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VOL,. I.
THE
w&sismm’B ssmm 9
Will be published every SJiTL'HD.dY Morning ,
Jit the Corner of lYulnut and Fifth Streets,
IN THE CITY ur MACON, UA.
ISV Will. li. fIAKItIMOX.
TER M S :
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If? Sales of Land by Administrators, Executors
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Tile Martyr of Nclo.
BY MKS. SIGOt' (IN KV.
Bright summer, breath'd in Srin. Gay she hung
Her eornnnl upon the oitvo boughs,
1* lush (I the sweet clusters on the ripening vines,
And shook fresh fr.igr.inee from the citron gro. us,
"Till every breeze v\ns satiate,
—But the sons
Os that fair isle bore winter in their oul ;
For, 'mid tbs temples ofthcir ancestors,
And through the weeping uinstick-bo'vcrs tlieir
step
AV •is like the man who hears the oppressor's
voice.
In Nature’s softest echo ; and the Turk,
In solemn denomination, mark’d the smoko
<’url from his pipe around that ruin’d dome,
Whence mighty Hector awed the listening
world.
Once, to the proud divan, with stately step,
A youth drew near. Surpassing beauty sat
Upon his princely brow, and from bis eye,
A glance like lightning parted as he spoke;
*‘lhad a jewel. Fiom my sires it came.
In long transmission, and upon my soul,
’TV* ernne, and in its stead a false one shines,
I ask for Justice.”
Brandishing aloft
His eiiniter, the tnuslem cadi cried
“By Allha and his prophet, guilt like this,
Shall feel the avenging stroke. Bring forth the
| wreteli
Who robb’d thy casket.”
Then the appellant tore
turban from bis brow, and east it down.
SSpbo '• the false jewel see! And wouldsl thou
know
-Whose fraud exchanged it for rnv precious gem?
Than art the mint. M v birthright was the faith
Jesus Christ, which thou didst steal away
With glozing words. Take hack tliv tinsel'd
baits,
.And 1.-t me sorrowing see 1 - mv Saviour's field.
Vi empted I was, and madly have I fallen.
||Oh ! give me back my faith !’’
- And there be stood,
-The stately born ofScio, in whose veins
Vstirr’d the high blood ofGreoce. There was a
pause—
haughty lifting up of Turkish brows—
Spit wonder and in scorn—a mutter’d tone,
HPF wrath precursive, and a stern reply.
.1 lie f.otb ofOstnyn, or the sabre stroke—
thee, young Greek.
fi _ii Thus rose his lofty form,
in all , t s majesty ; and his deep voire
Rang out sonorous as a triumph song
(tiec back my faith . ” 8
Through niche and
,,,Hrch ’
Jiosc sad at midnight hour. . f eorpsewas there—
Aim a young, beauteous creature I-n,. ,r ,
i" voiceless grief. Her wealth of raveli'lockT’
Mwcpt over the dead man’s brow, ns there she
Ti e wither’d bridal crown ; while evrrv horw,
That at its twining woke, and every ol P °
tedZ; n ,^ ido,a,^haHn^
And hade him kiss hi 9
Slirunk hack with horror from tl„. ..| 7, ,
And wildly clasp’d hi, hands with such Jc l '
Ot piercing anguish, that each heart rcooH’d 7
From his impassioned woe. - ° and
Fnmoved -one white hn'r’!l''mo 1 °
\V ho stood in utter melancholy forth ■" ' n,nn ~
t •—
Os Victor glory, mid
Wm " U ** tote mart U r hit only son !
Fanny Day’s Decision.
‘I like her!’ exclaimed a young man,
with no inconsiderable degree of ardor.
‘But can you support her in the style to
which site has been accustomed/ It costs
something to get married now-a-days.
We have to begin where our father’s end
ed,’ said his companion.
‘True, Ned, if she would only begin
with me—why, she’s poor herself.’
‘\ es, and proud too. The fact, is wo
men require so much waiting upon, or
fashion require it—so many servants, just
such a style of living—that, for tny part, 1
have given up all thoughts of marrying,’
Ned said this with some bitterness, as if
he had good reason for feeling it.
‘My business is good,’ pursued the oth
er, intent upon his own affairs, ‘and uncle
thinks my prospects pretty fair, if I live
prudently. It costs a round sum at tho ho
tel—l might support a snug little estab
lishment at the same expense.’
‘Yes, if snug little establishments were
in fashion, Charley.’
‘She is amiable and intelligent; she must
be economical, because she has always
been oblige*d to be,' declared Charley, ab
ruptly stopping, as if anew thought had
struck him.
‘Perhaps so—hut shall you both be in
dependent enough to begin in a small
way —in short, to live within your means
—for if you expect to get along in the
world, you must live within your means.’
‘Well, it’s a pity,’ said Charley, some
what dampened by the inquiries of his
friend, ‘think what charming quarters I
might have. lam heartily sick of the off
hand bachelor life wo now lead. What!
must l wait till 1 make a fortune before I
marry V
‘Or be over head and ears in debt,’ sug
gested Ned.
‘That will never do,’ exclaimed Scott,
right earnestly; and it is to be regretted
that every young mau does not make a
similar determination, with independence
and judgment enough to keep it.
Heie the two came to a turn in the
street, where they took different direc
tions. Charley bent his steps towards the
store, in no merry mood, Ned—l know
not where.
Charles Scott entered his counting room
and shut the door. The business of the
day was o er, and the clerks were begin
ning to leave as the ear v shades of an au
tumn twilight were fast gathering round.
He stirred up some dying embers, then
throwing himself listlessly into a chair,
and placing his feet upon the iron fender,
he soon became wonderfully absorbed in
his own reflections. He was a young
man of excellent tastes and excellent hab
its—remembered with joy his father’s fire
side, and all the sweet sympathies of
that dear home circle, of which he was
once a loved and loving member. They
had passed away, and he had lived upon
the cold bounties of a boat ding house.
His heart yearned with unspeakable desire
for a place to call his own, with the delight
ful peculiarities, my wife, my fireside, my
table. It does not appear to what conclu
sion Charles came, or whether ho came to
any at al. Evening found him at his toil
et, preparing for a party.
Long before the hour he was ready, and
waiting the tardy movement of his watch.
1 hough no one knew better how to fill up
niches in time with something useful and
pleasant, there was now a restlessness of
spirit, which refused to be quiet. He sal
lied forth into the street, and after various
turns at length bent bis steps towards the
e’erks’—music and mirth met bis ear, and
bright lights streamed from the window.
Making his greetings to the ladies of the
house and uttering a few agreeable tru
isms to those about him, he sought among
the bevies of fair women one pretty maid
en named Fanny Day. She bade him a
welcome, which seemed to say ‘come hith
ther. He stood aloof, in no seeming hur
ry to seek a place by her side, already
li.df occupied by another, while his eye
discussed, with keenest scrutiny, the tout
ensemble of I anny’s dress. Conscious of
his earnest admiring (I) gaze, Fanny seem
ed to hear the quick beatings of her own
heart, and hope, and fear, and love, came *
and went, ami went and came, like smiles
and shadows across her spirit. ‘A new
and splended silk, thus ran Charley’s
thoughts, ‘that looks very extravagant; and
that bracelet, too, I never saw that before;
I wonder if she is fond of such gewgaws ?
\Y hat is that dangling from her hair ? A
gold pin, or gold tassel/ I should like to
know how much it cost.’ Not very love
like comments, it must be confessed; but
he was looking beyond the betrothed and
the bride, to what signified a great deal
more; he was looking for a help-mate—
one for dark days as well as bright. ‘I
am afraid she won’t do forme; and ibis is
heruncle’s house, she will want to live just
so.’ Something like a sigh escaped him
as he walked away to the other part of the
loom. 1' anny watched his departure, won
dering when he would return. She was
suie he would rejoin her by and by; be
always bad of lato, But no return. Had
he only known (hat Fanny’s silk dress was
nut anew one; newly turned ami newly
lined as it had indeed been, by her needle
ami her skill, so as to make it quite as good
as new—how prudent and thrifty that was!
ad he only known that the bracelet was
II gilt two years before, and the gold pin,
MACOiY, (GA„) SATEKDAY YlOK\l\Ci, DELEIHiEK 16, ISAS.
why it was a decoration borrowed to please
his eye; so Fanny was not so culpable af
ter all. I say had Charles known all this,
he had not stayed away so strangely and
cooly all that live-long evening, while Fan
ny’s heart was sinking. Mournfully did a
tear gather in her eye, as she beheld him
depart, without a parting glance or a fare
well word.
Charles Scott was not quite satisfied.
He really loved Fanny, but be \> as afraid
to marry her. It was not a sickly senti
mental love. It counted the costs and
calculated the chances; albeit love it is
said, understands no arithmetic and knows
no reason. He bad fixed principles of ac
tion, and settled rules to govern his choice i
of a wife; he did not mean that love should
laugh him out of them, or blind him to j
their value. No; he determined to abide j
by them.
Some time passed away, and never was
a man more devoted to business. Per
haps he dreamed of Fanny, but he did
not visit her.
Behold a gathering of friends, a pleas
ing little company ; Charles is there, and
I' anny, too. He thought she never look
ed so charmingly, with her simple braid of
hair, and her modest, fawn-colored dress.
Tber e was something sad and reproachful
in her eye, it smote him to the heart.
“Dear Fanny, how can she interpret
my coolness ?” was the question of return
ing fondness. 1 mean to see her, and ex
plain to her all my view—if she is a girl of
seuse, she cannot but approve, if she is
n °t’—such a contingency remained unpro
vided for. An excellent resolution; Charles
abide by it. It so happened, or was con
trived (love changes are not always scru
table) that the two found themselves thread
ing their way alone through the streets at
an early hour. Noxvfor Charley’s resolu
tion—yes, he kept it.
‘But, Fanny,’ lie continued, with re
markable self-possession, with a few pre
liminaries not to bo repeated, ‘I want you
to understand exactly my situation, how
I intend for the present to live, and what
plans we must pursue. I must live with
in my means —and just starting in life, iny
means are necessarily small. lam liable
to the fluctuations of the business world,
and we must begin with what we can in
dependently afford—no dashing out in bor
rowed capital for me.
‘You must take all these circum tatices
into account before you answer. Per
haps you may feel that you cannot con
form to such humble circumstances. 1
will not disappoint or deceive you.’
At the moment, Fanny thought she
cou'd decide instantly, for she saw only a
rose-tinted futuie.
* Now Fanny listened.
Do not decide now. Fanny, think this
all over, was his parting injunction at the
end of this long walk, during which, al
though he had said a great deal, lie had a
great deal more to say —‘and then decide
carefully and conscientiously.’
Faulty did think it all over; so much
that he had said was quite new to her. To
he married ! to bo married, it must be
confessed, had implied to her mind what
it does to the minds of too many young la
dies gay visions of wealth and indepen
dence-—doing everything one wished—a
lover in the husband amusement in tho
parlor. Fanny belonged to that class of
females who, without fortune or expecta
tions, had been brought up amid the ap
pliances of wealth, fcihe was an orphan,
and lived in the family of an uncle. With
a few parlor duties, and none in the kitch
en, she had lived an easy, independent
life, floating on society, with untried en
ergies and undeveloped powers. Rich
men did not seek her, because rich men
generally seek to increase their wealth
with matrimonial cares. A poor man
might fear, and justly fear, as Charles
fccott did, because females thus educated
often shrink from the exertions and cares
of household employments; they ate slow
in finding out that hands are made to work
with, and they are apt to regard labor as
menial service. If all young men will do
as Charles Scott did, frankly unfold to
women their real situation and their true
interests ; explain to them the use and dig
nity of labor, and encourage and stimulate
exertion, thete would be fewer ill-regula
ted households and thriftless wives. Fan
ny digested the whole matter, weighed it
all, and decided.
Behold, not many months afterwards,
I* anny in her new home. It was indeed
a snug home, full of comfoits anil bless
ings. There was a pleasant little sitting
room, with sunbeams and smiles, with
Kidderminster and flag bottoms, unadorn
ed by ottomans or divans, astral lamps or
marble tables. Her kitchen, too, was
nearby, where Fanny was not ashamed
to spend her morning hours.
‘Do not come in the morning,’ said Fan
ny to a gay acquaintance, ‘you may per
haps find me making bread or ironing col
lars.’
‘Doing your girl’s work ? Ugh !’ ex
claimed the Italy, distastefully.
‘Oh, I am my own girl,’ replied Fanny,
‘with the exception of Nancy drew, who
comes in when I want her. I can make
a soup, and roast a turkey, anil I dare
say I can teach you a thousand interesting
things that you don’t know anything about.’
Flora did not wish to be taught.
‘I really pity Fanny,’ said this same Flo-
, ra, passing by her door one day, weary'
| and dispirited with the frivolities of a se
nes of fashionable calls.
Pity Fanny ! She had no need of such
pity. \V as she not spreading the snowy
cloth upon the dinner table? cutting sweet
white loaves of her own making / fetching
I sauce of her own stewing / bringing pies
jof her own baking ? all products of
j her skill, and did nut the hearty ‘1 am
glad to see you, Charley,’ and her nicely
broiled steak quite compensate for the per
plexities of his morning business?’ True,
i Fanny had her trials; the cakes did some-’
j times burn, and the potatoes were not al
l ways done—hut then she did not have the
I Mites—they swiftly fled away before early
rising and employment. She had no time
for yawn or ennui, and never cried out,
‘Oh, 1 in dying for want of exercise !’ Her
chamber must be cared for, her pantry
I looked after, and the flour sifted. Y es,
Fanny understood how to use her hands.
She was a producer as well as a consumer.
VV'lint delightful evenings did they pass
together, si wing and reading, or at a lec
ture, or enjoying the society of friends.
Charley, cheerful and happy in the con
sciousness that his receipts exceeded his
expenses, was pleased with nothing so
much as his wife; and Fanny rejoiced in
the consciousness of hearing her burden,
of contributing her share to family com
forts, enjoying au elasticity of spirit and
vigor of health, of which the indolent and
unoccupied can scarcely conceive.
More than this, there were blessings
this family could impart.
I really cannot afford to do anything,’
iepliod the mistress of a splendid mansion,
to a solicitation in behalf of the suffering
poor. ‘I have so many uses for money—
ami I have paid away the last farthing
this morning.”
It was very tiue; her rose and ice
creams and cut glass must be promptly
paid for, while the poor seamstress to
whom she did not pay her last farthing that
morning, had been soliciting her dues for
weeks, and suffering in consequence of
their long delays.
‘\\ ill you do something ?’ concluded
the same collector, timidly, after explain
ing the object to .Mrs. Soott.
‘1 shall he ver, happy in the privilege
of doing it,’ answered Fanny, placing a
hill in the hand ofthe lhatikiul woman.—
Yes, and Fanny felt that the pleasure of
having fine clothes and costly furniture,
and many servant was not a fair equiva
lent tn the satisfaction of being able to lend
timely aid to the poor, and carrying the
balm of relief to suffering hearts,
*** " # *
‘Xed, how is it with you ?’ asked an
old friend, whom he unexpectedly met
some years afterwards in the city ; ‘and
where is Charles Scott ?—a fine fellow.
Why, you are looking well—l am for tho
West.’
‘West! Why so ?’
‘Oh ! I can’t get along here—hard times
—family expenses are enormous !’
‘Y ou won’t do any better at the West
be independent enough to endureono
ltalf the privations heie which you must
endure there, and you will get. along clev
erly,’ said Ned, in his advice-giving way.
‘Yes, yes, I dare say—hut it’s the fash
ion there, and it’s not here. 1 have had a
hard time of it since we were boys toge
ther, continued the gentleman, bitterly ;
sleepless nights devising plans to make
both ends meet; and when l could’nt,
why, what could I do ? Get involved
and hear it like ar gentleman—bard work.’
Root fellow ! How many there are in the
same deplorable situation. ‘But tell us
of Charles Scott,’ he exclaimed, dashing
away the memories ofthe past, ‘Good fel
low—l hope he is doing well.’
‘Doing well, capitally ! 110 has such
a wife!’ cried Ned, with a relish—a wife
worth having. She’s not a tax upon her
husband she’s an intelligent, refitted wo
man—with independence enough to begin
housekeeping with him in a small, eco
nomical way—did her own work—man
aged her own concerns—let him always
have ready money enough to meet all his
emergencies, and (pretty trying ones will
occur in the business world) wi hunt
spending it upon fashion aud show—and
now,’ said Ned, enthusiastically, ‘L>e’s
the most flourishing man in town—really
flourishing, well grounded, and they have
got the best family of children I ever saw.
After all, everything depends upoua good
wife. Why, 1 would get married myself,
if I could get another like Fanny Scott’—
a great remark for Edward Green to
make, confirmed bachelor as he w as. Tho
old liiend sighed, as he repeated, ‘yes,
everything depends upon a good wife.’
An Ami sing Scene. —An amusing
scene “met our eye” a few evenings since,
as we took the boat at the Fulton ferry for
the city. Three Frenchmen were return
ing from the chase ; Gallic sportsmen, “en
blouse” and in liquor. It was curious to
hear them, in their maudlin and bad
French, discuss the pleasures of the field;
how each had shot at a bird, and bow they
bail drank beer, ami then gone out “to
shoot again,” along the road-side; and all
the time there looked up into their boer
besprinkled beards, a sulky, “time-serv
ing,” mongrel bull-u'hcXp —the pioneer,
whose pointer services they had engaged
for the day!
A Gem.
Onoo from a cloud a drop of rain,
Fell trembling in the sen,
And when she saw tho wide-spread main,
Shame veiled her modesty.
“What place in this wide sea have I,
U li.it room is lef. for me ?
Sure it were better that I die,
lu this immensity !"
But while her self-aliasing fear
Its lowliness confessed,
A shell rcccivort-nud welcom'd her,
And press'd her to its breast.
And nourish'd there, the drop became
A pearl for royal eyes—
Exalted by its lowly shame,
And humbled hut to rise !
Sayings of Sam Slick.
If the folks here want their country to
go ahead they must honor the plough, and
Hen. Campbell ought to hammer that into
their noddles full chizel, as bard as he can
drive. I could leant him something, I
guess, about hammering, he aint up to. It
aint every man that knows how to beat a
thing into a man’s head. How could 1
have sold so many thousand clocks if I
had’nt a had that nack ? Why, I wouldn’t
have sold half a dozen, you may depend.
Agriculture is not only neglected, but
disregarded here. What a number of
young folks there seems to he in these
parts, a riding about, titivated out real
jam, in their go-to-ineetin clothes, a doin
nothin. It’s melancholy to think on it.—
That’s the effects of the last war. The
idleness and extravagance of those times
took root, and bore fruit abundantly, and
now the young folks are above their bust
ness, i hoy are too high in the instep,
that’s a fact.
Old Drivvle, down here to Macean,
said to me one day, fur gracious sake,
says he, Mr. Slick, do tell me what I shall
do with Johnny. His mother sets great
store by him, and thinks lie’s the makin’s
of a considerable smart man. He’s grow
ing up fast now and I’m pretty well to do
in the world, and reasonable forehanded,
hut I don’t know what the dogs to put
him to. The lawyers are like spiders,
they have eat up all the flies, and 1 guess
they'll have to eat up one another soon,
for there’s more on ’em than causes now
every court. The doctor’s trade is a poor
one, (hey do’nt barely get cash enough to
pay for their medicines; I never seed a
country practitioner yet that made anythin
worth speakin of. Then as for preachin,
why, church and dissenters are pretty
much tarred with the same stick; they
live in the same paster with their flocks,
and between ’em, it’s fed down pretty
close, I tell you. What would you ad
vise me to do with him ? Well, says I,
‘l’ll tell you if you won’t get uiifiy with
me. Missy with you indeed, says he, l
guess I’ll be very much obliged to you ; it
taint every day a person gets a chance to
consult with a person of your experience ;
l count it quite a privilege to have the opin
ion of such an understanding mau as you
be.
Well, says t, take a stick and give him
a real good quillin, jist tantune him like
blazes, and set him to work. What does
the critter want ? you have a good farm,
let him go and airn his bread ; and when
he can raise that, let him get a wife to
make butter for it, and when he has more
ofboth than he wants, let him sell ’em
and lay up his money, and He will soon
have his bread buttered on both sides; put
him to, eh ! why, put him to the plough,
the most natural, the most happy, the
most healthy employment in the world.—
But, said the old man, and he did not
look over half pleased, the markets are so
confounded dull, labor so high, and the
banks and the great folks are swallerin all
up so, there d*>it‘t seem much encourage
ment for farmer;. it’s hard rubbin novv-a
days, to live by lie plough—he’ll be a
hardworkin pom man all his days. Oh!
says I, if he wanis to get rich by farmiu,
he can do that too. Let him sell his
wheat, and eat his oatmeal and rye ; send
his beef, mutton and poultry to market,
and eat his pork and potatoes, make his
own cloth, weave his own linen, and keep
cut of shops, "he’ll soon grow rich—there
arc more fortius got savin than by makin,
I guess, a plaguy sight—can’t eat his cake
and have it too, that’s a fact. No, make
a farmer of him, and you will have the sat
isfaction of seeing him an honest, and an
independent, and a respectable member
of society—more honest, than traders,
more independent than professional men,
and more respectable than either.
Ahem! said Alarm Drivvle, and she
began to clear her throat for action ; she
slumped down her mitten, and clawed off
her spectacles, and looked right straight
at me, so as to take good aim. I seed a
regular norwester brewin, I knew it would
burst somewhere sartin. and make all
smoke agin, so I cleared out and left Driv
vle to stand the squall. 1 conceit he must
have had a tempestial time of it, for she
had got her Ebenezer up and looked like
a proper sneezer. Make her Jonny a far
mer, eh ! I guess that was too much for
the like o’ her stomach.
Pride, Squire, continued the clockma
ker, with such an air of concern that Ive
» ily believe the man feels an interest in
the welfare of the Province, (in which he
has spent so long n time,) Pride, Squire,
and a false pride, too, is the ruin of this
country, I hope I may be skinned if ituint.
liubbi illiriant.
AS APOLOGUE.
The Rabbi Miriam was a Jewish phi
j losophcr of some repute in the city where'
j he resided ; public esteem rewarded hint
! for the severity of his morals, and he might
he said to be in the full enjoyment of all
that can render life happy. Though equal
ly a stranger to poverty and to wealth, he
possessed treasures of which the most pow
•et ful monarch might have envied him. A
wife, w ho, “like a jewel, had hung about
his neck for twenty years, and never lost
i her lustre, loved him with that fervency
with which angels love good men.” Their
, union had been blessed with two sous,
* who were twins.
’I he Rabbi avid ins wife, in gratitude
lor this double mark of heav en’s favor,, ip
stilled into the minds of their children
those principles which lead to the forma
tion of virtuous habits, and ultimately
make the possessors of them ornaments of
I society. The parents met with reward
in the obedience and good conduct of their
offspring.
The young men were both intended for
j the priesthood ; and such had been their
i application to learning, that their minds
had reached maturity before their person
had lost the appearance of boyhood.
The Rabbi made it a part of bis duty
every Sabbath to teach, gratuitously, those
persons who were unable to pay for in
struction. He was engaged in this benev
olent office when one of the greatest ca
lamities that can befal a parent visited his
family. His sons died suddenly within
one hour.
The conduct of the mother upon this
melancholy occasion deserves to be re
corded as a signal instance of religious
resignation. To enable herself to prepare
the mind of her husband for the painful
intelligence, she repressed her own grief,
and welcomed his return homo with her
accustomed smile.
After the usual salutations, the Rabbi
inquired for his sorts.
His wife, in answer said, “They are
not far off.” She placed supper before
him—lie ate. Wine being brought, he
praised the Lord to the going of the Sab
bath, (a custom among the Jews,) and
drank.
He now repeated his enquiries respect
ing his children. “Where are they,” said
he, “that they may drink of the wine
which 1 have blessed Z”
“Y ou shall see them presently,” rejoin
ed their mother, “meantime, Rabbi, will
you answer me one question ?”
“Speak, my only love,” replied her
husband.
“Well, then,” said she, “sometime ago
IJhad two costly jewels given me to take
care of—those who entrus'ed me with
them now want them again—should 1 give
them up?”
“1 bou shouldst notask such a question,”
replied the Rabbi. “Would’st thou keep
tirat which was only given thee in trust?”
“Oh, no!” she answered, “but 1 thought
it best to inform tlieo before I returned
them.’’ She then communicated to him
the event which had happened, and led
him to the chamber where the remains of
his children lay.
“Ah, my sons!” exclaimed tho father,
“and my teachers, for much have I learn
ed from you! ’
The mother now gave vent to the ago
ny of her soul—she turned away her head
and wept. At length, grasping the hand
of her husband, she exclaimed, “Rabbi,
hast thou not taught me, that we should
not be reluctant to return that which was
only given to us in trust ? See, the Lord
has given—the Lord has taken away —
blessed bo the name of the Lord !”
“Blessed be the name of the Lord !” ex
claimed the Rabbi. “Well has it been
observed,” lie continued, “that he who
hath found a virtuous and affectionate
wife, possesses a treasure above all price.”
Fidelity in a Negro.— Dr. L ,
who was lately confined in the King’s
Bench Prison, while his fortune, involved
in a chancery suit, was withheld from
him. During this, he was obliged by po
verty to tell his negro servant that they
must part. The negro replied with affec
tionate warmth, “No massa, we will nev
er part! many a year you have kept me,
and now I will keep you.” Accordingly
he went out to work as a day laborer, and
at the end of every week, faithfully bro’t
his earnings to his master. These proved
sufficient for his support, until the recent
decision of the chancery suit, by which
Dr. L obtained an award of $30,-
000. The Doctor’s honor settled a hand
some annuity for lfe upon the negro.
Montesquieu. — “I will give you my
head if you are not wrong,” exclaimed a
dull and warm orator to the President
Montesquieu in an argument. “1 accept
it,” said the philosopher; “any trifle
among friends has a value.”
Classical. —“Caasar ! go catch my big
horse there.”
“Yes, sir! What you call he name,
sir ?”
“Olympus; don’t you know what the
poet says about ‘high Olympus’ 1”
“1 don’t know about Hio—but he limp
us nuf—dat’s for sartin.”
NO. 3.