Decatur Eagle, Volume 3, Number 8, Decatur, Adams County, 1 April 1859 — Page 1

THTpECTI'IU R I. AU I

VOL. 3.

TII EEAG LE. mLISUBD EVERY FRIDAY MORNING, BY PHILLIPS ft SPENCER, on Miin Street, in the old School House, one Square Sorth of J. & P Crabs’ Store. Terms of Subscription : f,r one year. $1 50, in advance; $1 75, within veil', and ?2 00 after the year has expned. jjNo paper will be discontinued unul all -rases are paid, except at the option of the sblishers. > _______ Terms of Advertising; (ten lines) three insertions, $1 00 subsequent insertion, 25 pfNo advertisement will be. considered less ;v> one square; over one square will be connidand charged as two; over two, as three, etc. JOB PRINTING: t; e are prepared to do all kinds of job-wohk. ijneat and workmanlike manner, on the most usonable terms. Our material for the complete! .Job-Work, being new and of the. latest and we feel confident that satisfaction in he given. ’ THE SEWING MACHINE. BY MRS. L H SIGOURNEY. Click’—Click!—Click! — Therein a pile they lie, Shirts and bosoms and collars, — Heap them still more high. Table-cloths, towels, and sheets, Off in a trice they glide, With all the countless articles Os household use and pride. Click!—Click!—Click! — Cloak and surplice and stole, Counterpane, curtain and quilt. In aceaseles tide they roll, From the wonderful magician That there in the corner stands I Transcending old Brisreus, ■ With all his hundred hands. I So more the thoughtful husband ■ Need hasten to his trade, I With hankerchief unhemni’d, And wristbands broken and fray’d, I And ths matron findelh leisure, Though with many a labor tried. To read the daily paper, | And something else beside. i While the astonished mother Can keep in neat array

| Her rude and iwy urchins That in the gutter play,— I Coals and jackets and pants Are quick, r made anew ■ Thau the laundress can r-store the aid To their primeval hue H The'lover, vhen he presseth The hand of his lady fair, II So longer finds her finger rough With the needle’s furrowing share. I And the thin and pallid sempstress, lij With eudbss stitching worn, fa Mays hep belore the midnight, l And rise refreshe’d at morn. I What a blessed age we live in, Sisters, and daughters, and wives, ■ With all the lights of science I To lenghten out our lives. ■ And be the time thus rescued Not spent in folly’s strife, EsS But fit ourselves and others | lor a higher, better life. Il; - ■’Why; my dear sir are you always gating at, ■twnset!’ ‘Just because they are the only prospects I ever had before me.’ R^otnenhave more power in their looks than Hr nave intbeirlaws; and more power tn their men have in their judgements. ■.... ——- R“ I,,1I1 C a pretty girl ‘down South,’ a young IM"''.eman asked her‘what made her so sweet?’ ■ ls ' she replied, in utter innocense, 'tny fath■'sasugar planter.’ ■ e or ly notion some women hrve of time is ffi ■'By their constantly endeavoring to imtheir persons, as near as they can, the R? 6 ol the hour glass. Rdoafer took a fish in the market house, and under his vest. The tail hanging Ryoas to ho seen, the first man he m-t suge to him that he should either wear a lon or steal a shorter fish. ’oantie Father, whose name was Rose ' It Be daughter'Wild,’ so that she grew, up R'BeappHlation of‘Wild Rose ’ But the "f ths in: n . was sadly spoiled in a ■ W i s ’f ori >he mar.ied a man by the name not yuan » nor exam*?onng lady witness, determined toperhe thought, and said: 'Miss. upon ■■ r Jou are very pretty!’ ‘I would re- ■ * compliment if I was not on oath,’ said ■Mog lady. J 0 ”’ sa 'd R 8> r l to her suitor, ‘hut I HL Borne—l am a widow’s only dar ■ *,°' lua ' )ai) d can equal my parent in kind- ■ f ais B'tid,’ replied the wooer but Mr... •“ we will all live together, and see if E ’ t * T your mother ’

MIRIAM. — J A Dark Page in Life’s History. BY PARY C. VAUFIIAO. ' I never knew, until that last farewell was spoken, how deep, and strong and reliant had been my attachment to Ba-!' si) 1 horn. And even then the custom of wifely duty, that had survived the dead ! , love of early wedded days, never moved 1 aside to let the shadow of that knowledge i fall upon me, 1 knew only that I was' , very sad, that a great weariness suddenly oppressed me; that my long habit of patient, silent, strong endurance seemed all 1 disturbed and broken up; and that life i ■ i had never, never looked so fearfuil dreary, so unutterably long, as when I gaz-d !' out upon it during the days that followed ! ; Basil's departure. ■I Over and over again I replied Basil’s l , parting words, and when my lips were . still yet seemed soutidingin my ear asweet- j' ■ ly. mournful monotone. Yet they were | j only those common words, and bv no; i means bearing, as I told myself, any uuus- { ual significance. ‘Farewell, Miriam, best, and best-loved friend! We shall meet again where both can be truly happy. Nay, doubt not,! Miriam, the future that now lies shrouded in mystery, when we reach it, shall rejoice in the sunlight of peace.’ He went away, leaving me these words ! as a legacy—prophetic words, cheering ! words, also; yet undeniably words that disturbed a life that faith and a disciplined will had made quite, if not harmonious By this you will see, my friend, that I had suffered; that I was not happy even before this violent wrench parted me from a long-tried friend. But I had often before said, in silent boas'ing. that I had became iiiuied to suffering; that I could, ; i because I would, and because He who 1 sent knew far better than 1, bear all that; |it pleased my Heavenly Father, for the ; . wise purposes ol His will to inflict upon I me, without, any useless murmurings. I knew not then how instinctively and un-; • consciously I had relied or. the presence of Basil Thorn for comfort; how the very J fact that he was near me—a true friend ; j who made no piofessinns—had enabled ! Ime to bear silently and strongly the mis I ; eries of my fate. ! ' The lives of myself and husband lay

, ~ .’ ■ - ■ j widely apart. We were married, but were not made one. And every year proved mote plainly how impossible it was that ever we should fulfill all the divinely appointed relation. 1 had not accepted the bitter ’esson taught me by the years of my married life without many a weary struggle. It was , hard to believe that life had no compensation for its actual and unavoidable suffering. and that the path along which my i feel must tread, lay always in shadow, i often in deep gloom. But I did believe it ■ now, an 1 had long ceased to shrink from i the truth that once vibrated painfully • along all the chords of my being. I was but seventeen when 1 left rny 1 father’s house and went out among strangers, into the then unknown world that lay beyond the dear home that had sheltered my infancy, and all my peaceful innocent girlhood. But it seemed a fairy 1 world to me, and I had peopled it | will: the brightest visions. I felt nei- J ther doubt nor fear, as I stepped, for the last time, over the familiar threshold. I (turned from the pressure of mv father’s I hand; from the caresses of my little sis , ters; from the clasping of my mother's arms, not without sadness, it is true, and 1 deep sadness, but hope lent cheerfulness, j and love pictured future joys; and with my hand in his who had just promised me a husband’s protecting care and love, I went, undismayed, to my new life. We came to L. That was to be our home. Caspar had prepared a lovely, 1 tiny cottage for mv reception—‘a tit nest[ for his sweet singing bird ’ he whispered, I as he led me over its threshold. Oh, how happily the days passed in i that fairy cot. 1 teal a singing-bird then, and all the day, when my husband left [ me to attend to his buisiness, I sang at my work in the pleasant rooms, or on the j shady garden walks. Ah, yes! We were very happy then ' —we twain that should have been one.— I 1 was selfishly happy, too, for I could bear no intrusion upon the charmed life we were living, and was almost indignant and quite grieved when Casper proposed | that Basil Thorn should come to reside with us. I had never seen Basil, but I knew: that he was a studious, thoughtful boy, whom Casper had taken into l.is office an assistant in such duties as he could perform. I knew, also, that he was the son of one who had rendered Casper some important service, in his early days, and that bv helping on the lad s educa- ; tion mv husband hoped to repay, in part, this obligation. I felt interested in the lad from ml I| had heard of him; but I was unaccustom-

'Our Country’s Good shall ever be our Aim rs ■ j r -, n w unng so Fratso and not afraid to Blame."

DECATUR, ADAMS COUNTV, INDIANA, APRIL 1,

led to boys—there were none in my fath. [er’s house; and to have this ’great boy,’ as I petulantly called him, a perpetual ! thin' person in those enchanted evening hours, vt our own tiny table, where all the food seemed enchanted also, an I to do no more towards sustaining life than the caresses and loving words that accompanied it, sweeter titan musical the feasts of princes, was almost more than I could be*r. But Anticipation for once whs worse than the reality. I did n ot object to re-! Reiving Basil Thorn, and he came.— He had but recently lost, his mother, and his sadness, the desolation of his young hfe, that 1 could only contemplate, not understand, moved me to the tenderest pity. He was a gentle, quiet hoy, never bois- ; terous, never intrusive. lie had loved his dead mother passionately; when she die I I he was utterly alone. It is, not strange i that he should have at once attached himself tome, with an affection that seemed in part to be a transferal of that j i which had belonged to her who was lost; ' to him forever. Yet the sentiment with which he regarded me could not be lilial, for his age too I nearlly corresponded with my own In deed, he was a few months my senior, though I was a young matron, with matronly duties resting, though lightlv, upon tnv young shoulders, ami he only a hall-grown lad of seventeen. I believe he loved me as an elder sister, for I seemed I much older than he, then, and th-re wassomething of the tender reverence with; which his excellent mother had inspired ; him mingled with his affection 1 soon became quite contented with ' Basil, his presence L found far from disagreeable, and his society, at times, very pleasant, for mv hush tn I was often abi sent, and but for this dear bov I should | have been alone with servants ; But if I prize this n>-w inmate of mv ! happy home then, how much more dearly ; j did I prize him in th- dark days t hat too I speedily followed. But for his delicate but steadfast kindness. I do not know how I should have borne all To know i that there was one who loved and cared | for me was a great boon. It was the I lone gleam of sunlight that ever pieiced , the clouds that darkened over me. It I ; was the one joy that enabled tne to bear ; - —- — ..I —.I -- *1 . .1 I

without one slitter cry of pain, through ■ all those years the knowledge of my fatal ! mistake, and its consequences. I would not speak lia'shly of the dead, even in truthfulness. He who made my I days so wretched, who bartered away the happiness ol two lives, has. long since gone to his account. 1 will not drag his | faults before the public gaze, ' nor detail : his slow but sure progress toward ruin, or the annihilation in my heart of all af- [ section for one who never could have tru :ly loved me. Thousands of my sex have borne all that. I bore, have seen every hope extinguished, every blossom of affection crushed, and have known, like me, what it is to mistake one’s destiny, to love unwisely, and trust, and be de cejved. Thousands have dragged out all their lives in the thrall of hateful marriage bonds, from which they saw no wav of escape. They will know all I suffered, and need no discription. And to the ears of the happy no such tale should be tinJ folded. 1 would not shadow any life with the knowledge of such wrongs as I mine. But enough has been written here to (explain why I felt so greatly the loss of Basil Thorn. Until his first letter reachled me, I had thought, in my desolation j that not even the knowledge of his existence and the friendship that was strong I and enduring as his life, afforded me any (comfort, so long as he was not with me When he wrote, when I read those cheer fill, hopeful words, I felt how, mightier) than time or space, such a friendship was ( enduring as the eternities, and that its influence for blessing was evermore around me. I I was no longer lonely after that letter reached me, though I was exposed to many wrong* am< insults, from which the ( presence of Basil Thorn in my home had protected me. For Casper Esling, even , when he had reached the climax ot his baseness, was restrained by the disapproval of this excellent young man, from overt j acts of personal wrong to myself — Now l.e had no such restraint. H<- knew that, save mv aged and invalid father. ( there was not one who was able to pro [tect me. So rapidly he trod the path of perdition. Hr had miscalculated hovever, the nbtlty I of mv friend* to aid me. and mv own powers of enduranance. When he at b-ngth made his home no longer a proper C:.lter : ( or nie , or where I could remain wi'bnut the sacrifice of womanly dignity, as well as wifely rights, I wrote to my father, asking to be recieved once more beneath his roof. Thi* letter my excellent parent* answered in person. Indignation and sorrow had lent him strength. He came at once, prepared to take me with him, on

his return, to the arms of my mother and the embraces of mv sisters. Casper was absent when he came, and thus a collision was avoi led. I took with me only a few necess tries, an I, in a few hours was traveling with my lather toward the -home of my childhood I destv-d no hing so much as to remain quieily ; this pl.-.isant retreat But Casper mj will Every argumi'Hit ■tn 1 w ,. r ,. USe ,| gy |() in , ■ 'luce me l<> return, and i 1 length iny fa- ' .ther lound himself pitted against his unworthyson in law. as having unlawfully! restrained hi t wile (rom returning to her husband’s house. My entreaties no longer prevailed. Ihe paternal wrath was aroused, and i could slumber no more. Overwhelmed -by all that L had suffered, now tb it the necesity of farther endurance no I tiger! ; had power to oppose tny father’s stronger 1 will. A consent was won from me. and ,a mechanical performance of the necessa-! ry legal preliminaries on r-v part. I can hardly- say [ waited the result, for .in the state in which I had fallen 1 was conscious only of an utter indifference to all that could befall me. Only the let ; ters of Basil Thorn, at this period, had power to rouse me from the morbid conditions to which I had yielded. I wearied even of the affectionate s'olicitnde and kindness of ntv friends, anti withdrew ever more and more into subtitle. But for B isil my life would have been utterly I - j void of interest at this time. We had ; ; insensibly changed places. Once he had I looked up to me for strength, and cmnlort, and instruction, as to an elder sister, now I leaned upon him as the brother ol my soul, reposing in entire trust upon bis strong and lofty nature. Al length ail was over. The legal forms of marriage m> longer hound me to the m ; m who long before had ceased to ’ tbe mv husband before. God. 1 had marI t ied him while laboring under a delusion of his own creation—married the ideal ol ; my dreams and hopes, of which he coun- ! terfeited the semblance for a little time, on- ; ly to throw oil the mask afterwards, and appear in the real hiiieou-ness, the moral deformity that clothed him like agar-; ; merit. I was free at. hist, but as indifferent to that as untouched by the heartfelt I congratulations of tny friends as by every-i , thing else that now occurred in my mon-

otonous life. I -In this way passed several years. I remember nothing that marked their lapse . save the letters ol B isd Thorn He was still toiling in the far-off El Dorado, win- ’ uing fame and fortune, as I gathered 1 ‘ from his modest announcements, and I ■ was always roused to an interest in life bv : the lone o! vital cheerfulness which char acterized his letters, thejmagnetism of his brave, strong heart. But ever this effect was temporary, and I speedily relapsed in’o mv monotonous round of mechanical employments, only to tie stirred again into some voluntary interest in my kind by the next letter. But this state could not always continue. Afflictions that cou l I not be passive• I ly endured fell upon me One of my voung sisters married —married a missionary— and we saw her go forth from ourquiet home Io return not again The fare- : w.-ll was lojever, tor she went Io brave a i climate under whose withering influences the strongest soon sank, and all the trials and tod of the life she had chosen--too great. we all felt, for her delicate frame We spoke our farewells as to the dying, knowing that we were looking our last! upon the sweet young face. Then the younger sickened. They were twins, with but a few hours ot life bet ween them, and the mysterious link that had bound them had been 'oo rudely sundered. Alma sickened anil long before Ale (theahad reached her far-off destination, i we laid hr, in the grave •M ooriunes come not single spies ” — Presently iny mother’s step grew feeble, [and her pale face more wan. Then she laid down upon her bed to rise no more. ‘The silver chord was loosened, the bowl broken at the fountain,’ and there was another grave upon the hillside, another in our longing hearts. I was li ft alone with my aged, grief bowed father. It was very pitiful to see , the oi l man. thus bereft of all he had i loved, and clinging to me who. not long (ago, hid sought from bun the protection his own feebleness now demanded. It was verv good for me, this n"C”ssi- i tv for exertion, this demand for sympathy. It was borne oui of myself. For the first time in years I forgot my own sorrows, and ceased to think lhat I alone, of all the world, was miserable Bereft, of all the dear household friend*, save mv father, who soon I knew must follow those, whom we laid in the family buri d place. [ yet was less unhappy than I had been in the years past. I had something to: live for, a human sympathy, a human work ito perform Even when my lather died, [ and 1 W»S left utterly nlotie, I did not relapse into the old morbid Conditions The rebound caused bv these great affliction* had saved me. Only one sorrow tugged (

iit m y heart, s rings, the accounta of the I swill career ot crime and ruin that lie wn running whom o.ice I had called husband. 1 had never hated him, now 1 no Linger jevi-n l-.lt indill-reijce. An infinite pt y, ' tender and sa l, like ths' ol a st-ter lor a lost brother, tilled mv soul whenever 1 thought, or heard of him 1 would tai.i h ive stretched forth my hand m save l.ttn Out km w not |,, )W lo rrHt .|i a life .... taot Irmo myown aiuliiiviied irom 1 such stern barriers At this time wrol-: Basil Thorn a fetter that stirred tin- very fountains of mv being-— i letter which at once de- r iy-d the fond illusions ol his fraternal affection and show me how. tn this gts at and -trung Heart, I had long been enshrined with another love than that winch had blest mv ilife. ' ; i ‘Since ever you were free,’ wrote B tail ‘this punion has asserted itself But tai ; til 1 learned that you were felt ut’erlv alone, by the terrible series of afll <:<ionwhich h ive d-solatvd your home, 1 !ar>-<l ; not speak Now, it you, who, since mv .mo her left me, have been mv dear, s’ earthly friend, whom, I ving once w tt> boyish adoration, 1 have now come to I >ve with the ard.-nt- passion ol my native manhood, will but accept the protection I off. r you. will not turn fiom me, Lu give m-- s<il| the place in tour heart I have so L.ng he| I, if yoU C ill 2tve no mole, I (shall hold myself the happiest man in nil; the world. My life’s etr rdi-<n ang- I will ; ibe evermore by my side. But ti ll tn . with all (rankness, Mitinn. all vou tetl I shall not. mumtir it any d< ctsion you > ; may m ike An tis now, or hereafter. \ .you but write me ‘Come,’ that single! word, reaching meat the Antipodes. shall ; lure m« homew tr.l, like th.- bird to its nest It find my snfe pence ami joy in your love. A new light flooded my soul. Ikn w in that hour that 1 hive I -.nd wasfe loi!ed Ikn ew that 1 loved not With Che ro-.| ; mimic adoration that ihgtillio.il I had' ties-..web upon mv id.-»!, Im l , with thi 1 strong, unwavi ring, bm not unreasoning. ; 1 lov>- of mv native wmnulhood. Yet 1 dared not call to m- the protec I tior of that love. Not while he lived! l whom once I had called hu-b md. though i the aond that united us lied he< n canc. h d by Go.l and m >n, could call another Ly thlit nam- So. with man- tears, and it r-! rilfle struggles, with my longings once ,

- mure to h< ar the b-bive.l voice, and look ' into Ihe beloved eye*, I wiote, telling Basil all I felt, and when I sealed Hie letter, believed I sealed my fate. Scarcely, however, had this letter de- | parted toward* its destination, than I learned that I was free, even from th. bond lhat mv fancy had created. C <*p< t : E ling had met his late at 1 a*:—the vio ' lent man bad perished bv violence, gone, with all the sins <0 his very sin’ul life, to | Him who jirlgeth ail Then. b\ the n> X’ mail, for I would do no such viob-nce to oil her heart lo wait (longer, and scorned the semblance of < x- ( ti-rna] grid lor one whom I did not mourn I wrote to Basil that one word which was ito bring him home to me and . I>vi—j ‘Come ’ When it was sen l I sat down to wait as patiently as I might, ( or the slow ‘ passing of months that must elapse ere he : ci ul I reach r.e. ; At last, after a weary lapse of time, came a letter He was coming. Almost rs soon as his letter he wonld be with me How impatiently I counted the days, the hours, even the minutes, that dragged : themselves along like slow eternities! Oft, friend, would that mv ncord might pause here! Or would that, tn the d irk ness of mv life one brief gleam of the heart’s sunlight might, irradiate the gloom How shall 1 write here what followed? B tsil Thorn never C ime home! Somewhere in the depths of the great Pacific his body w-ii’s the r> surectio" morn. Hi' spirit seem* ev. r to walk by mv side, and prophesy that meeting that surely wi’l come at last, wh‘-re there will be no death no parting, no sin. no sorrow, but where we shall dwell forevermore in peace, and light, ami love There, perchance, we shall solve the great mystery of our sundered lives, there we shall learn that He who orders all things, is far wiser than we. I have learned the surest lesson of rottentment. Ino longer passively endure nor madly, as in th- first daysol this last terrible hereav.-nent, defy fate. I wait — wait calmly, filling all mv days with pleasant occupations, sei ki ig ever to bind up breaking hear'*, to soothe human wo-s, to p-ant to heavenly consolations. S> knowing well it is not for long. I wait all mv appointed time, with patience and faith! HI <— 111 •Miss, will von take my arm?’ ‘Y<‘*. and von too ’ •Can’t spare but the arm.’ replied the old b iclu-lor. •Then,’ returned she. ‘I shan’t take it. as my motto is ‘go the whole hog or noth ing. The Columbus, G i., Sun mentions the receipt of a basket of beets, cabbages aud green peas oi this year’s growth.

Never Despair. Whether in tfie midst of efflictinns decreed by Provi fence, or beset bv trnublej ot nur own conjuring, we eannot have a better m uto th in never ‘<le-p ir ’ He w iio confronts obstacle* ami oalamiues with the spirit of this motto in lis soul .can never be wholly oveyron’Se. A thousand plaguing sf.ap » flv (lie laCe of per- . -istent courage, w’ ic>i drive the t’tni ! 'a wr. ichr.-jne-s and .lent!) D -pi.r n tnr‘Ll* no id. rigliisim wrong, eases m bur- : . aeii L he i . curded less.ms ot i.uman . xper’ -m-e are arnpfe to show the f..|lv of , desp r.rtng. The son oi Bruce tn pns- u sick at heart and well nigh hop. less for hims.lt and his couu iv. umii be ssw a spidt-r in his cII return again and again tn Irui les* attempt to spin i s weh to a desired point, whet: finally, as the fit reward jot an undaunted will, ii snece.de. 1 in its of.j ct —tins touching story, the incident ol whicn libt rated a and gave a i crown to a hero, is an inspiration to never despair. Suppose Cojumbus had despaired under the ridicule id Coliridets and the rej eiions ot kings or when mutiny threatened to cut .short his career, —a cuntinetM* might have rem iin.-d undiscovered tor c-ninries longer, and perhaps lotev.r — Sipp.n. Washing’. >ri lad .n I■ o di-r ti.e -tortn of t lie He u , i ev.-n the hi ,v. st no jtl. . . ... -. m ng warrant tor !< ■, if. . Itl.fept II I. ril’e Would douh less .1, .; r im|. I d it, tiie dtl-l. A,. ■ i’ , y ituinorial nanfes o rnen . .» ortlt and gmte forth io vindicate < rights, and promote the Wi l ate of tl.c Human race. II the great army o discoverers and dtVelopi r*. who have-tiff, rered tor trulls and know fedg. ,tn dunoi one oral the slake—darkness and woe to .lie world, had all these dtspairrd when peri! o' fl'e SI ar-d id', mill' Io- face. Li wa-ju-d al that point wiieie halfbre« -I hi ro- s ifespail-. liolt tio g: eo. Io . >-t beg“m i iieir gr in iest iriiifiipf.s T-< Ko mans had mil vellearned in despair,.wlieu the ali-cui'.qm ring Hannibal thundered down the gorges ol the Alps Rime might tn- deml it. but she should b l ' un-de-paired of while >i Roman survived — Uli is spirit lias saved and foumle I io — lias Ulin v ictorie- ’ll tile Vet V j « of defeat. I’liis -piril rub <1 'de il.i.e hundred who ma. e ih< i tin j i 'a? ojoiiou—

: was with Tell w s> h■■ iv r t>‘* 'msi pa ve ! he wiv loa tin >Z ; » :r> • .or : 1 ua- , th<-«piii -jf’m v r despair’ chai |< rtm . the first forlorn hope, and that will It -vi-t ■ (euaSe to stand in the bri ar-li win re the I (noblest causes are ivdi-i-meit and the no ■b st triumphs won. How many 11< 11 to pitiful obsta- I. s and petty gloom*. How many, wnose instinct , are to de-p mdenev while there ate sour- » I ees <>! Coci-r |e t—ll .wmany, who despair i withoui an appeal to hope. Do these i [ know the proverbs, founded it: wisdom—- : -It is always darkest just before d ’ — . ‘there is night without <no ning’— tlo-tr ilis a silvt r lining so evev cbm I’—• wdt and S the storm will pas- ’tin ill <v.r was, • but there lIIHV be one r, a: <-1 r — 11 II st •; in God doing votrr duty, and tear not th- uors 1’ I i- to' old: e •«-•.•-.I: , it i' V'i-krd, to despair While there is I llie there is hope, and woe Utl'O him . who plucks out his life as a refuge from | despair. Spiritualism v Comm n Sense, The following is a little old, but. is the [ best thing tn print or out of it. The Spiritual Harbinger, and advocate of 'p rtual rapping*, ’p<r > x -<-lb nee,’ in . I sp'-aking of a vision which some medium saw ha* the following sublimation ot liy- : phalutin. •'n the twelf'h hour, the glorv of God, J the life of Rod, tire holy procedure, shall crown the Tribune Creator with the p<-r- --[ feet di'do'ive illu nins ior. Tlo n dial! the Crator, in effulgence drove the dtVirle ; se, ipliimal, arise into the donreot the , disclosure, in one comprehensive, revolving galaxy Cl sublime behUiitude. The Cayuga Chief hits it tlius, by , put'ing a ‘kn tb’ on it: Then shall f.locfthead* in the j o-kas-te-al dome of the cltschadve procedure, above the all-fired great leather in gu* of Peter Nipniimv go. the gm s. In it v gt inder. rise into the dome of ili*clo.«ure nit- , ti! co-equal, co < X'r-nsire, and conglomerated IttmtiX'*. in one compr,-hr-n*ive mux. st all assimilate into nothing and revolve, like a bob tailed jni'sy cat, around the space where the tail was. Noble Sentiments —Condemn no man for not thibking as yon think. L"-t everyone enjov the full and free liberty of thinking W himself. L-l every man use ll* own jit I pn.-nt stn'-e <v. ■ v m> n n->n*r give »n account of l (rod. Ablioreverv approach, tn anv kind of de-gn-e, to the spir tof prrs< cution. Il yon cannot reason or per*u*de a man into the truth, never attempt io force him into it. If love will not compel him, leave him to God. the jllgtle of nil. A truly great man burrows no lustre ‘ from splendid ancestry.

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