. .1 life : MiiFireeBooro- Siiqp
" 1
1
- o
E. L. 0. WAED, Editor and Proprietor,
The Organ of tlie Roanoke and. Albemarle Sections.
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VOL. Illi NjK ! p MTJRFREESBORO, N. C, Til UPSDA Y , ! DECEMBER 20, 1877. j li ! NO. 8.
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-THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT.
It is not always sunshine
; In thia bright world of ours ;
Sharp thorns and weeds grow thickest
Amid the fairest flowers ;
In fruits howe'er enticing,
Lurk worm-fcpots at the core ;
For each one's bread and butter
There is a sanded floor.
In lustrous silks there's cotton.
In flowing tresses rats,
Iu ermines, eoft and snowy, i
The skins of Thomas cats $
In Hebea form there's whalebone,
On Venus' lips carmine,
Old boots are thrown in sherry
To make Madeira wine.
The best of golden butter
Is oleomargarine ;
The finest of old brandy
Is next door to benzine ;
The fragrant leaf of Cuba
Is cousin to saner-kraut ;
To often are the milkman's cans
Replenished at the spout.
; - i i
If, then, your reputation
Proves quite unfit to air.
Pray, how then does it differ
From most things seeming fair ?
And why heap maledictions,
Because through me no deubt
You broke the 'leventh commandment
"Thou shall not be found out!"
7
Taking Her Down.
Two girls, both young, and one very
beautiful, sat Conversing in a comfort
able sitting-room in a mansion at the
"West End. The handsomer of the two,
Maude Pierson, wore a traveling dress
of brown merino, and was 'evidently
resting after a journey.
In spite of a certain languor born of
fatigue, and her unbecoming dress, the
girl was undeniably a beauty, of a gor
geous brunette type. Her companion,
passing pretty, was of the same dark
tint, but smaller in figure, and far from
possessing Maude's great beauty.
"Tell me about everybody," Maude
said. "I am fairly hungry for gossip,"
after vegetating nearly two years in that
abominable i place with my aunt. She
has left me an ample fortune, however,
so the time was not altogether thrown,
away.: . ... J ... -
".Dead" cried her companion. fYou
are not in mourning, and why, Maudo,
you said you were going to Lady Rals
ton's this evening."
"So I am. ; Aunt Maria has been dead
six months, and requested me not to
wear black and to return to town in No
vember. But, Cora, tell me the news.
Who has been the belle of our set since
I left?"
"You conceited girl I" laughed her
friend.
"Bah I What is the use of duplicity ?
For, between ourselves, I should be an
idiot if I did not know I was handsome.
How is Lord Frederick Seymour?"
"One question at a time, though I can
answer these two together. The belle
has been the object of Lord Frederick
Seymour's special attention since she
made her debut last month. Mrs. Hur-
sey introduced her. She is a niece, I be
lieve, of old Mrs. Mortimrr, who died
three years j ago and left her all her
money."
"But who is she?"
"Her name is Worthington Esther
Worthington "
"Esther Wojrthington," cried Maude,
sharply. "What is she like?"
"Tall, slender, very fair, with delicate
features, and unmistakably a beauty,
tv-ho sings exquisitely ; and having been
on the continent with Mrs.. Mortimer,
speaks two or three modern languages
with fluency."
"How old?"
"About your age, I judge twenty-
four or five."
Maude broke into a harsh laugh.
"Mrs. Mortimer's niece I" she cried.
"Well, that is rich! And so young
Lord Frederick Seymour is in love with
her!"
"He is certainly very devoted. Every
one thinks thero will be a match.?'
"A match !" cried Maude, in another
burst of mocking merriment. "Lord
Frederick Seympur and Esther Worth
ington t Well 1 1 well I I tell you," she
said, with a touch of sarcasm in her
tones, "it will not be a match !" I will
lake her down !"
"What do you mean?"
"Will this belle be at Lady Ralstoh's
this evening?" !
"Probably. But do tell me, Maude,
what do you know about her?"
"I know enough to cool Lord Fred
erick Seymour's ardor," said Maude ; !
"and he shall learn the truth. To
think of that girl's daring to move in
our set!"
"Well, as to that," Cora replied,
"being) handsome, accomplished, re
fined, and heiress to double your for
tune, Maude, I cannot see where the
audacity comes in, especially as Mrs.
Hurseys has her for a guest, rand we all
know how particular she is. The Sey
mours themselves are not prouder than
the Hurseys." i
"You wait until the evening. I sup-J
pose the girl thinks nobody here knows
her. I'll humble her! She won't attend
f.ny more fashionable parties after I've
told my story."
"But what is your story ?"
; "You'll hear to-night."
"Tell me now," said Cora coaxingly.
"No. Let me lie down awhile and
rest, or I shall look like a ghost this
evening.",
A very brilliant ghost it would have
been to resemble Maude Pierson, as she
entered Lady Ralston's salon a few
hours later. An evening dress of garnet
velvet, cut to display the beautifully
rounded shoulders and arms, and
trimmed with rich black lace,ornaments
of diamonds, and a cluster of white
flowers in the jetty braids of hair, ail
heightene-l her queenly beauty.
i
Looking across the crowded rooms,
she recognized her rival in a tall, slenr
der girl, who wore white lace over
peach colored satin, and ornaments oif
fretted gold. Lord Frederick Seymoui
was already in attendance, apparently,
for he was leading this lady to the head
of a quadrille just forming, when Maude
entered. The sight stimulated anew
all the hatred of Esther Worthington
that had been aroused by Cora's dej
scription. jj
A cold-hearted, calculating woman
devoted to dress, wealth and luxury j
selfish to the heart's core, carrying th
smiling face of a belle over a bitter envy
of all more fortunate than herself j
Maude Pierson had never felt the touchy
of womanhood until her heart opened
to Lord Frederick Seymour.
An orphan, dependent upon an aunt
devoted to the frivolities of fashion J
Maude's education had been superficial,
and an undue; value had been given in!
her thoughts to the advantages of birthj
position and fortune. j
Miss Pierson was very proud of thej
blue blood in her own veins; and
Maude's success as a belle was as much!
a triumph to her aunt as to herself.
When the long illness set in that drove
Miss Pierson to the seclusion and quiet
of a country home, her niece had begun
to hope that the attentions of "Lord
Fred" were more than those Called for
by the ordinary requirements of so
ciety.
It had been a great blow to her to be
- suddenly-whirled --tKa vnrre-v- r
London gaiety, to be buried alive in the
little town where much of her childhood
had passed, under her aunt's care. But
she was far too polite to murmur loudly,
and when her relative died it was with
the firm conviction that all Maude's
tender care and attention were dictated
by warmest affection. It was singu
larly characteristic of Miss Pierson that
in her will she stipulated that Maude
should return to London six months
after her death, and wear no mourning.
In one of their last interviews she said
to her: "You will soon be twenty-five,
Maude, and you shall not bury yourself
here next winter. It might ruin your
prospects of a good match."
i
And Maude, secretly exultant, wept
copiously as she assured her dear aunt
that "society would have no charms for
her were she to be deprived of hrr life
long companion."
Yet the six months dragged wearily
when she thought of Lord Frederick
Seymour. Would he love her better for
her golden charms, or did he know her
fortune, after all, was spall compared
witn his own princeiv income i iiau a
fairer face eclipsed her memory?
Caretuliy durmg the long summer
did the beautiful brunette cherish her
own charms, and gloriously did they
repay her care when she burst upon her
.old friends, more superbly handsome
than ever, at Lady Ralston's reception
Esther Worthington. looking at her
as she entered the room, turned to her
companion, saving, in a low tone: "Is
not that Miss Pierson ?"
"Yes. Is she not handsome?"
"Magnificently so. I can scarcely
imagine a more queenly beauty. She
was not a very pretty child, dark and
thin. Will she recognize me, 1 wonder,
as easily as 1 do her?"
"You were children when you last
met?"
"About -twelve years old ; , but we
lived near each other for six years be
fore that. Will she look down upon me
now as scornfully as she did then?"
"Hush, you pain me I" was the
re-
ply. "Try to forget the dark days
"Nay, for theyjraake happy ones all
the brighter," was the gentle reply.
Tinxxr ff vnnr narf.np.r "
-JUTV , J V - w
For the music of the quadrille sounded
in the long room, and attention was re
quired to the intricacies through which
Miss Worthington and her partner pro
posed to lead their set.
When it was over, Esther, leaning on
her partner's arm, turned to find herself
confronting Maude Pierson. With a
sweet smile, she extended her hand.
"Have you forgotten me?" she
asked.
"I remember you well,'? was the re
ply, in a freezing tone, "and I confess
my surprise is very great to meet a
charity girl among my friends."
"A charity girl!" cried several
voices.
"You may doubt me," said Maude,
w - a - r- i
answering them,- "but let Miss Worth
ingtori deny, 4f she" can, that she , was
takenvffrom a charity school to be the
nursery-maid of Mrs. Thurston, my
auut'aeousin arid neighbor. Let her
deny, f she can, that she did a menial's
work ror years in.their. house. She may
palm herself off as Mrs. Mortimer's
niece upon strangers, but I, knowing
her, decline the honor of her acquaint
ance." ,? ; . i-v .to
The ifsilcate, beautiful Esjher Worfcfa
ington grew very pale during this In
sulting address, but she drew herself
i - - 1 - -..iv- i .-(,-- i ci - ' -..,. i
I erect as haughtily as Maude Pierson
herself, as that young lady ceased to
speak.
"All you have said is quite true," she
replied, and the only reason for con
cealing the facts you now force upon
my friends was the request of my dear
aunt, Mrs. Mortimer. Mrs. Hursey,
Lady Ralston, and several others of
those who honor me with their friend
ship, know well the family history you
force me to relate to our friends here.
You will pardon me for obtruding my
private affairs upon you; but since Miss
Pierson has attacked my veracity 1
must defend it. My parents were mar
ried against the wishes of my mother's
father, who carried his resentment to
the ; grave, and cut my mother oat of
his ; will. When I was a babe, my fa
ther died, and my mother, ill, feeble
and penniless, was taken to the work
house where she, too, died. - Her sister,
Mrs. Mortimer, was in Canada at the
time, and unaware of my existence.
"What Miss Pierson has so delicately
told you of my childhood is quite true.
I was taken from the workhouse to fill a
servant's place; but my employers were
kind, and I was allowed to attend school
in the winter. I think they will testify
that if my duties were menial they were
faithfully performed. When I was
thirteen, my aunt returned home and
found me out. Since then I have been
her i-charge, and the kindest love Tv as
lavished upon me until, at her death, I
became the guest of my friend, Mrs.
Hursey. I hope you will pardon me
for taking up so much of your time ;. and
if you desire, with Miss Pierson, to de
cline the further acquaintance of a
workhouse girl, I can only accept your
ioUiou wij"h some regretjor a deceit
th a t iXfitny i n accordance with rne
wishes of the dead."
"Stay K moment," said Lord Frede
rick j Seymour, as the friends of the
beautiful girl would have. pressed more
warmly than ever around her; Uet me
speak one word. By the request of Miss
Worthington, I have refrained from
mentioning the honor she has conferred
upon me, and which is the crowning
pride; and happiness of my life. When
I asked her to become my wife, to give
me the priceless treasure of her love,
she told me the storv vou have iust
heard, and I, too, joined my entreaties
to those of her aunt. Not," he added
haughtily, "that I valued my future
wife the less, but I understood that,
even in our society, there are some ig
noble! enough to count her early mis
fortunes as a shameful fact, and ignore
the beauty of character that could keep
her noble, pure and true, even in the
lowly home to which the misfortunes
of her parents condemned her. Miss
Worthingtorbwill you take my arm to
the conservatory? you are pale and
need rest."
With an air of tender affection, of
fond pride, he led her through the
group of friends who spoke warmest
words as she passed.
Finding her a seat near the fountain,
he said, in a low tbnei "1 am glad they
all know it, Essie, for a secret is a trou
blesome burden."
"But, you oh, Fred, if it shames
you!'
"Hush ! I never honored you so
highly, or loved you so fondly, as I did
when that girl found insulting taunts
answered by your own dignified frank
ness, i We will not speak of it again.
Rest here till I bring you an ice, and
we wijl return to our friends."
"Maude," Cora said, as the girls un
bound their hair in their own room, be
fore retiring, "I don't think your little
scene was altogether a success. From
the warmth of her friends, when Esther
Worthington returned to the drawing-
room, ana lora JtrreaencK Seymour 8
(devotion, I really imagine you placed
that lady upon a higher pedestal of fa
vor than ever, in your amiable endea
vor to
ake her down"
Confidence.
All
confidence which is not absolute
and entire is dangerous. There are
few occasions where a man ought either
toay s all or conceal all, for, how little
soever you have revealed of your secret
to a friend, you have already said too
tnuch if you think it not safe to make
bim privy to all particulars.
There is nothing so easy as to be wise
for others; a species of prodigality, by-the-byfor
such wisdom is wholly
wasted.
Hath any wronged thee ? Be bravely
avenged : slight it, and the work is be
gun ; forgive, and it Is finished. He is
below himself, that is net above an in
jury.
Vanity.
The condemnation of vanity collapses
when we try to answer the plain quei
tion, what is vanity? Try to define
accurately the various cognate "terms,
vanity, conceit, pride, egotism, and
their numerous allies, to mark out accu
rately their points of resemblance and
( contrast, and then. test your conclusions
by appropriate examples.' TabVa' few
cases at random 'Here Is ii'iVir .r tin -eaif
, for xam pie, who 'says' in Ii?r auto
biography that all the distinguished
men of her jtime were vain and she
does not add that the limits of time.or!
sex are a necessary part of the assertion.
But was she not vain herself? No, for
she formed a singularly rriodest and
sound estimate of her own abilities.
But again, yes, for she certainly seems
to nave consiuerea tnat to one Derson.
at least, Miss Martineau was incompar
ably the most interesting person in the
.v f !..
universe, mat cominggenerations wouio
be profoundly interested in he analysis
of her charact3r and the genesis of hei
work , and also that the merits of her
contemporaries might be; accuratel
gauged by the extent to which they di
or did not sympathize with Harre
Martineau, Is not egotism of this kip
mere vanity disguised by a superficia
air oi impartiality t rake the vanity
again, which is revealed so curiousl
in trie recently published; letters ;o
Balzac. Here it becomes a force whicl
leads a man to reckon himself anion
the four greatest heroes of his age, ah
goes iar to make him what he suppose
himself to be. It developed a kind ;o
monomania leading to utterj absorption
in his own affairs, In his literary ambi
tion, and, above all, in calculations as!
to the number of francs into: which his
genius can be coined. Was t a strength
or a weakness? Contrast it with the
vanity for many people will call jit
vanity of his contemporary Doudan.
Doudan'8 letters reveal to us a man of
that admirable fineness of intellect so
conspicuous in the best Frtrich writers,
which may be defined as tlie sublimated
essence of common sense. But his ex
quisite sensibility was pushed to such; a
point as to destroy his fertility, and but
for his letters his name would hate
been known to hi-fellowsonly through
a assin4Eallu8io) of Ste.ijea.ve. Shall
we say that Balza vanVy I led him t
produce the " Com&meumaine," audi
Doudan's humility mide him producer
nothing? Then vanity is so far a
good and humility -"'rbad 'thin; Or
shall we say that this excessive sensi
bility is but vanity disgjuiBed?thatja
mah who treaiblsfs before, criticism
thinks too much of his own importance?
The theorv is a common one, and en
ables us verbally to condemn vanity m
all forms; but it implicitly admits too
that vanity may produce diametrically
opposite results, and at times co-operate
hand in hand with humility. Infuse
vanity into such a man as Goldsmith,
and it adds a childlike charm to his
character; it gives a tinge of 'delightful
humor to his writings, and enables his
friends to love him the more heartily
because they have a right also to pay I
"themselves by a little kindly contempt.
Make a Byron vain, and half his magni
ficent force of mind will bejwasted'by
silly efforts to attract the notice of his
contemporaries by attackingjthelr be$t
feelings and affecting (a superfluous
task!) vices which he does not possess.
The vanity of a Wordsworth enables
him to treat with profound disdain the
sneei-s of Edinburgh reviewers, and the'
dull indifference of the mass of readers;
but it encourages him also to jbecome a
literary sloven, to spoil noble thought
by grovelling language, and lo subside
into supine obstructiveness. Converse
ly, the vanity of a Pope makes hirii
suffer snspeakable tortures jfrom thfe
sting of critics compared to whom Jeffrey
was a giant condescend to the meanest
artifices to catch the applause Of his
contemporaries, and hunger 4hd thirst
for the food which Wordsworjth reject!
ed with contempt. But it also enables
him to become within his own limits
the most exquisite of artists in words ;
to increase in skill as he increases in
years; and to coin phrases fori a distan
posterity even out of the most trifling
ebullition of passing spite. The vanity
of a Milton excites something approach!
ing to awe. The vanity of a Congreve
excites our rightful contempt.' Vanity
seems to be at once the source of the
greatest weaknessess and of the greatest
achievements. To write a history of
vanity would be to write a history o(
the greatest men of our race; for soli
diers and statesmen have been as vain
as poets and artists. Chatham was vain ;
Wolfe was vain ; Nelson wb3 childishly
vain, and the great Napoleon was as
rain as the vainest. Must not lour con--
dem nation of the quality undergo some!
modification before we can lay it down
as an absolute principle. Cornhill.
Bear your own Burdens.
I have-the healthiest kind of scorn for
a grumbler ! He reminds me of a pig
he has got into such a natural habit
of grunting that he never does anything
else. ' .
Never mind displaying your sha
low dig-
nity,! Jlr. Misanthrope, and spluttering
about its ail being very; well for those
to talk who have only the bright side of
life to bask in ; if they had been plun
dered and slandered and lied about and
abused; as ;you have been, thev would
feel their wrongs as bitterly and learn
to hate the world and mankind even as
yOU do, ;j ,-
Bah :; You're a blockhead, if that's
your logic! .. . ' I
f. What wotild you thlnk'of vou neigh
bor if! he had close' -frrv crack and
crevice! of i his hi
nisf to the blinding,
t u me
terjday, a
chilling storm of yc
nd 8 wears
ie will! keep it closed forever, as It will
:iever cease to blow and rain any more,
! ! ''I ! i f
ilthough td-days warming sunshine falls
ipon his rpof, arid the cheering song of
i mellcfw breeze and the soft whispering
)f invisible hope try vjainly to find a
odgemlnt Inside; the darkened windows.
This is la big world, and yours must be
a worlfl-wide distress concentrated in
ne Individual, If " all the world" Is to
)lamc for the one little
i
storm in your
)reast. r Is that lferht-hearted lad or
lassie interested n your woe, that you
Musi needs, force a erloOm upon them
y yoiiff cheerless visage? Will it excite
heir sympathy ?j What portion of your
jorrowlwas occasioned by that little
happy.tjhild, playing so innocently on
the street with its top or ball or marbles,
yiat yiu..leel yourself
kick at fits toy arid scow
constrained to
at his joyous
face until you drive away his pleasure
nd ;exiter a disposition to give you
what you r chly deserve a grand llck-
i"g? : j
Did it ease the bitterness of your heart,
Sid It remove one iota of your trouble.
. id it put money in your pocket or
restore 1 lost confidence ? Did it better
matters? ' r !
Therelarcl times in every life, I guess,
frhen thfe human heart is so grieved and
sore that even sunshine seems a nainful
intrusloi
; but those seasons are sacred
to your!
elf. Such pain is not to be
paraaeu
their sil
!
and the traces of it that leave
nt mark upon the countenance,
have a
tendency neither to repel nor
discouraire. but rather to ennoble and
develop fa spirit to endure as well as
conquer
the ills that come, sooner or
later to
very one of us.
Wmif our.luri comes.
bear it .as you
'iriust. b
t Dear it Draveiy. As soon
ybu be
ii to snarl and whine, and
blame t
is one and that one, and after
a while
the whole world, you are a
mi$eraDie shirking cowara; anu since
ypu are uetermlned, oy your lace ana
manner,! to make your; friends and
f i rv- 1 t-! In n rl oil' m Af o 1 mo o twl Vita
i4ij sajt j ( Hduv aii uiui iui iiauy aiiu 1110
Creator, help you bear the burden, why
I 'really ido not see why you should not
have an funusual burden to bear, and
e may keep our heartfelt sympathy
r some i one more in need oi it. Not
fqr you ere the lines written :
" Be stiilf ead heart, and cease repining.
Behind the clouds the sun's still shining;
Thine is the common fate of all
Into eich life some rain must fall,
Some &ays be dark and dreary."
t i ; ; -
Longest Tunnel in America.
jFew people know how great an engi
neering enterprise is going on in Balti
more Coijfnty. For one thing alone, a
tunnel sx land four-fifths miles long,
30,510 feet, is. being built underground.
fob over four-fifths 1 of the distant e
through hard gneiss and granite. Jt
will be the longest
tunnel in the coun-
try, and there wil
be only two
larger
inl
j world, M
opt Cems, which is
eight miles In length, and the St. Goth-.
aril noui ia process of; construction.
lich is! to! bejnlne and one-quarler
w
m
lea.
fact that the water supply
tunne
s hear enough to the surface
to
allow 1 of
numerous shafts, greatly
faciliates fits construction. The jtum.el
is
a circn
twelve feet in diameter, and
from tlie Gunpowder River,
ex;
tends
about eight miles from the city, to Lake
Montebello, 'the
distributing
reservoir
,i ii -
near i. the i iiarioru
turnpike, about one
mile and a half from the city, the direc-
tion j beiil
or
twenty degrees west of
south,
water j
"his tunnel will conduct the
from! the Gunpowder River to
Lake Montebello. Thence a conduit 4,-
120 feet idmg, known as the Clifton tun-
1 i i
ne
. fromlthe tact that it nasses under a
portion pi Ciifton park, 'conducts the
water to af point just south of the Hart
ford roadj wriere ii enters six mains,
each four fet in diameter,, which con
vey the w;at4r to the city, a distance of
1,900 feet. The country along the line
of the; works is hilly, and the tunnel
varies in depth beloiw the surface from
07 to 333fjeti. There arelfifteen shafts
in the rnaiiri tunnel, the deepest extend
ing 294 fet below the surface. The
water rains down from the crevices of
tbej rocks, land pours along the bottom
ofj the drift, j The Work of the tunnel
ing ; is jall done by hand, it being
cheaper than the machine-work in a
n . , . k r t .
drift of such narrw diameter, Heal
EstaU Reporter.
i i ; ;
It is better to spend one's time in ac
quiring more know ledge than to waste
it m paraqing what one has. ,
People Ido not lack strength; they
lack YfllU-f-Iiugo.
hit