*
ffjl11 I - i I I nn n i in ?? , i , g, n i |, , , i i i?^?^ p
, in kosvo-m8qu.a& m.omwn wo msM* '
YOL. %- GREENVILLE, S. C.: FRIDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 10, 1854. NO. 26.
M . i
i
k REFLEX OP POPULAR EVENTS.
? *srniwiaiLs^ n>* a?&&2K
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t ' r~*' ' ^ r *' ' ^ j
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Irltrtrit ^nttnj.
&e{jor)d the belr.
Time la a river deep and wide;
And while along it* banks we stray, y
We see our lov'd ones o'er its tide
Sail from our sight away, away.
Where are they sped?they who return
No mhre to glad our longing cycsf
They're pas?*5 from life's contracted bourne
lo land unseen, unknown, that lies
U#yond the rirer.
.Tie hid from view ; Igjt we mar guess
How beautiful that realm must be; .
For gloamings of its lovolinoss,
In visions granted, oft we see.
Tl?o very olouds&hft o'er it throw
Their veil, uncalSed fnr mortal sight, With
gold and purjde tintings glow,
Reflected from the glorious light
. a Beyond the rireY.
V ^ ' tyr / - # *
And gentle airs, so sweet, so calm, %
Steal sometimes from that viewless sphere;
The mourner foela their breath of balm.
And southed Borrow dries the tear.
And sometime* list'uing earn may gain
' Kntraueing sound that hither floats;
Th a eulio of n distant strain,
\)i harps sud-voire* blended notes,
i ^le river.
Thrre are our lovVl dues in their rest;
a.Thov've crossed Time's River?now no more
Thej heed the bubbles on its breasV
Nor leek the ?tMM(that sweep its shore.
But tlx'i o Dure Hve, ean last?
Tltey hufk fur uithnr homo to share;
When'wo in turn1 astoy have paesod,
What joyful grdMni^a wait us there,
Beyond the river.
^SSWWt?W<ibw|SWSSaMSMM^
^ ! ??' | r?A il
Kmraini s>tarij.
Translated Mm the Qeitnsn for the Sou. E&tsrpriss,
The Bellow-Mender of Lyon.
BY G. II.
[CONCLUDBO FROM LAST WEEK.]
Mr poor Cecily,Scarcely having heard the
above explanation, sank fainting back. It
must, also, be nNS|prabc#d "that in consequeuce
of my late education and manner of
living, I possessed far more sentiment and
tenderness of feeling. Adoring and trembling
in this cruel moment, at the thought
of losing her, I tried to recall her to life.?
I lavished the mo9t tender care on her. vet
- - r J I
almost secretly wishing my efforts would be I
unsuccessful. Finally consciousness returned,
yet when her half crazed look met mine, she
pushed me back, tailed me a monster, and
fainted again.- I improved on her present
oonditiqft by withdrawing her from the
gaze of a gaping crowd that had collected
around us, by laying her on a miserable I
straw pallet within the hut. Hare I tat
down by her side, when unclosing her eyes*
the first use she made of consciousness, was
the request to . mo to leave her alone for m
short time^ .not deigning to listen to thft j
stammerings confession, and protestations 6t j
love, shame and remorse. The niece of the
clorgyflj^^MKewf parish, happening ter be
near^ company, and the poor youthuwm
ot my ieviiy and baseueea?al.?,
being only seventeen?appeared very thankful
for (bat yoong lady's attention. I spent
* very chappy night. I did not care for
myself, but aha a&nc filial nit my thoughts
tiqn and esteem. I certainly deserved/iothinsr
better, but to have seen her. mv rw;i?
look on me with coldness and contempt,
would have broken my peace forever. ? ! ;
had ruined thn happinc of her lif<\ Af.d
the night of anguish spent might have sowed
as an atonement for any unamr wtiRKm
mtge. ^ It may be believed that, contmWlly
sending over, I kept myself informed, '
gar ding hat state ofhealtb. W^pn hearing 1
that-she wy quim ?ow, and had retired, '
I w*f'h<j|A nule sfflrprised next morning, on 1
aaehvgd|<^atepping into tho room I occu- 1
pled|dlB^oking very pale, but oollected. 1
ftlflrtgSi my kneee, in mute geetate, lan- j
gwufgdfrUing me, I bogged her naHon.?
' V'oqJ^m deceived roV *he wud, and it ,
; 91
Jf .
Mb J >
will entjrely depend on your future conduct,
whether I shall ever forgive you or not; at
least, take no advantage of the authority,
that you iu such unworthy manner t?aye
secured yourself over my person. The niece
of the clergyman has offered to me shelter
in her house, I shall accept this place
of refuge, until the time th&t I have quietly
reflected on my present situation." Those
words calmed me, but I was soon destined to
experience their fallacy, and spending the
next two or thre days in anxious expectation
and wild hopes for the future, I received two
letters at once. The first came from the
engravers, the authors of my elevation and
fall, writing that on nearer acquaintance,
feeling quite friendly towards me, every one
of them having originally subscribed a certain
amount of money towards the execution
of their design, anu being perfectly satisfied
with the revenge taken, they had decided to
provide mo" with money and other requisitss
to commence some business,whereby I might
be. enabled decently to support myself and
Cecily. The other letter came from Cecily :
"Despite your unwarrantable conduct I still
feel some pity for you, also inform you of
my return to Lyon, with the intention of
entering into a convent, and thus be seperated
from you for . ever, but be prepared to appear
in any court of justico I njay summon
you in, for the reason of liberating myself
from Oie chains that bind me to you." This
letter brouirht me near (tasnair. T mn
- o 1 ' * """ ""
her late residence to gain acme additional
information, but unsuccessfully, and was
convinced, that on^apcount of my villiany
and low station, the clergyman und his
niece had persuaded Cecily to take such a
decided step. I left for Lyon and fouud that
the wholp affair had created there quite a
considerable surprise*. I lived there retired^
and under my Dame, only having intercourse
with the engravers, they, although
playing through me such a vilianous game,
wore still in another sense men of honor and
generosity. They, being the cause of my
losing my earlier livelihood, I felt no delica- j
cy whatever in accepting from them a large
a mop n t of money to try my luck Jn commerce.
They gave me good advice, how to
lay out my capital, and following their
counsel,it soon trebled without trouble of
mine.^(Daring all this time Cecily's father
exerted himself to the utmost of his ability
to annul and disolve the marriage, this could
only be done by bringing the matter before
court where my imposture was delineated in
quite lively colours, and proceedings procuring
a divorco were accordingly instigated.
Never before perhaps was tho Court Room
crowded to such excess as on the day, her case
was called on. Cecily herself appearing before
the Court, nnd enchained the attention
and looks of all, mine of course, among the
number. 1 occupied an unknown and unobserved
stand among the spectators, and
tried to hide myself in a corner. Cecily's
counsel then got up, de&cnbiug and relating
the whole with pathos, and taking her by
the hand, drawing her forward, commenced
pleading in her behalf, with such eloquence,
that a great many of the spectators were
ftmdding tears. I had employed nobody in
my defence, Iknd Cecily was only wishing to
diroroed from me, not having any desire
to *ee;the author of her misfortune punished,
and she would undoubtedly have gained the
suit if some person had not spoken in my
fyor. This waa one of ray friends?the
Mune that had once been rejected by Cecily.
He addressed the bench in a short extempore
speech, praised my character, proved and
confessed the temptations held out to me, as
also the cause of my fall. In the conclusion
of his speech he spoke more particularly
to Cecily, saying: "Madame it is \ery
possible that the cottrt in its .wisdom, will
decide you are not tile wife of Monsieur
(iftllBTR?4T fmv M-ftl ??m? \ Hit
you, that you are, and forerwr will be, the
partner of hi* bo*om, and the wife of his
heart. Your marriage may be annulled, and
ao fault will be attached to you, but remember
that the disgrace of this affair will hare
to bo borHsby some one, and who more
lihaly than 'tjiat^ being far more innocent
than you. Can yot, nAy will you be ?o
jruel, faslc you,Jo inflict so much future rnissry
on a tiring, your mother's heart would
fain shelter from all the sorrows and ids of
life? I appeal for a decisim^io those tern
: ft
* , (La. , r
^ / j.? w.
--1 -"BHWH
Our marriage was annulled, however, and <
no other steps were takeu?in this affair, but <
Having signed my right name to the mar- i
riage contract (my wife and he^ father be- i
lieving it to be the'family name of the Marquis
of Rennepont,) it was declared to he t
valid, and lawftil measures were taken to ]
prevent me from exercising any influence or <
control oveiMier affairs. i
I could not remain in iiyon after this event, <
my name being associated with all that wtu 1
rascally and mean. With a considerable 1
amount of money,k therefore, realized by i
merchandizing. I left for Pari*, and tmd?r on 1
boating heart. Lnable to withstand this feeling
any longer, I at last discovered myself
to the banker, and bogged him to exert his
influence in procuring uie permission to visit
the convent. His astonishment, recognizing
in me that notorious, far-famed Bellows
Mender, cannot be described. Fortunately
he was acquainted with the abbess, assuring
me that it would be easy for him to procure
me an interview with my wife. Scarcely an
hour passed before I was introduced by my
friepd to the abbess of the convent as a
merchant lately arrived from Paris. She
received me kindly, and we were shown in
to the parlor by her, where on entering I
saw'with indescribable emotion my poor
Cecily with our sleepmg child in her lap,
sitting before me. Cecily was now twentyfour
years of age, and appearing to me more
lovely than ever.
1 had intentionally disguised and imiuieu
myself up so that she did not recognize tne,
although I saw her trembliug at my entrance
as if my appearance recalled a long lost object
to her mind. I could not speak, and my
friend was under the neoessity of keeping up
the conversation. The boy, before long,
awakened, and staring at us left the knees of
l.l. .1 T? i:? i:?ii in -*.1
uw uiuvurr. iwgrtruing us ? 1114.10 Willie wiui
quiet curiosity, he came up to me, and who
can describe the stormy feelings in my bosom
when my child covered me with his innocent
kisses and caresses. I became excited,
and unable to suppress it any longer,
sprang up, and with the child in my arms,
throwed xnrad^kt the feet of mypale, trembling
wire!? "?<5icily I oh, Cecily r I exclaimed,
with team in my eyes, w your child demands
a father 1 Will yon not forgive me!"
The boy enoircling her knees, appeared also 1
entreating pardon for his erring father. Cecily
waa Mar fainting?her ruby Hps lost their
wonted odor, and ftxtng bet hwtrous dark, j
*1 V
O * ,4" ~~ 1 ?M"
assumed name, throwed myself headlong in- 1
to business, continued it with ardour, more 1
for the purpose of forgetting the past than <
to acquire additional wealth. I exerted my s
utmos^ abilities to succeed in all my under- 1
takings, and that to such a degree as few 1
would bave done undo/ the same ciflftim-11
stances. Tiie.jnost daring specul&tii^'tadlj
the greatest charm for me, nod fortune seem-41
ed determined to favor me. Soon 1 found
myself the head of a most flourishing firm, J
and before the elapse of six years, was own- '
er of considerable fortune. Bull was unhappy?the
remembrauce of mf wife filling
mo with grief, repentance, anxiety and despair,
although I never made the least attempt
to openany intercourse with her. About
thHtitHl I had the chance to bo of great
service to a Lyoner Banking House, and was
receiving repeated invitations of honouring
them with a visit, and consented at last to
accept their invitation. Once more I entered
Lyon, but this time in.a hired carriage.
I soon enquired of my friend, the banker,
all about Cecily's circumstances, and he told
ine, that she was still living in the convent,
very much beloved and respected on account
^of her modesty, piety and kind attentions to
all that needed help, also in providing with
the inost tender solicitude for her son, thereby
gaining the esteem of all the people of
Lyon. He farther told me, that Cecily's father
had died shortly and left, her so little as
almost to be compelled to live by the generosity
of the abbess. Tlieso explanations, of
course, excited me very much, scarcely containing
myself sufficiently so as not to betray
whol really was^ft immediately called
upon one of the engravers, who gave me
more particular details and received me most
wapnly. I begged him to call a meeting of
all the creditors of Cecily's father, gave him
the necessary funds to satisfy all their just
claims, nnd then went to repurchase such
articles of furniture as I knew Cecily attached
a particular regard to. Every hour during
my stay in Lyon increased the wish to
see my wife and press our darling boy totny
ijee upon me, the tears rnpidly chasing each
ither, she sank weeping in my opened arnis^ i
ind hiding her angelic face on nay breast*
K>(Uy m urinered, " Thine, forever/bine !"
With this scene, I may close t^Ftsue his-' ?
jotj. Misfortunes had corrected and ira
proved my Cecily vory much, and I have
mjoyed, and am still enjoying such happi- f
less with Jjer, as I never would have deserv- *'
sd by any sacrifices, or arts or repentance of
nine. I must. mantmn nna mrmimoUnxo I 1
lowever, which happened after my reconcili- j ]
ition with Cecily?one never to be forgotten j *
)y me. I left with wife and child fori1
Paris, but not before Hind purchased one of (
he finest country 6eats in the vicinity of Ly- i
:>n, o?e chosen aud selected by Cecily her>elf.
We very often spent whole weeks there (
ogether, and on ono occasion shortly after 1j
tiaving returned to Paris, I received a letter! j
from her, entreating me to be punctual in i
arriving that day week at Chateau Roche s
Blanche?the name of onrJKittutry scat?as i1
a fete given in my honor Mf# to como off at j;
that time. I went, and-trips gentlo reader, j
do y<Jn think, wero our invited giiests ? Why j,
nobody else, but all the ten engravers and 1
painters, the original causes of all our endured
afflictions. It was indeed the proudest
day in my life, when Cecily, in my presence,
thanked them for the happiness that an allwise
Providence, through their means, had
bestowed upon her, humbling her pride,!
and teaching her to appreciate and adore the
unlimited love of the Creator of the uuiverse
to his creatures here on earth.
lingrajijiiral J?k?trlj.
WacqulgiJ.
> V*-:'Grace
Green wool' thus sketches Macaulay
the celebrated English historian :
"I have met Macaulay before, but as you
have not, you will of course ask a lady's
firpt question, 'How does he look V
"Well, my dear ; so far as relates to the
mere outward husk of the soul, our engravers
and daguerroty pints have done their work
as well as they usually do. The engravings
that you get in the best editions of his irt>rkl*
may be considered, I suppose a fair representation
of how he looks when he sits to have
his picture taken, which is generally very
different from the way anybody looks at at
any other time. People seem to forget in
taking likenesses, that the features of the face
are nothing but an alphabet, and that a dry,
dead map of a person gives no more idea
how one looks than the simple presentation
of an alphabet shows what there is in a poem.
'Macaulay's wliolw phyisque gives you the i
impression of great strength and stamina of
constitution. He has the kind of frame
which we usually imagine as peculiarly English
; short stout and firmly knit. There is
something hearty in all his demonstrations.
He speaks in that full, round rolling voice,
deep from the chest, which we also conceive
of as being more common in Englaud than
America. As to his conversation, it is just
like his writing ; that is to say it shows very
strongly the same qualities of mind.
'I was informed that he was famous for almost
uncommon memory ; one of those men
to whom it seems impossible to forget a thing
once read; and he has read all sorts of
things that can be thought of, in all languages.
A gentleman told me that he could
repeat all tne Newgate literature, hanging
ballads, last speeches, and dying confessions ;
while his knowledge of Milton is so accute,
that if his poems were blotted out of existence,
tliey might be restored simply from
his memory, This same accurate knowledge
extends to the Latin and Greek classics And
to much of the literature of modern Europe.
Had natute been required to make a man to
order, for a perfect historian, nothing else
could have been nut together, especially
since there is enough of the poetic lire in- ,
eluded in the composition to fuse all these
multiplied materials together, and color;the i
histonals crystaiization with them.
'Macaulay is about fifty. He has never
married; yet there are unmistakable evidences,
in the breathings and aspects of the 1
family circle by whom he was surrounded, '
that the social part U not wanting in his eon- '
formation. Some very charming young lady
relations seem to thiuk quite as tuuch qf their
E'fted uncle aa you might have done had he '
en yours.
'Macaulay is celebrated as a contravereialist: 1
and like Coleridge, Carlyle, and almost every
one who enjoys this reputation, ho has
sometimes been accused of not allowing people
their feir sharo in conversation. This
might prove an objection, poscibly, to those
who wish to talk : but as 1 greatly preferred
to bear, it would prove none to mo. 1 must
sav. however, that on tliin <Ka m?<.
ter wh? equitably managed. The Hi were, 1
should think, tome, twenty-five or thirty at
the breakfeet table, and the conversation
formod itoelf into little eddies of two ?r three
around the table, now and than swelling oot <
into a greet bay of general diwroean. i
" ^4 - y w s.v ;'' JtifHt' .
A _JflK I*'*
labifs' Drprfttrnt
yJiTlis of Ifo^Lj iDoften. i
S , 7 ROSA GOVONA. J
The following interesting life of Rosa Govon
ijwe take, with a few slight alterations^ from
fulia Kavanagh's "Women of Christainity :n
On the Northern side of the Ligurian Apjeniuea,
in the basin formed by the Upper
Panaro. extends the district of Mnndnwi a
province of the Sardinian Slates. Surround;d
by a fertile tract of land, rich in corn,
fines, mulberry trees and cattle, rises the
thief town, Mondovi. It is built partly
mi the bank of the Ellero, partly on a hill
irhich rises above the river.
In this quiet place (Here lived, in the
tourse of the last century, a young orphan
jirl of the name of Rowi'Govona. She ex:elled
in needle work, her only means of-sup[>ort;
she never cafcd for pleasure, and
thought not of marriage ; grave, mild, and
iilent, she lived alone, in the dignity of labor
?nd the honor of womanhood.
Toward the year 1748, Rosa, being then
in her thirtieth year, happened to meet a
young girl, an orphan like herself, who was
destitute, and v. ilhout the mean? of earning
a livelihood. The sight grieved her compassionate
heart, and .showed her feminine
delicacy. She took home, the young stran- j
ger, and addressing her in language of Scrip-1
tural simplicity, "ilere," said she, pointing I
to her humble dwelling, "here sba't tbou
abide with mo ; thou eh alt sleep in my bed ;
thou shall drink from iny, cup, and thou shalt
live by the labor of thine own hands." This
last clause, comprising independence and
self-res|?eet, was one of the most cherished
points in the creed of Rosa. Pleased with
the docility and industry of her young guest,
she conceived (the project of a female association,
based on the principles of labor and
mutual aid. Ere long, the young girl of
Monpdpvi was surrounded by a society of
vnnmr anil unnmlsHwl cimrU wAmm
J s . ?I - "..v,
dweltt>eneath the same roof, and labored
dili^ntly for their livelihood.
So novel an establishment in Mondovi was
at lirst warmly attacked, but the prudent silence
of Ro.m and her companions, and above
all their blameless life, at length prevailed
over calumny, and they were able to live and
labor in peace. Nay more, the authorities of
Mondovi at length ottered Rosa, whole abode
bad pow grown too narrow, a house in the
plain#*? Carcassona. This she readily ac
cepted, and was soon surrounded by seventy
ywmg girls. She obtained another and larger
house in the plain of brao; but extending
her views with her means, Rosa no longer
confined the labors of her friends to the
common tasks of needle-work ; the house of
Brao became a real factory for the manufacture
of woolen stuffs. Five years had now
passed away since Rosa firsttiook home the
orphan girl. She might well have rested satisfied
with what she bad done ; but consulting
only her zeal and anxious wish of
spreading she good effects of her system, she
set off for Turin in the year 1755.
Rosa Govona entered the capital of Piedmont
with no other protection than her own
strong faith, and no higher accomodation
than the two or three young girls who ac
companieu tier. stio simply explained her
project, and asked for an asylum. The fathers
of the #ratory of St. Phillip gave her a
few room* for the "lovo of God, and the military
post#sent her litters and straw mattresses.
ltosa and her companions were
satisfied, and establishing themselves in their
new abode, they cheerfully set to work.
The fact became known, and attracted attention.
On the suggestion of his financial
Minister, Count of Gregory, Charles Emanuel
III. assigned to ltosa and her companions
huge buildings belonging to a religious
brotherhood, recently'suppressed. The house
was soon 'filled with forsaken orphan girls.
The king read and approved the judicious
rules laid down by Rosa, and ordered the
factories of the establishment to be organized
and registered by the magistrates appointed
to superintend commercial matters. From
that time the Rosin as, as they were called in
hoiior of their foundress, enjoyed die special
protection of the Sardinian government.
ltosa Govona felt deeply grateful for the
f. i. -l i i ! J * *i. - i
iitvur uer pmu> u?u rwvivvu irom uie King.
Knowing that the most effectual mode of
ihowing her gratitude would be to coulinuc
m she Had begun, and to contribute to the
commercial and moral prosperity of his ' dominion^
she established in Turin two factories
; one of cloth for the army, and another
of the best silks and ribbons. Thanks to
her three hundred women, without any retource,
save their own labor, they earned on
honest and comfortable livelihood, and provided
in vouth for the wants of old age.
Houses depending on that of Turin were established
at Norazza, Fossano, Savigliano.
Salusso, Chieri, and St. JJainian of Acti. |
Over the entrance of every house which she
founded, Kosa caused to be engraved the
words sshe had addressed to her tirst guest:
uTu mangerai col lavora dells tue mati."
"Thou slial^Jltt by the Isbor of tliiue own
hands." 7 ?
Rom devoted tweMv-one fears to the Uftk
mi- ft ^ A
IKfts v iff
dustrious popr of her sex ; until, exhausted
by her labors, she died at Turin. Her remains
were deposited in the chapel of the establishment
there. On tire simple monument
which covers them may still be read
the following: epitaph : "Here lies Rosa Gotona
of Moudovi. From her youth die con*
secrated herself to God. For his glory *hs
founded i n her native place, and in other
towns, retreats opened to forsakqn young
girls, so that they might serve God; she . f
trave them excellent retralationB whieli at
fetched to them pety and labor. During ap (
administration of thirty years, gbe gave cour, l? ~
stent proofs of admirable charity, and of unshaken
firmness. She entered on eternal
life on the 28th day of February, of the year.
1776, the sixtieth of her age Grateful
daughters have raised this monument to th^ir
mother and benefactress."
But little is to?d of Rosa Govona. person- ;
ally; we know more what she did than
what she was. She appears to us thro' her
good works, thoughtful, and ever doing.; ?
serious and beneficent apparition. A plain
cap, a white kerchief, a cross in, her bosom,
and a brown robes, constituted the attire of
the foundress of the Rosinas. One of her
biographers calls her sister Rosa ;but it doea
not appear that she took any vows, or sough
to impose any on her cornrounity. The Roe
inas are bound by no tie; they can leave'
I their abode, and marry if they wish ; but
they rarely do so. There will always be m
certain number of woman whom circmn|
stances or private inclination will -cause to
| remain unmarried. Rosa Govona was one
of these : and finr them die l?twn?/l CI..
, .?WV?VM. W'MV,*
wished to shut them from vice, idleness,
and poverty ; to present to them unsullied
the noblest inheritance of human beings? >
dignity and self-reaj>ect.
According to an interesting account published
in Paris n few years ago, the liosina?
are still in n prosperous and happy state;
they are admitted from thirteen to twenty ;
they must be wholly destitute, healthy, active,
and both nbie and willing to work.
They are patronized by government^ but labor
is their only income ; all work assidu^ . * G '
ously, save the old, who are supported by
the younger companions.
The labors of the Rosinas are varied and
complete : whatever they manufacture, they
do with their own hands from beginning to
end; they buy tho cocoons in spring and
perform every one of the delicate operations
l.l^t ;ii J ^ "
wuicu sua unaergoes, oeiorc it is nna!ly woven
into gros-desnaples, levuptines, and ribbons*.
Their silks are of tit* oest quality, but
plain4 in order to Jiwid tbe expense and inconvenience
of changing their looms with
every caprice of fashion. They also fabricate
linen ; but only a limited number of Rosinat
can urtdergo the fatigue of wealing; their
!>rottts are moderate but sufficient. The
louse in Turin alone spends eighty tliou- '
sand francs a year ; and it holds three hundred
women, of whom fifty, who are either
old or infirm, and consequently unable to
work, are supported by the rest. ?
One woman, poor, obscure, and unlearned,
but strong in her ow n faith, and,-'above all,
in her love for orphan sisters, accomplished
this.
? 11
JLet Ifec lfeqH be
The mind loves to linger upon scenes of
beauty, and the heart forgets it sorrow in
contemplating them. Nature has scattered
with lavish have and everything that should
please the eye, elevate the mmd, or rejoice the
heart. Art, too, has ixerted her skill in imita
tions of nature, for the same purpose?the enjoyment
of man, the noblest work of God?a
being possessing fncubies for appreciating
and enjoying these bcr:;iti<?s, capable of deep
feeling and generous smypathy?aye, and
more beautiful than either the animate or
inanimate objects around him?beautiful in
form, symmetry, gracefulness, and beautiful
in heart, wlrou possessing pure niOlivia, noble
principles, and a holy xenl for the right.
We are attracted by tiro brilliant color and
faultless form of a flower ; and if it is fragrant,
too, we value it highly. So we admire tins
beauty of human- form : but we are shocked
by want of sense, or feeling?disgusted by"
selfishness ; and when we find these comhin
i ed with the most beautiful forms, are indeed
l O <1/1 < Irk.Ww! i\- ^ ' ' ' ? *
wuuvmu. vii me inner nnnu, a mind IUfffl
with glowing thoughts, a soul warm with
sympathy, at ouce commands our love and
respect. What though the individual may
be homely in feature, or uncouch in appearance
? If he but possess a noble heart, it is
enough ; he is beautiful. The beauty of form i
may fade, the eve lose its lustra, the cheek
its bloom, but the beauty of the heart can never
die. It matters not whether thy
neighbor be rich or poor, w hether his com- '
plexion he black or white' if he only cultivate
the noble part of his nature, and love virtue
and truth. For beauty consist* in goodness,
and a beautiful form without it, ie (be most ' \
disagreeable thing nutnre. *(**, let the ''
heart be beautiful. \jtK 11s !<?* no opportn- J
nity of speaking gentle words, of doing gen?
erous deeds; for who kartell 4?e effect* they s ?
may produce ! And let us strive to amice? y *
ourselves better, to prepare tor a heavenly * ( home,
where all hearts are beautiful.
Ms J. lit
Good axsolctiowi h^tould, like Cuulit^r , 1
Mfedft onmod ? . v> >, ,,J; T < |Jt
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