Newspapers / The Orphans’ Friend (Oxford, … / Nov. 15, 1876, edition 1 / Page 2
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THE OHFlIANy’ FRIEND. W«Mftii«!Silay, i^'ovcsiibfi* a5, ]^OT AS WE WIEL. It is true tliiit wo cl’.oose not tlie parts we act in life, and to play them well is all that is re quired of us; but it is true, also, tl.at instead of moving in the pre scribed circle, we too often de- sci'ibe marvellously exceutric or bits, an irresistible force that it would be hard to define, hard to circumscribe, draws us from the even tenor of our way and often makes sad havoc with our lives. We have not executed what we planned, nor realized what wo hoped, desire through still on the advance is weakened by a glimpse at the failures in the past, and Oh ! why is it that struggling after the true, beautiful and good we are doomed to draw the pall over our dear dead hopes ! It is a melancholy pleasure to trace the devious course of the lives we most admire. Some have striven manfully against the pow ers that would drag them down, and the conflict long and fierce has resulted in their victory. Others have gone lieadlong to their own destruction, and in awe we stand before the wreck of ge nius. Neither ever gained the stepping stone to that plane of perfection after which they were striving. An unseen power was acting as the counter force and drawing them down. And there are noble lives tliat we have placed before us as our paragons, striving to avoid their vices and emulate their virtues; but as we turn to compare the copy with the original, we find our lives at variance with all that wo admired, and sick at heart “ with all the chambers of our soul liung in sackcloth,” we turn from the retrospect. And striving to rear a fabric so vast, are we not thwarted for our good f Yes, perliaps as we look on the frag ments of our fallen structure we will throw aside the faulty tools of our own devising, dash dowti the idols that have served as our models, and look unto Him whom is alone able to mould us after Ilis own perfect image. »«TOKIE!« M'l'M'M .4 MOK.4L. We have come to the conclu sion, be it wise or otherwise, to flee as from a ijestilence from the articles, essays, &c., that come to us branded with a moral and a maxim, we have been forced to take refuge in this vow from the fearful avalanche of such literature, pouring in upon us from all sects and persuasions. The religious press justify their ficticious, nonsensical creations on the ground of tlie excellent morals they all coutr.iu, but how many, after wading through the trashy details ot such a book are again going- to thread the laby rinth in search of the moral, for to be discovered a second effort is iudispensible, and then oft times microscopic aid must be sum moned. We rather congratulate ourselves that we have past the age when Sunday school books formed an important part of our literaturo since all that we re member were a mass of senta- mentalism with a dash of religion as a spicing, and much of the same spirit is shared by our simple-minded tracts. And some times startling fallacies in tlieolo- gy creep into this hybrid litera ture, fur what else shall wo term thi.t which is neither fact nor fic tion, a fallacy in conception is ig nored for the beauty of expression. 2su wonder so may Utopian schemes originate in tlie minds of men whose boyish fancies fed on fiction ; tliat works of the imagi nation are a necessary m'eams of education, we do not deny but do not blend the real with the im aginary in such away thatonly by process of refining can we separate the X and y from the a and b. We expect to be deplorably behind the times as many recent publica tions will fall within our restriction, and we had just' emer ged from communion with tiie musty tomes wdiere imagination had been busy with reproducing the ga\’ and beautiful, the dread ful and sublime, until ihe wtired forms of those by-goiie da3-s, seemed beckoning us to their or gies,in fact w-e have haunted their domain so often that they in turn haunt us and make night hideous by invading our dreams and drawing us into their fearful conspiracies. But we w-ould rath er spend the residue of our days among fossils and shadestlien turn for consolation to modern lectures founded on well-worn aphorisms. The 6100 credited to St John’s Lodge in our last issue was real ized from the sale of the bale of cotton in Wilmington to tlie pur chase of which St. Jolin’s Lodge. Wiimingtoii Council,and Concord Cliapter contributed. MILTO.-^’S ACCOUNT OF BLI.A'DAESS. MIS In 1654 Milton wrote a dis- cription of hi.s blindness, and the symptoms which attended it, for the information of his fi'iend Le onard Philara, a learned Athen ian, who had expressed a desire to submit the case to an eminent French physician, celebrated for treatment of disorders of the er-e. I'he letter is interesting for the particular description it gives of the poet's blindness, and also for the evidence it affords of liis pa tience and resignation. The let ter is as follows: “Wlien x'ou unexpectedly came to London, and saw me who could no longer see, my affliction, which causes none to regard me with greater admiration, and perhaps nianx' even with feelings of con tempt, excited your tenderest sympathy and concern. You w-ould not suffer me to abandon the hope of I'ecovering my sight, and informed me that you bad an intimate friend at Paris, Dr. The- venot, who was particularly cele brated in disoiders of the eves, whom 3-ou would consult about mine, if I would enable v’ou to lay before him tlie causes and symptoms of the complaint. I will do what you desire, lest I should seem to reject tliat aid wliioli perhaps may be offered by heaven. It is norv, I think, about ten years since I perceived my vision to grow weak and dull. In the uiorniiig, if I began to read, as it was my custom, my eyes instantly ached intenseh', but tvei'e refreshed after a little corpo real exercise. The candle which I looked at seemed as it were cir cled with a rainbow. Not long after the sight in the left part of my left eye, (which I lost some years before the other) became quite obscured, and prevented me from discerning anv’ object on that side. The sight in iiiyotlier eye lias now been gradually and sensibly- vaiiisliing away for about three j'ears ; some moiitlis betore it laid entirely perished, thougli I stood motionless, every thing which 1 looked at seemed in nio- tlon to and fro. A stiff cloudy- vapor seemed to have settled on iiiN' forehead and temples, which usiialh- occasions a sort of som nolent pressure upon my eves and particularly from dinner till the evening. So tliat I often re collect what is said of fiie poet Phineas in the Argonautics : A Stupor deop his cloudy temples bound. And when ho walk’d he seem’d as whirling round, Or in a feeble trance lie speechless lay. I ought not to omit that, while I had any sight left, as soon as I lay down on my bed and turned on either side, a flood of liirlit used to gusli from my closed eye lids. I'lien, as iiiy sight became daih' more impaired, the colors became more faint, and were emitted with a certain inward crackling sound but at present eveiy species of illumination be ing, as it were, extinguished, there is diffused around me nothing but darkness,, or darkness mingled and streaked with an asliv brown. 1 et the darkness ill which I am perpetually immersed, seemed al ways, both b}- night and day-, to approach nearer to white than black ; and wiien the eve is roll ing in its socket, it admits a little particle ot ligiit as tiirough a chink. And though your plivsi- cian may- kindle a small ray-' of hope, yet I make up my- mind to the malady as quite incurable; and I often reflect, that as the wise man adiiionislies days of darkness are destined to eac of us, the diirkuess which 1 expe rience less op])ressive than that of the tomb, is owing tii the singular gooitiiess of the Deity, passed amid the pursuits of literature and the cheering salutations of friendship. But if, as is written, mail shall not live by bread alone, but bo every word that proceed- tli from the moutli of God, why may- not any- one acquiesce in the jirivatioii ofliis sigiit wlien God has so amply furnished his nihid and conscience with eyes. While He so tenderly- provides for me while He so graciously- leads me by the hand and conducts me on the way, I will, since it is His pleasnre,i'atlier rejoice than repine at being blind. And mv dear Pliihira, whatever may be tlis event, I wish you adieu witii no less courage and composure than if I had the eyes of a lynx.” • TI-tlOTIll- ! 'I'l.riOTSlr An exchunge tells an anecdote of tlie late Timothy Coffin, an eloquent lawyer of New Bedford, which illustrates the old Quaker spirit and how ready it was to bear testimony against sin : The lawyer, then quite young, was retained in a case. Not feel ing himself prepared to plead, lie was desirous of obtaining a post ponement. As the court had al ready protracted its session be yond the usual period, and the jury- were getting impatient to be released, he was aware that it would be impossible to procure such a postponement unless he could allege some extraordinary- cause. He had a lively- imagination, and quickly formed a plan. ces.sfiil. Sympatliy for the af flicted counsel pervaded all hearts, and the jurors were not sufficient ly hard of heart to wish the busi ness of tlie court to proceed at such a sacrifice of personal feel ings. The judge, a tender-hearted man, ivas about to grant the re quest, when the hush was broken by a shrill voice, which proceed ed from a lady- in a Quaker bon- not, bending over the railing of tlie gallery-. It was the mother of the eloquent counsel, who, so far from being at the point of death, came without her son’s knowledge to hear him plead. “ Timothy ! Timothy !” she ex claimed, in a voice which could be heard all over the house; ‘'Timothy! Timothy-! how often liave I cluistisod thee for lying!” The court-room sliook witli langliter, and tlie eloquent coun sel, the late Timothy- Coffin, sat down completely nonplussed. The case wasn’t pastponed. A TALE OE -THE SEA. SEVEKE ISEBIIISE. Rising, with his handkerchief John Locke, the English phil osopher, was a favorite with ma ny of the great noblemen of his age. I'liey- liked his robust sense and ready wit, and eiijoved even the sharp reproofs in which he occasionally indulged. On one occa.sioii he had been invited to meet a select party at Lord Ash ley’s. When he came, they were playing at cards, and continued absorbed in the game for two or three hours. For some time Locke looked on, and then began to write dili gently ill a blank book taken from liis pocket. At length they- asked him what he was writing. He answered,— “My- lords, I am improving myselt the best I can in your company- ; for having impatiently- waited tins honor of being pres ent at .such a meeting of the wise men and great wits of the age, 1 thought I could not do lietter than write down your cor.versa- tioii, and here I have in substance all that has passed for this hour or two.” Tlie noble lords were so a.sliain- ed at the written record of their frivolous talk, that they at once stopped card-playing, and began the discussion of an important subject. Thomas Carly le has uttered even a more pungent reproof of idle talk ; ‘-if we can oermit God Almighty,” he says, “to write down otir conversation, thinking it good enough for him, anv poor Boswell need not scruple to work his will ot it'” to his eyes, he addressed the court ill great apparent emotion : “ May- it please the court, I have just heard of the dangerous illness of my venerable mother, who is lying at the point of death. Under such circumstances, much as I regret protracting an already lengthened session, I must request this ease postponed. Mv feelings are so powerfully agitated that I sliould be unable to do justice to the case, leeling as I do that mv proper place is at the bedside of my- mother.” The pathetic appeal was suc- Tlie Churchman say-s : “A few days ago we were at the funeral of a dissolute creature who, after fifty- years’ soaking in the wine cask, had at last oozed away-. The chancel was a floral exhibition ; the coffin hidden under harps and crowns ; and above rose a colossal anchor ef camelias, the emblem of the hope that maketh not ashamed, safely fixed beyond tlie vail ! Wliat a mockery- of Chris tian faith ! What a contrast as the .solemn services went forward, the lesson answering, “Be not deceived,” to the Epicurean prov erb, “Let us eat and drink and the Collect praying that we may- “fise from the deatli of sin to the life of righteousness f’ Yet this is only one ainang many- instan ces. Nothing is fairer than such decoration in itself Bring white floweisfor the dead child, or for the pure of heart, lying in the white garments of a holy life ; but when the emblem is so changed to an elaborate, gross, painful shame, it is an affront to the truth.’ We find in an exchange this thrilling writer’s tale of the sea- It was December. The wind had been blowing tempestuously several days, and our steamer (one of the Cunarder.s) could scarcely buffet the great waves that mounted high above her side In the midst of anxieties for our own fate, the stirring report reach- ed ns that a wreck was discover ed at a distance, with living be ings aboard. Our captain was inclined to make an effort to save tliem. “ Who will venture out in a life-boat?” he cried, pointing to the signals of distress, liis voice had no tone of command, but seven sailors came forward at once and offered their services. “ Too heavy a sea,” murmured the captain, while the men were manning the life-boat. I liad a great desire to see the countenances of men that showed such bravery. They- were stand ing in the clear sunshine of mid day, just as they departed. [h{.‘ir faces were as white as death, and each feature wa.s stamped with an e.xpressioti of de.sperate resolve. I'hey put out to sea, and they reached the wreck safelv. There t ley- found eight Roiwegians, who had been trading at the West Indies, and their cargo of sugar had been sunk, with ever-^ tlunir on boaid. ' ° / About all that was left was the skyiigJit, on whicli they were standing, and which rose two feet out of tlie wat.er. Tliey had subsisted entirely of salt’ pork liauled from the hold. ith scarely- any hope, tlicv li id hailed our vessel, which look ed too stately to stop for so poor a little craft as theirs, even if she observed them. They nuule a proposal to try their own shatter ed boat, but the sailors would not consent, knowing- she could not iive in the watei-s. One by- one they were hauled from the ship with a rope tied ro-and their waists. ’J’he worst part was to get them in safeiy trom the boat to the steamer, the billows ivere rolling-so very high. But it w'as all finally- accoiii- plislied, w'hile the Cunard jiasser.- gers looked on in a state of sus pense, as the frail bark rode the great w-aves, or sunk belotv, ap parently to rise no more. Two dogs had survived tlie shipwreck, \vhom the sailors hud no heart to leave behind. One planted himself firmly on tlie spot, refusiog to move. But the other, seeing Ins friends venture out to sea tied with a rope, placidly fol lowed their exanq.)le, and was re ceived on shipboard. He instantly shook off the briny- fluid, and began .promenad ing the deck at his ea.se, as if it were the old ship, and he the master. The excitement among the pas sengers were increasing, and their livelie.st sympathiesirereawaken- ed. A purse was raised for the Norwegians, but their gratitude was ot such a nature ttiat they would not accept it, and begged that it might be transferred to tlieir benefactors. There was anotlier brief con sultation, which ended in the raising of a second purse. In tiie ladies’ cabin eight little packages of gold were formerly presented to the Norwegians, who by the stoi-m liad been deprived ot everything they possessed on earth, and y et who could not in their own sufferings forijet their generous friends. li i
The Orphans’ Friend (Oxford, N.C.)
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Nov. 15, 1876, edition 1
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