Newspapers / Spirit of the Age … / May 8, 1872, edition 1 / Page 1
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'( )l 'v. 'VI RALEIGH, N. .C., WEDNESDAY, MAY 8, .1872. NO. o ccfvinullf temperance, rr'lir.isiiEi) hy ', RALEIGH, N. C T Ell MS: ).,( i ..y fine year. . . ..... . .S2 00 . 1 25 ; 75 ' . mx month. llilpi' hiOlilllS. ..... .... . (M, V US: ..f Ten or more nAiaes will lie received ,. SI. SO each. acini. KOR THE FiUEXD. A Vision. I;Y M1SOIXE. 'T'.vas niiilif, I dreamed metliought I stood, Witli ii a lone and darkling wood; M-'iln'iilit Jove's (ire Haslied on liigli, :1 ilop toned ; thunder rumbled by; , !i in ni'eot torrents poured tlin rain, . i!y il"w the wind with mournful strain; J; M;i-me I ten thousand furies had I !;')!: froni the infernal regions mad:'. An 1 what e'er spot they touched of earth, Was w ithered up as of a dearth. I knew the spot where now XKood, - : Tin now a dark and lonely wood, iv wti lon unce-was by me seen A pU-nsin iiook all fit'.sli and green. nil! what cvii.d I, hath wrought this change? Whn li; ' a monster hideous, Strang-, Hearing a fiorcf satanio form, Itosn before me jii the H'ovtn. lie sat in a great .-chariot And fast, he U:w f ruin .spot to spot. Where e'er ho drove his c:Iiariot Lisi'i, That furious fleatliihl storm was nigh. I saw liim toiu li with baneful hand, Xear every fair spot, of the land, As moths around a bright Maze fly; . As rush they into it and die; Thus fast, my fellow -beings spe 1, And 'nenth his chariot wheel fell dead. It sunned as tho tliey loved the liend, Whieh gave t.rtfi.e:u this tragic end i'.u-h household wept, the whole earth shook. As o'er it his way the demon took; F n- by his power was caused to fall, The hi'h and lowly, Ereat and small. It .-ee:necl the earth .w&h near bereft, n;' ;til lhiiit,'.s g-oo 1, bad o:i!y let';. It seetDod the' furious demon soul Dw' lt in all men, and he-Id control. M. "thought a!-! holy ties ;.ive. way, -And'satan for a ti'iie held sway. l iiiie, on time, the demon stalked. Nor ever of his prey was balked; Till in the distance? few, hut strong; - 1 saw a brive, and g'oi ious throng. T saw their banners floating high. Which seamed the demon to defy. 1 saw them long" with iron will, i'fsi.-t the demon kin un'il, o'er come in strife, he tell am tin, : And sank .into the earth again. Then as they loved- his death extol; E heard I, is 'name, rwas Alcohol, Then looked I-round with wondering ye h p in the earth late parched and dry; F ir now as fir as eye could son ' I n is nipt in beauties robe again. Tne i to th" victors cried 1 Joud, "What is thy name thou valiant crowd?" They slid, proud, in their puissance."" 'We are fhe ' Friends of Temperance." (Onninitl 3forth ( W ritten expressly for the Friend.) Memory Sells BY SILVIA. .Author of ' Mother's Wine,'- 4c., &c CM APT Kit VI. As if fairy lingers- had drawn the j-osereurtaius of Memory's) chamber, a Morning' bright gorgeous, beautiful, opens Upon my-fancy I .stand upon 'tin: horse-block, lay long riding-dress trailing around me, and thq plumes of my riding cap, swayed by the morning breeze, lightly kissing my cheek. My puny, my beautiful .Zephyr, stands at my side, .leaning her head lovingly against me, while I' stroke her arched rnsek with in y gauntletted hand. The iitiwcr-yard, -teeming with its wealth i-bloom, and the white, cottage my sister's home lie behind me. A lit tle boy and his baby sister Are flitting about among the flowers, pausing now and thou to caress a tame deer, which as nibbling the young' leaves. Upon Alio of 1 f '"(.", near me, are perched a row ujo ne-jroes. curious to see me ride away. -The hill, upon which this fairy-like home sits so happily, sinks suddenly into a ' deep ravine, where the low thicket, interspersed with gi gantic forest trees, form a dark back gi'onnd to the picture, My eye" trav els tlia lyad; through a deep wood, down a Wautlo' slope, and the low grounds, cleared and under cultiva tion,' aro byroad out before me. Spring has waved her magician's wand here .... 1 ... 1 ,:i iiu-i ouuy vfiu utiu coiton lorms a canopy of given over the fertile plain m iking a picture of rare loveliness, and my heart; biua.ls with joy, that I a it m ule to dwell in so lovely a land in fair and blooming Mississippi I It was not often that I could leave my books to. visit my sister, and my i'io-.j visits were always keenly relished v no- Miv- tiw soason tor budding leal and 4oim-.o- '"jv,...!- uu;i in the freedoin from restraint,-aud the' light-hearted-: ness of h ippy gu-lii-.j.l, I felt as free and joyous as the wild-wood- birds, an 1 their sweet mvlodies from - the c.."-h:x;iging trees, found answering vc'iojs in my heart To 'plea sa and oi-atify inti, my siscijB Au.iu had sjver ai days before invited a UV of my gy, eompaaiious to, join us iu a May-day pic-nic on the bank of r creek, which ran hear the fewer edge of her Uasbftad'8 plantation. And now I stood impatiently await- . ing the friends who had promised to come by for me. I heard the echoes of swiftly galloppiug hoofs upou the hard rood, aud I strained inv; eve " direction of the sound, expecting to see the flowing skirt ami -fluttering ribbons of one of my young friends. Instead, a sable farm-hand came into view, urging onjiis tired steed, and ere I was well over the first start of surprise at recognizing one of my fath er's negroes, he drew up before me, and placed a note in my hand. The words were brief, but enough to change tho gladness of the morning hour into bitterness and fear. "Come home," were the few words, in my father's hand, "Henry 19 dying!" I garfrrnfmote Hjacs into ms nana, wicn the instruction to give it to sister An na, and, -without a moment's pause to think, I leaped into my saddle and gave Zephyr her rein. She knew eve ry gesture of my hand, and needed no urging on our way home. It was a long way, eighteen miles, but what cared I to wait for company, when Henry was dying 1 I had gone the distance on horseback frequently be fore, never alone. I slackened my pace up the hills, only to go down as fleetly almost, as a bird upon the Aving. .Zephyr's creamy coat was wet with perspiration, but what cared I, in the first moments of my anguish. - After awhile her steps began to flag, and her breath was labored. I must not kill hiy Zephyr. I paused to let her walk, and watered her at astream which crossed the road, and then on, on, for my. heart was almost bursting with grief and fear. Very slowly Zephyr carried me up the last hill, and I paused upon the top and looked far ueiore me, wnere an extensive prairie stretched itself away in the distance. Behind lay the wooded hills, before the green, luxuriant' fields of that broad prairie, interspersed bore and there with farm-houses and its grove of tress. I touched my pony lightly with my whip, and -she bounded down the gentle slope into the level, plain. LHere we entered the public highway, and I. knew we had come, eight miles. Onward, I urged my flagging pony, heedless of a familiar voice calling to me, and Mr. May galloped at my side and seized my bridal reins. " Kate, what means tins?" " Let me go, please sir, for Henry is dying. "It can not be. There is some mis take. I saw him day before yesterday and lie was seemingly in his usual health." I felt that he was crael in thus de taining me, and I struggled to free my reins from his grasp, but he would not let them go. . " You must tell me all about it You are deeply excited, and will hurt yourself and your poor pony too never knew you cruel before, Kate. -See hpwr Zephyr is panting!" j He got down, loosened . my saddle ! girth, and walked along slowly at my side. And I bowed my head low tip-i on my knee and sobbed bitterly. - "You think me cruel, but your poor pony could not stand your headlong speed much farther, and you will know if you will think, that we go there more surely, and quite as - soon as if you were to kill faithful, loving Zeph yr at the first heat, and thei be on foot the balauce of the way. You should not have started alone, Kate. But I know how impulsive you are, and your intelligence is sad, as unex pected. Let us hope that' we will find 3rour brother much better, when we arrive." " If there had been any hope, papa would never have written that he was dying." " He is so good, so innocent, no wonder the angels wish him to go to them ! It will be hard to give him up, I know, but it is selfishness which would keep him longer in a world ! of pain, sorrow and suffering." 'f " The world has ever been . beauti ful and full of joy to me, till now Hen ry is dying." "In this your first great grief, you have forgotten lesser trials Even you have had your cares-and sorrows, Kate, and though yoil ' have had joy and gladness thrown about you like a garment, yet I have se9n - you shed bitter tears ere now This is a world of suffering and - tears, ajUl if litUe Henry dies, it will be but to kve an angel of light in that eternity which lies beyond the dark river oL rjath. "Weep not for him, but rather be glad that you will have an angel brother to cuide vou to that land of pure and fadeless jovs. It is (jI id's love and mercy, which we can not see now so. well, but which will be in tda plain to us in the years to couie ; for1 He doth not afflict willingly, nor "grieve the children of . men.' ' Ah," .will " not heaven be sweeter to you, ' when you know little Henry is there waiting i;to j ieet you, vviitiu jju turno i TT i : , ' t -Ji.! He mounted his horsej and we men- ded quf gait. Batj.;I continued to J ween, wti.le he talked to nie-'ot my' dying brother, of Heaven, of the an- gels, aud of GUI. -.I liad hitherto been a heedless girl, and Iscarcely thought of tlie truths of the Bible, aud now as they fell f rdm the lips of . - my young teacher, they sank deep in my grieved hearti flt'has been liiany, many years since that long, sad ride, but I can not forget the aching ; heart which; then first turned to our Great Redeemer for comfort and peace- nor the . hope, born of those daj-g of grief and woe, of meeting our little darling "over the river" where is joy and peace. fliy mother stood at the back- door, when we rode into the - yard. She and kissed me met m at the steps f ondfy;,eSf 9 'were1 y-ttTrd ber lips quivered when I asked her of Henry. She took Mr. May's proffered hand in silence, and jas silently led us into the room where lav our little darling, robed in the white garments of the grave. My father paced the floor back and forth, tin a sad gravity, and the usual smile jf his benignant face was lost in lines of care which were drawn deeply upon his brow and about his lips. Mrs. Bell sat beside the window, and aftr I had kissed the voiceless lips of my httle brother, and the first outburst of grief was speut, she came to me and led me away to remove ray riding habit. She did not speak, but there wasi a world of com passion in her weary face, and her movement to assist ine was kind and pitying. --. "What was the Mrs. Bell?" matter with him, " Congestion of the brain, the phy sician aid. He was sick a very short while. He was taken severely from the first, and grew rapidly worse, and died just at day." "And I was so while lie 'was-dying free and happy, ' The tears came afresh, and I sat down beside the open window, and laid my 7 head upon the Sill. I '' : - l ? t - "But yon did not know' it, Kate He suffered only a short while. Think how kind of our heavenly Father to spare him pain. You will miss him liere, but think not Of the void in your heart, but rather of fulness of the joys which are his in that 'better land.' " " Death is terrible, Mrs. Bell." " No, K ite, it is only a dark -way which opens into eternity, and, to those who losve and fear God, it lead to the reality of endless joys." " lou would gneye tor one or your children, Mrs. Belli if God should thus bereave you. " It would be a selfish grief, for He doeth all things well,' and would not take one of my darlings except for good. Ah, Kate, you are yet to learn that there is sorrow less than that about you never know a far more hope the grave ! May grief for which death would be a mercy. Life is not all a sunny day nor is it contained iu the quiet contentment of this one neighborhood. The! tears of afterlife often times out numper the smiles of youth. Little Henry is gone in the spring-time of life, acre his innocent lips had tasted sorrow'. He will nev er know sorrow now nor pain, nor .... i . nor pain. grief." t Ab, Memory Bells the low notes of thy sad strain fade aiway in the dis tance of lone1 cone years, and I bow my head(upon my hjnd and weep- not for little Henry, who has slept in ms silent- iodid so many years uul i , i . i i . i . i in sympathy with the faint echoes of thv melahcholv ; melodies. Come to me again but- in imisie, telling o gay, festive scenes, gladness ! Ah, thy mid3L. joy and answer tens me that thou must be faithful to thy mis sion, and speak of the past, whether of joy or sorrow. (to be convinced.) (Written for the Friend of Temperance.) LOST kM SAVED BY QM GUSS OF - WINE. BY ORA OBM0SD. The great town clock told the hour of inii) night, as Howard Carlyle; as cended the granite steps of his father's mansion. He was just going, to ring the bell, when the door opened) and his Sister stood before him. " f'l am not drunkj Estelle"t,he said answering his sisters inquiring glance. " I have something to talk to , you about, but not now,! as it is , too late, meet ma in the library early ; to-morrow morning and without waiting for an answer he went to his room, ft Miss telle,' Mr. Howard want-s to see you," I said , a , servant , tapping .at Estelle' dooi: the next, morning. "I told him I did nqt think you were, up yet- " ; !;.-:. .1'. . i" Never; mind .Fannie, say nothing of this to Father." ,: ' ,i " I. will commence at ouce,'I toward said, as: Ete'eredj.JhBhrar, San'd. tell piy fstary- .You kriaw ,waat my life has been, and what ita wUlbe, if X atay hgret; ;: IkuOTwlmtjmia- j erable. fol iff Sj to' " 0 Howard don't talk so.'I ." " Doii't interrupt me fetelle, I have but a short time to talk. I am cno away. I have been thinking of it some time, but never concluded what to do till yesterday. I had been '.drinking more than usual yesterday, and, was coming home,- when I stumbled, and fell in a mud-hole.' I lav there for a ittle w hile, when I heard a sweet voice say : " O Belle, here" i3 a poor man, do come look at him," and I felt a soft hand on my forehead. " '"' I heard a half-surpressed laugh as the voice hushed. "How can you laugh Belle? I feel more like crying, when I see any one drunk!" - " This aroused me," and opening my eyes I beheld a most beautiful crea ture. "Are you hurt ?" she asked, as I tried to sit up. I am not hurt, but it would not be a pity if I was." I had scarce finished' speaking, when she vanished, where; I do not know. I got up aud after walking about a while to dry my clothes, I concluded to jro back to town and see if I could find employment. I failed, and now I am going off, to Australia, California, South America, I don't care where, I am going to reform if I possibly can. That young lady's words have put new life in me. " Have you any money to lend me I will certainly pay it back." . " I will give you that Papa gave me the other day, but that will , not be enough ; you can have my diamond ring and emerald set," shy answered, though her voice quivered, as she fin ished. Her emerald set was a present from her uncle, and she did not like to part with it. "O Estelle you are too, good, to your poor druntartl orotner ; - Keep your jewels, I would feel like' stealing if I took them. No, Howard I will give them to you" was Estelle's positive answer. Half an hour after Howard Carlyle left his father's magnificent ! mansion. Estelle did not ieel like going to the breakfast room that morning, but knowing it would not do for her and Howard both to be absent, she went. Her father did not ask her about How ard, and she did t ot tell him he had gone. It was later than usual when Mr. Carlyle came home that evening, aud Estelle knew by his excited move ment, he had been drinking. " Where is Howard ? I have not seen the fellow to-day. I expect he is lying about drunk. I want to send hiru to Chicago. If he has something to do he will stop drinking, perhaps." I Estelle trembled, she knew her fath-! er did not like to have his plans frus trated,' but she answered; bravely "Howard has gone, Papa." " Gone ! did yon say ?" "Where?" and Mr. Carlyle shook Estelle by the arm. "I think he intends going to Aus tralia ; he left early this morning." " Estelle, I forbid your writing to him; he will spendall his money and write back for more, -; but don't you ever send him a cent. I disown him." Had Mr. Carl vie been sober he would never have said that. "But Papa ." H nsh," ke said harshly, " what I said I meant," and Mr. Carlyle left the room. "0 Papa please don't go please stay 'with me to-night" pleaded Estalle. The stern look on her father's face softened, as he answered ! " No Es telle I cannot stay to-night, I have business to attend to. I will not be home till late don't sit up for me." : Estelle did not sit up for her father, she was tired and sleepy, having sat up late the night before, waiting for Howard. - i Theie was a care-worn expression on Mr. Carlyle's face the next morning as he seated himself at the ! breakfast table. " I must have some wine . this morning Estelle." ? It was seldom Mr. Carlyle drank wine for breakfast, and whea he did he was sure to drink more than usual that day. ' ; "Papa please ;dont, here is some splendid coffee, wont you have some?" said Estelle ; .- , " I wU 1 have soaie. wine, so get it forme," Mr. Carlyle said sternly. u As Estelle placed the wine on,. the table, she ti enabled, as if it was an un- diacruised serpent, instead ? of a dis- guised one.. ; . . ;, i f " I am going to Chicago to-day, Es telle, don't you want to I go to your aunt Bertha's V" said Mr. Carlyle, sev eral months after Howard left. . , A " Q yes I shall be delighted- to go. When do you start?" answered Estelle joyfully. " ' ;; ' " At 3 o'clock, get your things ready, and meet me at the depot." : 1 The folio. wing morning E-jtelle Ar rived at Mrs.' ' QiirardV They1 were happy months to Estelle, which she spent at her aunt's country home: " O' ' she would say?" who could keep from being good and happy in the country." But the three months came to au end, as every thing does, and Estelle started for her home. While she was in the country she heard from Howard every week. Iloward wrote to her cousin Lama Girard, but the greater part of the letter was a message for Estelle. A year past away, it was Estelle's twenty-first birthday. - - - . i - - "As you do not want to have a par ty to-night I will buy j-ou any thing yon want ; what shall it be ?" said Mr. Carlyle as Estelle entered the dining room. Estelle thought a few minutes, but before she had time to answer, her father asked forSmother glass of wine. I want no presents Papa, but I hare one favor to ask of you, please daylight began to give way to moth- don't take any wine to day !" and she er night, and the whippo will came out put her arms around her lather's neck, to welcome her. and looked pleadingly up in his face. As we were seated at the table my How could he refuse her! but he did, father opened the conversation by sta he removed her arms from his neck, ting that a young man by the name of drank his wine, and left the room Miller had just married a very respec without speaking a word. Scarcely table girl in our neighborhood. We had the door closed on Mr. Carlyle, were all siu-prised at this intelligence, when Estelle; sank on the floor and but he explained to us that the cere buried her face in the velvet cushion of niony had been performed privately a chair it was a position she always and that none but a few near relations assumed when grief-stricken. For had been invited. The young lady awhile she wept bitterly,' then spring- was a Miss Davis who had the repu hig up she clasped her hands passi- tation of being' one of the best girls in onately together, and paced the .floor, " Drinking is killing my father, and I stand by and do not prevent it. Yes I do, I do all I can, but ah! it is so lit- tie. I thought he would not refuse me this morning, but he did. I am dis- couraged, I believe I will quit trying gent, was nevertheless in the habit of to reform him." taking drams of spirituous liquors, Estelle had no notion of stopping and though as yet he drank mode now when she had tried so lon ; she rately we knew that such men gen knew the only thing to do now was to erally fill drunkard's graves. My fath wait. - Mr. Carlyle did not come home er who looked upon drinking as a for dinner, and Estelle fearing some- great weekness in human nature said : thing unusual had happened, sat up " See what changes will come over for him. It was almost midnight when poor, wThiskey -loving, Miller in five he came home, and her fears wTere re- years. " -alized. She saw, by the look on - his These words were spoken in a low, face, that something dreadful had firm voice and made an impression happened. He did not speak to her on me. I thought of the beautiful, as he entered the room. Estelle crossed virtuous creature whom he now the room to her father. claimed as his bride. I could not bear "No Estelle don't touch me, I am the thought of her young life being unworthy ot your touch, and Mr. Carlyle buried his face in his hands and groaned. Estelle did not answer, and Mr. Carlyle continued: " O if I had but listened to you this morning. By that one glass of wine I have lost everything; it is a just pun- ishmsnb I know. I care not for mys elf, but, but- he could say no more, he arose and left the room. Mr. Car- lyle did not tell Estelle how he had lost all his property, he did not tell her he had been gambling. After drinking that glass of wine, he started for his store, and met some of his friends who entreated him to go with them to a gambling saloon. He .went, and his companions after having got him to drink glass after glass of wine very ea- that young wife's breast as she at last sily persuaded him to gamble ; and be- found out that she was indeed "a drunk ing drunk he lost all his proprty. ard's wife!" She was now seldom seen Had it not beenpr that one glass of wine he never would have gone. Estelle neither fainted nor wept, when her father left the room, but she was shocked at so sudden a mistor- tune. , A way down deep in her near t tliere was gladness. She thought that her father might reform now, and she would willingly give up every tmng to Save nim. A month from that day the grand old Carlyle Mansion, which had be- longed to the Carlyle's for a century past, was sold, and Estelle and her he determined to go and see if he could father moved to a shabby little cabin not jQ 8ome 0f them some good. The in the suburbs of the city. Estelle snow uati commenced falling in all its gave music lessons, and her . father fury ant the ground was already cov found employment in a factory. In- ered with it, as the venerable old gen- stead of taking to drinking as many would have done, Mr. Carlyle went to work determined, if possible to get back his old home. . Five years, happy years to Estelle, passed away. At the close of a beau- tif ul day in June, she was sitting on the tine-covered porch of their neat httle cottage, when a young gentleman walked up to the gate. One glance, a httle cry of delight, and Estelle was clasped in her brother's arms ! there :was no hope for him to live, to " It is needless to say that Mr. Car- see the blessed rays of another suu. lyle forgave Howard, for he had se- This intelligence touched the kind cretly repented long ago. Howard gentleman's heart, for lie reuienibersd was rich, he had bought the old ' Car- fuu weu the happy couple he had mar ly le Mansion and , they were to live ried four years before, aud lie deter withhim. mined to take the unfortunate youiig . " Wouldn't you like to see my wife man to his house. With the ai t of Estelle ?" said Howard, as Estelle was this man he succ'eedd in getting him showing him her flowers. " Your wife!" exclaimed Estelle, : " Yes my wife, she waa Yivia Stan- ten, perhaps you know her." Yes I did know her. I am so glad failing to lecture lam, kindly, on Uie you married her, she was the beat girl way in which he was going on, re- I ever knew," Estell said joyfully, minding him of the wife and two chil- " It was she, Estelle, who found me dren he had at home, and of the sor- lying in a mudhole so many years ago ; row and disgrace he was bringing upon, it wag she who made me what I am," them. ' Estelle did, hot answer him, she was Charles Miller thought of all these thinking how many changes had taken things. He remembered the happy place sinoe - the time Howard men- woman he had four years before led to dojed.-tii' o rui -;.,-).- ...j ",. , t . the altar-,,-'Ha thought of her situation A week after Mr. Carlyle was seated at present and he knew that hti. him-. in his old home, surrounded , by his three happy children. He . broke the 1 silence, which had reigned for hall an hour, by sayiug, " If it had not been for that one cup of wine, which I drank so long ago, I would never have been the happy man I am now. I lost my wealth by it, but it saved me from a drunkard's grave." And so it was there was a great deal lost,' but a great deal more saved by that one glass of wine. FOR THE FRIEND. Conquered. EV HAWTHORN. We were seated at the supper table , in our quiet little farm-house, on a beautiful April evening, just as the our vicinity, and though we w'ere not very intimately acquainted with her we thought she richly deserved it. We feared that this would not prove a :happy match, as Charles Miller though young, handsome, and intelli- made wretched and of her becoming a drunkard's wife, and before I knew it I felt tears starting in my eyes. I felt sure that she was not aware that his habits of life were such. But what could I do ? Nothing. The ceremony had been performed and they had joyously entered upon their new life, Many, many, times during that five years did I recall the words of father and note every perceptible change that came over poor Charles. After a while he might lie seen lounging about the j village, and not unfrequently entering J the drinking saloon. It was not long before he could be frequently seen staggering about the village "drunk." Oh the agony that must have filled at church and when she did come she wore such a haggard, down-cast look that I knew she was an unhappy wo- I man." The five years were rolling away and I Cilia vIps Afillrav's circn'mstfl.ricps PTfiW worse every (iay. I believed that at heart he was a noble young man, but hjs loY0 of liquov he could not rule. 0ne colj December night, our good I narann lizard tbnt, tliftrft wr SOlllft LjmQken men on the roadside near his house. Fearing the morning sun WOuld find some of them hfeless bodies, um an Vmttoned on his oreat coat. took his lantern in hand, and with his faithful dog started in" search of those I ko,i1k. whom he feared would launch I that night into an awful eternity. Be- fore he had proceeded far he met a man with a torch, stating that he had just started to go to the preachers 1 house to obtain some matches, as Charles Miiler was beastly drunk there j on the road-side, and he feared that I there where lie had every tmng pro- vided for his comfort. : When he became sober, the parson informed him of the whole affair, not self was the cause .of it. all. As we have before said he was a man of noble im pulses, and ' aa this thought flashed across his mind, large hot tears rolled j down his cheeks. The parson knew I that his conversation had had th sired effect and said no more to about it. de-i him Soon after Charles called for his horse and left for home. There on his knees before his wife he begged, her to forgive him for his past condue de clared that he would refonn in the fu ture. No pardon was ever more glad ly granted, and she called on her heav enly father to sustain him in the step he had taken. The next day "Charlie came over to our house and requested a private in terview with my father. He told him that by not attending 'to his business he was now so much in debt, that ' his home would have to be sold to satisfy his creditors. He said that he had de termined to refora and begged of my father to aid him. " You say you have determined to reform ?" said my father. " Yes sir." " Well you know, that many a drunkard has said that, but the Wash higtoniaus meet at the.village to-night, and if you will go over with me and sign the pledge I will aid yo.i in any way i can. ion Know tne village is only half-mile distant. Will von do it?" Charles thought a moment and then igieed to the proposition. He signed the pledge, my father helped him out of his difficulties, and a happier couple than he and his wife is no where to be found. Ho now walks above his old temptations, and is an. affectionate, husband, father, and friend. Ho has conquered his vld love for liquor and is now a happy man. The good par son found in him a sincere disciple, and my father, a warm friend. Newspaper fJ ramblers. Grumbling about newspapers, says the Boston Trawler, is as ancient as newspapers themselves. Aud, not withstanding the multiplication of these modern conveniencss and the sleepless elforts of publishers to adapt their paper to every variety of taste, and every grade of sentiment", afford ing, one might think, ample opportu nity to the readers to suit themselves perfectly yet there is still, perhaps, as much grumbliiig about newspapers as there ever was. We suppose it does not often occur to the grumblers that possibly they themselves may be at fault, may be unreasonable, may expect impossibili ties, may be out of humor, may have a fit of indigestion or spleen, may be stupid or unappreciative. It may never, occur to them that the men who toil night and day to furnish them with the latest newrs, and the greatest variety of information aud entertain ment, are mortal, and sometimes tire themselves and get sleepy, and cross, and stupid, and forgetful, and care less, and need and deserve, too, some consideration and even sympathy from those for whom they unceasingly work. . Fault-finding readers do not con sider that everything that is made by human brains ami hands must, of ne cessity, be imperfect, however strong the desire, and however . earnest the effort may bps to have it faultless. r And above all, they forget that a news paper can not be made for general circulation, and yet, in everything, ex actly suit any . one person. A thor oughly good enterprising newspaper is really like a well spread dinner ta ble. It contains variety as well as quantity ; something for every taste and enough of each kind to satisfy any reasonable appatita. it is not expec ted that any guest of a table should eat of every dish provided. It is not supposed for a moment that every dish will be palatable to every guest, or agree with one's digestion ; bat it is thought, and reasonably, too, that from the abundant bill of fare every guest can select euotigh of wh".t will be digestible mi l agreeable to m ike a substantial and satisfactory meal. Just so it is with every well edited newsnaner. No man ii cxp.eted to read everything iu the paper, or to like everything if he reads, but cvry man is expected to hud enough that is good, aud useful, and acceptable, and agreeable in the ample columns spread out before him to be a lull 1 . . 1 L A - I. eouivaient ior waac tnu pa per costs him, and if he happ jui to ii:i.l on tho cart au article whieh olfouds hi i taste, or in opposition to his view.;, he hai to just let that alone, and leavj it for another, whom it will just suit, au l for whose taste it was go'.ten up. Iu choosing his paper one-should do just as he does in choosing his restaurant ; he should select one whose general style suits him ; and when his tast changes, or the character of the paper deteriorates, ho should c'aauge and try another ; but n jwj.-frei himself or vex his neighbors by gru uVdn.' scoldnig about his newspaper, which, af ter all, is just about as necessary to his oomfort as hia dinner. Will i ta-; ioniigimn. as vou lift the in ii g'tu:; -1 jv.;!;:v m;,' wiue-uip to your lip: OI Ui !;, :vt s :;.. wii! ii pay It ,H a groos insult to rail a n n a iow!. -- hvcrv man would resr.':it ii !mf ; the sulfcri'ig of the iwxt mornin-Wit, dist lll bed consi-ioucv, achi'ug- "head. tnroboui.;- temples, racking brain, hut, fevered tonguo, and all the hon alio reaction that might colno lIoua nof fho rictim of aches clasp ,is. burnin-r hands and bitterly call himself, fooP fool!" If the first glass brought at oirco the suffering of the ivaeti,,,, and ex citement of the next morning, wi10 would drink ? 'My friends, it doe not pay to begin. Search the. United States,- and you can not find one man who will say I regret th it I did not learn to drink when I was young' but you can count victims by tho thou sand who will each declare "Tn ed by drink." - Tt 1 . . i . 11 U.viiu.i.p;ly to begm. First you tolerate it, tneu you touch and "taste it, then vou jest and laugh at it and then revel in it. When it becomes your master, then .what ? What num bers have been 'swept down by lhe ' -mouiiaou i in the mad power ox this passion they save burst me Ponds ol :l nii.f o,.. love, traiii. pled a father's counsels in tho dnvf llv 11 i'k-'ois auu prayers ; and now, with tattered sails-, diking hull ' and splintered masts, are driftiu- on amid howling winds au.l wintry skies to utter ruin, when they .migl ljave reached the haven of peace and secu rity, laden with honor and happincs.s. Truly, it" docs not pay. It is a grand thing" f.)r a man so to live that ho can look back with com placency, for we do live in the !ast How often we say, "It is past ; think no more of ii." Why, it is ouj wl0J1 it is past that thought begins. The present begun, the past only remains. W e are making our past as well as our future. The present has moved and excited, drawn tears or provoked laugiuer ; the math has fled, the. sor- lows are comforted,, th ne c-xciteinent has died; but the past live 'cs and is perpetual. There are tinm-i in every ma an s lifj u.;e:imi,v ., .,i.. i. i '-'ten nam to up,- i l'.:l. Ease. ..': -...-r I., " ,. ' ." -"'-niy, mclina- i m stand in the way. If duty is per ormel it must be at a saerilicn i it always pays to take the hand of du ty and let her lead, whether thron.,1, storm or siuwhine, darkness or VuZ rief or joy, life or death. . ' ' Duty, duty; always first. " MM, lave fought mighty battles, bnt La when they have yielded to fear or inclination it i,..,. 1 ttlir ueeu ar a ss; and when, triumphing over v- ery obstacle and aiiparent imn.,s.il.;ii. ty, they have obeyed the stern man dates of duty, it has paid them, -lori- uusey paiu tnein. Jt pays for a man wo ms iuty. Truly it pays ; now aim ior all time it. 1 n'.. pays. John 1',. th ut jit. Wojivm.v Ecoxomy. There is miirfi' .Ik of the extravaf.-iiio of n .:- O w " - . v MJl.li d there is no doubt. 1. t douht that, when a woman puts her hand to tlw soendin- l money she can do it with a perfect ooseiiess. Women are naturally, ex tremists and do whatever they d , and' and think wnatever they think with ail their might. it to mon- this question of sp.'-idiii- cj incre are two sides, and the-: bal- uiee decidedly inclines toward mviis'' rather than spending. Women am naturally economists. Tii-v lei twice the skill of saving that men have. iiUUK ol the "auld clot hem i.e.,1,, lookimaist as. well as new:" third- ,.f tho old bonnets re-trimmed and l.nei rhf out in tho latest style; think of The twisting and turning, the contwviiw and saving to wnich many a woman resorts to keep her familv lohkb. -spactable, while her husband never thmks of stinting himself in cigars n- liquor. Many a man is kept ' from pauperism by the contriving of his wife; many a familv owes tlin t. fortable house they inhabit more- to uie ceouomy ol the mother than tug savingi ol the father. Before men talk of the extiavagence of a wo;.n they should "stiive to learn a lesso i from taeir fc'eouomy. B ware ol the uiau or woman with a fixed smile. Trust tho most, hide ous scowler before the being why goes about with an angelic gain cart fully exhibited to all eyes, under any and -very circumstance. It is not natural to smile continually, and no one assumes a m isk without bein-' ever eon- ieioa i ol a neej.siity for c oncorihirent. There aro young women, and a few old men, who break into smiles when ever they speak. They are not the people I mean. The smile of which I warn you, is a motionless, hypocriti cal, fixed expression. Oid maids are said to be rare m J China, but rare old China is frequent- ly found among old maids. The schools of Illinois cost ijiit State $7,000,000 last year. , i uhhj 3 I 1 I J
Spirit of the Age [1873-1???] (Raleigh, NC)
Standardized title groups preceding, succeeding, and alternate titles together.
May 8, 1872, edition 1
1
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