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‘A’lili SOUTHERN SENTINEL Is published every Thursday Morning, IX OOI.UJIUt'S, GA. .BY WILLIAM H. CHAMBERS, euitqk axd PKorßttrroli. I’o %viu>ui .ill eonunuhiila lions inn?tho and ireeU-tJ, post paid. (Lice on Jiandvlph Stru t. Terms of Subscription. One copy twelve Ii r.<|-. ..;ivc, - - $2 50 “ ‘ 4 “ Not in advance, -3 <>< “ “ Six “ “ “ - 1 50 Z 7£ y ’ Vvh -r • • tli* subscription is not paid the VO.ir, 15 .-..£? will be chare and for , veiy month's (i. lay. No snli-vripiion wilLbc reecivu! Ur loss than ox months,uuiLftone discontinued until nil arrearages are pai'l, exempt at the option of tint proprietor. To Clubs. - - - $lO 00 i Ton **•’ “ “ . .. 10 00 ZatT The money from ( liihs rmt.-t in all cases ac- , company the names, or the price of a single subscription ‘ w.ll he charged. Rates of Advertising. One Ssnore, IF : insertion, - . - $1 00 “ K;iHi subsequent insertion, - 50 ! A liberal deduction on tho.-v terms will be made in favor j f those who advertise by the year. VIvY-itis*-merits not specified as to time, will be pub- | iisimd lUI forbid, and charged accordingly. Month'/ Advertisements will bscharged as nw Ad verti-emeuU at each insertion. Legal Advertisements. N. D.—Sales ol Lands, by Administrators, Lx fecutorSjor Guard idns,arc reqnired Lv law to be held on ! tiio first Tuesday in the month, between the hours of 10 in tyo i'o.vaoofi, and 3 in the altt-rnoon, tit the Court 1 House luNhe county ia which the land is situated. No- ‘ tiees of these sales must be given in a public gazette MXTf DAYS jcY'vioUX t'ltbc day of sale. Sah's ni N Kfot.or.s must lie mode at a public suction | ou the iirct Tuesday of the month, between the u-usl ! hours of sale, at the place 4 *! public Kale 4 in the county i where the Letters Testamentary, of Administration or ’ (guardianship,may have liven grunted, first giving sixty | t> ■ v . notice thereof in one of the public gazette* of this State, and at tin-door of the Court flou , whet* such : sales arc, to Ire hen!, N otice for the sale of Personal properly must be given * in like manner forty kavs previous to the day of s.le. Noti a to ties Debtors and Creditors of an estate must | l,* publ'iShcd FOBTY DAYS. “ N'otiej that application will he made to the Court oi ! Ordinary for leave to sell Land, nr.ut Ire published for j r*US MONTHS. Notice far Faya to sell Nhoroes mud be nubli-hed for : rsus jiyNTiis, before any order absolute .hall bamade thaPeou by tlie Court. Citation’s for Letters of Administration, mint ’ a tib- i ashed thirty days*— for disinis-ion from administration, ; mtilth!;! six months — for dismission horn Guardianship, ra.irr hays. R irt.ES for the foreclosura of a Mortgage must ba tub- I liahed monthly for four .months —for establishing lost : paparr, for th ret.'. si’A* t of turke months —for com- | aciln j titles from Lxecutor* or Administrator?, where a Loud lias been given by lb* deceased, the i tu. sfai e of! TJtr.ux months. Publications will always be continued according to j these legal requirements, unless otherwise ordered. SOUTH Hi! \ SKSTINW. Job Office. TATI Nfi received anew and extensive assortment * J. i, of .loir Material, we arc prepared to execute at j this office, all orders lor JOB Woi K ,iu aimumcr wiiivli | can noi be, excelled in the State, on very liberal terms, j Unit at the shortest notice. \V* feel confident of Durability to give entire ttislac- ‘ tiao in every variety of Job Printing, including Books, Business Cants, Pamphlets, Bill Heads, ( ‘irculdrs, Blanks oj rrrrj / description, ; Hand Bills, Bills oj Lading, rosters, Syr. <CV. <v In short, all descriptions of Printing which can tu ex- j ecu ted at any ollica in t'ne country, will be turned out j with elegance and despatch. Comity Surveyor. r jMI!J undersigned informs his friends and the Planters * of Muscogee county, that he is prepared tomak# • fiicial siirvcc iin Mu.-cogee county. Letters addressed t* Post Office,Columbus, will meet with prompt .-.ttea tien. WM. F. SFRRLLL, Cnnnty Surveyor. Office, No. 1 Telegraph Building, Broad St. Columbus, Jan. 31,1550. 5 ly W. & W. F. WILLIAMS, ATTOHXKVS AT I.AAV, COLUMV> l T B, G K ORGI.V. W 11. ICY WILLIAMS. WM. F. WILLIAMS. Oat. 17, 1850. 51 ts. JAMES FORT, ATTi>R XB I ’ A7 ’ L A IL, HOLLY SI’IU.NGS, MISS. July i. ISSO. 27 Cm Williams & Howard, ATTORNEYS AT LAW, GEORGIA, noivr. n. Howard. cii.vs. j. wili.ta.ais. April 4, 1850. .4 t! J. T>. LENNAR!), ATTORNEY AT LAW, TAT,BOTTOM, GA. NT ILL attend to business in Talbot and the adjacent counties. All business entrusted to Iris care wilt meet xrii.li prompt attention. April ‘4, 1850. 14 ly KING & WINNEMORE, Commission Merchants, MOBILE, ALABAMA. D c . 30, ms. [Moh. Trib.) 15 ti GODFREY ,V SOLO.MONS, Factors and Commission Merchants,* SAVANNAH, GEORGIA. JAMS* IE. GODFREY, E. AV. SOLOMONS. It r. F E It E X C F. S . RXY. JAS. F.. EVANS, KEY. SAMUEL ANTHONY, • Savannah. Talfttlltn. RIDGYVAT X GI*N*Y. N. OUSET.Y A SON, Cshnnhns. Macon. July 25 30 6m. THIS PAPER IX MAXUFACTUIiKD HY Tltr. Rock Island Factory, NEAR THIS CITY. Columbus, Fel>. 23, 1850. 9 ts NORTH CAROLINA Mutual Life Insurance Company. LOCATED AT RALEIGH? N. C. rivRE Charter of this company fives important ad van i tages to the assure*!. over most other companies. ‘Pile husband can insure his own file tor the sole use and benefit of his wife and children, free trom any other claims. Persons who insure for life participate in the profits which are declared annually, and when the pre mium exceeds S3O, may pay one-halt in a note. Slaves are insured at two-thirds their value for one or five years. Applications for Risks may be made to ’ JOHN MT'NN. Agent, Columbus. Ga. J VY’ Office at Greenwood *fc Co.’s Warehouse. Nov. 15.1849. ‘ tt WANTED. 100.000 Si when delivered in quanfiiies of 100 pounds or more : and 31 cents when delivered in small quantities. For old hemp, bagging, and pieces of rope, li cents, delivered either at Rock Island Factory or at their store in Co lumbus, in the South corner Room of Oglethorpe House. D. ADAM'S, Secretary. Columbus. Feb, 28,1850. 9 ts / - \ Globe Hotel, ■ BUENA VISTA. MARION CO., GA. • BY J. ‘WILLIAMS. March 14,1850. 11 ts Marble Works, East sitlr Broad St. near the Market House, COLUMBUS. GA. HAVE constantly on hand all kindsof Grave Slones Monuments, Tombs and Tablets, ot American Italian and Irish Marble. Engraving and carving done on stone in the best possible manner ; and all kinds of Granite Work at the shortest notice. JOHN 11. MADDEN. P. S.—Plaister of Paris and Cement, always on hand for sale. Columbus, March 7, I£so. 10 ti YOL. I. [From the Dollar Newspaper.] The Bridal ami the Funeral. BY MERRITT N. WILLIAMS. Joyous uikl bright in L-.iuty’s bloom, She stood anti loudly gazed L j’on the form of him—the one On whom her ho]*es she raised V. ith hopeful ey<->, arid yet it bceuied With earnest vacant etarc, A though elie lain would read her fit© in language pictured tlier*. Oh I long and eameit did ho gaze, Then turned to I id adieu Tojorinj frond*, re she depart* For scenes aid trials new. H.t plighted vow.- she would not break, Her promise n*'er forget To ii!:ii,tii* eliou-n of li*i But still *hc linger# yet. Ah ! why do tears steal down her cheek And damp those eve I ids fair ? A* brother.?, ei*ter?, in thc-ir turn Embrace their si.-ter clear. Alii why doe? griet weigh down that heart, A kneeling to receive A is filer's hh->.ing, mother'? ki#, Thc dc.'.ie-t they can rive X She rise*, arid in accent ■ sw* -t S: e grasps each frtvntlly hand, Ago bteatiiing forth her last adieu, Departs ior stranger land. For lame awau? fi one she love*, And fearless l>y his aide Si.e’li smooth his pathway through the vale, A fond and trusting bride. * *** * * Bnt hark ! that funeral knell ring* ut From yonder Gothic spire. And ci” : liul i\ es are weeping now Around the cottage fire. AVliy vo ‘p? the aged father now ? Why l.eafes the anguished -igdi? Why mourn* e.-teh brother. i?ter now? Why sorrows evwy eye 1 Approach ! and lift the funeral pall, Tread softly round her bier ; ’Tin she, the blooming happy bride, That li*-.? enshrouded here ; And where i.? lie X But one short yar Has pa-red since they were here. He's gone before her tu that land Where alt must soon appear. I Vindsor, 1850. Divorce of Josephine. (L. <.'i.tribi:tc(l to tha TTome .Journal from a forthcoming work by Rev. John S. C. Abbot.) .NYtpoleon luid become very strongly ;it taebed to his little grandchild, the son of Horter.se, and of bis brother, Louis, the King ol Holland. The boy was extremely beau tiful, and developed .all those noble and spirit ed traits of character which delighted the Emperor. Napoleon had apparently deter mined to .make this young Prince his heir. This was so generally the understanding, both iti France and in Holland, that Josephine avus quite ;it ease, and serene days again dawned upon her heart. Early in the spring of 1807, this child, upon whom such destinies were depending, then five years oi age, Avas ‘seized suddenly ami violently with the croup, and in a feAv hours died. The blow fell upon the heart of Josephine Avith most appalling power. Deep as was her grief tit the loss of the child, she was overwhelmed Avitli uncontrollable ang uish, in view of those fearful consequences, which she shuddered to contemplate. She knew that Napoleon loved her fondly. But she also kncAV the strength of his ambition, and that he would make any sacrifice of his affections which, in his vioAv, would subserve the interests of his poAver and his glory. For three days she shut herself up in her room, and was continually bathed in tears. i lie sad intelligence was conveyed to Na poleon, when he was far from home, in the midst of the Prussian campaign. He had been victorious—almost miraculously victo rious over bis enemies. He had gained ac cessions of power, such as in the wildest dreams of youth he had hardly imagined. All opposition to his sway was now apparent ly crushed. Napoleon had become the Crea tor of Kings, and the proudest monarchs of Europe wore constrained to do his bidding. It was in an hour of exultation that the mounited tidings reached him. He sal down in silence, buried his face in Ids hands, and lor a long time scorned lost in the most pain fid musing*. He was heard mournfully and anxiously to repeat to himself, again and again, “To whom shall I leave all this*” The struggle in his mind between hi# loa’c for Josephine, and his ambitious desire to found a ncAv dynasty, and to transmit bis name and fame to all posterity, was fearful. It was manifest in Ids pallid cheek, in Ids restless eye, in the loss of appetite and of sleep. But the stern Avill of Bonaparte was unre lenting in its purposes. With an energy which the world has never seen surpassed, he had chosen his part. It Avas the purpose of his soul—the lofty purpose before which CA’orything had to bend—to acquire the glory of making France the most illustrious, pow erful and happy nation earth had ever seen. For this he was ready to sacrifice comfort, ease, and his sense of right. For this lie was ready to sunder the strongest tics of affection. Josephine knew Napoleon. She knew the power of his ambition. With almost insup portable anguish, she wept over the death of this child, with whose destinies her own seemed to be so fearfully blended, and, Avith a trembling heart, she awaited her husband’s return. Mysterious bints began to fill the journals of the contemplated dh’orce, and of the alliance of Napoleon with various prin cesses of foreign courts. In October, 1800, Napoleon returned from A ienna. He greeted Josephine Avith the greatest kindness, but she soon perceived that his mind Avas ill at ease, and that he Avas pondering the dreadful ques tion. He appeared sad and embarrassed. He had frequent private interviews with bis ministers. A general feeling of constraint pervaded the court. Napoleon scarcely ves tured to look upon his Avife, as if apprehen sion that the very sight of one he had lo\’ed so well, might cause him to waver in his firm purpose. Josephine was in a state of the most feverish solicitude, and yet was com pelled to appear calm and unconstrained. As yet she had only some forebodings of her impending doom. She watched*with most excited apprehension, every movement of the | Emperor’s eye, every intonation of his voice, | every sentiment he uttered. Each day some new and trivial indication confirmed her fears. Her husband became more reserved; ab j seated himself from her society; the prh’ate access between their apartments was closed ; he now seldom entered her room, and when | ever he did so he invariably knocked. And i yet not one word had passed between him and Josephine upon the fearful subject. When- ■ j'• over Josephine heard the sound of bis ap proaching footsteps, the fear that he v. as coming with the terrible announcement of sep aration, immediately caused such violent palpitation of the heart, that it was with the utmost difficulty that she could totter across the floor, even when supporting herself by leaning against the walls, and catching at the ( articles of furniture. f i lie months of October and November passed away, and while the Emperor was discussing with his cabinet the alliance into which he should enter, he had not summoned courage to break the subject to Josephine. The evidence i# indubitable that he experienc ed intense anguish in view of tho separation; but this did not influence his iron will to swerve from its purpose. Tho grandeur of his.fame, and the magnitude of his poAver wn. now such, that there was not a royal latnily in Europe which would not have felt honored in conferring upon him a bride. It was at first contemplated that he should mar ry some princess of the Bourbon familr, and thus add to the stability of his throne-, lv con ciliating the royalists of Franco. A princess of Saxony aa - us proposed. Some weighty considerations urged an alliance with the ma jestic empire of Russia, and some advances were made to the court of St. Petersburg, having in view a sister of the Emperor Alex ander. It AA-as at length decided that pro posals should he made to the court of “\ ienna, for Maria Louise, daughter of the Emperor of Austria. \t last the fatal day arrived for the an nouncement to Josephine. It was the last day of November, 1809, r lhe Emperor and Empress dined at Fontainbleau alone. She seems to have had a presentiment that her doom was sealed, for till that day she had been in her retired apartment weeping bitterly. As the dinner hour approached, site bathed her swollen eyes, and tried to regain com posure. They sat down at tho table in si lence. Napoleon did not speak. Josephine could not trust her voice to utter a word. Neither of them even feigned to eat. Course after course \\ r as brought in, and removed un touched. A mortal paleness revealed the anguish of each heart. Napoleon, in his em barrassment, mechanically, and apparently unconsciously, kept striking the edge of his glass with hi© knife, while lost in thought. A more melancholy meal Avas probably never witnessed. The attendants around the table caught the infection, and gazed in motionless silence. At last, the ceremony of dinner AA ,as over, the attendants Avere dismissed, and Napoleon and Josephine were alone. Anoth er moment of most painful silence ensued, when the Emperor, pale a© death, and tremb ling in every nerve, arose, and approached Josephine. He took her hand, and, placing it upon his heart, said : “Josephine! my own good Josephine! you know how I have loved you. It is to you alone that I oavc the few moments of happi ness I have known in this world. Josephine ! my destiny is stronger than mv will. My dearest affections must yield to the interests of France!” Josephine’s brain reeled ; her blood ceased to circulate; she fainted, and fell lifeless upon the floor. Napoleon, alarmed, threw open the door of the saloon, and called for help. Attendants front the ante-room im mediately entered. Napoleon took a taper from the mantel, and, uttering not a word, but pale and trembling, motioned to the Count de Beaumont to take the Empress in his arms. She awis still unconscious of every thing, but began to murmur, in tones of an guish, “Oh, no! you cannot surely do it. ATu would not kill me.” The Emperor led the way through a dark passage to the private staircase which con ducted to the apartment of the Empress. The agitation of Napoleon seemed now to in crease. He uttered some incoherent senten ces about a violent nervous attack; and find ing flic stairs too sleep and narrow for the Count de Beaumont to bear the body of the helpless Josephine, unassisted, he gave the light to an attendant, and, supporting her j limbs himself, they reached the door of her j bed-room. Napoleon, then, dismissing his ; male attendants, and lading Josephine upon her bed. rang for her waiting women. He bung over her with an expression of the most intense affection and anxiety, until she began to revive. But tho moment consciousness seemed returning he left the room. Napoleon j did not even throAv himself upon-his bed that | night. He paced the floor until the dawn of the morning. The royal surgeon, Corvisart, passed the night at the bedside of the Em press. Every hour the restless, yet unrelent ing Emperor, called at her door to inquire conceniipg her situation. “ On recoA’ering front my swoon,” says Josephine, “ I perceived that Corvisart was in attendance, and niy p*or daughter, Hor tense, weeping over me. No! no! I cannot describe the horror of my situation during that night. Even the interest he affected to take in my sufferings, seemed to me addition al cruelty. How much reason had Ito dread becoming an Empress!” A fortnight now passed away, during which Napoleon and Josepliinesaw but little of each other. During this time, there oc curred the anniversary of tlie coronation, and of the victory of Austerlitz. Paris was filled with rejoicing. The bells rang their mer riest peals. The metropolis was refulgent Avith illuminations. In these festivities Jose phine Avas compelled to appear. She knew that the sovereigns and princes then assem bled in Paris Avere informed of her approach ing disgrace. In all these sounds of triumph she heard but the knell of her own doom. And though a careful observer, in her moist ened eye and her pallid cheek, would haA’e observed indications of the secret Avoe Avhich was consuming her heart, her habitual af fability and grace never in public for one mo ment forsook her. Hortense, languid and sorrow stricken, AA’as with her mother. Eu gene was also summoned from Italy by the melancholy duty attending the divorce. His first interview was Avith his mother. From the saloon he went directly to the cabinet of Napoleon, and inquired of the Emperor if he had decided tho question of a divorce from his mother. Napoleon, who was most strong ly attached to Eugene, made no reply, but pressed his hand as an expression that it was so. ‘Eugene withdrew his hand, and said: “ Sire! in that case permit me to withdraw from your service.” “Hoaa’,” exclaimed Napoleon, sadly, “\A-iil you, Eugene, mv adopted son, leave me ?” “ \ es, sire,” Eugene firmly replied. “The son o‘ her who is no longer Empress cannot COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 28, 1850. remain Viceroy. I will folloAV my mother into her retreat. She must now find her con solation in her children.” Napoleon was not without feeling.— Tears-filled his eyes. In a mournful voice, tremulous with emotion, he replied: “Eugene, you know tho stern necessity which compels this measure. And will you forsake me ? Mho then—should I have a son, the object of mv desires, and preserver of my interests—who would watch over the child when lam absent ? If I die, who will prove to him a father? Mho will bring him tin ? Who is to make a man of him ?” Eugeno Avas deeply affected, and, taking Napoleon’* arm, they retired and conversed a long time together. The noble Josephine, ever sacrificing her own feelings to promote the happiness of others, urged her son to re main the friend of Napoleon. “ The Emper or,” she said, “i your benefactor—your more than father, to whom you are indebted for everything, and to whom, therefore, you owe a boundless obedience.” The latal day for the consummation of the divorce at length arrived. It was the fifteenth day of December, eighteen hundred and nine. Napoleon had assembled till the kings, princes, and princesses who \\'erc members of the Imperial family, and also tlie most illus trious officers ol the Empire, in the grand sa loon ol the Tuillerios. tKory individual present Avas oppressed with the melancholy grandeur of the occasion. Napoleon thus addressed them: “Tho political interests of my monarchy, the wishes of my people, which have con stantly guided my actions, require that I should transmit to an heir inheriting my love for the people, the throne on which Provi dence has placed me. For many years I have lost all hopes of having children by my beloved spouse, tho Empress Josephine, it is this consideration which induces me to sacrifice the sweetest affections of my heart, to consult only the good of my subjects, and desire the dissolution of our marriage. Ar rived at the age of forty years,. I may indulge a reasonable hope of living long enough to rear, in the spirit of my own thoughts and disposition, the children with which it may please Providence to bless me. God knows what such a determination lias eosSmv heart; hut there is #o sacrifice Avhich is above my courage Avlien it is proved to be the interests of France. Far from having any cause of complaint, I have nothing to say, but in praise of the attachment and tenderness of my beloved wife. She embellished fif teen years of mv life, and the remembrance of them will be forever engraven ou mv heart. Site AA'as crowned by m v hand. She w ill retain always tho rank and title of Empress. Above all, let her ne\ r er doubt my feelings, or regard me but as her best and dearest friend.” Josephine, her eyes filled with tears, with a faltering voice, replied: “1 respond to all the sentiments of tlie Em peror, in consenting to the dissolution of a marriage which henceforth is an obstacle to the happiness of France, by depriving it of the blessing of being one day governed by the descendants of that great man, evidently raised up by Providence to efface the evils of a terrible revolution, and to restore the altar, the throne, and social order. But his mar riage will, in no respect, change the senti ments ot my heart. The Emperor will ever find in me his best friend. 1 know what this act, commanded bv policy and exalted inter ests, has cost his heart; but we both glory in the sacrifices we make for the good of our country. I feel elevated in giving tho great est proof of attachment and devotion that was ever given upon earth.” Such were the sentiments which were ex pressed in public. But in private Josephine surrendered herself to the unrestrained do minion of her anguish. No language can depict the intensity of her woe. For six months she wept so incessantly that her eyes were nearly blinded as ith grief. Upon “the ensuing day the council were again assent- i bled in the grand saloon, to witness the legal consummation of the divorce. The Emper or entered the room dressed in the” imposing robes of state, but pallid, careAvorn and wretched. Loav tones of voice, harmonizing with the mournful scene, filled the room. Na poleon, apart by himself, leaned against a pillar, folded his arms upon his breast, and in perfect silence, apparently lost in glootm’ thought, remained motionless as a statue. A circular table Avas placed in the centre of the apartment, .and upon this there was a writing apparatus of gold. A vacant arm-chair stood before the table. Never did a multitude gaze upon the scaffold, tlie block, or the guillotine, Avith more awe than the assembled lords and ladies in this gorgeous saloon contemplated those instruments of a more dreadful execu tion. At length the mournful silence AA’as inter rupted by the opening of a side door, and the entrance of Josephine. The pallor of death was upon her brow, and the submission of despair nerved her into a temporary calm ness. She AA-as leaning upon the arm of Hortense, who, not possessing the fortitude ot her mother, Avas entirely unable to control her feelings, but immediately upon entering the room, burst into tears, and continued sob bing most convulsively. The AA'hole assembly rose upon the entrance of Josephine; all were moved to tears. With that grace which CA’er distinguished Iter movements, she ad vanced silently to the seat provided for her. Sitting down, and leaning her forehead upon her hand, she listened to the reading of the act of separation. Nothing disturbed the silence of the scene but the sobbings of Hor tense, blending with the mournful tones of the reader’s voice. Eugene, in the mean time, had taken a position by his mother’s side. Silent tears Avere trickling down the cheeks of the ; Empress. As soon as the reading of the act of sep aration AA’as finished, Josephine for a moment ! pressed her handkerchief to her weeping eyes, and then rising, in clear and musical, but tre -1 mulous tones, pronounced the oath of accept ance. She then sat do\A’n, took the pen and I affixed her signature to the deed which sun | dered the dearest hopes and the fondest ties which human hearts can feel. Poor Eugene j could endure this language no longer. His i brain reeled, his heart ceased to beat, and he ■ fell lifeless upon the floor. Josephine and I Hortense retired with the attendants, who bore out the insensible form of the affection ate son and brother. It AA’as a fitting termi nation of this mournful but sublime tragedy, j But the anguish of the day was not yet S over. Josephine, half delirious Avith grief, J had another scene still more painful to pass I through, iu taking a final adieu of him who I had been her husband. Josephine remained i in her chamber in heart-rending, speechless grief, until the hour in which Napoleon usually retired for the night. The Emperor, restless and wretched, had just placed him self in the bed from which he had ejected his most faithful and devoted wife, and the at tendant was on the point of leaving the room, when the private door of his apartment was slowly opened, and Josephine tremblingly entered. Her eyes were swollen with grief; her hair dishevelled, and she appeared in all the dishabille of unutterable anguish. She tottered into the middle of the room, and ap proached the bed—then Irresolutely stopping, she burst into a flood of tears. A feeling of delicacy seemed for n moment to have ar rested her steps —a consciousness that now she had no right to enter the chamber of Na poleon—but in another moment all the pent up love of her heart burst forth, and, forget ting every tiling, she threw herself upon the bed, clasped her arms around Napoleon’s neck, and exclaiming, “My husbaud! mv husband! ’ sobbed as though her heart were breaking, ‘i he imperial spirit of Napoleon was for the moment entirely vanquished, and he also wept most convulsively, lie assured Josephine ol his love, of ardent and undying love. In every way he tried to soothe and comfort her, and for somo time they remain ed locked in each other’s embrace.* The at tendant was dismissed, and lor an hour they continued in this last private interview. Jo sephine then, experiencing an anguish which few hearts have ever known, parted forever from the husband whom she had so long, so fondly, and so faithfully loved. The beautiful palace of Malmaison, which Napoleon had embellished with every possi ble attraction, and where the Emperor and Empress had passed many of their happiest hours, was assigned to Josephine for her fu ture residence. Napoleon also settled on her a jointure of about six hundred thousand dol lars a year. She was also still to retain the title and the rank of Empress Queen. The ensuing day, at eleven o’clock, all the household of the Tuilleries were assembled upon the grand staircase,and in the vestibule, to witness the departure of their beloved mis tress from scenes where she had so long been the brightest ornament. Josephine descend ed, veiled from head to foot. Her emotions wore too deep for utterance, and she waived an adieu to the affectionate and weeping friends who surrounded her. A close carriage, with six horses, was before the door. She en tered it, sank hack upon the cushions, bu ried her face in her handkerchief, and left the Tuilleries forever. Doing* at Our School ’ouse. “First class of vagabones, rise!” thunder ed our schoolmaster. Well, the vagabones rose. “Now answer ever}- question correct ly, or I'll break every bone in your bodies,” was the next prommeiamiento of the old au tocrat of our red school house. .Sapient old pedagogue! thy years were many,and full of knowledge. Looking back through a long vista of birch rods, I can see his restless grey eyes darting in quick glances from pupil to pupil, in search of the “graceless scamp” who threw the last spit ball with such wonderful precision as to barely escape his nose, and stick fast on the wall. Ami now I recollect, he had a most perplexing squint—a squint accommodating; for if he appeared to he looking directly at one, that one might “go it,” and no longer fear of being detected ; for his optical focus was otherwise directed ; but, if his eyes were fastened in one direction, one could not tell where, then be wary, for it might be on you. Glorious old master! if your eyes squinted, your heart was as true as the noodle to the pole—your affections had no squint; you thrashed all alike; and all alike shared your wonderful store-of knowl edge. This was the last day of the quarter— for a week our individual storehouse of lore had been progressing through the various stages of mental ventilation and renovation ; our memories jogged; dormant ideas awa kened, and our energies scoured up to a high state of brightness by copious applications of the master’s.brick dust of erudition. We were in prime order. “John B row*, what do you understand by acoustics 1” “Why, a stick to drive cows with,! s’pose.” “Get out, you young vagabone ! Sarah, you are John’s youngest sister?” “Yeth, thir.” “What is acoustics ?” “I know, thir—it ith, it. itb the art of ma king a noith, and hearing a noith.” “You are right—explain it.” “Yeth, thir. If’ you stick your finger into your mouth, and then pull it out thuddenly, the cold air rutheth into thevakkum and pro dutheth a thound that thriketh on the tympan of the ear, which maketli the thound audi ble, and it ith called thience of a coutli thixth.” “You are quite right, Sarah. You may take your books and run home. Wiley Chase, what is the currency of the United States?” “Cash and money.” “What are its denominations?” “Coppers, bogus, and bungtown cents, pennies, lips, fourpence’a’pennies, levies, nine ponces, Spanish quarters, pistareens, and shinplasters.” “That will do. Jones, what is the stand ard weight of the United States?” “Scale weight, and wait a little longer.” “What is a hundred weight?” ‘‘One hundred and twelve pounds.’"* “Simon, how many kinds of motion are there'?” “Four.” “Two ; voluntary and involuntarv.” “Simon says there’s four.” “Whatdoes Simon say they are?” “Point, point up, point down, and wig wag.” “Y r ou rascal! I’ve a mind to wigwag your jacket! Hadn’t you better describe the mo tion of my stick?” “I can, sir.” “ \nd its effect ?” “Yes, sir. Up stroke and down stroke — the up stroke regular and easy —the down stroke spasmodical, electrifying, and its ef fects are strikingly indescribable.” “Y~ou understand that, I see. Susannah, what is matter ?” “There is nothing the matter with me, sir.” “I ask you, wkat is matter, matter?” “Y r es, sir—matter is everything that has substance. There’s animated and vaccine matter, and—” “No matter about the rest. Speaking of i vaccine matter, puts me in mind of sotne i thing else. There has been a case of small : pox appeared iu this village, or rather vario ; loid ■which is the botanical name of small ! pox and Mr. Scalpel says he lias some prime vaccine matter, ot his own manufacture, warranted to take—and ho will vaccinate the whole village at eight cents apiece, and take his pay in potatoes. All recollect, and when you go home tell your parents. Gtorge Smith,'do you recollect the story of David and Goliah?” “\es, sir—David was a tavern keeper, and Goliah was an intemperate man.” “Who told you that?” “Nobody. I read it, and It said that David fixed a sling for Goliah, and Goliah got slewed with it.” “Wasn’t Goliah a giant, a strong man?” “Yes, ho was a giant, but had a weak head.” “How so ?” “Why, to get so easily slewed.” “Yes, George—that was undoubtedly ow ing to the strength of the sling. W asn’t David a musician ?” “Yes, sir—he played psalms on the harp, a favorite instrument with the Jews, and at the present day it is called a Jewsharp. 1 have ono in my pocket; hero it is ; place it in your mouth thus, breathe on the tongue gent ly, then strike with your finger this w ay—and the psalms in harmonious corncob, fructify on the ear as natural as thunder.” “That’s sufficient ; you can pocket your harp. Simeon, how many points to the com pass ?” “Ono! father broke the other off opening an oyster.” “Thirty-two. Can von box the compass ?” “No, sir.” “Master!” “Well, Isaac, what do you want?” “I guess he turn box it, for i seen him box ing with Jack Smith this morning, and lie hit him first rate, him, right in the nose ; ves, he did.” “Squat yourself down! Jane, what ii time ?” “Something that flies, any how.” “Haw do you make that out ?” “Why, tempus l'ugit.” “Latin—it means that time flies, and how can time, if it flies, he any thing else than something that flies ?” “Excellent! What is the meaning of re quiescat in pace ?” “Rest quiet cats in peace.” “Well, Jane, at Latin you are perfectly an fait—which, translated, means perfectly awful; it is a great phrase from the classics, and applicable to this class, particularly. Now take off your jackets, and I will give you ‘ rewards of merit.’ Those who gut more than their merit, can keep the overplus as a token of my special affection for them ; and those who get less, can have the mis take rectified by mentioning it to me—you will find me quite obliging. Pope s<jys, ‘as the twig is bent the tree is inclined;’ and that is very true, for I have used up whole trees thrashing your jackets for you.”—.Y. Y. I met. Parental Authority among the Romans. Such young men of the present day as consider themselves too tightly restrained by the checks of parental authority and solici tude, may, perhaps, by comparing their own circumstances with those of the Roman youth, as related in the following paragraph, find not a little to console them*for their imagined state of subjection : “ Roman parents possessed an exorbitant power over their children. A father could, with impunity, suffer his infant son to perish. When grown up, he could imprison, send him hound to work in the country, or even put him to death, without assigning a cause. No son could acquire property without the consent of his father; so that with a parent of a cruel or capricious temper, the condi tion of a slave, in some respects, was more tolerable. A slave could be emancipated hr a single act. A son, however, in order to be come free, or his own master, was first to be sold into slavery, usually to a friend, and then re-sold to the father; after which, being on the footing of a slave, lie was to be man umitted with the same formalities. When the son was promoted to any public office, the parental care was suspended, but by no means abolished ; for it continued to bo ex ercised during the father’s life, not only over iiis children, but over his grand-children and great-grand-children. A daughter, by mar riage, passed from the power of her father to that of her husband. In the days of the emperors, however, flic* rigor of these institu tions was considerably mitigated.” Stream* ot Influence. Could men see distinctly the streams of influence, which daily, and hourly, and stead ily flow out from their conduct in all direc tions, blessing or withering their friends, their children, their relatives, their neighbors, and all with whom they come into contact, how much more w'atchful and circumspect would they be than they now generally are. When war come to examine the constitution of so ciety, we shall find ourselves surrounded by an atmosphere of influences in which every element is in constant, vigorous reaction. Here man speaks, and eloquence is heard ; he desires, and art becomes his handmaid ; he defines and resolves, and law reigns; he reasons, and philosophy ascends her throne; he unites his will with the will of his fellow men, and a world of his own appears.— Every action draws after him a train of influences. Every individual is a centre, constantly radiating streams of influence. From the first moment of his active exist ence, his character goes on daily and hourly, streaming with more of moral influence. A power which operates involuntarily; for though he can choose in any given case what he will do, yet he cannot choose what in fluence it will have. It operates universally, never terminating on himself, but extending to all within his circle, emanates from each of these again as from a fresh circle, and thus transmitted on in silent yet certain effect to the uttermost parts of social existence. It is indestructible; not a particle is ever lost, but the whole of it is taken up into the gen eral system ; it is always in operation some where. And the influence which thus blends and binds him up with his race, invisible and impalpable as it is, is yet the mightiest ele ment of society. O’ YVhat is idleness? A public mint, where various kinds of mischief are coined and extensively circulated among the most des picable of the human race. Genius. tis an oW trick of would-be great men to try and pass for really groat men by aping the faults and follies of the “sons of fame.” | A contemporary thus, ridicules those who j would claim to be great orators because they have a wart like Tuliv, or stammer like Dc uiQSthenes—or who would set up for fine poets, because they can roar a catch with Horace, or empty a-cask of Ifalernian: “Some men think that in imitating flic fol lies, vices or eccentricities of distinguished characters, they catch the spirit of their gen ius; like those poor players who ‘ out-herod Herod’ in aping the mannerisms of Kean, or’ the versatility of Garrick. A writer may wear ‘ soaplocks,’ ams yet lack the graphic powers, the fidelity to nature, the touches of tender pathos, the irresistible humor and buoyancy of spirit of Charles Dickens'. Farther, every man who drinks gin and turns down his shirt-collar is not, jjcr conse quence, a Lord Byron.” The Gospel. This is the word preached ; it is neither spent in its descent from Heaven, nor wasted in its transmission through ages—fresh and beautiful and holy as at first; repeated eve i r . v Sabbath, read in every Bible — the elo quence of many thousand pulpits, and tho music of many tongues. It is Heaven’s ju bilee, sounding in tho cells of tho great prison house ; it is the light of eternal day shining through the gratings. Christ crucified is tho commencement, the end, and the coronal of Christianity—a truth that endures forever ? it is enshrined in glory. Languages change, ceremonies vary, sacraments are temporary; Sabbaths, like* little pools, will be swallowed up in the ocean of eternity ; praj-er will con tinue only while there are wants, and a min istry while there is ignorance; but around this dissolving world, one thing abides—tho \\ ord ot the Lord, that endures forever.— M hatevor opposes this must perish, whatever contends against it must be crushed. Infi delity—the word of man, however musical in utterances, will he hushed—its airy frost work, however glittering in the will be dissolved. The gospel is divine iu its birth and eternal in its destiny. Christi anity enunciates truths that are above the tidemark of time, and rooted in the attributes of God; it cannot he extinguished, for God is its light; it cannot die, for God is its life. Virtue Promotes Christianity. A truly Christian life is better than large* contributions of wealth for the propagation of Christianity, ‘the most prominent instruc tion of Jesus on this point is, that we must let men see in us that religion is something real, something more than high sounding and empty words, a restraint from sin, a bul wark against temptation, a spring of upright and useful action ; let them see it, not an idle form, not a transient feeling, but our companion through life, infusing its purity in to our common pursuits, following us to our homes, setting a guard round our integrity in the resorts of business, sweetening our tempers in seasons of provocation, disposing us habitually to sympathy with others, to pa tience and cheerfulness under our own afflic tions, to candid judgment, and to sacrifices for others’ good ; and we may hope that our light will not shine uselessly, that some slum bering conscience will be roused by this testimony to the excellence and practicable ness of religion, that some worldly pro fessor of Christianity will leave his obliga tions and blush for his criminal inconsis tency, and that somo in whom the com mon arguments for our religion may have failed to work a full belief, will he brought to tho knowledge of the truth, by this plain, practical proof of the heavenly nature of Christianity. Ever}- man is surrounded with beings who are moulded more or less by tho principles of sympathy and imitation; and this social part of our nature he is bound to press into the service of Christianity. The Man ol Integrity. It will not take much time to delineate tho character of tho man of integrity, as by its nafiir* it is a plain one, and easily un derstood. He is one who makes it his con stant rule to follow tho road of duty, ac cording as the word of God, and the voice of his conscience pointeth out to him. He is not guided merely bv affections, which may sometimes give the color of virtue to a loose and unstable character. The upright man is guided by a fixed prin ciple of mind, which determines him to es teem nothing but what is honorable, and to abhor whatever is base and unworthy iu moral conduct. Hence you find him ever tho same; at all times the trusty friend, the af fectionate relation, the conscientious man of business, the pious worshipper, tho public spirited citizen. Ho assumes no borrowed appearance. lie seeks no mask to cover him; for he acts no studied part, but he is in truth, what he appears to be, full of truth, candor, and humanity. In all his pur i suits he knows* no part but the fair and di rect; and would much rather fail of success, than attain it by reproachful means. Ho never shows youa smiling countenance, while he meditates evil against you in his heart.— He never praises you among your friends, and then joins in traducing you among your enemies. Y*ou will never find one part of his character at variance with another. Iu his manners, he is simple and unaffected ; in all his proceedings, open and consistent. Boston Notions.—Theodore Parker, an eminent writer and preacher, thus expounds his views to tiie good people of Boston.— Hear him hold forth : “It is plain to me that it is the natural duty of citizens to rescue ever;/ fugitive stave from the hands of the Marshal, who essays to return him to bondage; to do it peaceably if they can, forcibly if they must, hut by all means to do it. * * * But this I say sol emnly, shat I will do all in my power to res cue any fugitive slave from the hands of any officer who attempts to return him to bond age” (jYr “Never get in debt!” said Mrs. Par tington, solemnly, and she raised her tea spoon with an emphatic air and held it thus, as if from it were suspended the threads of a fine argument on economy, discernible to her eye alone, and she were watching an oppor tunity to make it tangible. “Never get in debt, no matter whether you are creditable or not; it is better to have a crust of bread and water and a herrin’ or two, than the stalled ox cut up into rump steaks and owe for it. Think of our neighbor, Mr. Smith, what a failin’ he had, and he had all his goods and impertinences taken on a mean process— mean enough, Heaven knows —and his poor wife reduced to starvation, shushon tea, and a calico ground, and he gone to California.” !Cr Within a circle of the city of London, the radius of which does not exceed five miles, there are now living about two mil lion.; and a quarter of human beings. NO. *lB.