Charter Oak, 1846-07-09 - Page 1
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? / PUBLISHED BT toilliam fSurltigl)* E d i t t r and Proprietor. TERMS. ^wo CdoUarff ptx Sltttmirt. $1.50 if paid strictly in AdTanee. NEW SERIES. HARTFORD, JULY 9, 1846. VOL. I . NO. 27, BLESSED BE T H Y NAME FOREVER. . b e thy name for ever, and giver; tby of life the T1x>a canst guard th} Heal the h e ^ lon^ broke with weeping. God of stillness and of motion, Of the desert and the ocean, Of t h e mountain, rock, and river, Blessed be thy name for ever. Tboa who slumberest not nor sleepest, Bless'd are they thou Idndly k e e p ^ ; God of evening's parting ray. Of midnight's ^oom, and dawning day, That rises from Uie azure sea, L&e breathings of eternity; God of life! that fade shall never. Blessed be thy name for e v e r! A GHII.D*S FAITH.—A beloved minister of the Gospel was one day speaking of that ac-ti «« living faith which should at all times cheer the heart of the sincere follower of Je-sus, and related to me a beautiful illustration that had j u s t occurred in his own family. He had gcme in a cellar which in winter was quite dark, and entered by a trap-door. A little daughter only three years old, was trying to find him, and came to the t r ap door, but on lookup down all was dark—^and she called, *AI« you down cellar, papa?' 'Yes, would yo« to come, Mary?' *It is dark, I can't eomBa p^Mu* 'Well, my daughter, I am right bdow you, and I can see you,thougfa you eay-noC t e e aie,attd if you will drop jrourself I will catch you.' <Oh! I should fi^ I can't see joQ, papa.* 'I know it,' he answered, 'but I am ready here, and you shall not fell, or hurt yonneUl If yon will jump, I will catch you Mfely.* Little Mary stndned her eyes to the ntoBost, but she could catch no glimpse of her fiUiier. She hesitated, then advanced a little farther, then summoning all her resolution, d i e threw herself forward, and was received cafely in her fiithei^s arms. A few days afber, d i e i ^ a in discovered the cellar door open, and •vpponng her fether to be there, she called, 'Shall I come again, papa ?' *Yes, my dear, i n a minole,' he r e p U ^ and had j u s t time to reach his anns toward her, when, in her child-idi glee, d i e f d l shouting into his arms, and clasping his neck, sdd, knew, dear papa, I dKmUnotfiilL' no answer to make—^he had no purposes that reached beyond the present life. How many young men are in precisely the same condition ? Their plans embrace only this life—what p e r t d n s to getting wealth and enjoying life. What pertains to the world I to come, has no place in all their plans.—Trav- ; eller. LIGHT THE SHADOW OP GOD.—^Light that makes things seen makes things invidble. Were it not for darkness, and the shadow of the earth, the noblest part of creation had re-miuned unseen, and the stars in Heaven as in-visible as on the fourth day, when they were created above the horizon with the sun, and there was not an eye to behold them. The grqijtest mysteiy of religion is expressed by admiration, and in the noblest part of Jewish types we find the cherubim shadowing the mercy-seat Life itself is but the shadow of death, and souls departed but the shadows of the living. All things fall under this name. The sun Itself is but the dark Simulchrune, and light but the shadow of God.—Sir Thom-as Browne. (SHrtgitiol Articles. TOLKRATIOX.—^When Abraham sat at his lent door, according to his custom, waiting to entertain strangers, he espied an old man atoo|Hng and leamng on his staff, weaiy irith and travel, coming towards Um. who was • a Imndred years of age; he received him lindty, wasiied his feet, provided supper, and eaosed liim to sit down; but observing that Ae old man eat and prayed not, nor b e ^ ed for a blesang on his meat, asked lum why he did not wordup the God of heaven ? The oM maa told lum that he worshipped the fire only, a t which answer Abraham grew so zcal-ooi that he (farost t h e old man out of his tent, Mid exposed him to all the evils of the night Mid an nngnarded condition. When the old ^ p n was gone, God called to Abraham, and adoed Urn wherathe atranger was? He re-f f i e d , I thmst him away because he did not Bwdiip thee. God answered him, I have suf-f s r a d him these hundred years, dthongh he dfaAoaorad me, and couldst thou |iot have en-d a r a d Um one lught, when he gave thee no l i e a b l e ? Upon this, saith the story, Abra- IMBI fetched bade again, and gave him I m p i t d i e entertainment and wise instmc-taoa: KSo dion and do likewise,* and thy a h a r i ^ will b e rewarded by t h e God of Abra- [For the Charter Oak.] SUMMER MORNING. BY I. L. GRAHAM. 'TIS morn! the sun's pure gladdening beams Are poured upon the smiling earth, They glimmer in the silver streams. And (lowers arc springing into birth ! From evciy vale and wood crowned hill, I hear a morning jubilee. Which makes the vocal air to thrill With pleasant praise, Oh God, to Thee! The dew..drops from the wind-slirred trees Afe falling hke the genial rain— Rejoiceful now the farmer sees His meadows, corn, and fields of grain, In grateful song his praise declares— How pure the incense he inhales. How sweet the face which Nature wears, When swept by summer's frcsh'ning gales! To Grod who doth lus children hear, He offers thanks for dsul^ bread— He yokes the patient, faithful steer. From Nature's bounteous table f e d; Then goes rejoicing to his toil, Trusting the Power who constant cares For man and beast, fruit, seed and soil. Whose praise the varied year declares! Forth to their play with hurr}'ing feet, How joyfully the children ^o— Sec blushing health and chddhood meet! No cloud of sin, or blasting woe, Which check the bud of Hope at last. And chills the young heari in its spring, Hath on their infant spirits cast The shadow of its gelid wing! Oh God, of Happiness the source. Make d l their life a summer-time— Calm down their passion's rising force. Be thou alway their shield from crime; Teach diem A e value of a mind Fixed in unfading hope on Thee— In each let virtue sit enshrined As a restraining deity! The ^ b s are leaping on the hill. And insects blend their gentle hum With music of the tinkling rill. And sing the flowers in pnuse—though dumb! the sounds which steal up from the village be-1 low, soflened and subdued by the distance. | Death, in such a spot, is divested of half its j terrors, and the weary and care-worn pilgrim, j would deem it sweet to lie down beneath the | shadow of these old trees, and sink to rest, [ as calmly as one who 'lies down to pleasant dreams.' I have said tliat there were no splendid monuments in this little church-yard. There is one, however, which, though plain in its ap-pearance, is constructed of the most costly ma-terials, and surrounded by a low iron fence, as if to distinguish it from all others. A t:ill, graceful willow hangs its long pendant branch-es over the enclosure, and a few choice plants carefully cultivated, show that the hand of af-fection is still assiduous in preserving the me-morials of affection for the dead. The stone itself, is of the purest, whitest marble, and bears only this inscription. " To the Memory of GdbrieUe Clare, who died off Gibralter, May —, 18—, Aged 19." Her story is a short and simple one.—Let me tell it to you gentle reader. There is a fine old mansion which stands at some distance from the central part of the vil-lage of M , with a broad avenue extend-ing in front, and shaded by old trees. The imposing appearance of the house, the tasteful lawn, and gravelled walks, show its owner to be a person of wealth and taste. But though the grounds are kept with perfect neatness, the house itself looks in a measure deserted. I t was not always thus, however, for many years ago, the mansion was merrj' with chil-dren's voices, and on a pleasant day, you might see three or four flaxen-haired little \ creatures, ( ^ r t i n g about on the lawn, with ! j bear, and she sank beneath its weight WonU yoo die happy ? Live well. A sel-fidi man, and the man of pleasure are never prepared for death, and never would be, if life were lengthened out a thousand years. A Utile more ^ r t — a few more dollars—is their a y — a n d thus it would be continually—^wis-dom is crowded out of life and they hurry on (ill in a moment unexpected, the icy hand is vpon them. AMB WHAT NBXT ?—A gentleman riding IMMr | t o d l y , overtodc a well-dressed young •MUM a n d iavited lum to a seat in his carriage, • j l a d Cnid die gentleaian to the young tttmaf&Tt) a r e your plana fiir die future ?' *I replied t h e joaag m a n , ^ d my h o p f l i W f l i e o e e d a a d g e t into bosiness for wtywdKf ' A n d w I i a t M z t r laid the gende- • • B - ' W ^ , I i t f t o id to m a n y and set n p an ^IdbBAmekt of m j own,' said the youth, • l a d what M s t r eeMtiBoed the i n t e m ^ a t o r. ''Wky, to eoadaae iii, badness and accunm-iBIewadth.* «Andwliat n e x t r *To retire ftqs WnnaHaad enjoy die fruit of my la- W n . ' ' A n d w f c a t n n t r ' I t b t t t k i t o f dl r M i l a f c e a r a e c a n n o t e f M ^ ' f v p f i ed *And wliat n e x t f once more t ; l N i t d M 7 o a n f B«BlMd As night doth by the stars and moon ! [For the Charter Oak.] GABRIELLE—A SKETCH. BY MISS E. G. B. A sweet spot is the church-yard of the lit-tle village of M It lies just beyond the old church, whose walls are almost over-grown by l3ie creeping ivy, and whose low,an-tique irindows a r e half concealed by the long thick branches of the alders which grow near them. The stranger would love to spend a quiet summer's morning in strolling through this rural cemetery, though it is but a lowly, humble spot, unadorned save by the hand of Nature, and the simple tributes of affection from the friends of those who slumber here. There are no costly monuments, richly sculp-tured by the hand of art, to tell posterity of the deeds and virtues of those who rest be-neath. A few simple stones alone, mark the resting place of the d e a d ; some placed there so long ago, that the inscriptions traced there-on, a r e almost obliterated by the hand of time, or conceded by the moss, which clings around them. It wonld seem as if nature delighted to bestow her gifts with a lavish hand, for the green grass waves more lozariandy than in any other place, and a thousand wild flowers spring up, bud, and expand their tiny blo6< soms, nnmdested,save by tlie fiand that iTould fiun bear away some memorid of this qniet spot A Uttle brook glides on throni^ the •Kadows, just beyond-the neat white fence laughing eyes, and smiles like sunshine. Many were the passers by, who stopped to look at the young Stanleys at play—^but there was a young companion with them, their little cous-in Gabrielle, who attracted much attention not only from her extreme loveliness, but from the circumstances attending her parentage. She was the neice of Mrs. Stanley, the daugh-ter of her only brother, who, while making the tour of Europe, had married a beautiful Ital-ian girl whom he saw in Florence. He took up his abode there until the death of bis -vvife, which occurred when the little Gabrielle,their only child, had atbuned her fourth year, and i then immediately returned to America, and placed his infant daughter under the care of his sister, Mrs. Stanley. Sweet Gabrielle Clare ! She was the pet of the whole village, and in childhood gave promise of the beauty for which she was afterward remarkable, as she inherited her mother's classical features, and the large dark eyes peculiar to the Ital-ians. As soon as she had obtained a suitable ago, she was removed from M , by her father, and introduced into the brilliant cir-cles, in which her education, wealth and beau-ty entitled her to mingle, and her fond parent soon had the satisfaction of seeing her sur-rounded by a host of admirers—the 'observed of all observers.' But though she was the star of beauty and fashion, she turned coldly away from the brilliant offers proffered her on eve-ry side, preferring the scenes of her childhood, endeared to her by a thousand tender associa-tions, to all the splendors of the gay metropo-lis. An irresistible attraction, hardly known to herself, drew her to the sweet village of M , her childhood's home. Had she A smile of gratified surprise lighted up her face, as she glanccd over the contents,and ex-claimed, 'News from Edmund! He will return home in a week.' A bright flush sprang to Gabrielle's cheek, as she bent over her embroidery, and the sun-ny smile of pleasing anticipation played upon her lips. 'He does not come alone,' continued Mrs. Stanley, looking round upon the little group, to mark the effect which her communication would produce. 'He brings a new claimant upon our affections—his fair Southern bride, as he calls her. He requests us to celebrate her arrival by a fete, and says that he hopes to see his lovely cousin Gabrielle, a tM , the 'gayest of the gay,' to welcome his return, if her attention is not completely engrossed by the host of 'bright particular stars,' with which he presumes she is surrounded.' Mrs. Stanley looked at Gabrielle with a smile as she spoke, but she met no answering smile. The bright flush which a moment before had played upon her cheek, had given place to such deadly paleness, that her aunt rose in alarm. 'My love you,are ill,'*she exclaimed, approaching her, as she made an attempt to reach the door. 'I feared that your long walk to day, would prove injurious to you. "What can I do for you.' 'Nothing — nothing,' answered Gabrielle, forcing a faint smile—'I shall recover present-ly,' and rallying her strength with a convul-sive effort, the young girl crossed the hall, opened the door of her apartment, and fell senseless to the floor. Poor Gabrielle! The blow was too severe for her- gentle nature to She had loved with all the enthusiasm of her own which encloses the churchyard, making a soft pleasant murmttr, like the chiming of silver belb in the d i ^ - a n d on a pleasant sttmrner morning, yon may hear the mournful note of the wood pigeon in the grove beyond, min-gled with die dreamy hum of the insect, and examined her own heart,she would have found that her cousin Edmund possessed a place in her affections, which no one else could occu-py. He was but a few years her senior, and had been her playmate and companion from childhood. The attachment which subsisted between them, on the part of Gabrielle had ripened into a warmer, deeper feeling, which she feared to acknowledge, even to herself.— but, unfortunately, it was not reciprocated on the part of her cousin. True, he regarded her with a brother's fondness, and their inter-course was marked by the affectionate confi-dence which should exist between a brother and sister, butfthat was all, for he had not the slightest suspicion of the true state of her feelings towards him. He had finished his collegiate course, about the time that Gabri' elle left M —, and witnessed the eclat which attended her introduction in societ^y, with a brother^s pride, and immediately after that event, set out on a short tour through the Southern States. How joyfully did Gabrielle return to M , when the long winter season was over, and Wth what anxious im-pfetMfnce did she awdt the arrival erf* her cous-in Edmund, Who WM ddly expected. But d i e s p r i i ^ months wore away, and the season was at k s height, whea they received inMi-gence from him, tmexpecfed to aU, but most so tcf Gabrielle. The family party were seat-ed one evenidg in their fevorite apartment, when a letter was placed before Mrs. Stanley^ sunny clime, had indulged in those delicious dreams which open a Faradise to the young and trusting heart, and had now awakened to find her hopes crushed and blighted. Oh, it is a bitter thing for a young, enthusiastic heart to discover that it has poured out the wealth of its affections for nought, doubly bit-ter for a warm impassioned nature like Ga-brielle's. The week passed on, Edmund an-ived with bis young bride, and Gabrielle presided at the elegant fete which was held in honor of their arrival, to all appearance the 'gayest of the gay,'—and none suspected that a broken heart was concealed by that sparkling^eye and smil-ing lip. But from the hour when the intelli-gence of Edmund's marriage reached her, she began to droop gradually. I t was as if a blight had passed over her spirit,withering and blast-ing all its enei^es. For a longtime her frie; were unaware of the rapid decline into whi she was falling, but at length they awoke to the alarnung consciousnes, that she was in-deed in a precarious situation. Every thing that parental tenderness, or the affectionate solicitude of friends could suggest, was put in-to requisition, but in vain. At last a sea voy-age was rocommended, and her almost agoniz-ed father caught eagerly at the idea. A thou-sand times did he reproach himself for not thinking of it before it was, as he feared, too late. No time was lost in delay, and soon Ga-brielle, with her father and aunt, was on the way to Italy—they fondly hoping that the genial climate of her native land might restore the roses of health to her cheek. But Gabri-elle felt that all their hopes were destined to prove fallacious, and she looked back to the shores of the countrj' she was leaving,with the consciousness that she should never behold them again. » » « « « * » I t was toward the close of a beautiful after-noon, when Gabrielle at her own request, was carried on deck, and placed where she might obtain a riew of the beautiful scenes around her. From day to day she had rapidly de-clined, and it became apparont to all, that she could not survive the voyage. She lay sup^ ported in her father's arms, while her aunt sat by her side, clasping one emaciated hand in her own. All was quiet around her, for even the rough sailors trod more lightly, a i ^ s p o ke in subdued voices, as they passed and re the little graup< The siin was setting in the west, casting a long golden path o^rays across the water, whose surface was haroly disturbed by a ripple, while to the left, far as the eye could reach,lay the s t em and rocky fortress of Gibralter. A light breeze sprting up, fitting the suls of the vessel, and gently agitating the few heavy curls which had escaped from their confinement, and hung about a brow as pale as marble, and beautifully transparent, that one might distincly see the blue veins me-andering beneath. • 'Is it not beautiful, dear father," sbe said as sh^ lifted her large dark eyes to his face. 'Such a scene as this, I have often wished to behold, and" now it is reserved for me the last, and loveliest s-ijlit I shall ever behold on earth, [ and perhaps a foretaste of those glorious scenes | I shall gaze upon, ere long. Oh! if this world is so lovely while it is fading away from my vision, what must that land be, where sor-row is unknown, and where tears are wiped from every eye ?' Her father made no reply, for his feelings were too powerful for expression. He could only gaze in speechless agony on the face of his daughter, where death was plainly setting its seal. 'Dear aunt,' continued Gabrielle, fondly and feebly pressing the hand in which her own lay, ' I shall never see the home agaln,where I have spent so many happy hours, but you will bear a message tliither for me.' As she spoke she unclasped from the chain that cncircled her neck, a small miniature, which Edmund had presented her many years before, and which she had ever since worn for the sake of j the original, and placed it in Mrs. Stanley's hand. 'When I am gone,' she said, 'will you give this to Edmund, and tell him—no—you never can tell him, how much I loved him,but say, for surely it is not wrong to confess it note, that I thought of him to the last' Mrs. Stanley equally surprised and affect-ed, solemnly gave the required promise, and the dying girl seemed at peace. A few mo-ments of profound silence ensued, when she was seized by a violent spasm and was con-veyed below insensible. All night her rela-tives watched by her side, but she never opened her eyes save once, and then she look-ed up with a faint, sweet smile, placed her hand feebly on her heart—^then the eyelids closed heavily over the sunken eyes, a slight convulsive tremor agitated her frame, and Ga-brielle was no more. Mrs. Stanley fmthfully delivered the mes-sage entrusted to her, and Edmund caused the little monument which stands in the village church-yard to erected to her memory, in the sweet village where she spent her child-ish years, in preference to any other spot. Alas, poor Gabrielle ! Hers is the tale of many a heart, which has loved 'not wisely,but too well.^ New Haven, Jane, 1846. [We arc happy to be able to resume the publication of 'Relics of a Strange man.' No. I. appeared originally in the Weekly Review, and was copied into the Charter Oak, of June 18th. The remaining numbers of the series will make their first appearance in our col-umns. We predict for them, if not a wide popularity, at least a cordial reception by the 'fit audience, though few,' who can sympa-thize with the genial and catholic spirit of the author, and appreciate the manifold, but of-ten subtle beauties of his style. We know that in some things these 'Relics' may be con-sidered as obnoxious to criticism, but taken as a whole, (we have read them in manuscript, and have therefore the means of forming an intelligent judgement of their merits,^ we pronounce them the most thoughtful, imagin-ative, and original essays that any American periodical (with possibly one exception,^ has been favored with for the last four years. If our readers do not at once concur in this opin-ion, we only ask them to wait five or six weeks, and they will be enabled to judge whether it is an extravagant one or not—ED. CHAR-TER OAK.] [For the Charter Oak.] RELICS OF A STRANGE MAN.—No. 2. THE DISCOVERT.' Having satisfied my curiosity in the sin-= gular outward appearance of the Forsaken I ^ u s e , and caught some glimpses through the broken windows of an internal airangement no less singular, I proceeded to the staring door under the awning, and attempted an en-trance there—^but the plank was firm and only winced a little ( ' winked* the boys would say— but those »eyes' wete lidless.) Leaving this, t turned to one of the sinister-looking porch-es,- that seemed to threaten me with clubs« sticks and lumbet, in any quantity', if I should interfere with its domestic peace. I went on, nevertheless, and gave one vigoroifs push at a door Which stood in a quandary whether to open in or o u t Bat in it did go With H crash on the sounding floor that made the echoes arid the' rats ran as for lifey ^nd sent a, clotfd of dust from the worm-eaten lumber, which forced me to withdraw it inoment from the door-way. Presently the wind ^ v e a slight sneeze, that took it in a little gust, and I profceeded, not without a cautious glance at the impending rafters, that thrast their broken ribs hither and thither like insedent elbows in-^ sisting on more room. A criacked gourd-shell, such as our farmers use for seed ves-sels, hung agunst the wall—^the only thing visible, in the way o£ furnishings. The rats had nibbted if, hvH e ^ d e n t i y not with a refish. " Their joy dwelt not in the feast <5f shells/'of this had never survived. Gk>ing forward and rising one step, originally two, through im tin* hinged door, I found myself in a little closet—' like a shower-bath—^but such it was not till the storms had riddled the roof a«d fttrnkhed showers there gratis. The only light it conid have enjoyed, before being admitted like Brit* ish piety into China, by main foree, mtisthave slipped in clandestinly, for not even one oT those little errant windows, which seemed ttf ran where they would, had ventured to lodt in here. This proved to be the landing to four ways, two on the ground, one cellar* ward and one aloft. A cold breath ctttnefroftt below through the broken trap-door, and madd haste up into the sunshine, whistling to it* fellows to follow. On my right, as I entered* stood a devoted pantry bereaved of its bread and cheese and the fat things of the lardeff but well surrounded with empty shelves,— withered convolutions of an old brun, thai still clung to the memory of the past,- iit AS uneradicable smell of antiquated edibles: Be» fore me rose a flight—^no, a holUe Of s t a i i^ whose defective steps, like a Wearied cavern-* guide, hinted at all kinds of dai^eA^ btit yet led to their proper destination at l a s t Thitf proved to be the garret, multi-angled, l ow roofed, and altogether the most labyrintluan littie place that could be thought of^whertf* impelled by poecy or cowardice, (both vi which seek the Attic) or other common cwuef all the rubbish and old lumber of the hotlfla had t i ^ e n refuge. What with that nndeif foot, and all manner of sharp comers and spine-ciirved rafters, and unthought-of dodg* ings up and down and in and out of wall and roof, it Was quite a break-neck affair t o txar* erse the apartment In one small car&ett which the big bullying chimney had b r ow beaten into obscurity, and which was only befriended by an oblique glance from thd tipper panes of one of the rot^windows^ i h en stood a half-grim, half-forlom-taoking piece o( furniture^ which might have been a fiitile tt* tempt at a chest, table, or bureau. From ap-pearance, it had maintained, when under ^ vorable eireumstances, an honoraUe standings on four legs, carved in resemblance of Botb* ing, but ending in feet cut in rade imitatioh o^ claws, but whether of bird, beast, or griffiiij te now buried in the grave of the ingeniooa Mf t i s t But the thing by no means nmuiijuiied its standing t h e r e ; Wth tvCo' te^^t in thtf middle, it knelt beseechingly to the old bhmt< ney-stock that stood u p there so grimaiidbiii* ley, and nevefr relaxed a stoiiey featbrei llitf lid of the—chest (for we miist naiiie it same« thing) hung aslant from its place on dnct hinge, displaying within, a mass of sKuled pers, books, pamphlets, letters and inton* scripts, ttuyuldyandmildewedjand jrelldwi^tb age or exposure, ^me, itppiireiitly from t he same source, were fluttering aiwdt nMnt, or sealed to the floor by mould and dampness^ One of these, a manuscript, which lay in my way as t made iny retreat, t toOk tip itiid rolling it abstractedly in my hand, descended again to the basement, and taking the remaiiH i<ig passage; after two or three tiirnSj attd onc$ downward step, so adroitiy situated in it dark bend, as greatiy to facilitate the descent, l e n^ tered a small, three-sided room, e&AipdLedvcM an aciite ahgle b y the i n ^ l e n t chimney thiii seemed detcrinined to assert its d ^ n i ^ e v e i j' where: Fassing through t h ^ ftfae rOaiA, naxAely.Ji 1 found my way into an apartment which still gave tokens of having been the choice rodnt of the house; l ^ e ^ r i n s had ndt deiaced it with so rude ^ i t e as tbey bad otiiers. Bains had stained the walls, b r t the plastering was not much broken off. Two Trtndows opened on the South^giving a grand view of the ocean as it heaved its great Waves i ^ y on to thef red rocks of tiie shore; Over agunst the win-dows was a wide fire-place, where ornamental tiles rep'resented the histoiy of the i V o d ^ Son, from his departure foitnn«^6kii^, to his return home, with the osiMd success. Sev-* .era! of the pieces loosened the ittin,- had fallen out, and lay in the heUped solttt on the hearth, sooie of these, unfortunately, WeM broken, and the xfew dislribntion df ^ fin^ ments threw sotaM^ eMfiision inttf the iltcaj* llieYie stood twb ef t h i (Mdigal^s tall sistsn^ not motioned in the Becord, trimly clad like imruflSed Qnakeresseis, bnt with t e i y short wusts and veiy long skuts, l a d i r ^ prosiini' ty to t h e pigs, at t h e ftet of which lay the de« t a c h e d h e a d o f t h e F r o d i ^ a M i r S fiketo be e a t ^ Itself than t o get a 4iask' fiwa those long-boned feUows. They were of no Beifc-shire breed* those clay ptgs which the dsjr Prodigalfed. His starved tnink Iqr a goodly quarter of the fatted c a l f ' in hopelesi headlessness; wMIe the poor father, w i& Ala arms idwut his neck, stood in Uaidc ment, to find hhnself bereaved of the
|Title||Charter Oak, 1846-07-09|
|Uniform Title||Charter oak (Hartford, Conn. : 1846)|
|Subject||Slavery -- United States -- Newspapers; Antislavery movements -- United States -- Newspapers; Hartford (Conn.) -- Newspapers|
|Description||Frequency: Weekly; Publication dates: New ser., vol. 1, no. 1 (Jan. 8, 1846)-v. 3, no. 52 (Dec. 28, 1848)|
|Collection||Newspapers of Connecticut|
|Source - Location||Connecticut State Library microfilm, AN104.H3 C63|
|Relation||Continues: Christian freeman (Hartford, Conn.) (DLC)sn 84025778 (OCoLC)10657256; Continues: Republican (Hartford, Conn.) (DLC)sn 84025785 (OCoLC)10703015|
|Relation-Is Part Of||Series title: Anti-Slavery newspapers|
|Publisher||Hartford [Conn.] : William H. Burleigh,|
|Rights||Digital Image © Connecticut State Library. All rights reserved. Images may be used for personal research or non-profit educational uses without prior permission. For permission to publish or exhibit, see Reproduction and Publication of State Library Collections, http://ctstatelibrary.org/reproduction-publication/|
|CONTENTdm file name||17965.cpd|
|Title||Charter Oak, 1846-07-09 - Page 1|
E d i t t r and Proprietor.
^wo CdoUarff ptx Sltttmirt.
$1.50 if paid strictly in AdTanee.
NEW SERIES. HARTFORD, JULY 9, 1846. VOL. I . NO. 27,
BLESSED BE T H Y NAME FOREVER.
. b e thy name for ever,
of life the
T1x>a canst guard th}
Heal the h e ^ lon^ broke with weeping.
God of stillness and of motion,
Of the desert and the ocean,
Of t h e mountain, rock, and river,
Blessed be thy name for ever.
Tboa who slumberest not nor sleepest,
Bless'd are they thou Idndly k e e p ^ ;
God of evening's parting ray.
Of midnight's ^oom, and dawning day,
That rises from Uie azure sea,
L&e breathings of eternity;
God of life! that fade shall never.
Blessed be thy name for e v e r!
A GHII.D*S FAITH.—A beloved minister of
the Gospel was one day speaking of that ac-ti
«« living faith which should at all times
cheer the heart of the sincere follower of Je-sus,
and related to me a beautiful illustration
that had j u s t occurred in his own family. He
had gcme in a cellar which in winter was quite
dark, and entered by a trap-door. A little
daughter only three years old, was trying to
find him, and came to the t r ap door, but on
lookup down all was dark—^and she called,
*AI« you down cellar, papa?' 'Yes, would
yo« to come, Mary?' *It is dark, I can't
eomBa p^Mu* 'Well, my daughter, I am right
bdow you, and I can see you,thougfa you eay-noC
t e e aie,attd if you will drop jrourself I will
catch you.' |
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