The World We Live In (Newspaper) - March 17, 1860, Cincinnati, Ohio
tftr ITarlff We Lim h>.
BY WM. W. KV8B.
There*! á land in the wvet, where the «on ahinee brijcht, Ab it cheen the world with ita KoMeo l%ht;
Froaa ocmui to ouuan it kuo<u no control.
And the aweet roioe of free«ÍMu hmnthea hnlM to the Bowl. In tbnt Isod there'a no tjrnatt the i>oor to m>|)rBnB,
Vhfb ••fAwrity” cheWB the and bantt ofdiatrena;
TItht Ihhd k “ A»arke.” the free aod the bold ;
Unlhrl y« her Abc «tad her (lory behold.
Then, ye aotw of Oolwnbin, ftee-bom end proud,
Snpfort your Btnrrad bnnser, let it nerer be bowed ;
Aantet the oppreaead hi the Wr doM of Ight.
And Ood wiU raemrd yon in mnnaioas of Ufht.
Show, too, to the world that yon neter wUI knoel.
The ahncklee of moonrcha or tyranta to feel;
Hot fewn on the wealthy, nor bow to tb«f pn«ad.
Wo! rather inherit the poll nnd the ahrood.
How great in her comaaeroe, her waolth ia nntoM,
Tor her ibímo poaoena an immenae atore of gold. Pronperity reigna through the whole of the land,
Pman Maine’a rugged count to Mexico’a atmud.
Te childrea of fteadnn» I how proud should ye be Of n land thnCa no great, ao rich and ao feee.
Unlhrl then her bonDer, her glory uphold.
And, liTing or dying, be free and be bold !The Little Grare.
It’a only a Mttlo grave,*’ they aaid,
“ Only Juat a child that’a dend ;**
And 80 they care^ly turned away
Prom tho mo^d the npede had made that day.
Ah ! they ditfnot know how deep a ahnde.
That liMle grave in our home had made.
I know the codIn wan narrow, and nmall,
One yard w ould have eerved ft>r an ample pall r And one aaan ha hie anue could have bofgte away Tha roaabnd and iU feaight of cl«y.
But I know that darling hopea were hid Beneath that little coffin lid.
I know that a mother atood that day.
With feMad hand! by that form of cUy ;
1 know that hnraing teara were hid ’Weath that drooping iaab, and aching lid ;
And I know her lip, and cheek, and brow Were almuet aa wbite aa “ onr Bddie’a” now.
I know that Boane thlnga were hid away,
Tha crtaaann frock and wrappings gay;
Tke little aock, and the half-worn shoe.
The cap, with ita plumea and taaaela blue.
And aa empty crib with its rovers spread,
Ab white aa the feoe of tha sinless dead.
*Tla a little grave ! but, oh ! have care ;
For world-wide hopea are buried there.
And you, perhapa, in ooming years.
May Baa, Uka her, through blinding tears.
How mnch ef light, how much of joy, la hurtad up with a darUug boy.—[Meefed ftr ‘ WarM We £ma ia** hgj. D. JfJ
Jfer rh« Werif We Uet ia.
The Mat itiM glaaw of twiHght,
Havo feded ia the west;
The Mrds havo ooaaed their warbling. An nature la at rest.
Ail o’er tha broad earth’s boaoaa,
Bi^t'a aable pall te eaa*.
And I am aadly BBUSing—
Muaing of the pMt.
I aaa thinking, thinking, thinking or my chihlhoed’a happy house,
Tha maudows aiad tho wiM woods. Whore I loved bo well to ronm;
The gnrden and the orchard, ^
Tha gram plat by the aprtng;
The trees close by our dwelling. Whore tim afry-lnrfc need toeing.
I am dreaming, dreaming, dreaartng. And asethinhs agnin I sno.
My kroed and gentle mother.
And she andly amiteo «■ asa;
Her fsee te pals and caie-wom.
For sorrow’s MOer cup
To her was giveu o’oraowlag—
She was feroed to drink H np.
My little kabas, I asa than^
As last I saw them bare.
My gsatle Uttle Mary,
And leeHy Flam dmr;
Uho tho ewty frawaun of snmmer, that dacfr tha grean hill aide.
Thap hinnnsad awhite to chaer ase. Then Mod, drooped, and died.
Punth msfchad thsns frum say
Ha wonM na* haar my pmyar, Thongh arildly I bsaoi«ht him My lovely babes to aparo;
Bite, 1^ I ’twaa naavafUng,
Whan the enrth te green above And aweat roaea Moam aroua
I siteh, to thiak asy darliaga.
An monld’fing In the gronnd. Tha spring birds* gentle wnrbto F»or never ssore may bear. Beep fa the earth so chilly, Thoy*us lain fcr ssany a year.
Tai. why abeuld 1 lament them, Orwteh them hncfr ^ain;
Thte life wffl soon ha oMsd.
Wa eaa noi hmg romaln.
Hal asan we asar he lylag.
With thoas who’ve gbam hafera; Oh I saay we meet in beaeen, Whesepartii« te aa mors.
For rba Werid WeXiaa la.A Vobltman.
nr Ansnn t. naauc.
Lo, ysndte conns a nohteman.
Tea, thongh hte feet te brown with tan, nwur me a noMar if yon oan.
His garb is eoarae, and soiled, and tom, OU fesMoned, too, aud thread-bare worn, had to the fcpHng tooka iorlom.
Bnt ssark each lithe and ainewey limb, HWthar too grom, nor yet too allm,
Bud imd Mmaelf have gfvun him.
Ood and himself. X daroiupeat.
Through Labor have pertbcmed tho teat. And amde the noblest saaa jt
Ha te na creorJteng. asinging ihlag, Tha minian bnm af prtert ar Idng.
That tributa wlU to mnrtar bring.
Ha ean noi band the snppla knee
For place, to those who ehanaa to bo Clothod with a brief anfhority.
Ha te no tnmmsM parttean,
Tha Mgoialava of enad ar clan.
That dana aoi what hanimsm a man.
He can noi stoop to Intrtgns vile,
Tha enitur mhbls to hagWlo,
Tor power, and thus his aenl dafUo;
Bnt walks erset, and «ras, and bold Aa thongh he an himaaH oontrolted— Thna doao hte inner Ufe enfold—
Hot with a prond and haughty mien,
A pompena strut, and backwatd lean. Like soma vain egetiats we’ve seen:
Bnt, conacloua of hia innate worth, Heedlem of accident of birth.
He peers him with the heat of earth.
Ood giunt that we asay aver bo AUeosnlonaofsn^niha, ^
Hte compion in nobfUty.Ty. >
RV LIZZIE M.
Tlmt seine oM Uiirh I hear once more,
- 1 heani it in the Uuy.s ot yore;
joyous, wilii, aud full of Rlee,
1 love its sweet simplicity.
That same <4d lao|th. s<i aweet nn*i dear,
It fells like music on my ear.
Like aooae by-gone, fergoUon otraln.
We never tkon^t to bear again.
Ijong years have pamsil like a dream away, Slace 1 beard her langh m again to-day ; Site’s Just the aatno—it seems so atrauge ~ Whou 1 am, oh, so aadly changed!
That merry laugh recalLv the hours,
When my path led among the flowers ; ' When the son shone brightly all the day. Where the shadows now ao thickly lay.
Joy from my stricken heart has flown;
My voice has lost its early tone ;
But, oh, I would not have you know,
How much I’ve felt of human woe.
'Twonki caat a shadow on ymir way To know 1 suffer day by day ;
Xis you shall ne'er be sad for me.
My cherished ft-iend, sweet .\iinie Loe. Oariefftom, Kg.
Writ/ru/or The World We Lire In.Take Care of the Foxes, the Little Foxes that Spoil the Vines.
disturbe»! by the commission of littlr ami us
much by the omission of ‘small duties.’ To-day, if my little danphter bad carefully and jrooti-natur-edly gone quickly and prepared her little brother Wr Iris dinner, her father would not have bsen ■vsred, and the whole family would not have had to wait nntil quiet was restore»!, so that a blessing oould he a«ked. I could have prevente»! it all, but I was letting you’learn and act the lesson. Do y»»u see it now, wy child ?”
The little one, convinced and ashamed, held down her head. “ I’ll try and be more watchful after this,” she said, looking up through her tcarsi
“Yea, my love, let this little text never be forgotten ; but when you rise in the morning go to your kind Heavenly Father and ask him to guide you through the day, and give you grace to perform every duty, even if it should be considered small; and to avoid the commission of anything that wouid mar the comfort or ruffle the temper of those arouad you.”
“ Yes,” said the child, “ brother asked to have his handkerchief hemmed, when he came to the supper-table, and I must do it, or he may say, I have been idle or lasy, or something liko that, and then, maybe, I might get angry, and say something wrong to him in return.”
With this, she plied the busy needle, and her mother was confident the le.sson was not lost.
Seeicee Milh, KaH Tenn., March, 1860^
BT LIZZIK LEE.
A little girl sat reading the Bible near her mother. Her countenance showed the deep interest she felt in what she was reading. Looking up, she said,
“ Mother, what does this mean ? ‘ Take ctrre of
the fpiee, the little foiee, that ejtoil the vines,/or our vmee have tender grapes' ”
The mother looked at the child with a pleased and thoughtful countenance; but seeing the clock would strike in five minutes and announce the dinner hour, she folded up her work, laid it in the work-basket at her side, telling her little one, in a tone of gentleness,
“1 have not time to answer you now, but I will do eo at some other time; father will he here directly and want his dinner.”
The mother passed out to the dining-room. The servant had made all clean and neat. The cloth was white enough, and the dishes shone enough to let the little hungry fly, which might happen to pass near, know that there was nothing for his little tongue to work on; hut they were not as straight and tastefully arranged on the table as they would have been had they been place»! by the tidy hands of the mistress. This she well knew, therefore she allotted a few minutes, making such little changes as might be needed, before her husband arrived, who, she knew, was easily annoyed by what others would call “trifling things.” The cook, in passing hurriedly through the porch in her preparations for dinner, had dropped the tiniest patch of flour, and had done it unconsciously aud unintentionally, as such things are (men done, even by the most careful cook.
“Sweep that off, my daughter,” said the mother to the little girl, who came hounding past. She stood and watched the child, while her mind was dwelling on the text about the “ little foxes.” She was thinking, how lifltle, too, gentlemen knew about culinary matters, and how they too often blame servants for waste when it is not intended t yet she knew that all such matters disturbed her careful husband.
As the nnrse was sick, it became one of the allotted duties of the daughter to have her little brother brought to the dining-tnble, clean and neat, with his hair brushed, his high arm-chair in its place, and ready at the time to fold his little hands till a blessing was implored. Full of life an»l glee, she was generally forgetful of this duty; but being reminded of it by her mother, she bounded away in search of the child, who had wandered to the back yard and was busily engaged playing in the dost with his little paddle. The sister called, “Come, Charlie, let sistor wash you for dinner.” The child was too deeply engaged even to turn his little head. The little girl took time to stop and pluck a bunch of flowers, and stood admiring them until the sound of the dinner bell made her start. She flew at her little brother, seizing his shoulder, whirling him around, throwing his paddle away, and brought him kicking and screaming into the back porch.
nM family were seated at the table and watting. Her rough and ineffectual efforts to wash the child and eomb his hair annoyed the father; he looked at his wife; there was sunshine all over her face;, and a very little smile on her lip. The meal commenced. The child’s noise was allayed, but his temper was up and he did not wish his sister to place him in his chair; she picked him up and set him in It with a look that seemed to say, “I would like to give you a little switching just now.” She placed heraelf beside him, but a look from her mother reminded her that her own hair was in terrible disorder, and she very reluctantly withdrew to arrange it. When she returned she found the brif^t eye# of her mother still turned towards her, and she softly repeated, “ The little foxes that spoil t>e vines.”
The child wondered what her mother meant by introdueing that subject then; but she ate her dinner quietly, and an hour after, when the house was again very quiet, she placed her chair beside her mother, holding her little basket on her knee containing her work.
“ Now, Mary, do you know what a vineyard is?” “ I reckon it is a large yard, with vines planted in it, and fenced in to keep everything ont.”
“Very well,” replied the mo|her, “we may imagine that a careful vine-dreAer would take great pleasure in seeing his vines look well and flourishing, and bearing richly the deligbtfül fruit. But foxes .are said to be very fond of grapes, and we suppoee that vine-tenders would say to the owner ‘ take care, the foxes, the little foxes that spoil the vines.’ The large ones would be more easily excluded, but the little ones would creep through smaller crevices, hide in the vines, eluding his care; they would run over the vines, bruise and mangle the very tender branches, bite and destroy the green tendrils, and in these little spoliations give the keeper much trouble. Did you ever think of comparing your father's large family to a vineyard ?”
“ Well,” said the child, “ that will do, but what are the foxes ?”
“ Suppose we call swearing, lying, drunkenness, stealing, etc., the big foxes. Your father, in his excellent regulations, would exclude all such vices from kis bonsehold, as sedulously as the owner of a vineyard the animals that would ruin his vines. Bat are there no little foxes? If there are, we must take them by trap' or stratagem, for ‘they spoil the tender fruit.’ ”
“Well, mother, what are they? and let us catch them,” said the smiling child.
After a pause, the mother said, “I have often thought that many persons pay too little attention to what is called ‘ little things;’ they forget that the comfort and serenity of a family is very muchA True Story of the Supernatural.
Mr. Robert Bruce, originally »lesccnded from Konie branch of the Scottish family of that name. Mas b»iru, in humhle circumstances, about Ihe close of the last century, at Torbay, in the south of Kngland. and there bred up to a seafaring life. When about thirty years of ago. to wit, in the year 18*28, lie was first mate of a hark trailing between I.ivcrjM>ol and St. John's, New Brunswick. On one of lier voyages bouml M’cstward, being fiien some five or six weeks out and having neare»! the eastern portion of the hanks of Newfoundland, the captain and mate liacl been on deck at noon, taking an observation of the sun, after which they both despended td calculate the day s work.
The cabin, a small one, Mas immediately at the stern of the vessel, and the short stnirM’ay descefid-inp to it ran athwart-ships. Immediately opposite to this stairway, just beyond a small square building, was the mate's stateroom ; and from that landing there were two doors close to eacii other, one opening aft into the stateroom. The desk in the ' stateroom was in the forM'ard part of it, close to ' the door; so that one sitting at it an»l looking over his shoulder, could look into the cabin. ■
The mate absorbed in his calculations, m IucU did I not result as he expected, varying, considerably from the dead reckoning, had not noticed tho cap- I tain’s'motions. When he ha»i oonipleted his cal- ' culations, he called out without looking round, ‘‘I make our latitude and longitude so and so. Can that be right ? How is yours ?’’
Receiving no reply, he repeated his question; glancing over his shoulder, perceiving, ae ho thought, the captain busy writing on his slate. Still no answer. Thereupon he rose, and, as h fronte»! the cabin d(H)r, the figure he had mistaken for the captain raisetl its head and disclosed to the astonished mate the features of an entire stranger.
Bruce was no coM-ard, hut as he met that fixed gaze looking directly at him in grave silence and became assure»! that it was no one M hom lie had ever seen before, it was too much for him, and instead of stopping to question the seeming intruder, he rushed upon deck iu such evident alarm tliatit instantly attracted the captain’s attention. “Why Mr. Bruce,” said the latter, “what in the world is the matter with you? '
“The matter, sir? Who is that at your desk ?”
“No one that 1 know of. "
‘‘But there is, there's a stranger there.”
stranger ! W'hy, man, you must be/dreaming. You must have seen the steward there, or the second mate. Who else wouhl venture down Avithout orders?”
“ But sir, he was sitting in your arm-chair, fronting the door, writing on your slate. Then he l»x>ked up full in my face; and if ever 1 saw a man, plainly, and distinctly in this world, I. saw him.’
“God knows, sir; I don’t. I saw a man, and a man I had never seen in my life before. ’
“ You must be going crazy, Mr. Bruce. A stranger, and we nearly six weeks out!”
“ I know, sir; but then I saw him.”
“Go down an»l see who it is.”
Bruce hesitated. “I never was a believer in ghosts,” he said, ‘‘but if the truth must he told, sir, I’»l rather not face it alone.”
“Come, come, man. Go down at once, and don’t make a fool of yourself before the crew.”
“ I hope you’ve always found me willing to do what’s reasonable,” Bruce replied, changing color; “but if it’s all the same to you sir, I’d rather we should both go down together.”
The captain descended the stairs, and the mate followed him. Nobody in the cabin' They examined the state rooms. Not a soul to he found.
“Well, Mr. Bruce,” said the captain, “did not I tell you you had been dreaming?”
“It’s all,very well to say so, sir;* but if I did'nt see that man writing on your slate, may I never see my home and family again.’’
“ Ah! writing on the slate ! Then it should be there still.” Aúd the captain took it up.
“My God!” he exclaimed; “ here is something, sure enough ! Is this your writing, Mr. Bruce ?” The mate took the slate, and there in plain, legible characters, stood the words, “ Steer to the nor’ west.”
“Have you been trifling with me, sir?” added the captain, in a stern manner.
“ On my word as a man, as a sailor, sir,” replied Bruce, “I know no more of this matter than you do. I have told you the exact truth.”
[ The captain sat down at hia desk, the slate before him, in deep thought. At last, turning the slate I over aud pushing, it toward Bruce, he said, “Write down, ‘ Steer to the nor' west.’ ”
The mate complied, and the captain after nar-, rowly comparing the two handwritings, said, “Mr.
Bruce, go and tell the second mate to come down ; here.”
He came, and at the captain's request, he also I wrote the same words. So did the steward. So in , succession, did every man of the crew who could , write at all. But not one of the various hands resembled, in any degree, the mysterious wri-¡ ting.
I When the crew returned the captain sat in deep ! thought. “Could any one have been stowed away ?”
: at last he said, , “The ship must be searched; and I if I don’t find the fellow he must be a good hand at hide and seek. Order up all hands.”
Every nook and corner of the vessel, from stem tn stern, was thoroughly searched, and that with all the eagerness of excited curiosity—for the re-port had gone out that a stranger had shown himself on board, but not a living soul beyond the crew and the officers was found.
Returning to the cabin after their fruitless search the capUin said: “ .Mr. Bruce, what the devil do you make of all this ?”
“ Can t tell, sir, I saw the man write, you see the writing. There must be something in it.”
“ Well, it would seem so. We have the wind free and I have a great mind to keep her away, and see what will come of it.”
“ I surely would, sir, if I were in your place. It’s only a feM' hours lost at the worst.”
“Well, we’ll see. Go on deck and give the course nor’west. And Mr. Bruce,” he added, as the mate róse to go, “have a look-out aloft, uinj let it be a hand you can depend upon.”
His orders were obeyed. About three o’clock the look-out reported an iceberg nearly ahead, and shortly after, what he thouglit was a vessel of some kind close to it.
As they approached, the captain’s glass disclosed the fact that it was a dismasted ship, apparently frozen to the ice, and with a good many human beings on it. Shortly after, they hove to, and sent out the boats to the relief of the sufferers.
It proved to be a vessel from Quebec, bound to Liverpool, with passengers on boar»J. She liad got entangled in the ice, and finally frozen fast, and had passed several weeks iu a most critical situa
tion. Slifr was stove, her decks swept—iu mere M-reck; all her provisions, ami alnioat M-ater gone. Her crew and passengers had U hope.s of being saved, and their gratitude unexpei-ted rescue was proportionally great.
As one of the men who had been brought, iu the third laiat that had reached the wi ascending the ship's side, the mate, catcl glimpse of his face, started back, in constei It M'li.s the very face he had seen, llai hours before, looking up al him frum the desk.
„ At first he tried to persuade himself it niigWilje fancy ; hut the more he examined the man the rMffe sure he became that he was right. Not only tiie face, btit the person and the dress exactly corresponded.
As soon as the exhausted crew and famished pks-sengers were cared for, and the bark on her couflse again, the mate called tke captain aside, and saM:
“ It seems that was not a ghost I saw to-day, sjr; the man’s alive.” I
“ What do you mean ? Who’s alive?
“AVhy, sir, one of the passengers we have jfrst ! saved is the same man I saw writing on your slate at noon. I M-oukl swear to it in a court.”
“ Upon my word, Mr. Bruce,” replied the captain, “this gets more and more singular. Let us go and '
see this man. ’
They found him in a conversation with the cap- ! tain of the rescued ship. They both came forMrard, and expressc»! in the Avai-inest terms their gratitude for deliverance from a horrible fate—slow-comifig death by ex})08ure and starvation. j
The captain replied that he had but done hia duty, and asked them both to step down into the cabin, i Then turning to the passenger he said, “I hope, air, > you will not think I am trifling with you, but I i would be much obliged to you if you would write a j few words on thijs slate,” and he handed him the i slate with that side up on which the mysterious ' -writing M‘as not.
“ I will do anything you ask, ’ replied the passen- .
ger, “hut M'hat shall 1 write?” j
“ few M ords only. Suppose you write ‘ Steer to the nor'M'est.'
The passenger, evidently puzzled to make out the motive for such a strange request,-complied, with ' a smile. The captain then tixtk up the slate and examined it closely, and stepping aside so as to conceal the slate from the passenger, he turned it over, and gave it to him again with the other side up.
•‘You say that is your hand writing,” said he.
1 nee(^not .say so,” replied the other, “ for you saw me write it."
“.\n»lthis?” said the captain, turning the slate over.
The man looke»! first at one writing, and then at I the other, quite confounded. At last, he exclaimed , Wliat i.s the meaning of this ? I only wrote one ■ of these. Who wrote the other?” ,
“That’s more than I can tell yoti, sir. My mate ’ here says you Mrote it, sitting at this desk at noon to-day.”
The captain of the Mrecke»! vessel and the passenger looked at each other, exchanging glances of 1 intelligence and surprise, and the former asked the latter, “Did j'ou dream that you wrote on this slate ?”
“No, sir, not that I remember.”
“ You speak of dreaming,’’ said the captain of the hark, “ what was this gentleman about at noon to- i day ? ’ I
“Captain,” rejoine»! the other, “ the whole thing ' is most mysterious and extraordinary, and I had , intendMl to speak to you about it m* s»x>n nm we|^ a little quiet. This gentleman (pointing to the passenger) being much exhauste(l, fell into a heavy sleep, or what seemed such, sometime before n<x>n. .-Vfter an hour or more ho awoke, and said to me, ‘Captain, we shall l»e rescued this very day.’ I nske»i him what reason he had for saying so, when ho replied that he had dreamed that he was on 1>oard a hark, an»l that she was coming to our rescue. He dc.scrihc»i her appearance and rig, and to our utter astonishment, M-hen your ves.sel hove in sight, she correspbnded exactly M-ith his description , of her. We had not put much faith in what he said, yet still we hoped there might be something in it, for drowning men, you know, will catch at-Atraws. .\s it has turned out, I cannot doubt that it wav all arranged in some incomprehensible way by an overruling Providence, so that we might be saved. To Him be all thanks for His g»x)<lness and mercy in saving us.”
“ There ia no doubt,” rejoine»! the other captain, “that the writing on the slate, let it come there as it may, saved all your lives. I was steering at the time considerably south of west, and I altered my ! course to nor’west, and I had a look-out aloft to ^ee what would come of it. But you say,” he added, turning to the passenger, “ that you did not dream of writing on a slate ?” j
“ No, sir, I have no recollection whatever of doing* so. I got the impression that the hark I saw in my dream was coming to rescue us, but how that impression came, I cannot tell. There is another very strange thing about it,” he added, “everything | on board here seems to me quite familiar, yet I am very sure iTtfl^r was in your vessel before. It is all a puzzle to me. What did you say your mate saw?”
Whereupon Mr. Bruce relate»! to them all the circumstances above detailed. Tlie conclusion they finally arrived at was, that it was a special interposition of Providence to save them from what appeared a hopeless fate.
The above narrative was communicated to me by Captain J. S. Clark, of the schooner Julia Hancock, who had it directly fVom Mr. Bruce himself. In July, 1859, the Julia Hancock was lying at the foot of Rutger’s Square, New York. She was trading between New York and St. Jago on the Islafrd of Cuba. The captain allowed me to use his name and refer to him as evidence of the truth of what k here set down.
Mr. Bruce and Captain Clark had sailed together for eighteen months, in the years 1836 and 1Í87, so that Captain Clark had the story from the mate about eight years after the occurrence. He has since lost sight of him, and does not know whether he is yet alive. All that he has heard of him since : they were shipmates is, that he continued to trade to New Brunswick, that he became the master of 1 the brig Comet, and that she was lost.
I I asked Captain Clark if he knew Bruce well, and I what sort of a man he was. His reply waff as follows :
“ As truthftil and straightforward a m»w as ever I met in all my life. We were as intimate as brothers, and two men can’t be together shui up for eighteen months in the same ship without getting to know whether thqy can trust*one another’s word or not. He always spoke of the cireumslance in terms of reverence as of an incident that seemed to bring him nearer to God and another world. I’d stake my life upon it that he told me no lie.”
“Mother!”—O, word of undying beauty! thine echoes sound along the walls of time till they crumble at the breath of the Eternal. In all the world there is not a habitable spot where the music of that holiest word has not sounded. Ay, by the golden flow of the river, by the crystal margin of the rock, under the leafy shade of the forest tree, in the hut built of the bamboo cane, in the mud thatched oot-tage, by the grand peaks of the kissing mountains, in the wide-spread valley, on the blue ocean, in the changeless desert where the angel «ame down to give the parched lips the sweet waters of the wilderness; on the altar where the father stayed the downward stroke of his sacrificial knife, warned by the voice of God ; between billows, that like solid wallsof ruby threw their crimson on the swarthy brows of Israelitish men, and lighted the dark eyes of the women; under the white tent of the Arab, and in the dark covered wigwam of the Indian hunter; wherever the pulses of a human heart beat quick and warm, or float feebly along the current of failing life, there is that sweet word spoken, like a universal prayer—“ Mother.”
Cancer.—A jeweler who had a cancerous pimple on his cheek, having occasion to dissolve some gold in nitro-muriatic acid, rubbed it unconsciously with his impregnated finger."», uiul was surprised to find the pimple speedily change its appearance, and shortly disappear. M. Recamier, by using the same proport ions of one ounce of the acid to six grains of chloruret of pure gold, made several uniformly sue- ■ cessful experiments of the same nature.
A Happy Man.—-.\n Eastern caliph being sorely afflicted with ennui, Mras advised tliat an exchange of shirts with a man who was perfectly happy, would cured him. After a long search he discovered such a man, hut was informed that the happy fellow had no shirt.
Little drops of rain brighten tire meadows, and little acts of kimlncss brighten the world
GOING HOME .VO.VIN.
DKSKCR.vTEn by a railro.a»! entering the village close by the identical stream where I used to catch minnows witli a pin-hook—new houses and new faces at the station—nut the old houses with their steep roofs, but ncM'-fashioiiel ones, with piazzas roiin»! them;—I am on the sunny side of the cars, »w«I*k«Te kept the blinds down till now, Ijnt something tells me we are nearing the village of boy-hooil, and as we ‘slow,’ I raise the bliu»l. There’s the same turn in the ro.vd, I remember that; but how small the ohl church looks with its open belfry ! Can that be the same belfry where the swallows nested, and where we iise»l to try and throw stones?
It looks as though one might toss a stone there now. .\nd there, in the distance, is the old house ; even that looks small. And there’s the hill we used to slide down in the M-inter-time, alwaj's warned to be careful. I wonder how a boy's sled could go down such a hill, though perhaps it has been graded. But the whistle 8oun»Js, and I am whirled by all the old familiar places, and go on dreaming of the boyhood’s days passe»! away forever.
Wc have crosse»! a new bridge over the river, and that river divi»ies my childho(xl from my manhood.
There are church spires in the distance, and I shade my eyes from the glistening steeples. We arc passing along roads line«l with elms; twenty minutes only, since 1 left my boyhood’s home, and now standing on the very pavement.s where, in the former days, all my maiihootl hurst upon me.
1 must stop here awhile; there is something sacred here. .\s I go up the street a home feeling comes over me. I seern to know every one I meet, and yet no one; they are all strange faces, and yet are the type of the "former time. 1 think I know where they are going—down to the office yon»ler for letters. I draw my hat closer over my eyes; there is a struggle comings s»x>n. I pass an alleyway lea»ling from the street, and look up to an old, familiar M indow. but some one has put up a tall building in tin» rear, and tlie Avindow is shut out.
I am not sorry for it. The struggle is put off a little time, iiu»l the greafAjorroAv lifted for a moment, but only to come thickeAind darker as I turn the (jorncr; an»l the old green, with its churches and its trees, hurst.s on me. 1 mtist stop here—here in front of the hons»» which f couhi not see from the alley-wuy. I M'isli it M as night, that I might go up and kneel on those stops, and he left there a little M'hilo aloue. It was just there, between those tMO windoM's, that we stooil, she beautiful in her innocence. and 1 stron'g in my manhood. Even noAv can I see the mau of God taking »>iie step forwanl, joining our hamls an»i s.jtyiug : ‘ Tluwe M'hom Go»l has joined together, lej pci man put asumler.’ I re-member tlie h(^utifBi roses in her lieail-dresa, but visions come to nieol stiff, cold japónicas laid round her pale face in tlie winter time.
1 go on to my old boarding-placc. I put my face against the window-pane and strive to forget; but how can I, T^hile the chapel-bell yonder is ringing hurrie»lly, and the same students rushing across the green. 1 am all l»jst in thought, when some one i touches me on the arm. ‘ Do you wish dinner, sir ?’
I ought to kiioM' that voice, but not that gray hair.
I tell him I will wait for tea. He turns to go, but i I call him back. He reconizes me; he talks of ohl | times. He is the man M'ho used to make the fires in i the house, but he has a heart. He asks about my wife, and I tell him ahont the japónicas, and the j ohl man goes away sorrowful because he can give i no comfort. 1 remember him afterward as the one ; friend left to me in the city where aforetime I j
so many. ■
I am hurrietl along again in the train, and I feel ! that I am alone in the world. The spring-time has been, and the summer, and noM' to me all is cold, ! dreary winter-time; aud yet the spring-time of na- ¡ t»ire is once more bursting on me. The buds are all swollen on the trees off which aa'c two picke»! the fruit last summer. I have taken the straw off the roses in front of the house—she saw them covered j in the fall-time—aiul the same flowers may bloom there as fresh aud beautiful, yet other liauds shall tend them. The same see»i she gathered will soon be planted, but she will not see their blooming. Yet, why should I sorrow for the future? She died with flowers in her hand, aud looking on the flower-cross hung upon her foot-h»Aard—gazing on that with her soft eyes of love—she told us of visions of beautiful flowers in the land whither she was hasten- i ing, where there was neither summer nor winter, ' day nor night, hut all things were illumined by the effulgent glory of Go»l.
We have a vault in the city, deep down under the ground, where coffins are laid on shelves like merchandise. And here, in the country, we have a beautiful grave-yard, Avhere the grass grows green and the bir»is sing in the summer-time. So, because she loved flowers, we buried her here in the country; and in a few days, now, I shall take my little girls up, and they will plant roses there, ‘because mother love»! them,’ and because she died ; folding her hands so peacefully, and looking on the ; flower-cross.
THE noo, THE SEXTON, AND THE DRIVE.
I have just come from there. The grass is beginning to look green, and the old sexton was so»lding | the new graves made in the winter time. No one went with me—only the dog she used to love, the j same one she brought up in the cars with her, the same one that we called from her door the night before the japónicas were laid about her. |
The p<>or dog ha»l never been up to the cemetery before; hut Avhcn I opened the iron gate, and went into the inclosure, he came close in behind, and as I stood by the earth mound and raised my hat, he lay ‘ close doM'n,’ and knew as well as I did what the long heap of earth meant; and, with his head j between his paws, perhaps he thought of all the kindnesses of his old mistress, and all the many times his rough head had been patted with soft hands, and all the gentle words that had been spokon to him.
‘ Soft hands shall no more stroke you my faithful Watch ; her gentle voice will no more call you from the river in the summer time, as it was wont to do when you swam so far away with the stick the little children threAv you. Poor dog ! you and I are getting old together.’
I kneel down. Watch come nearer to me—he looks up in my face. I know what he would say, if he could: ‘ We, who are left, will be faithful to one another—you and I, and the little children.'
I meet the old sexton down by the gate yonder, and he tells me it is hardly time to put the sods on yet. He is waiting for the grass to grow a little more. He wants green sod for young graves. The old man says something about putting down the ‘ tomb, atones,’ hut the word setflns harsh to me. He talks of it as a business thing. All my heart comes up in my throat. 1 leave the old man, an»l Watch and I go home together.
'The hou8e-blin»is are all open again—they were shut tight only, a few days ago—but no gay, pleasant voice welcomes us on the door-sill, as it used to do in former time. Inside there is a strange smell, as if the painter had been there. There is a little room at ihe end of the hall, but they keep the door shut, because the strange smell seems to come strornger when it is open.
I have come up early from the city to-day. The little children are delighted because there is a carriage and two white horses in front of the gate. They are going up to see where mamma is, an»l to take the rose-bushes. W^e go up together. Every thing is done in silence; but when the roses are all planted, a child’s face looks up to mine and says: ‘Papa, I know whose grave this is; it is mamma’s. But whose grave is that with the tall tower on it over there ?’ I tell her that is some one elsc’s grave, and ask her : ‘Where is mamma ?’ A little while she looks on the earth-raound; then, glancing upward, points with her han»’, and says : ‘ Mamma is in the sky, papa.’
The little girls and I go aM-oy together,^nil they are glad to sec the horses ftiul carriage again ; and while I am filled with sorrow, they, in their pure young girlhoo»!. áre trying to settle between’them whether the horses are gray horses or white, and whether, if they ask papa, he would take them a longer drive, down under the aqueduct, along the stream where the uiill-Avhoels are all the while making such a pleasant noise. So we go down there, and see the same Avheels going round that she and I saw lust summer, and the same great mass of foam snuggling itself up close by the mill.
The little children are glad to sec the white foam breaking and'dancing doM ii along the ripples ; but to me, older than they, it brings sad meaning—it looks like the snow-white shroud they wrappe»!
her in ; and the little flakes floatingdown look like the white japónicas 1 have told you aVioiit.
A vision conics to mo now. Though 1 sec it not, yet a gentle hand is laid upon my shoulder, and a voice comes comforting me : ‘ She whom thou lovesf is even now walking close by that river which flows by the throne of God.’
Aud 1 feel calmer and better for what the voice has told me; but the memory of Üze prater 1 once olfrred oowee biKk to me, and I reyeait it ever.
The little children come away from tlfs can+age*. window and sit down by me, and I tell what i once asked for mamma, long ago, before tkey were born.
Lire's Miin-Ught ia bright to the atMil of my youth j
But ahad»>wa are lying bi'fore, in the way ; j
.\nd ait Time horrioa on (I woen It la truth) |
Tho i»un-ligl>t will fado, but the ahiwlow will utR.v. |
But Thov who liaat promised to answer the prayer j
Of all who may ask, fur tho sake of Tmv 8on,
With lienrt »»f a sinner, O Ooi>! may I dare,
Ti> tliiiik that in mercy Thou 'lit grant m»» this o»f ?
Thon sjiaro her, oh ! sixire hor—that t>eautiful one f Bow me to the dust ’u»?atli tlie stroke of Thy rod ;
But from sorrow and grief, for sake of Thy Son,
I’roeervo hor, the gontie on»», niorcifui Oon !
There are shadows in the carriage, and the little children <lon't look any more out at the window ; but they keep close by me till we three go together into the house, hand-in-hand. Then we see glimpses of sun-shine coming in at the western AvindoM- and playing on Llie parlor-floor; and my heart is strengthene»!, because the little girls tell me all is bright sun light where mamma is.
^ , III.
SIIADÜW.S ; TAK.IN(; TIIE DEED: TAVILIOIIT.
Yes, my little girls, all may he ‘ bright where mamma isbut when the warm sun comes and makes everything grow so beautifully, there will ¡ be shadows cast by long, rank grass on mamma's grave, and there will be shadows on her vacant I chair in the evening-time,
I look out again at tlie western window, anti ■ watch the sloop gliding so pleasantly along; Tint now and then, when J see one coming down on the other side, and hovering under the great Palisadtes yonder, she seems freighted with 8ha«lows, and to , be sailing there only to remind me how little way j apart are the shadows and sun-light of life. Yet 1 ' remember that ‘ clomls have a silver lining; and when the little voice says, ‘Papa, see what a beautiful sloop!’ the shadow is lifted, and the silver lining comes, for the face upturned to mine seems dancing in the sun-light.
The chiUlren thought mamma had only gone ; oAvav for a little while, and would come back again. ! Tlieir A'oices souiuled out aa happy as in the former time. They played with the same little girls, told over the same stcities mamma taught them, and .seemed to wait for her coming ; but now, since they . liave been up to plant the rose-bushes, they know what 1 the gr»yit pile of earth means, and the white stones with the black letters on them ; and the two voices spelling it out tell me ‘ that was mamma’s name, . and some day we will go and see her, but she will not come home again.’ ...
So, tlie sloops glide along; the green leaves grow apace; the buds burst into blossoms, and all the many voices of spring are saying: ‘ The summer will come again.’ But not again to me., voices of •priteg-*—blosaocas of the youtk-tim« of my lUtle children.
I have staid at home again to-day, an»l have just come from the village, where I have beca'to consummate the purchase of the plot of ground in the cemetery twenty-five feet square. I must have a neat railing put around it, and plant more flowers. The plat i.s large enough, and yet I sometimes wonder if 1 could ever bear to see a little grave snug-gliug itself down close beside the one the sexton has just done sodding to-day.
Do you know there ia something very sad in the purchase of a burial-place? Very few ever think of buying the little plat in the cemetery before the necessity comes. But then, how dear the place seems to you ! How willingly you pay your money for it! How firm you clutch your deed, and read over its long form of words to see if any are omitted ! What a consciousness of ownership one has, as he opens the iron gate, and goes in where the mounds are ! The ownership of houses and lauds is nothing to it. Tliere is a sacredness about the plat ill the cemetery. Those who come after you Avill respect it; no stranger will intermeddle with it. It is yours—all yours. You have a family burial-place. Then, at the coming of thespmmons, when j'ou shall lie tlown in your dnrkly/curtained r«x>m, with the great sun-light shut-out; when—if you change to live in the city yonder—rthe straw shall be scattered in front of your dwelling, and the hum in the street fall with a deadened sound upon your ear; in that hour the bright visions of those who have gone before, will bring calmly to inju»l the hillocks and white stones in your little inclosure, and you shall pass aAvay with the sweet, consoling thoii^ht; ‘ There will I be buried also.'
Yet voices have been calling to me since I bought the little spot of ground ; they have been always saying: ‘*\shes to ashes, dust to dust.’ They have
been telling of crushed hope.s, of strong loA'e-bonds broken asunder, of the uselessne.ss of making a struggling without an object; and now almost the A'oices have persuaded me. But no ; the voices of my little children are in my ear; the sound comes up through tlie open windoM-. They are playing about the grass, so fresh and green after the shower of yesterday. One of them runs into the house for something forgotten. I stop and tell her she is a beautiful angel; and she runs aAA-ay with my kiss, full of happiness. Then Ihe voice comes in agnin at the window, and I hear it saying, ‘ Sister, papa says I am an angel; but 1 don't think I am as beautiful as the angels where mamma is;’ aud all ray spirit yearns within me toward my two little girls.
The air is calm and still. The sun-light comes playfully in upon the carpet. Evening songs are sung by the voices of birtls. The sun goes away over the Palisades, an»l the breeze of evening brings through the window the sweet smell of the apple-blossoms. The two little girls, hand in hand, come in together, an»l I, secure in their double love, sit doAVn between them, and tell them of the other land, where it is always sumqier-ljme and sunshine. So ihe twilight darkens round us, and, with their little heads resting on my shoulders,They pass away into dreams of mamma; while the faithful dog, looking up, seems to be saying over again :
‘ You anil I and the little girls will love one another.’Feat of a Railroad Employee-
.\ recent achievemert of a brakesman on the Michigan Central Railroad, says the Detroit TVi-bune. exhibits a degree of skill and presence of mind that renders it Avell worthy of record. I.Ast Thurs»lay night when the passenger train coming eastward was between Chelsea and Dexter, a^ broken rail was encountered, throwing, we believe, one car from the track. A freight train was known to be coming on behin»!, and a brakeman—Nelson Imus, a young man, M’ho makes his home at .\nn .Vrbor—retraced the track half a mile, equipj>e»i M’ith a red lantern, the signal of ilangor».^ When tlie train loomed insight, the red light M'as%^aA’ed in the usual manner, but there was no movement on the part of the engineer to indicate that he had discerned the signal. It became obvious to Imus that the difficulty lay in the steam having been congealed on the window to such an extent as to ob-truct the engineer’s vision, and having no torpedoes to place on the track—an appliance some resorted to—he was left entirely to his own resources. Taking his position as near to the track as was consistent with safety, as the machine came thundering along, with well directed aim hehurled^iis lantern into the wind, shattering it as well as the lantern, into small fragments, some of which struck the engineer, who, seeing and ‘making nóte of’ the red pieces, of course reversed the engine in time to avoid a serious accident.
THE SEAM8TRES» AND THE ACTRESS.
POWER or niATn illostratsd.
Tk« ktesd of twv«rty •íom in
Proscription in North Carolin.a.—Mr. George W. Vestal, lias been ejected from employment us a common school teacher in Almanac county, North Carolina, in consequence of his Anti-Slavery views. It seems that ihe local Board desired to retain him, but they were overruled by the General Board of the county. It thus appears that the non-slave-holding whites of the South cannot employ such teachers for their chihlren as they prefer without the consent and approbation of the slaveholding class iu other neighborhoo»ls, who are in no wise interested.
The freemen of that region shouhl be wise* and prudent in the expression of thei)j views, ami bi*lc tlicir time. The future is theirs.
Look - into tkis room. It is stoall, and hM on^ one (xscupant: Lo«k around upon the furniture.
All is Mat, but very plain. ~~ is here. It is the home of a child of 'God, her young llfte, as many are In tills great city. It is the ab^e of a poor youug sewing-wemau. 8|m has seen better day»; %uC alas! her prMpects were soon under the deep, dsvk oloud off hopslsai pow* erty.
Yet she is a child of the covenant, and a ckild of grace. This is her closet for prayer, as well aa Itor place for plying the needle in unceasing toil to avp-port herself by honest industry. Oftn easfdoy-inent fails, and then she prays that her Heavenly Father will send her work, for she cannot allbrd to he one hour idle. She had been praying one morning for work, for employment had failed her for eorae days. She had prayed with more than usual eara-estncss. Suddenly there was ageatle knock at the »l»x>r, and in stepped a creature full of lifr and gaiety, with a large biindle.
“ Can you sew for me ?” said the young, diwhing-looking girl. “ I am in liasto to hate mmm work done, and I can afford to p#iy you very liberally.” The young scwing-woifian met her question with a smile. “ This is just what Hiave been praying for,” sai»l she. She t»x>k and unfolded it. She saw very ricli and gaudy dreiises before her.
“ I am an actress,” said the young lady, fonteato plating the sewing woman with surprise as she noticed her embarrassed and hesitating Aaúner. “ I am under an engagement to play in the theatre in Philadelphia and the.<A« dresses must be altered, and tliese must be made at once,” rattled oa tlie young actress, “and I will pay you very hajiasomely for the labor.”
“ I do not know aboht doing this work,” said the sewing-girl. “I have praye»! for work, it jsirae, tliis very morning, for I am in distressing need of it, so that I can earn my bread; but I do not know almiit doing this work.”
“Why?’ said the actress. '
“ Because I feel tliat in doing tbifl work I should he serving the devil, instead of serving the Lord Jesu.s,’’ answered the sewing-girl, meekly.
“ But do you pray for work ?'’
“And has not this come in answer to yeur prayer ?” '
“I do not know; it seems na if it had, and yet I feel a.s if T ought not to do it.”
“ W'ell, what will you do ahont it? How will v;du decide?”
\‘Iwill lock my door, and I will kneel down-here, and I will ask my Heavenly Father to direct me whivt to do. He will tell me. Will yon kneel with me?”
Said the sewing-girl, relating the oircurastances, ‘\I scarcely expected she would comply with my rosiest; hut she kneeled at once.”
•T'^^ie poor working woman poured out her heart to Go'l, and spread, before him frankly, the perplexities of her mind. She was very importunate in her supplications and entreaties to be ao directed that she might fall into no sin whatever way she decided. She went forward in her prayer with the simplicity of a little child not dreaming of any effect which her prayer was having upqn the mind of the young actress till, in the agony of her spirit, she threw her arma arwmd the neck of her suppliant. and eicTafmM, “ O, do not pray any more about the dresse!=. hut pray for me for I am such a wicked girl! "
The praying young woman was taken by surprise. She did not know whether her visitor was in earnest or whether she was in jest. SJie went on in her simple prayer, telling the Ixird"the new doubts which were in her min<l as t^ the sincerity . of the actress ; for she really thought she might be trifling with her and the subject of her prayer. So she prayed that if the actress was not in earnest she might tiiere on('the spot become so, and if she were in earnest ah^might there and then give herself to the Tx>rd Jeans to he his servant forever. She prayed that she might he convinced Of the sinfnl-ness of her present manner of life, and forsake it, as the work of the great adversary of souls, and that henceforth she might lead a new life of honor to God and usefulness to her fallow creatures.
They rose from their knees together—the actress an»l thesewing-woman. They stood regarding each other for n moment in silence.
“ I shall not let you do this work,” said the actress; “ no one shall do it.”
“ Wha t will you , do ?” inqu.ired the sewing-wo mnn.
“ I will leave it as it is.”
“ How about your engagement in Philadriphta ?” “ I will write to the manager that I cannot play
“ How long have you been connected with the stage ?”
“Five years ; and I had become exceedingly attached to my profession. I never thought to leave it. I followed it with an enthusiasm which swal-lowe«l up my life. I never loved anything so well. But I shall quit the stage forever. I shall never put foot upon it again.”
“ But what will you do with these unfinished garments ?’’
“I will keep them in just their present state. They shall remain as they are while I live and have control of them, as a memento of this hour and this room, and of God’s mercy in arresting me just here, and just as he has.”
“ What will you do now ?'’ still queried the sewing woman, now fairly roused up with concern for her visitor, who now stooil before her in a new lieht, and rejoicing, too, in the resolution which she had expressed.
“ I will seek to be useful in every way I CM. I know not what to do but I will do all for Chriat, whatever it may be, and I will ask counsel of him.” She then expressed the warroeet gratitude to the poor, meek, faithful sewing-woman, for her faithfulness to her principles, and for her faiQifulness to her. So they parted.
Often they met afterward, however, and conversed on the subject of religion. Often in the fow next succeeding days they prayed together and talked of the obligations they owed to the Savior. The fkith of the new Converted actress grew stronger ever »lay. She became more and more confident that the hand of God was in all this, tiiat this was ihe method he had adopted to snatch her as a brand from the burning. The more she thought of it, the more she admired the amasing goodness and wserey vt God in it. She felt that perhaps her heart woald not have been reached so well in any other way. .\nd this thought increased her gratitude. She gathered strength from day to day as she went on her way rejoicing.
She is now in one of the Eastern States, where she has taken up her residence for the present. She has made a public profession of religion, and joined herself to the people oá God.
She writes often to her young Christian friend— the sewing-woman in Twenty-ninth street. New York, from whose lips we had the preceding facts, and who is often seen in some of our daily prayer meetings, apparently utterly unconscious of the poAver she exerted to save the poor a’ctress, and ascribing all the glory of her salvation to God.
.\ letter, recently received from the quandom actress, says : She is a wonder to herself. She was
so attached to the stage and to stage-life, that she had not supposed it possible to leave it; that she loved it so well that she did not believe she oould love anything more. But she now finds Christ infinitely more precious to her than all things else had ever been; that she is now truly happy, and her peace is like the flowing spring, constantly floM-ing; that her gratitude knows no bounds, and that her desire grows continually stronger to do something for God.
The dresses, she says, are in the same state in which her friend saw them when she enrolled the bundle and refused to do anything to them till she had made the vork a subject of prayer. They are a thousand times more precious to her now, just as they are, than they conild he in any other shape, as a memorial of GckTs wonderful love and mercy !■ saving a poor sinner, such as she was. So she keeps them, to her «lying day—memorials of God’s grace.
All that remains to he said is, that the work for which this poor young-eewing woman prayed, came in on the same day in which theee event* transpired, amt has continued to pour in upon her ever since, 80 that her busy, flying needTe ftnds eSRWigfo to do.
We have tRken special pains to substantiate aO* these facts, by conversing with other ladies who are acquainted with them, so that we can say wRfr confidence that they are strictly true, and add another proof to all that hos gone before of the power of prayer