, tries your patience, aud causes you to undergo a vast deal of unnecessary trouble. But over and abqye the inconvenience resulting to yourself from a forgetful disposition, there is to be added the aFUoyance, trouble, and apxiety, resulting to those with whom you are connected either by relationshi|l or diusi-ness. Y'ou cannot conceive the serious ^ury that may be the consequence to your neighbof. It may be the means of depriving him of the advantage o one favorable opportunity, the seizing ef whicl? would make him at once independent. This habit, if indulged, will grow upon you so sitently and ^surely, that you will find it to be impossible to shake off its fetters. AA’hat kind of impression aa to your business habits can you make on a customer, or what consolation can it afford him. when oalling for an explanation, you coolly inform him that you had forgotten his order altogetlier? AA’hat eUe oan you expect, or indeed wjiat else do you dazerve, but to lose your business and be brauded with contempt?” * “Y'ouhave, indeed,” said Tom, “drawn a most frightful picture of the evils arising from using the expression,‘I've forgot’; but how am I to avoid it. I really cannot help it?’’ “Y’ou wrong yourself there,” replied Mr. Campbell, “you can avoid it. It arises solely from carelessness on your part, and in fact, on the part of all who use these words, and act upon the principles embodied in them. The memory is susceptible of high cultivation, and many astonishing instances could be adduced in proof. But your error lies in not keeping your wits about you. Y’ou allow your mind to wander at will, unchecked and uittontrol-led. One idea chases another from its place, till all is in chaotic confusion. The consequence is, that memory sits uneasy upon lier seat, and in a most inefficient manner discharges her functions. Your mind, like a watch, requires to he regulated and kept in order. Ere you leave the house in the morning, ask yourself the questions, ‘AVbat have I to do to-day ? 'What duties to perform?’ And ere ^bu retire to rest, ‘ Have I done all that I ought to have done?’ Keep a strict watch over your thoughts and fix them on the pursuit which at the time occupies your attention, for if^-jou once allow thorn to wander—if once you allow t-ourself to forget, you will find it a work of great difficulty to recover yourself. It is easy to float down the stream when wiAand tide are in your favor, but how difficult to return if these are against you !” Practicing upon these suggestionsv when Tom came home to dinner, he brought wRh him his ¡ father's papers, and had executed his nrother's commission. i '^Written for World We Live In, by J. AV. G.] Ple.vsures or C^tentme.nt.—I have a rich neighbor, who is always so busy that he has no time to laugh. The whole business of his life is to get money—more money—that he may still more and more money. He is still drudging on, saying what Solomon says:    “The    diligent    hand    maketh rich.” And this is true, indeed, but he considers not that it is not in the power of riches to make a man happy, for it was wisely said by a man of great observation, “That there be as many miseries beyond riches, as on this side of them.” And yet. Heaven deliver us froin pinching poverty, and grant that, having a competency, we may be content and thankful. Let us not repine, or so much as think tbe gifts of God are unequally dealt, if we see a nether abound with riches, when, as God knows, the cares that are the keys that keep those riches, hang often so heavily at tim rich nian's girdle, that they clog him with weary days and restless nights, even when tbe poor man sleeps sweetly. AA’e see but the ovtside of the rich man's happiness. Few consider him to be liké the silk-worm, that when she seems tb play, is at the same time spinning hor own bowete, and consuming herself. And thia many rich me» do, loading themselves with corroding cares to keep what they have already got. ■ Let us, therefore, be thankful for health and competeivce, and above all, for a quiet con science    ^ putting off from d:iy to day the execution of necessary work, arrears increase to such an extent that we get alarmed, and either neglect business altogether or discharge it in such a slovenly, careless manner, as almost to defeat the end sought to be attained by its performajiee. My worthy friend, James Saunders, is a notable procrastinator. AVcre it not that he must rise betimes and attend to business, he would lie in bed all day long; and shoulp he, in such n case, be requested to rise, would ejaculate in sleepy accents: “ I'll see about" it to-morrow.” There is bo getting him to move expeditiously in his business; and, judging from his conduct., it '    would seen that his ruling principle was, “ AYbat- I Am aa^T-    |    avar cASulgr B«jr.iifaa»lbility, he ebtoged, eff till    to* “ If Dick had    been    morrow, let it remain untouched to-day.” Despite the ni}liie(;ous evils, losses and inconveniences to which he subjects himself bv perseverance in this procrastinating principié, he makes no exertion to shake himself from the yoke, but to    all admonitions addressed to him on this score, by    his friei^s, he returns for answer: “Y'es, you’re ^^if^ right, i’ll see ajtjput it tomorrow.’    *    ■"•ff His shops are in a    of    eenfudbB. The-4»« stl-uments of his trade    and there, ever in the way when BOf“Bb4 boí to be found when urgently wanted, swea* ffiflfi -W his ntachincry is always out of    Y^e    gas    or    iMter pipes leak; the working stock runs out,, and to Anil the applications of his workmen for necessary m^ terials, Saunders atanXls with his hands in his pockets, and %St€t he has heard their statements, grunts out:/ “111 see about it to-morrow.” Saunders buainess, which was once flourishing, has dwindled down to a mere fraction of .what it . formerly vrms; and this, not because be is less liked, or performs his work in a less tradesman-like manner, but simply because he does not execute his work promptly and punctually. Give him a job to do, and there is no saying when it win be finished. I speak in this matter from experience; for, having entrusted an important and rather delicate piece of machinery into the hands of Saunders, I was anxious to have it returned to me, properly repaired, as speedily aa possible. I had called repeatedly, and was met with evasive answers, generally ending with the assertion that it would be sure to be done to-morraw. I at last got tired and determined if the job was not completed when I next called, I would take it away. A day or two afterwards I calleJ, and found Saunders in. “AVell, Mr. Saunders, I have called up for that little piece of machinery, wliioh I suppose is finished by this time.” “It's not quite completed yst,” replied Saunders. “AA’e have a few finishing touches to put on it. I will give it to yon in the morning.” “ Y''ou've told a similar story,” said I, “ these two* or three weeks, and it appears to be no nearer completion. This will never do. I must have it,, and that immediately.” “I'll insure it to you to-morrow,” replied Saunders, leisurely. “I'll insupe it to you to-morrow, so keep your mind easy. Have you got sny news to tell US?” “ I hnve no news,”-1 replied, senapir>nl intpntinBi- ly, “and I cannot wait until to-nsorrow. If it is not finished. I’ll take it as it is, and get some one else to put on the finishingsYouohes.” “AA’ell, if that's it,” rejoi^d Saunders, “i’ll inquire abont it. Dick, is Mr. Wilson’s jab Anisbed ?’-At this inquiry, Dick, after some ti|ae, came forward, bearing in his hand my machine, which had been finished two weeks before, and laid aside. “ How comes this ?’’ inquired Saunders, rather abashed. “ AA'hy did you not send that home, when you knew it wai^in such a hurry?” “ I asked yon if I should send it home at the time It was done,” answered Dick, “ and you told me to let it stand, and you would see about it tomorrow.’ Dick had no sooner disappeared,^an I^ taking upon myself the office of mentor, begitn to reprove Saunders, and point out to him the folly of thus procrastinating the affairs of his busineee. I was soon interrupted, for Saunders, who wa* by no means dissatisfied with himself, getting tired of the homily, said: “ I dare say you’re right in what you are sayiaf, and I may be somewhat in the wrong, so I’ll Me about the matter, and perhaps I'll begin a different coursé to-morrow.” AA’ith all his faults, Saunders is liked by his friends, who patronize him from feelings of friendship. They often urge upon him the propriety of bestirring himself; but their kindly advices are thrown away, for Saunders, while promising amendment, defers the execution of any steps^owards it until “to-morrow.” “Procrastination,” it is well said, “is the thief of time.” How many precious moments does it steal! Moments of infinite value—moments, the seising hold and proper use of which would fill the mind with knowledge, enlarge the faculties, and lead the soul onward to a full fruition ' Time is bo precious his influence and power must wane under tÍi* at-traotions_g^him who pushes ahead, pops the question, and leads tbe blushing fair one to the alUr A very worthyi^chelor foiend of r^ne, and one who is most precise and particular ii#&l his doings and and who is by this ^ime turned of forty, waa once boasting to me of a very lovely flair mm to i^m he was paying court. Struck with kis de-sqrfp^on of her charms, I accepted an invitation be gave to go and visit her at her residence ia the country. In due time we reached tke house, and were shown into the parlor by a sister of tk* loved one of my fHend. “ The sister U pretty good looking,” k* wbjspsrsd, “ but not to be compared with ker sistsr.” . AfterjefreekpasBM    kes ed, my friend inquired for his lady-leve. “ O, Jenny, do you mean ? Wky she’s been married these three weeks.” “ Married!” said the bachelor. “ Married, did . you say ? AYhy I never heard of it!” Nothing could be more lachrymose than the countenance he aseumed. I could scarcely refrain from laughing outright at tbe dismal appearanos he presented. I have oftoB admired tbe prompt and naive suggestion of the young lady for removing a prelimi-uAry difficulty that stood in the way of early con-nnbial bliss. Two days before the arrival of that month in which some persons dsem it inauspicious to visit tke temple of hymen, she wan taking aa evening walk with her betrothed, who, in a deep -nigh, lamented that a whole month should elapse before his happiness would be complete. “ There is still one day.of April to run,”» said tk* blushing damsel, “ why not seise it and complete your felicity ?” A procrastinating spirit is the snre sign of a weak, irresolute mind. The tide of human affairs rolls on, and the procrastinator allows himself to I be drewn heedlessly along. The apex of his high- . ; est ambition is how to pass th* day with the sli^t-; est trouble to himself—the least sacrifioe of incon-j venience and labor. The noble pursuits of ths mind in its desire after knowledge, interest him i not; improvemenis in the arts and scienoes rouse him not from his sloth: and though some of these should affect his own individual oalling, and be pressed upon his notice by well-raeaning friends, j he thrusts his hands into his po<|kets andexclaisuTSy !    “ I’ll sec about it to-morrow.”    * In conclusion, let me say, in all our pursuits lei I promptitude, energy, decision, let^T tke van; Int patience and perseverance follow; and who shall i set limits to oar success ? j [ Writtm for the World We lAoe In, by J. If. Oj AA’omas—Place her among flowers, foster ker as a tender plant, and she is a thing of fancy, way- • wardness, and sometimes folly—annoyad- ha a dew-drop, fretted by the touch of a butteray’s wing, nod ready to faint at the rustle of a beetle; the nepkyrs are too rough, the showers too heavy, and sk* Is overpowered by the perfume of a rosebwA But let real calamity come—rouse her affections—Múrindle the fires of her heart, and mark her then; how her heart strengthens itself—how strong is her purpoM. Place her in the heart of battle—give her n okilAA bird—any thing she loves or pities, to preieet—*ed see her in a relative Ínstanos, raising her while arms as a shield as her own blood eiininona kar n^ turned f&rekead, praying for lifo te pmtMt thn helpless. 'Transplant her to the dark plnues ef «¡arfo -awaken her energies to action, and her brenih bo-comes a healing—her presence k blessing. 9m disputes, inch by inch, the stride of the stalking peeH-lenoe, when man, the strong and bravst, shrinks away pale and affrighted. Misforinae haunts ksr not; she wears away a life of silent endurnnoe, and goes forward with less timidity than to her bridal. ' In prosperity she is—abnd fUll of ordors, waiting but for the winds of adversity to scatter them abroad—pure gold, valuable, but untried in the furnace. In short, woman is a miracle—a mystery, the oentre from which radiates tke great charm of existence. A Motubk's I.vrLCBNCs.—How touching the tribute of the Hon. T. H. Benton to his mother’s influence: “My mother asked me never to um tobacoo. 1 have never touched it from that time to the prtstmt day; she asked me not to game, aá’d 1 have neven gambled, and I cannot tell who ia winning nnd who is losing in games that can be played. 8h* admonished me, too, against hard drinking; nnd whatever endurance I have at present, and wkaU ever usefulness I may atuin in life, I have aUrib-uted to having complied with her oorreot wiake* AVhen I was seven yearis of age, she asked me no* to drink, and then I made a resolution of total abstin;;nce, at a time when I was sole oonsiituent member of my own body, and that I have adhered t* it through all time, I owe it to my mother.” POLITBHESS AT HoM*.-Always speak with polite-ness and deference to your parents and friends. Some children are polite nnd civil every whem elan except at home; but there they are oonrne aad rude. Shameful. Nothing s*»* ®o gracefully upon childiwn, nothing makes them so lovely, as habitual respect and dnti-Ril deportment toward their friends and superiors It makes the plainest face beautiful, and givns to aameless bBt peculiar every common charm. action a “My son, hear the instruction of thy fother, nnd forsake not the law of thy mother, for they shall be an ornament of grace unto thy head, and chains of gold about thy neck.”—/VoMrfo i. R

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