Year: 1869




nearly written over, soiled and botted here
and there with tears, and when few more lines
are added, we will fold the parchment and place
upon it the great seal of the Past. The end of
the Old Year draws nigh, and the rosy tints
which herald the coming of the New already
begin to appear The stars hold their faithful
vigil in the sky, and they seem to wax paler
and to wear more solemn. sombre glow, as
they mark the swift revolutions of Time, and
gaze down in silence upon the shortening span
which speaks of death-the life span ofthe once
New but now dying year. A strong arm swings
the scythe, and as the forms fall, like the grass,
the thistles and the flowers of the meadow, the
hands of the reaper bind them into sheaves,
and they are gathered and earned safely from the
storms. The scythe never grows dull, and the
reapers arm is always strong, therefore, the
harvest lasts from day to day and from
year to year. But now the year, which bears
upon its brow the remorseless stamp and birth
right of Time, is passing away beneath each
sturdy stroke, and ere long the life current will
cease to flow, and the midnight chimes become
parting knell. The year that has been fruit
full with the harvest of life and death, at last
must yield to the harvest itself and he garnered
in tho Past We can gather no flowers to strew
upon its bier and to make fragrant the path to
the tomb, but we can bid the skies to weep,
and can spread over the dead robe of spotless
white-a mantle Of snow. We need no magic
wand to summon the unseen spirits of the wing
less air, for they will come unbidden to hover
in solemn, mysterious awe over the couch Of
the dying year. They will come to see the Re
cording Angelgwrite the last line upon the page,
be it line joy Or sorrow, and will bend closer
and fit nearer as the worn pen trembles In the
nerveless grasp, and then falls like the broken
reed, when the minstrels voice is mute-falls
upon finished page, and yet without a blot,
because the fluid is dry-falls, because Its mis-
sion is ended and the scroll is complete. But
while we listen to the sad tolling of the bells
and gaze upon the ghostly spectres of shadowy
funeral train, a mist, which deepens into a veil
of darkness, come between mortal vision and
the hallowed memories and resurrected spirits
of the Past, and the white sepulchre is shroud-
ed from view. We brush the tears away that
are trembling upon the eye lashes, as the bound
ing step or rude wind brushes the pearly dew
drops from off the grass and flowers, for now
another vision rises before u.s. and another Re-
cording Angel, without line of care upon the
brow, is seated at the ponderous desk. The
bells are ringing joyously, the chamber door is
open, and across the threshold timidly trips the
young New Year Upon its brow is written
purity, the eyes beam with hope, a tender rose
bud is the only jewel worn upon the breast, and
In the hand is grasped tiny sheaf of weeds
and golden grain, and withered flowers Itcomes
with timid step, while the dirge of the Old
Year is drowned in the noisy peans of the New.
A new volume is open, and the angel holds the
pen ready to begin the weary task of writing line
after line and page after page. Here is re-
cord for births, and here is one for Deaths
The columns stand side by side, one crowned
with a wreath Of thorns and flowers, and the
other surmounted by a broken arch tipped With
sunshine and made gloomy by dark shadows
A new harvest has opened, and as the sturdy
arm swings the scythe, the angel hand guides
the pen over the unsullied page. Alas for
whom do the bells gaily ring, and for whom is
sounded the funeral knell? The unseen spirits
Of the air do not linger near to whisper an an
swer, but as the vision extends, there is q
strange blending of shadow and sunshine. a
strange blending ofsounds, joyous and sad
The dim spectres Of the Past point to graves in
the Future, and as the fatal mystery dawns up
or the mind, We tremble to cross the threshold
with the young New Year. We know not
whether the flowers bloom OR wither for us, and
and We hesitate to solve the problem. The soul
paints the great Land of Rest in brightest col
ors, yet We demur when called to cross the dark
river, for the Future is made clear and bright
by Faith and not by Reason When mind at
tempts to solve the awful secret beyond the
grave. the mystery deepens as we reason more
and more, and, painting with the bewildering
struggle, we lay the head upon the bosom of
Faith, and folded in her arms, sink into a
passive sleep Of blind devotion. Why then
seek to read in vision the great truths which
lime and the Recording Angel will unfold to
us day after day? Let the moments pass, for
in their silent fight they will solve the great
F-SSAA1 VI OOS1ADy OfGi WulSU Iuluu, immortal
mind has no control. Each dying year brings
us nearer to the grave, and nearer to the great
object for which We live Each tick of the
clock shortens the pulse, and we know not what
chlme may prove our knel Nor should we
ask to know, for life has go charm SO great as
that of the mystery in which it is surrounded.


Hail glad hail to the New Year. even if
the sands OF life are running low, for on the
natal morn, Hope wears her brightest smile
We remember the errors of the past, only that
we may profit by them, drop tear upon the
graves of the departed, because we would keen
them green in the halls of memory, and driving
the shadows back from the heart, We pledge
our ialth anew to those who have proved con-
sSant ana true, and resolve to live SO as to catch
Ihe sunshine In the great hereafter The Reid
and the Farm. 'e : '''"


lt Is now said that Mr. Motley has proposed
the transfer of the Alabama claims NEGOTIATIONS
to Washington and the proposition has been
accepted by Great Britain. Mr.. Motlev has
proposed to include the question of tbe non
trallty OF the seas in the subject of naoot;a-
tons, and the British Government has accentaa
that also. No time is fixed for the reonen;no
OF negotiations


1hree hundred Chinese are en- route from
oan francisco to the Southern States. where
nnrfv noI1