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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 : For U ie Paper, in advance, per annum, $2. If not paid in advance, $2 50, per annum. If not paid until the end of the Year $3 00. Uj’ Advertisements will ba inserted at the usual rate*—and when the numb r of insertions de sired is not ■ pacified, they will be continued ur. til forbid and charged accordingly. O'Advertisers by the Year will be contracted with upon the most favorable terms. If? Sales of Land by Administrators, Executors or Guardians, are required by Laiv, to he held on the first Tuesday in the month, between the hours of ten o'clock in the Forenoon and three in the Af ternoon, at the Conrtllouse of the county in which the Property is situate. Notice of these Sales must lae given in a public gazette sixty days previous 4o the day of sale. ITT Sales of Negroes by Administrators, Execu tors or Guardians, must be at Public Auction, on the fi st Tuesday in the month, between the legal Saours of sale, before the Court House of the county where the Letters Testamentary, or Administration or Guardianship may have been granted, first gi\ ing notice thereoffor sixty iiays, in one ofthe pub lic gazettes of this State, and at the door of the Court House where such sales are to be held. H~7*No:ice for the saleof Personal Property must be given in like manner forty days previous to the day of sale. Q'j’Notice to the Debtors and Creditors ofan Es tate must be published for forty days. tyy Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land or Ne groes must be published in a public gazette in this S,atf* for four months, before any order absolute can he given by the Court. (Lj'Citations for Letters of Administration on an Estate, granted by the Court of Ordinary, must he published thirty hays— for Letters of Dismis sion from the administration ofan Estate, monthly for six months —for Dismission from Guardian ship forty days. (LTRci.es for the foreclosure of a Mortgage, must be published monthly for rorn months— for establishing lost Papers, for the full space of three months— for compelling Titles from Ex ecutors, Administrators or others, where a Bond hasbecn given by the deceased, the full space of three months. N. 11. All Business of this kind shall rccoiv prompt attention at iho SOUTHERN MUSEUM Office, and strict care will lie taken that all legal Advertisements are published accordin'' to Law. ifr'All Letters directed to this Office or the Editor on business, must be post-paid, to in sure at'ention. tjj 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.