ne

<5 ek AO OP a Me i i i MOE NE AI a Sate kale S AR Mh ie haa,

Ag thie entieisae i:

a as

“ LEAD ME.”

My Father, take my han:, for | am prone To danger, and | fear to go alone.

1 wrust thy guidanee. Father take my hand, Lead thy child safely through the desert land, The way is dark before me; take my hand, For light can only come at thy command Clinging to thy dear love, no doubt I know, Ybat love will cheer my way where’er I go Father, the storim is breaking o'er me wild, I feel its bitterness, protect thy child.

The tempest clouds are fying through the air, O, take my band, and save me from despair. Father, as I ascend the craggy steep

That leads me to thy temple, let keep

My band in thiae, so I can eonpuer time And by thine aiding to thy bosom climb Father, [ feel the damp upon my brow,

The chill of death is falling on me now, Soon from earth's fitting shadow | musi part, My Eather, take my land, thou hast my heart. —Regiiler.

—~*-oes -- -

GOOD NIGHT.

Shadows are falling Echoes are calling, Waters ere rippling

In tranquil delight. Perfumes are straying, Plow'rets betraying, Sunbeeas grow pale

As they linger for night

Breezes eve sighing,

For daylight is dying,

Dewdrop: ave bathing, — The dreaming bird's wing.

Stars dimly glancing,

Beauty enchanting.

As light follows twilight And silence is king

From a lone dwelling, Music is s welling, Voices of children

Unite in the strais They sing of the manger, ofr lic heralds

On Bethlehem’s plain.

Now they are kneeling,

With reverent feeling.

The mother and children Breathe softly @ prayer.

Sin while

Eatreating a biessing

Th h Jesus who loviugly

© bis care.

Good night in sweet kisses, Infantine blisses, 8 will soon soothe

The eyelids to rest. Rosy lips parted, Dream happy hearted, Mother keeps watch

By the side of the nest.

4 HEROINE OF THE PRAIRIE.

Joseph Thornton had travelled for days over the almost trackless prairie of the far West, sharing the kind hospitality of the poor settlers, without money or price ; for their great hearts scorned to receive pay for a night's lodging, or meal of bacon and corn bread. Glad to see a strange face from the great world beyond, and learn of the news of the day they considered the favor conferred upon themselves.

Thornton had been speculating in land and was in quest of recent purchases. The season was growing late, and Fall storms were to be expected, impeding travel, if not making it dangerous; so each day he pushed on as far as possible in order to reach a certain point by the middle of No- vember, where he proposed to dispose of his horse and return by the Pacific Railroad to his eastern home.

On the fifth of the month he had been riding through a drizly rain, which toward night merged into « furious storm of snow end sleet, blindihg both himself and horse, and msking the exertion necessary for farther travel almost impossible. To stop or even pause would be certain death. So urged by the awful contemplation of freesing on the lonely prairie, with none

and wretcbed as to be scarcely more than abut. No light being visible, he concluded it was antenanted, but on trying the door be found it fastened. Wis rap aroused the inmates, who held a whispered conver- sation, and then a female voice, broken by a racking cough, asked who was there?

‘A benighted stranger who requests shelter from the storm,’ he answered, in pleasant and reassuring tones.

A long pause followed, in which, he judged by the sounds, some preparation was being made for his reception. The fire upon the hearth was raked open, and supplied with fuel, which soon lighted the eabin and sent its rays through the inter. atices of the logs anc the one little window. Then the door was unfastened with relucs tant bands, and opened to admit him. He found the cabin so low as scarcely to admit of bis standing erect. At one side of the fire-piace, a rude settee, a woman half reclined, whose white face and attenu ated form bespoke her the victim of con.

‘I wore your pardon, Madame,’ said Thornton, taking his place before the ins viting fire, ‘ for intrading upon your hospi - tality, but being wholly unacquainted in

this locality, I wa: forced to ask shelter |

for myself and horse.’

* We have scarcely that for ourselves, sir,

and yot such as itis, lcamnot deny you. 4 im the corner and a buffalo robe is the best we can offer you.

This welcome the woman had given him, interrupted by fits of coughing, while he stood stretching his numb fingers over the fire. A young gir! who had admitted him came forward at the moment and proffered him a rude home~rmade seat —half chair and half stool. He declined it, saying he would first attend to his horse, if anyone would show him shelter for the beast.

* There is a rude shed at the back of the house,’ replied the woman, with another peroxysm of coughing. But as soon as it subsided she directed the girl to lighta lantern. She did so, and handed it to Thornton in a timid and trembling manner, and the woman continued, ‘ You will have to be your own groom, sir. My daughter and I are entirely alone at present.’

Hs signified his willingness to wait upon himself, returned bis thanks, conducted his poor, chilled horse to the shed, which he

~ sound well sheltered from the rapidly in-

creasing storm. [« was partially filled with the coarse hayof the prairie, and having made the best arrangement possible for his horse, lie returned to the wretched cabin aud was greeted by the savory odor of boil- ing coffee and the sight of a cisan white eloth spread over « little table in front of the fire.

‘ Your supper is ready, sir,’ said the girl, addressing him for ne first time.

Mer voice was low and musical, like that of her mother’s, anc she flashed upon him

was convincing enough of the reality of his situation. But what on earth could have brought yese people so far from civilization? y were these two educated women left

that way, or the more certain danger from bands of roving Indians ?

| After finishing his meal he

seat by the fire, and began a with the woman, while her daughter clear-

ed the table deftly and quickly, washing the dishes and placi:.g them upon shelves

esumed his

onversation

concealed by a white muslin curtain

| see, madame,’ he said by way of commence~ ment

cold weather.’

‘Can nothing be done to relieve you?” he continued in sympathetic tones,

The woman glanced at her daughter and

reach her ears. He took the hint and changed the subject to one of more inter. est to himself,

‘You must find life here very lonely and rude 7

* Very,’ was the laconic answer.

‘I have been travelling for some weeks over the plains and shared the kind hospis

have I met with any who were not born

would have been lost and unhappy in any other. Therefore, pardon meif I express my wonder at finding yourself and daugh-

you evidently have been, in these desolate wilds—and alone,’

‘1 marvel at it myself, sir, and almost doubt my own senses. But the hard reals

are interested in knowing what adversities or fate brought us here, I will relate my story in a few words.

‘As you all seem to have surmise, sir, this life is new to us. I was born and raised inone of the eastern States, in a home of luxury, Married at an early age, I went to my husband’s home in a large city, where he was a merchant, and where this our only child was born and educated, Our home was all that money and taste could provide, until during one of the finan~ cial panics, that have become so common, my husband failed, and the little that res mained he determined should take us West to the poor man’s El Dorado, as we all thought. My health had gradually been failing, and a pulmonary tendency de-

‘You have a very troublesome cough, | |

‘Yes, sir, and I find it increases with the |

shook her head as if fearing a reply might |

tality of its inhabitants, but never before |

and bred to this kind of life—indeed who |

ter, delicately and tenderly nurtured, as |

ities are convincing enough, and since you |

a RR Cerin irl

| herin accents of the most agonized entreaty. “Mother, speak—oh ! speak to me,’’ she cried again and again as she chafed the icy hands. ‘Qh! sir, can you do nothing? My mother is dying—dying !”’ rhornton bent over the poor woman and noted the swiftly glazing eye and failing was a convulsive He gently but

breath. Then there

grasp and she was dead? firmly removed the weeping child, closed the stiffening eyelids,composed the limbs, Then he lifted the | orphan from the floor upon which she had

| covered the ashy face

| fallen, and placing her upon a chair entreat-

| ed her to be calm.

child,’ he said, “ that befallen

“Think, my poor this great calamity might

you when entirely alone

have But you are not Heaven sent

She whom you mourn is bee | yond all sorrow and misery, You would | not have her here again here if it is best | that she should be at rest. Nothing shall

harm you. ! will not leave you until the

return of your father, which heaven grant | may soon be, for your sake.” | Grace breathed a word or two of gratitude | between her tearful sobbing, and thus they sat until about mid,day. Then the sound of horses’ feet drew near to the door | and Grace was clasped to her father’s heart, and weeping in his arms.

The sad truth was soon told. At sunset a graye had been prepared and the dead was deposited therein. Thornten taking upon himself the sad task though assisted by the bereaved husband.

After all was overand Mr. Norton had | expressed the gratitude for the timely com- fort and aid Thornton had rendered, the lat« ter proposed immediate removal and plans for the future. They were at once acted upon, and Mr. Norton entered into business (assisted be Thornton,)who became in good time the husband of Grace—the heroine of the prairie—beloved and cherished, and a beautiful and happy wife. But the little cabin upon the lonely prairie is never for~ gotten, for very near is her mother’s grave.

forsaken. has mercifully

me to you

ee >

FUN ON THE HIGHWAY.

The setting sun on last Thursday afters noon threw a halo upon a vast drove of hogs, sedately marching down the Olive street rock road, attended by two gentlemen, one

cided us in favor of Minnesota, where, after many privations and trials never dreamed | of, we found ourselves in a little settles | ment. My husband opened a small store, and notwithstanding our hard life, we were | in a fair way of doing well and retrieving | our fortunes, when news of Indian troubles | reached us. The light of burning dwellings in the outskirts of the settlement attested the truth of the rumor, and taking the only horse we possessed, I was placed upon it, with a few valuables and necessary ar- ticles, my husband loaded with others, and | we started for the fort, some fifty miles dis~ tant. At midnight we looked back from a high ridge and saw the destruction of the settlement, and knew that death »n1 pluns der was rife amongst our once peaceful | homes. ‘The journey, which was necessarily a forced one, was too much for me. A vio- | lent hemorhrage of the lungs followed, threatening to put an end to my life at once. We were alone on the prairie—not a habitation within sight, and the anguish of my husband and child cannot be des cribed. Covered with a blanket and prop- ped with a pillow—which our forethought | had provided~I was left with Grace until my husband could seek assistance. Im- agine, if you can, sir, two women thus alone upon the open prairie, defenceless and surrounded by danger, the greatest of which was packs of hungry wolves. They came very near, and then ata shout from my daughter would retreat, until becoming bolder, neither screams nor gestures would keep them away. They were snapping and snarling on every side of us, and their flaming eyes, blood-red jaws and fang-like teeth told but too truly of death so terribie that despair made a complete prisoner cf my soul. I could only close my eyes and | breathe a short whispered prayer, until consciousness entirely departed. “ And now, sir, I must speak of the self- | possession and bravery of my child.” She | glanced lovingly at the scarlet cheeks and tearful eyes of her daughter, and proceeds | ed. ‘When I awoke from insensibility I | found her bending over me and holding a handkerchief wet with brandy to my mouth and nostrils. She had fired the prairie as a last resort, and it proved an effectual one. | The bloodthirsty wolves fled before the | flames like chaff before the wind, and the stifling smo'e would have euffocated me had it not been for the forethought of Grace. ‘ After a time, which appeared intermin- able, my husband returned. We feared

wolves, but it was not so, and we all wept together over oar miraculous escape. He informed us that he had founda deserted cabin in the edge of a pleasant grove, and near which was a clear running brook. It { proved to be one we now oceupy, and was ‘to me a welcome refuge after so many t perils.

‘ After that I was very ill and unfit to be moved. Accordingly, the place was made as comfortable as possible, and necessaries procured from a distant settlement, where

not be moved thither. We all dread to pass a winter in this isolated place, and besides, must do something to obtain a liv- ing. We should simply starve here.’

Thornton expressed his deepest sympa- thy—declared he would not forsake them until the return of the husband and father, and would do all in his power to assist them in their removal.

‘ Yon are very kind,’ replied the woman. ‘Surely heaven has sent you.

fear the light might attract the Indians, if any should be in the vicinity. Our lives

I love in safety.’ It had grown very late. Thornton wrap- ped himself in a buffalo robe and stretched

in the land of dreams, peopled by the dusky tribes of the forest and devouring wolves. mother, nestled in herarms, and slumbered also.

The morning dawned clear and bright, but everywhere the snow drifted into huge piles, and showed Thornton the folly of at~ tempting his journey, even if he had been willing to leave the helpless women. So he made himself useful, brought wood and water, and gave cheerful words to the anx~ ious wife. This was the day, at the latest that the husband was to return, and now the snow might impede his way.

But hourly the woman grew worse, and at night another hemorrhage came. All through the long dark hours they watched Thornton with tender and refined sympathy, and the daughter anxious and sorrowing. But at last he fell asleep in his chair,

never knew. He was aroused by a sharp

ery of terror, and opening his eyes and springing to his feet, he saw by the fitful

firelight the figure of the girl kneeling "by the low cot of her mother, and calling to

| done,’ and he fumbled under the buggy

he must have perished either by fire or the |

my husband has now gone to see if I can- |

Before you | came we had not dared to keep a fire for |

are full of anxiety. Mine is near its close, |

but before I die I would at least see those | after five minutes hard work.

in the corner assigned him, and was soon |

The girl crept to the side of her |

though how long he enjoyed oblivion he

garnished with astick and the other em- It

was rather chilly—in fact cold—and as the

belished with a black-snaked whip.

gentlemen walked alongin pleasant conver sation, sometimes addressed to each other and sometimes to the hogs, they began to

RANDOM READINGS

erecta nia naaaaaaatnt ita

What does e man seein the wild, wild waves? Sea foam,

« Speech is silver, but silence is g.lden "— Hence the expression, hush moaey,

Why isa pretty giri’s foot like the letter ¥? Because itis the end of beauty

One who knows, remarks that wood will last much lounger if left for the women to saw and split.

Advice to young housekeepers—Put your washing out, if you do not wish your hus- band to be pub out.

It has now become a question as to whether a phrenologist can tell what a bar- rel contains by examining its head.

What is the difference between the plan of a buttle field and a roasted pippin? One is a War map, and the other isa warm apple

A gentleman late one evening met his servant: ** Hallo! where are you going to at this time of night? for no gooa I'll war- rant.” ‘*I was going for you, str.”

A doctor went out for a day’s hunting, and on coming home, complained that he didn’t kill anything, “ That’s because you didn’t attend to your legitimate business, ” said the wife.

Said a pompous husband, whose wife had stolen up behind and given hima kiss— «“ Madam,!1 consider euch an aet indecorous.” « Excuse me, ” said the wife, + [I didn’t know it was you,”

President Nott, in his wise old age, once took a newly married pair aside and said, “] want to give this advice, my children; Don’t try to be happy. Happiness is a shy nymph, and if you chase her you will never catch her. But just go quietly ou and do your duty and she will come to you.”

John Bull, conversin with an Indian, ask- ed him if he knew the sun never sets on the queen’s dominions. “No,” said the Indian. «Do you know the reason why ?” Asked John. ‘“Recausn God is afraid to trust Englishmen in the dark!” was the savage reply.

“Uncle, how do you do? Which would you like best, work for wages or part of the crop ?

«Wall, I ‘clar | think bofe the best, it you can only bring “em togedder, ”

Iam always afraid lest dogs should come to learn our language, If ever they do, they do, they will cut us entirely, Everything seems uncommonplace in a language of which you know but little, and this is why we appear such clever and interesting fellows lo dogs. If they knew our language well, would any dog sit out a public dinner? Would any dog remain in the nursery, and listen to the foolish talk of nurses and mothers? says Arthur Helps.

Everybody remembers the lines of Sir John Denham—

**Oh! could I flow like thee, and make thy stream

My great example as itis my theme!

Though deep, ye} clear; though gentle, yet not dull;

Strong without rage: full.”

A writerin Notes and Queries says that they are stolen from a Latin prose letter of Roger Aseham,

The man who walks the streets recognizing the excellencies of other men, and honoring

without o’erflowing

feel the influence of the raw atmosphere, the effects of which they tried to overcome | at the bar of every tavern they fell ia with.

Encouraged with their success,they became hilarious, and in their good humor poked | each other and the pigs in the ribs, in that | familiar manner which characterized good | fellows, charmed with each other’s society.

He of the olack-snake cracked his lash until | the air was fall of snaps, and shouted and yelled in the fine exuberance of his spirits. As his enthusiasm arose, he pined for lofti- | er deeds, and told him of the stick that the | next traveller would make some fun for the | party that even the hogs could enjoy.

But a few more drinks had been conceal. ed, when they inet @ man in a btuggy—a

| man who had been hunting, and who had |

some dangerous implements in the buggy. With a spring of the whip he grasped the |

| reigns and brought the horse, man and

buggy toa sudden halt,

‘Stranger,’ said the man in the buggy, | leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, ‘ Stranger, I wish you'd let that horse go.’ |

‘Partner,’ said he of the whip, ‘I can’t. I can’t let that horse go. [want to know, partner, where you've beenand where you’r going.’

‘Stranger,’ quoth the r.an in the buggy, ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business, | Really I don’t.’

‘I don’t want to hurry you, partner, but you must answer my question, or you must slide outen that yer buggy, and dance a/|

| fling for us, right here,’ and he snapped his |

whip uncomfortably close to the buggy | man’s countenance.

‘You see, stranger,’ said the man in the buggy, ‘I don’t think I can dance. My boots are too heavy.’

‘You can take your boots off if you want to, partner. I ain’t modest,and won't mind your bare feet; but I say, partner, you vant to be quick, ‘cause these hogs and this yer friend o’mine is getting mighty impatient.’

‘Well, if you want to see a dance mighty | bad, stranger, | reckon I must accomodate | you. I’ve got some light boots‘in here,and when i get ’em on I|’li show you how it’s

revolver in his paw, saying : * How will that do for dancing stranger ?

The next instant he was onthe ground his left hand comprehending the throat of Black.snake and the pistol pressed tight | to his forehead. The hogs looked at each other with raised eyebrows, and were ail the more astonished when they saw him of | | the stick hoisting himself over a fence and sliding for peace on earth and good will | among men behind a neighboring barn,

‘Stranger, would you be’so polite as to| drop that whip ?’

He dropped it.

‘ Now, stranger, we'll have that dance,’

‘Well, partner, I don’t know but what it's time that dance began.’

Just then Sam Ecker drove up, and the situation was explained to him. Samuel began a devotee of Terpischore himself, | gravely considered that the dance should

seat. Ina moment he rose up with a huge |

0 on.

‘You'll find it more comfortable, stranger, to dance without those boots, and [ think you'd better take ’em off.’

‘I estimate you’re right about that, part. | ner,’ and down squatted Black-snake and | disrobed his feet, and took off his coat, | It is said by those who saw him that Black snake is an excellant dancer. He has a keen appreciation of the fine points, and hasa way of slinging his feet that many | | masters of the art have not acquired.

‘warm; ain’ tit, stranger?’

Black snake conceded it was a little op- pressive, and he resumed his habiliments, |

‘Good by, stranger,’ said the buggy man

‘Good by, partner—say, partner, don’t | | mention this little thing in Lucas Market, | will you?’

But, somehow, it war mentioned in Saw’s | flouse, and at billy Beek’s and for a day or | two Black-snake found no peace save in the | society of his hogs. —S/. Louis Globe. 0 ces =

TEN RULES FOR FARMERS.

1. Take good papers and read them.

2. Keep an account of farm operations.

3. Do not leave implements scattered | over the farm, expesed to snow, rain and | heat.

4, Repair tools and buildings at a proper time and do not suffer a subsequent threefold expenditure of time and money.

5. Use money judiciously, and do not attend auction-sales to purchase all kinds | of trumpery because is cheap.

6. See that fences are well repaired, and | cattle not grazing in the meadows, or grain- | fields, or orchards. |

7. Do not refuse to make correct ex- | periments in a small way, of many new) | things. | §. Plant fruit trees well, care for them, | and of course get good crops.

9. Practice economy by giving stock shel. | | ter during the winter ; also good food, tak- | | ing outall that is unsound, half rotten, or | | mouldy.

10. Do not keep a tribe of cats and snarl. ing dogs around the premises, who eat | /maore in one month than they are worth in | ' lifetime,

. Ss

| even to Engiand.

| rate of six anda half kvots an hour,

| am going to give you this lestimonia!

| have experienced from their use, I

|} them, will find his fellows conceding and

esteeming his own virtue. He who gives helping sympathy, abundantly and warmly, to the suffering and sad, will himself have help and sympathy abundant and warm, when he suffers and is sad.

As we give the best we have, we get the | best we can have. The most unmi-takeable illustration of this general trath is in it high- estapplication. The rarest donatiouany one can Offer is himself. inthe completeness of his nature and possession, to Christ: and when this is done, he reecives in return the choicest

| blossing he can appropriate, the fillimg of |

himself with Goa. If you douwht it, try it and ;

doubt no more.—Slandard Give ann Ger.— ‘Ll wonder what's the matter with the post-oflice ! re Why is I dont get any ietter lately.

‘ Have you written « Well, | don't know that I have: think of it, rather guess I baven’t.”’ * What wonder, then? I suppose it is with letters as with most else in the world—we gelas we :

very many recently 7” come to

Do you think that’s so, °

Ido. ft is the law of life. As we dis- pense, we receive, both in quality and kind. Shutting ourselves within ourselves we find shut out. Opening our life to other life,we tind that other opening to us.”’

THE ASHANTEE COUNTRY. Familarily with recent events in the Ash- antee country gives additional value to later

| discriptions of conditions existing in West- | ern Africa, of which the following condens-

ation of a paper in a iate number of Belgra-

| via is one. The writer says the town of | Capa Coast, and indeed

ali the principal settlements ol the Gold Coast, impress the arrived travellers with a scene of

newly

present ruin and past grandeur; and know- | ledge of their history by no means detracts

from the corectness of this impression. The

contrasts are striking. Side by side with the filthy little mud huts of the Fantees—very much like roofless Irish cabins, only dirtier, —siand the remains of residences almost palatial in their size and structure, bul bear- ing geperally painful evidences of their fall from their own high estate Shutters hanging from their hinges, rotting doors, broken star cases, Worm-eatsn furniture, and broken plate and broken crockery of expensive pat- ern all bear witness to the “days that are

no more,’ of the time when Cape Coast was inhabited by princeiy merchants, keeping upa lavish hospitality to all comers, and |

when the fame of its luxury went abroad, Those days are now past ; and, excepting one or two English houses, a host of petty swindling traders, white and black, sit in the high places, and ape Europ- ean gentility. Thecostly mansions have gone todecay, and will soon be numbered like tneir owners, with the past. The country around Cape Coast Castle is composed of low hills, lining the coast, and covered with short stunted, impenetrable brushwood, the haunt of wild animals and snakes without number, These hills in their turn, give way as as the traveller proceeds inland, to forests boundless, and in many instances pathless, of which the timber is immense. Beautilul to the eye is nature in the vast solitude, but it 1s a fatal and poisonous beauty, Every breath is‘laden with malaria, and the luxurant ex- uberance of the vegetation is owing to a subs soil of rottiug vegetable matter, which ac-

| cumulates continually and steadily from the

falling leaves and decayed branches of the forest giants around. Phrough parts of these forests wind little narrow roads, or paths, about afoct wide and two feet deep, like drains; these are the only communication from village to village, and during the rainy reason are generally knee-deep in a compost of mud and water.

Tue Russian Brack Sea Fieer.—The Bor-

| sen Zeilung gives a deseription of the first

vessel of the future Russian Black Sea Fleet, the monitor Novgorod. It resembles a huge circular kettle of more than 100 feet diameter, and only rises a foot and a half out of the water. In the midst of it is a turret a fathom high and seven fathoms in diameter, with two \1-inch steel guns fitted to a moveable plate form. The Novgorod, is set in motion by six screws, and in the wial trip it moved at the When fully equipped, it draws 12 feet 4 inches of water et the stem, and 13 feet 4 inches at the stern. The total cost of the construction of this new sea-monster andl of its conveyance from St, Petersburgh, where it was built, to Nikolajeft, is 2,500,000 roubles. Since the naval review. held by the Emperor of Russia last August, at which eighteen ironclads, i. cluding six frigates,and three turrets,the Genc- ral Admiral, has been launched at St, Pet- ersburgh. The engines of this vessel are stated to he of 6,300 horse-power, and its plates were constructed in the factories of the Russian Admirality. Messrs. Cates Gates & Co, Dear Sirs—1 o my appreciation of your most invaluable medi- cines, and the wonderful satisfaction that 1 was troubled with liver complaint for a number of years, and by times was not able to work In March {872 was taken very sick, was: thought by my friends to be going with con- sumption. T was very weak with a bad cough, pain in my lungs and left shoulder, was un able to turn in bed; tried everything thet was recommended, but found no relief; and hav- ing a catalogue of your medicines in my

| house, sent and got two bottles of your Bitters

and Syrup, and used them; and am happy to say that | am hearty and well, through the use of the same. They also have cured me dyspepsia, whith by times troubied me much. Ihave also used your E¥e Relief,and believe it to be the best preparation for weak eyes in use, No family should be without your medicines; for by their use they will escape a vast emount of suffering. You are at liber- ty to make this public if you wish, for the benefit of suffering humanity. Believe we, yours, vy Davib FREEMAN, Sworn toat Kemp!, Ovtoher 2d, 1872,before

me, Chas. H, Ford, J. P. January $th —Imo

BROTHERS.

Ye are the children of one father, provided for by his care; and the breast of one mother hath given thee suck.

Let the bonds of affetion, therefore, unite thee with thy brothers; that peace and hap- piness may dwell in thy father’s house.

And, when ye separate in the world, res member the relation that bindeth you to love and unity: prefer not a stranger before thine own blood.

If thy brother is in adversity, assist him ; if thy sister isin trouble, forsake her not.

So shall the fortunes of thy father contris bute to the support of his whole race, and his care be continued to you all in your love to each other.

WISE AND IGNORANT.

The gifts of the understanding are the trea- sures of God.; and he appointeth to every one his portion, in what measure seemeth good vuto himself.

Hath he endowed thee with wisdom? hath he enlightened thy mind with the knowledge of tru:h? communicate it to the ignorant for their instruction ; communicate it to the wise for their own improvement.

True wisdom is less presuming than folly: the wse man doubteth often, and changeth his mind; the foo! is obstinate, and doubteth not; be knoweth a!! things, but his own ig-

noran 7. The pride of emptiness is aa abomination, | and tc talk much is the foolishness of folly ; | nevertheless, it is the part of wisdom to bear | the irapertinence of fools, to hear their ab- | surdities with patience, and pity their weak- | ness. j Yet be not puffed up in thine own conceit, | neither boast of superior understanding; the | the clearest human knowledge is but blinds | ness and folly. The wise man feeleth h:s imperfections, and is hunible; he !aboureth in vain for his own approbation. Butthe fool peepeth in the} shallow stream of his own mind, and is pleas- | ed wiih the pebbles which he seeth at the | bottom: he bringeth them up, and sheweth | them as pear!s; and with the applause of his | brethern delighteth himself. | He boasteth of attainments in things of no | worth; but where it is a shame to be igno- rant, there he hath no understanding. Even inthe paths of wisdom he toileth after volly; and shame and disappointment are the reward of his labour.

But the wise man culhivateth his mind with knowledge; the improvements of arts is his delight; and their utility to the public | crownth him with honor.

Nevertheless, the attainment of virtue he accourteth as the highest learnings ; and the science of happiness is the study of his hfe.

RICH AND POOR,

The man to whom God hath given riches, and a jeirt to employ them aright, is peculi- arly favoured, aud highly distinguished.

Me lovketh on his wealth with pleasure, because he aflordeth him the means to do good.

He protecteth the poor that are injured; he | suffere:h not the mighty to oppress the weak. |

He seeketh out objects of compassion ; he |

enguireth into their wants he relieveth them: | with judgment, and without ostentation.

He assisteth and rewardeth merits ; he en- | courageth ingeauily, an] iiberally pr omoteth | every \isefui design.

fle carrieth on great works; his country | is enriched; and the labourer is emplosed , he formeth new schemes, and the arts receiy- eth improvement.

He cousidereth the superiluities of his table | as belonging to the poor,and he defraudeth them mot. °

The benevolence of his mind is not check- ed by sis fortune, He rejoiceth therefore in | riches, and his joy is blameless.

But woe unto him that heapeth up wealth in abundance, and rejoiceth alone in the} possession thereof,

That grindeth the face of the poor, and con. |

The tears of the orphan he drinketh as milk ; the cries of the widow are music to his ears. | His heart ‘s hardened with the love of wealth; no grief or distress can make impres” sion upon it.

But the curse of iniquity pursueth him ; be liveth in continual fear. The anxiety of | his mind, and the rapacious desires of |

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own soul, take vengence upon him, for the calamities he hath brought upon others.

QO! what are the miseries of poverty, in comparison with the gnawings of this man’s heart!

Let the poor man comfort himself, yea, re- | joice ; for he hath many reasons.

He sitteth down to his morsel in peace ; his table is noi crowded with flatterers and de- | vourers.

He is not embarrassed with independents | nor treazed with the clamours of solicitation. |

Depart from the danties of the rich, he escapeth also their diseases,

the bread that he eateth, is not sweet to | his taste ? the water he drinketh, is it not} pleasant to his thirst? yea, far more delicious | than the richest draughts of luxurious. |

His labour preserveth his health, and pro- duceth him a repose, to which the downy bed of sioth is a stranger.

He limiteth his desires with humility; and the calm of contentmentis sweeter to his soul than acquirements of wealth and grandeur.

Let not the rich therefore presume on his riches, nor the poor despond in his poverty ; for the providence of God dispenseth happi- nees to them both; and the distribution thereof is more equally made than the tool can believe.

MASTERS AND SERVANTS,

Repine not, 0 man, that thou serveth an- other ; it is the appointment of God, and hath many advantages ; it removeth thee from the cares and solicitudes of life.

The honour of a servant is his fidelity ; his highest virtues are submission and obedi- ence.

Be patient, therefore, under the reproofs of thy master ; an! when he rebuketh thee, ans swer not again: the silence of thy resigna~ tion shall uot be forgotten.

Be studious of his interesis ; be diligent in his affairs ; and faithful to the trust which he reposeth in thee.

Thy time and thy labour belong unto him ; defraud him not thereof, for he payeth thee for them.

And thou who art a master, be just to thy servant, if thou expectest fidelity ; be reason- able in thy conimands, if thou expectest obe- dience.

The spirit of a man is in him ; severity and rigour, which create fear, command his love.

Mix kindness with reproof, and reason with authority; so shall thy admonitions take place in his heart, and his duty shall become his pleasure.

He shall serve thee faithfully from grati- tude ; he shall obey thee cheerfully from love; and fail thou not in return to give his dili- gence and fidelity their just reward.

— _—e-—

Kine Correr sues ron Prace.—We hope he will not get it. Peace should only be dic- tated, by the British, from the ruins of Goom- assie. This very proposal of peace and idera- | nity from the Ashantee King has been ex- | pected for Some time,as his one last resort too save his capital town from subjection and destruction ; and by anticipation the “Times” correspondent protests against it. To accept | these offered terms now would be very like | the pallering foreign policy which has to | often prevailed in England; but it is to be hoped they will not be accepted. To accept them would be lo make a lame and impotent conclusion to an expedition which has _pur- chased in treasure blood and trouble a far greater sucsess. [lt would be to leave the | coast still at the mercy of a treacherous and ferocious chief who would consult but his own interests in fultilling his engagements. | It would be to let him go free from punish- | ment save what has been inflicted in actual fight{on the coast andin the woods. It would be to leave him possession of all his offensive powers, and all his defensive measures and weapons. It would be to convince him that the British were tired of ihe war, or hopeless of success. Jt would not impress upon the savages the guilt in which he stands, judged from the English standpoint; ner would it